" it 
 
 ;^v^ccA:l'^^Av^!!.'■^'v-*'^* 
 
 • ' '<swvi? v*y -> '"■' >v. ,•,->• "/■' ' 
 
 'vr^':;- 
 
ES& 
 
 '^ -=^0 
 
 Bv bequest of 
 
 William Lukens Shoemaker 
 
'^9 
 
 
 THE 
 
 WORKS OF LORD BYRON 
 
 IN VERSE AND PROSE. 
 
 ■ 
 
fmnU.J, by WJ NcWlon 
 
 £n^rarc<i ii' A. DuA. 
 
 
h^ :) 
 
 yyoEKa ©r ldkld btk©?^, 
 
 IM TUmiH AWD lFia®§Il. 
 
 j'^^xmiymB m§ iLif ^iii^.jKOTmmjLaiii 
 
 ">^1TE A SKET'CM OF EI§ MFE 
 
 
THE 
 
 WORKS OF LORD BYRON 
 
 IN VERSE AND PROSE, 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 HIS LETTERS, JOURNALS, ETC. 
 
 A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 
 
 NEW-YORK : 
 
 GEORGE DEARBORN, PUBLISHER. 
 
 SOLD BY COLLINS & HANNAY, NEW-YORK; CARTER, HENDEE & CO., BOSTON, 
 
 DESILVER, JR. & THOMAS, PHILADELPHIA ; AND GUSHING 
 
 AND SONS, BALTIMORE. 
 
 1834. 
 
« CO 
 
 .e 
 
 1 
 
 Gift. 
 W. L. Shoemaker 
 I % W 
 
 NEW-YORK : 
 Stereotype of A. Pell ^ Brother. 
 AMMOND WALLIS, PRINTER. 
 
 71 John-street, corner of Gold. 
 
 Entered according to the Act of Congress of the United States of America, 
 December 21, 1832, by George Dearborn, in the Clerk's Office of the Southern 
 District of New- York. 
 
PUBLISHER'S ADVERTISEMENT, 
 
 The Works of Lord Byron to be found in this edition, comprising the 
 whole of his Poems, Letters, Journals, Etc. have been collected and 
 arranged, and a Memoir added, by 
 
 FITZ GREEN HALLECK, ESa. 
 
 The Poetical Works of Lord Byron have been published in a variety 
 of forms — but at no time, or in any country, has a uniform edition of his 
 Prose and Poetical Works been attempted before the present. The 
 edition now publishing in London, by Murray, contains so much of 
 Byron's Prose writing as is included in the Life by Moore. — In the 
 American edition there is a great number of the Letters of Byron not in 
 the English copy, including Letters to his mother. There is also in this 
 edition a large collection of Poems not in any previous American one ; 
 many blanks are filled up, and explanatory notes added, which will be 
 found of essential service to the reader. The present, therefore, is em- 
 phatically the first complete edition of the Poetical and Prose Works of 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 The Head of Byron, engraved for this edition, is from a painting by an 
 American artist, and was considered by Byron and his friends as the 
 best ever taken. 
 
 New- York, Jan. 1834. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LETTERS, ETC. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 JPE 
 
 XV 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 
 I. to Miss Pigot 
 
 . 1 
 
 II. to Mr. Pigot . 
 
 1 
 
 III. to Miss Pigot 
 
 . 1 
 
 IV. to Mr. Pigot . 
 
 2 
 
 V. to Mr. Pigot 
 
 2 
 
 VI. to Mr. Pigot . 
 
 2 
 
 VII. to Mr. Pigot 
 
 2 
 
 VIII. to Miss Pigot 
 
 3 
 
 IX. to the Earl of Clare . 
 
 S 
 
 X. to Mr. Pigot . 
 
 3 
 
 XI. to Mr. William Bankes 
 
 3 
 
 XII. to Mr. William Bankes . 
 
 4 
 
 XIII. to Mr. Falkner . 
 
 4 
 
 XIV. to Mr. Pigot . 
 
 4 
 
 XV. to Miss Pigot 
 
 4 
 
 XVI. to Miss Pigot 
 
 6 
 
 XVII. to Miss Pigot . 
 
 5 
 
 XVin. to Miss Pigot 
 
 6 
 
 XIX. to Miss Pigot . . . 
 
 6 
 
 XX. to Miss Pigot 
 
 7 
 
 XXI. to Miss Pigot 
 
 7 
 
 XXII. to Mr. Dallas 
 
 8 
 
 XXIII. to Mr. Dallas . 
 
 8 
 
 XXIV. to Mr. Henry Drury 
 
 8 
 
 XXV. to Mr. Harness . 
 
 9 
 
 XXVI. to Mr. Harness 
 
 9 
 
 XXVII. to Mr. Becher . 
 
 9 
 
 XXVIII. to Mr. Becher 
 
 10 
 
 XXIX. to Mr. Jackson . 
 
 . 10 
 
 XXX. to Mr. Jackson 
 
 10 
 
 XXXr. to Mr. Jackson . 
 
 . 10 
 
 XXXII. to Mr. Becher 
 
 10 
 
 XXXIII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron . 
 
 . 11 
 
 XXXIV. to Mrs. Byron 
 
 11 
 
 XXXV. to Mr. Hodgson 
 
 . 11 
 
 XXXVI. to R . C. Dallas, Esq. 
 
 11 
 
 XXXVII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
 
 12 
 
 XXXVIII. to Mrs. Byron 
 
 . ' 12 
 
 XXXIX. to Mr. Harness 
 
 . 12 
 
 XL. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
 
 13 
 
 XLI. to Mr. William Bankes 
 
 . 13 
 
 XLII. to Mrs. Byron 
 
 13 
 
 XLIII. to Mr. Henry Drury . 
 
 . 13 
 
 XLIV. to Mr. Hodgson 
 
 13 
 
 XLV. to Mr. Hodgson 
 
 . 14 
 
 XLVI. to Mr. Hodgson 
 
 14 
 
 XL VII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
 
 . 14 
 
 XL VIII. to Mr. Rushton 
 
 16 
 
 XLIX. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron , 
 
 16 
 
 L. to Mrs. Byron . 
 
 . 16 
 
 LI. to Mrs. Byron 
 
 . 18 
 
 LII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron . 
 
 IS 
 
 LIII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
 
 . 18 
 
 LIV- to the Hon. Mrs. Byron . 
 
 19 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 LV. to Mr. Henry Drury . 
 LVI. to Mr. Hodgson 
 LVII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
 LVIII. to Mr. Henry Drury 
 LIX. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
 LX. to Mrs. Byron 
 LXI. to Mrs. Byron . 
 LXII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 
 LXIII. to Mr. Hodgson 
 LXIV. to Mrs. Byron 
 LXV. to Mrs. Byron . 
 LXVL to Mrs. Byron 
 LXVII. to Mr. Hodgson . 
 LXVIII. to Mr. Dallas 
 LXIX. to Mr. Henry Drury 
 LXX. to the Hon. Mrs. Byro 
 LXXI. to Dr. Pigot 
 LXXn. to Mr. Scrope Davies 
 
 LXXni. to Bolton, Esq. 
 
 LXXIV. to Mr. Bolton 
 LXXV. to Mr. Bolton . 
 LXXVI. to Mr. Dallas 
 LXXVII. to Mr. Hodgson 
 LXXVIII. to Mr. Dallas 
 LXXIX. to Mr. Murray . 
 LXXX. to Mr. Dallas 
 LXXXL to Mr. Dallas. . 
 LXXXII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
 LXXXIIT. to Mr. Murray . 
 LXXXIV. to Mr. Dallas 
 LXXXV. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
 LXXXVL to Mr. Murray 
 LXXXVII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
 LXXXVin. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
 LXXXIX. to Mr. Munay . 
 XC. to Mr. Dallas 
 XCL to R.C.Dallas, Esq. 
 XCII. to Mr. Dallas 
 XCin. to Mr. Dallas 
 XCTV. toR. C. Dallas, Esq. 
 XCV. to R.C. Dallas, Esq. 
 XCVI. to Mr. Dallas 
 XCVn. to Mr. Hodgson 
 XCVIII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
 XCIX. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
 C. to R.C. Dallas, Esq. 
 CL to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 
 CII. to Miss Pigot 
 CIII. Mr. Moore to Lord Byron 
 CIV. to Mr. Moore 
 CV. to Mr. Moore 
 C VI. to Mr. Moore 
 C VII. to Mr. Moore 
 CVIII. to Mr. Harness 
 CIX. to Mr. Harness 
 ex. to Mr. Hodgson 
 
 19 
 
 20 
 20 
 21 
 21 
 22 
 23 
 23 
 23 
 24 
 25 
 25 
 25 
 25 
 26 
 26 
 27 
 
 27 
 
 27 
 
 28 
 
 28 
 
 28 
 
 28 
 
 29 
 
 29 
 
 29 
 
 30 
 
 30 
 
 30 
 
 31 
 
 31 
 
 31 
 
 32 
 
 32 
 
 32 
 
 33 
 33 
 33 
 34 
 35 
 35 
 36 
 36 
 
VUl 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 CXI. to Mr. Hodgson . 
 CXII. to Mr. Harness 
 CXIII. to Mr. Moore 
 CXIV. to Mr. Moore 
 CXV. to Robert Rushton 
 CXVI. to Robert Rushton . 
 CXVir. to Mr. Hodgson . 
 CXVIII. to Master John Cowell . 
 CXIX. to Mr. Rogers. . 
 CXX. to Lord Holland 
 CXXI. to Mr. Hodgson . 
 CXXII. to Lord Holland 
 CXXni. to Mr, William Bankes 
 CXXIV. to Mr. William Bankes , 
 CXXV. to Lord Holland . 
 CXXVI. to Sir Walter Scott, Bart. 
 CXXVn. to Lord Holland . 
 CXXVHL to Lord Holland 
 CXXIX. to Lord Holland . 
 CXXX. to Lord Holland 
 CXXXL to Lord Holland . 
 CXXXIL to Lord Holland 
 CXXXni. to Lord Holland . 
 CXXXIV. to Lord Holland 
 CXXXV. to Lord Holland . 
 CXXXVI. to Lord Holland 
 CXXXVn. to Lord Holland . 
 CXXXVm. to Lord Holland 
 CXXXIX. to Lord Holland . 
 CXL. to Lord Holland 
 CXLI. to Mr. Murray . 
 CXLIL to Mr. Murray 
 CXLHI. to Mr. William Bankea 
 CXLIV. to Mr. Murray 
 CXLV. to Mr. Murray . 
 CXL VI. to Lord Holland 
 CXL VII. to Mr. Murray . 
 CXLVIIL to Mr. Murray 
 CXLIX. to Mr. Murray . 
 CL. to Mr. Murray 
 CLI. to Mr. William Bankes 
 CLII. to Mr. Murray 
 CLIII. to Mr. Rogers 
 CLIV. to Mr. Murray 
 CLV. to Mr. Murray . 
 CLVI. to Mr. Murray 
 CLVII. to Mr. Murray . 
 CLVIII. to W. GifFord, Esq. 
 CLIX. to Mr. Moore . . 
 CLX. to Mr, Moore 
 CLXI. to Mr. Moore . 
 CLXII. to Mr. Moore 
 CLXIII. to Mr. Moore 
 CLXIV. to Mr. Moore . 
 CLXV. to Mr. Croker . 
 CLXVL to Mr. Murray 
 CLXVII. to Mr. Murray . 
 CLXVIII. to Mr. Murray 
 CLXIX. to Mr. Moore 
 CLXX. to Mr. Moore 
 CLXXI. to Mr. Moore 
 CLXXII. to Mr. Moore . 
 CLXXni. to Mr. Moore 
 CLXXI V. to Mr. Moore . 
 CLXXV. to Mr. Moore 
 CLXXVI. to Mr. Moore . 
 CLXXVII. to Mr. Moore 
 CLXXVIII. to Leigh Hunt 
 CLXXIX. to Mr. Moore 
 CLXXX. to Mr. Murray 
 CLXXXI. to Mr. Gifford 
 CLXXXII. to Mr. Murray 
 CLXXXIII. to Mr Murray . 
 
 39 
 
 . 39 
 
 39 
 
 . 40 
 
 40 
 
 . 40 
 
 40 
 
 . 40 
 
 41 
 
 • 41 
 
 41 
 
 . 42 
 
 42 
 
 . 42 
 
 43 
 
 . 43 
 
 44 
 
 . 44 
 
 44 
 
 . 44 
 
 44 
 
 . 45 
 
 45 
 
 . 45 
 
 45 
 
 . 46 
 
 46 
 
 . 46 
 
 47 
 
 . 47 
 
 47 
 
 . 47 
 
 48 
 
 . 48 
 
 48 
 
 . 48 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 CLXXXIV. to Mr. Murray 
 CLXXXV. to Mr. Murray . 
 CLXXXVI. to Mr. Murray 
 CLXXXV II. to Mr. Murray . 
 CLXXXVIIT. to Mr. Murray 
 CLXXXIX. to Mr. Ashe 
 
 CXC. to Mr. Ashe . 
 CXCL toMr. Gait 
 CXCII. to Mr. Leigh Hunt . 
 CXCIir. to Mr. Merivale 
 CXCIV. to Mr. Murray 
 CXCV. to Mr. Moore 
 CXCVI. to Mr. Moore . 
 CXCVII. to Mr. Murray . 
 CXCVIII. to Mr. Murray 
 CXCIX. to Mr. Murray . 
 CC. to Mr. Murray 
 CCL to Mr. Hodgson . 
 CCIL to Mr. Moore 
 CCIII. to Mr. Hunt 
 CCIV. to Mr. Murray 
 CCV. to Mr. Rogers . 
 CCVI. to Mr. Rogers 
 CCVH. to Mr. Moore 
 CC VIII. to Mr. Dallas 
 CCIX. to * + * * . 
 CCX. to Mr. Moore . 
 CCXI. to W ♦ * W * * Esq. 
 CCXIL to M. Moore . 
 CCXIII. to Mr. Moore 
 CCXIV. to Mr. Murray 
 CCXV. to Mr. Murray . 
 CCXVI. to Mr. Moore . 
 CCXVn. to Mr. Moore 
 CCXVm. to Mr. Murray 
 CCXIX. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 49 
 
 CCXX. to Mr. Murray 
 
 49 
 
 CCXXI. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 49 
 
 CCXXII. to Mr. Murray 
 
 49 
 
 CCXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 50 
 
 CCXXIV. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 50 
 
 CCXXV. to Mr. Moore 
 
 60 
 
 CCXXVI. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 50 
 
 CC XXVII. to Mr. Rogers . 
 
 51 
 
 CCXXVIII. to Mr. Rogers 
 
 51 
 
 CCXXIX. to Mr. Moore 
 
 61 
 
 CCXXX. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 61 
 
 CCXXXI. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 61 
 
 CCXXXII. to Mr. Murray 
 
 62 
 
 CCXXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 52 
 
 CCXXXIV. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 52 
 
 CCXXXV. to Mr. Murrav . 
 
 53 
 
 CCXXXVL to Mr. Murray 
 
 53 
 
 CCXXXVII. to Mr. Moore 
 
 53 
 
 CCXXXVIII. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 64 
 
 CC XXXIX. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 64 
 
 CCXL. to Mr. Murray 
 
 64 
 
 CCXLI. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 54 
 
 CCXLII. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 65 
 
 CCXLIII. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 66 
 
 CCXLIV. to the countess of * * ♦ 
 
 56 
 
 CCXLV. to Mr. Moore 
 
 56 
 
 CCXL VI. to Mr. Hunt . 
 
 67 
 
 CCXL VII. to Mr. Moore 
 
 67 
 
 CCXL VIII. to Mr. Henrv Drury 
 
 57 
 
 CCXLIX. to Mr. Cowell . 
 
 67 
 
 CCL. to Mr. Moore 
 
 68 
 
 CCLI. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 58 
 
 CCLIl. to Mr. Murray 
 
 69 
 
 CCLIII. to Mr. Nathan . 
 
 69 
 
 CCLIV. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 59 
 
 CCLV. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 60 
 
 CCLVI. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 63 
 
 70 
 
 70 
 
 70 
 
 70 
 
 71 
 
 72 
 
 72 
 
 72 
 
 72 
 
 72 
 
 73 
 
 73 
 
 74 
 
 74 
 
 74 
 
 75 
 
 75 
 
 75 
 
 75 
 
 75 
 
 76 
 
 76 
 
 77 
 
 77 
 
 77 
 
 77 
 
 78 
 
 78 
 
 78 
 
 78 
 
 79 
 
 79 
 
 79 
 
 80 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 IX 
 
 LETTERS 
 CCLVII. 
 
 ccLvm. 
 
 CCLIX. 
 
 CCLX. 
 
 CCLXI. 
 
 CCLXII. 
 
 CCLXUI. 
 
 CCLXIV. 
 
 CCLXV. 
 
 CCLXVI. 
 
 CCLXVII. 
 
 CCLXVIII. 
 
 CCLXIX. 
 
 CCLXX. 
 
 CCLXXI. 
 
 CCLXXII. 
 
 CCLXXIII. 
 
 CCLXXIV. 
 
 CCLXXV. 
 
 CCLXXVI. 
 
 CCLXXVTI. 
 
 CCLXXVIIL 
 
 CCLXXIX. 
 
 CCLXXX. 
 
 CCLXXXI. 
 
 CCLXXXII. 
 
 CCLXXXIIT. 
 
 CCLXXXIV. 
 
 CCLXXXV. 
 
 CCLXXXVI. 
 
 CCLXXX VII. 
 
 CCLXXXVIII. 
 
 CCLXXXIX. 
 
 CCXC. 
 
 CCXCl. 
 
 CCXCII. 
 
 CCXCIII. 
 
 CCXCTV. 
 
 CCXCV. 
 
 CCXCVI. 
 
 CCXGVII. 
 
 CCXCVIII. 
 
 CCXCIX. 
 
 CCC. 
 
 CCCL 
 
 CCCII. 
 
 CCCIII. 
 
 CCCIV. 
 
 COCV. 
 
 CCCVI. 
 
 CCCVIl. 
 
 CCCVJil. 
 
 CCCIX. 
 
 CCCX. 
 
 CCCXI. 
 
 CCCXII. 
 
 CCCXIII. 
 
 CCC XIV. 
 
 CCC XV. 
 
 CCCXVI. 
 
 CCCXVII. 
 
 CCCXVIII. 
 
 CCCXIX. 
 
 cccxx. 
 
 CCCXXI. 
 
 CCCXXII. 
 
 CCCXXIII. 
 
 CCCXXIV. 
 
 CCCXXV. 
 
 CCCXXVI. 
 
 CCCXXVII. 
 
 CCCXXVIII. 
 
 CCCXXIX. 
 
 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 82 
 
 CCC XXX. to Mr. Moore 
 
 . . Ill 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 82 
 
 CCCXXXI. to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 112 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 82 
 
 CCCXXXII. to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 113 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 83 
 
 CCCXXXIII. to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 113 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 83 
 
 CCCXXXIV. to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 113 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 . 83 
 
 CCCXXXV. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . . 114 
 
 to Mr. Moore . . 
 
 . 84 
 
 CCCXXXVI. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . . 114 
 
 to Mr. Coleridge . 
 
 84 
 
 COCXXXVII. to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 114 
 
 to Mr. Murray . . 
 
 . 84 
 
 CCC XXXVIII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 115 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 . 85 
 
 CCCXXXIX. to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 116 
 
 to Mr. Murray . , 
 
 . 85 
 
 CCCXL. to Mr. Murray 
 
 116 
 
 to Mr. Hunt . 
 
 . 85 
 
 CCCXLI. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . . 116 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 85 
 
 CCCXLII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 116 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 86 
 
 CCCXLIII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . . 117 
 
 to Mr. Sotheby . 
 
 . 87 
 
 CCCXLIV. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 117 
 
 to Mr. Sotheby 
 
 87 
 
 CCCXL V. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 117 
 
 to Mr. Taylor . 
 
 . 87 
 
 CCCXLVI. toMr. Moore 
 
 118 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 87 
 
 CCCXL VII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 118 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 87 
 
 CCC XL VIII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 118 
 
 to Mr. Hunt . 
 
 87 
 
 CCCXLIX. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 119 
 
 to Mr. Hunt 
 
 . 88 
 
 CCCL. to Mr. Murray 
 
 119 
 
 to Mr. Hunt . 
 
 88 
 
 CCCLI. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 119 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 88 
 
 CCCLII. to Mr. Murray 
 
 120 
 
 to Mr. Hunt . 
 
 89 
 
 CCCLIII. to Mr. Hoppner 
 
 . 121 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 . 89 
 
 CCCLIV. to Mr. Murray 
 
 121 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 . 90 
 
 CCCLV. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 121 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 90 
 
 CCCLVI. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 121 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 90 
 
 CCCLVII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 122 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 90 
 
 CCCLVIII. to Mr. Murray 
 
 123 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 . 91 
 
 CCCLIX. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 123 
 
 to Mr. Hunt 
 
 . 91 
 
 CCCLX. to Mr. Hoppner . 
 
 123 
 
 to Mr. Rogers 
 
 91 
 
 CCCLXI. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 124 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 91 
 
 CCCXLII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 124 
 
 to Mr. Hunt . 
 
 . 92 
 
 CCCLXTII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 124 
 
 to Mr. Moore , 
 
 . 92 
 
 CCCLXIV. to Mr. Moore 
 
 124 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 93 
 
 CCCLXV. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 123 
 
 to Mr. Rogers . 
 
 . 93 
 
 CCCLXVI. to Mr. Hoppner . 
 
 125 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 93 
 
 CCCLXVII. to Mr. Rogers. . 
 
 126 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 93 
 
 CCCLXVIIL to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 126 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 94 
 
 CCCLXIX. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 127 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 94 
 
 CCCLXX. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . .127 
 
 to Mr. Rogers 
 
 94 
 
 CCCLXXI. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 127 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 94 
 
 CCCLXXII. to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 128 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 94 
 
 CCCLXXllI. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 128 
 
 to Mr. Rogers . 
 
 . 95 
 
 CCCLXXIV. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 128 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 95 
 
 CCCLXXV. to ♦ * + + . 
 
 129 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 96 
 
 CCCLXXVI. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 131 
 
 to Mr, Murray 
 
 96 
 
 CCCLXXVII. to Mr. Mun-ay . 
 
 131 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 96 
 
 CCCLXXVIII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 131 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 96 
 
 CCCLXXIX. to Mr. Murray 
 
 132 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 97 
 
 CCCLXXX. to Capt. Basil Hall 
 
 . 132 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 97 
 
 CCCLXXXI. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 132 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 98 
 
 CCCLXXXn. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 133 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 . 99 
 
 CCCLXXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 133 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 101 
 
 CCCLXXXIV. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 133 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 101 
 
 CCCLXXXV. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 134 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 102 
 
 CCCLXXXVI. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 134 
 
 to Mr. Murray . . 
 
 . 102 
 
 CCCLXXXVII. to the Editor of Gali 
 
 gnani's 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 102 
 
 Messenger 
 
 . 134 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 . 103 
 
 CCCLXXXVIIT. to Mr. Murray 
 
 . . 135 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 104 
 
 CCCLXXXIX. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 135 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 105 
 
 CCCXC. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 136 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 105 
 
 CCCXCI. to Mr. Hoppner . 
 
 136 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 . 106 
 
 CCCXCII. to Mr. Hoppner 
 
 . 136 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 106 
 
 CCCXCIIT. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 137 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 107 
 
 CCCXCIV. to Mr. Hoppner 
 
 . 137 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 . 107 
 
 CCCXCV. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 138 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 . 108 
 
 CCCXC VI. to Mr. Hoppner 
 
 . 138 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 108 
 
 CCCXCVII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . 139 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 . . 109 
 
 CCCXCVIII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . . 139 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 110 
 
 CCCXCIX. to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 139 
 
 to Mr. Rogers 
 
 . 110 
 
 CCCC. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 . . 140 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 . HI 
 
 CCCCL to the Countess Guic 
 
 ciola 140 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 CCCCII. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCIII. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCIV. to Mr. Hoppner 
 CCCCV. to Mr. Hoppner 
 CCCC VI. to Mr. Hoppner 
 CCCCVH. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCVni. to Mr. Hoppner 
 CCCCIX. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCX. to Mr. Bankes 
 CCCCXI. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCC XII. to the Countess Guiccioli 
 CCCCXIII. to the Countess Guiccioli 
 CCCCXIV. to Mr. Hoppner 
 CCCC XV. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXVI. to Mr. Hoppner 
 CCCCXVII. toMr. Moore . 
 CCCCXVIII. to Mr. Hoppner 
 CCCCXIX. to Mr. Hoppner 
 CCCCXX. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCC XXI. to Mr. Bankes 
 CCCCXXII. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXXIII. to Mr. Bankes 
 CCCC XXIV. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXXV. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXXVI. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXXVII. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXXVIII. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXXIX. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXXX. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXXXI. to Mr. Hoppner 
 CCCCXXXII. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXXXIII. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXXXIV. to Mr. Hoppner 
 CCCCXXXV. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXXXVI. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXXXVII. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXXXVm. to Mr. Murray . 
 CCCCXXXIX. to Mr. Moore 
 CCCCXL. to Mr. Hoppner 
 CCCCXLI. to Mr. Moore 
 CCCCXLII. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXLIII. to Mr. Moore 
 CCCCXLIV. to Mr. Moore 
 CCCC XL V. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXL VI. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXLVII. to Mr. Moore 
 CCCCXL VIII. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCXLIX. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCL. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLI. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLIl. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLIII. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLIV. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLV. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLVI. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLVII. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLVIII. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCL [X. to Mr. Moore 
 
 CCCCLX. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLXI. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLXII. to Mr. Moore 
 CCCCLXIII. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLXIV. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLXV. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLXVL to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLXVII. to Mr. Moore 
 CCCCLXVIIL to Mr. Moore 
 CCCCLXIX. to Mr. Moore 
 Address to the Neapolitan government 
 CCCCLXX. to Mr. Moore 
 CCCCLXXI. to Mr. Murray 
 CCCCLXXII. to Mr. Murray . 
 CCCCL XXill. to Mr. Murray 
 
 PAGE 
 
 140 
 141 
 141 
 
 142 
 142 
 143 
 143 
 143 
 144 
 144 
 145 
 145 
 145 
 145 
 146 
 146 
 147 
 147 
 147 
 148 
 148 
 149 
 149 
 150 
 150 
 150 
 150 
 150 
 151 
 151 
 151 
 152 
 152 
 152 
 153 
 154 
 154 
 154 
 155 
 155 
 155 
 156 
 156 
 157 
 157 
 158 
 158 
 158 
 158 
 158 
 159 
 159 
 160 
 160 
 161 
 161 
 162 
 162 
 163 
 163 
 163 
 164 
 164 
 165 
 166 
 167 
 167 
 167 
 168 
 168 
 169 
 169 
 170 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 CCCCLXXIV. 
 
 CCCCLXXV. 
 
 CCCCLXXVL 
 
 CCCCLXXVIL 
 
 CCCCLXXVIIL 
 
 CCCCLXXIX. 
 
 CCCCLXXX. 
 
 CCCCLXXXL 
 
 CCCCLXXXIL 
 
 '■ CCCCLXXXIIL 
 
 CCCCLXXXIV. 
 
 CCCCLXXXV. 
 
 CCCCLXXXVL 
 
 ccccLxxxvn. 
 
 CCCCLXXXVIIL 
 CCCCLXXXIX. 
 
 ccccxc. 
 
 CCCCXCL 
 CCCCXCH. 
 
 ccccxcm. 
 
 CCCCXCIV. 
 
 ccccxcv. 
 
 CCCCXCVI. 
 CCCCXCVIL 
 
 ccccxcvm. 
 ccccxcix. 
 
 D. 
 DI. 
 DII. 
 
 Din. 
 
 DIV. 
 
 DV. 
 
 DVL 
 
 DVII. 
 
 DVIII. 
 
 DIX. 
 
 DX. 
 
 DXL 
 
 DXII. 
 
 DXIII. 
 
 DXIV. 
 
 DXV. 
 
 DXVI. 
 
 Dxvir. 
 
 DXVIII. 
 
 DXIX. 
 
 DXX. 
 
 DXXI. 
 
 DXXII. 
 
 DXXIII. 
 
 DXXIV. 
 
 DXXV. 
 
 DXXVI. 
 
 DXXVII. 
 
 DXXVIII. 
 
 DXXIX. 
 
 DXXX. 
 
 DXXXI. 
 
 DXXXII. 
 
 DXXXIII. 
 
 DXXXIV. 
 
 DXXXV. 
 
 DXXXVI. 
 
 Dxxxvn. 
 
 DXXXVIIL 
 
 DXXXIX. 
 
 DXL. 
 
 DXLI. 
 
 DXLII. 
 
 DXLIII. 
 
 DXLIV. 
 
 DXLV. 
 
 DXL VI. 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Perry . 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Hoppner 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Shelley . 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 to Mr. Hoppner 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 to the Countess Guiccioli 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 to Mr. Hoppner 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Hoppner 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 to Mr. Hoppner 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Murray . 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr, Murray 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Rogers 
 
 to Mr. Moore . 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 to Mr . Sheppard 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 to Mr. Shelley . 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 
 to Sir Walter Scott, Bart 
 
 to Douglas Kinnaird 
 
 to Mr. Murray 
 
 to Mr. Moore 
 

 CONTENTS. 
 
 xi 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 
 DXLVII. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 197 
 
 DCV. to Mr. Moore .... 
 
 218 
 
 DXLVIII. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 198 
 
 DCVI. to the Hon. Col. Stanhope . 
 
 219 
 
 DXT JX. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 198 
 
 DCVII. to Mr. Muir .... 
 
 219 
 
 DL. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 198 
 
 DCVIII. to Mr. C. Hancock . 
 
 220 
 
 DLL to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 199 
 
 DC IX. to Mr. Charles Hancock . 
 
 220 
 
 DLII. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 199 
 
 DCX. to Mr. Charles Hancock . 
 
 221 
 
 DLIII. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 199 
 
 DCXI. to Mr. Charles Hancock . 
 
 221 
 
 DLIV. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 200 
 
 DCXII. to * * * * . 
 
 221 
 
 DLV. to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 200 
 
 DCXIII. to Mr. Charles Hancock . 
 
 222 
 
 DL VI. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 200 
 
 DC XIV. to Andrew Londo 
 
 223 
 
 DLVII. to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 200 
 
 DCXV. to His Highness Yussuff Pacha 
 
 223 
 
 DLVIIL to Mr. Shelley . 
 
 200 
 
 DCXVI. to Mr. Barff 
 
 223 
 
 DLIX. to Sir Walter Scott 
 
 . 201 
 
 DCXVII. to Mr. Mayer 
 
 223 
 
 DLX. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 201 
 
 DCXVIII. to Hon. Douglas Kinnaird . 
 
 224 
 
 DLXI. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 201 
 
 DCXIX. to Mr. BarfF .... 
 
 224 
 
 DLXIL to Mr. Murray . 
 
 201 
 
 DCXX. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 224 
 
 DLXIII. to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 202 
 
 DCXXI. to Mr. Moore .... 
 
 225 
 
 DLXIV. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 202 
 
 DCXXII. to Dr. Kennedy . 
 
 225 
 
 DLXV. to Mr. Moore 
 
 . 203 
 
 DCXXIII. to Mr. BarfF .... 
 
 225 
 
 DLXVI. to Mr. Ellice 
 
 203 
 
 DCXXIV. to Mr. BarfF 
 
 226 
 
 DLXVIL to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 203 
 
 DCXXV. to Sr. Parruca 
 
 226 
 
 DLXVIIL to Mr. Murray . 
 
 204 
 
 DC XXVI. to Mr. Charles Hancock . 
 
 226 
 
 DLXIX. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 204 
 
 DC XXVII. to Dr. Kennedy 
 
 226 
 
 DLXX. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 204 
 
 DCXXVIII. to Colonel Stanhope . 
 
 227 
 
 DLXXI. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 205 
 
 DCXXIX. to Mr. BarfF .... 
 
 227 
 
 DLXXIL to Mr. Murray . 
 
 205 
 
 DCXXX. to Mr. BarfF 
 
 227 
 
 DLXXIII. to Mr. Murray 
 
 . 206 
 
 DCXXXI. to Mr. BarfF .... 
 
 227 
 
 DLXXIV. to Mr. Murray . 
 
 206 
 
 DCXXXII. to *****, a Prussian officer 
 
 228 
 
 DLXXV. to Lady 
 
 . 207 
 
 DCXXXIII. toMr. BarfF .... 
 
 228 
 
 DLXXVI. to Mr. Proctor . 
 
 207 
 
 DCXXXIV. to Mr. BarfF . 
 
 228 
 
 DLXXVII. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 . 207 
 
 DCXXXV. to Mr. Barff .... 
 
 229 
 
 DLXXVIII. to Mrs. 
 
 208 
 
 
 
 DLXXIX. to Lady * + * 
 
 . 208 
 
 Extracts from a Journal begun Nov. 14, 1813, . 
 
 229 
 
 DLXXX. to Mr. Moore . 
 
 208 
 
 Extracts from a Journal in Switzerland . 
 
 244 
 
 DLXXXI. to the Earl of Blessington 
 
 . 209 
 
 Extracts from a Journal in Italy 
 
 247 
 
 DLXXXII. to the Earl of Blessington 
 
 210 
 
 Detached Thoughts, extracted from various jour- 
 
 DLXXXIII. to the Earl of Blessington 
 
 . 210 
 
 nals, memorandums, &c. &c 
 
 259 
 
 DLXXXIV. to the Count * * 
 
 210 
 
 Review of Wordsworth's Poems . 
 
 271 
 
 DLXXXV. to the Countess Blessingtt 
 
 m . 211 
 
 " Gell's Geography of Ithaca, and Itinerary 
 
 DLXXXVI. to the Countess of* * * 
 
 211 
 
 ofGreece 
 
 271 
 
 DLXXXVII. to Lady Byron 
 
 . 211 
 
 The first chapter of a Novel, contemplated by Lord 
 
 DLXXXVIIL to Mr. Blaquiere 
 
 212 
 
 Byron in the spring of 1812 ; (afterwards published 
 
 DLXXXIX. to Mr. Bowring . 
 
 . 212 
 
 in one of Mr. Dallas' novels) 
 
 277 
 
 DXC. to Mr. Bowring . 
 
 213 
 
 ParUamentary Speeches 
 
 278 
 
 DXCI. to Mr. Church 
 
 . 213 
 
 A Fragment 
 
 284 
 
 DXCIL to M. H. Beyle . 
 
 214 
 
 Letter to John Murray on the Rev. W. L. Bowles 
 
 's 
 
 DXCIIL to Lady * * * * . 
 
 . 214 
 
 strictures on the Life and writings of Pope 
 
 286 
 
 DXC IV. to the Countess of Blessir 
 
 igton 214 
 
 Notes 
 
 294 
 
 DXCV. to Mr. Bowring . 
 
 . 214 
 
 Observations upon " Observations :" A second 
 
 DXC VI. to Goethe . 
 
 215 
 
 Letter to John Murray Esq. on the Rev. W. L. 
 
 DXCVII. to Mr. Bowring 
 
 . 215 
 
 Bowles's strictures on the Life and writings 
 
 of 
 
 DXCVIII. to the Generaf Governm 
 
 ent of 
 
 Pope 
 
 295 
 
 Greece 
 
 . 216 
 
 Note 
 
 303 
 
 DXCIX. to Prince Mavrocordato 
 
 216 
 
 Some Observations upon an article in Blackwood 
 
 's 
 
 DC. to Mr. Bowrmg 
 
 . 216 
 
 Magazine 
 
 303 
 
 DCI. to Mr. Bowring . 
 
 217 
 
 Letter to the Editor of My Grandmother's Review 312 
 
 DCII. to Mr. Bowring 
 
 . 217 
 
 Lord Bacon's Apophthegms .... 
 
 314 
 
 DCIII. to the Honourable Mr. I 
 
 )ouglas 
 
 Translation of two Epistles from the Armenian 
 
 Kinnaird 
 
 . 218 
 
 version 
 
 316 
 
 DCIV. to Mr. Bowring . 
 
 218 
 
 The wiU of Lord Byron 
 
 318 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS, ETC. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHiLCE Harold's pilgrimage. 
 
 Preface 1 
 
 Tolanthe 2 
 
 Canto I, 3 
 
 Canto II II 
 
 Canto III. 18 
 
 Canto IV 27 
 
 Notes to Canto 1 42 
 
 Notes to Canto II 43 
 
 Appendix 51 
 
 Notes to Canto III. ... .57 
 
 Notes to Canto IV 59 
 
 THE GIAOUR ... ... 81 
 
 Notes 91 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 Canto 1 93 
 
 Canto II 97 
 
 Notes 102 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Canto 1 105 
 
 Canto II. 110 
 
 Canto III 114 
 
 Notes 119 
 
 LARA. 
 
 Canto 1 121 
 
 Canto II. . 126 
 
 Note ........ 130 
 
 BIEGE OF CORINTH 131 
 
 Notes 139 
 
 PARISINA 140 
 
 Notes 144 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 Sonnet on Chillon 145 
 
 Notes 148 
 
 BEPPO 149 
 
 Notes 156 
 
 MAZEPPA 156 
 
 MAxVFRED 163 
 
 Notes 174 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 She walks in beauty 174 
 
 The harp the monarch minstrel swept . . 174 
 Ifthat high world . .... 174 
 
 The wild gazelle 175 
 
 Oh ! weep for those 175 
 
 On Jordan's banks 175 
 
 Jephtha's daughter 175 
 
 Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom . .175 
 
 My soul is dark 175 
 
 I saw thee weep 175 
 
 Thy days are done 176 
 
 Song of Saul before his last battle . . .176 
 
 Saul 176 
 
 " All is vanity, saith the preacher" • • 176 
 When coldness wraps this suffering clay . 176 
 Vision of Belshazzar 177 
 
 FAOB 
 
 Sun of the sleepless 177 
 
 "Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be 177 
 
 Herod's lament for Mariarane . . . 177 
 
 On the dav of the destruction of Jerusalem by 
 
 Titus 177 
 
 By the rivers of Babylon we sat down and wept 178 
 
 The destruction of Sennacherib . . . 178 
 
 From Job 178 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE . . 178 
 
 Notes 180 
 
 MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN . 180 
 
 LAMENT OF TASSO 181 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Written in an album ..... 183 
 
 To * * * 183 
 
 Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian gulf 183 
 
 Stanzas 184 
 
 Written at Athens 184 
 
 Written after swimming from Sestos to Abydos 184 
 
 Song "... 185 
 
 Translation of a famous Greek war song . 185 
 Translation of a Romaic song . . .185 
 
 Written beneath a picture . . . 186 
 
 On parting .... ... 186 
 
 ToThyrza 186 
 
 Stanzas .... . . 186 
 
 To Thyrza 187 
 
 Euthanasia 187 
 
 Stanzas 187 
 
 Stanzas 188 
 
 On a cornelian heart which was brdien . 188 
 To a youthful friend . . . .188 
 
 rp^ +* + + ** 189 
 
 From the Portuguese . .. . . 189 
 
 Impromptu, in reply to a friend . . .189 
 
 Address spoken at the opening of Dmry-Lano 
 
 Theatre 190 
 
 To Time 190 
 
 Translation of a Romaic love-song . . 190 
 
 A song 191 
 
 On being asked what was the " origin of love" 191 
 
 Remember him 191 
 
 Lines inscribed upon a cup formed frcwn a skull 192 
 
 On the death of Sir Peter Parker, Bart. - 192 
 
 To a lady weeping 192 
 
 From the Turkish 192 
 
 Sonnet 193 
 
 Sonnet 19S 
 
 Inscription on the monument of a Newfoundland 
 
 dog . 193 
 
 Farewell 19S 
 
 Bright be the place of thy soul . . . 19S 
 
 When we two parted 193 
 
 Stanzas for music 194 
 
 Stanzas for music 194 
 
 Fare thee well 194 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 XIU 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A sketch 195 
 
 To 195 
 
 Ode from the French 196 
 
 From the French 197 
 
 On the star of the legion of honour . . 197 
 
 Napoleon's farewell 197 
 
 Written on a blank leaf of *' The Pleasures of 
 
 Memory" 198 
 
 Sonnet . 198 
 
 Stanzas to 198 
 
 Darkness 198 
 
 Churchill's grave. A fact literally rendered . 199 
 
 ■ The dream 199 
 
 Prometheus 201 
 
 Romance muy doloroso del sitio ytomade Alhama 201 
 A very mournful ballad on the siege and conquest 
 
 of Alhama 201 
 
 Sonette di Vittorelli . . . . • . 203 
 
 Translation from Vittorelli .... 203 
 
 Ode 204 
 
 Notes to Poems 205 
 
 PROPHECr OF DANTE. 
 
 Canto 1 206 
 
 Canto II 207 
 
 Canto III 208 
 
 Canto IV 210 
 
 Notes 211 
 
 CAIN . ....... 212 
 
 MARINO FALIERO 228 
 
 Notes 257 
 
 Appendix 258 
 
 SARDANAPALUS 265 
 
 Notes 291 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI 291 
 
 Appendix . . . . . . . 310 
 
 WERNER . 315 
 
 THE DEF0R>IED TRANSFORMED . . . 345 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH .... 358 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 Canto I 368 
 
 Canto II 369 
 
 Canto III 374 
 
 Canto. IV 375 
 
 Appendix 378 
 
 JROURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Preface 382 
 
 On leaving Newstead Abbey . . . 383 
 
 On a distant view of the village and school of 
 
 Harrow on the Hill . . . . 383 
 
 To D 384 
 
 Epitaph on a friend 384 
 
 A fragment 384 
 
 ToEddleston 384 
 
 Reply to some verses of J. M. Pigot, Esq. on 
 
 the cruelty of his mistress .... 385 
 To the sighing Strephon .... 385 
 
 The tear 385 
 
 To Miss Pigot 386 
 
 Lines written in " Letters of an Italian Nun and 
 
 an English Gentleman, by J. J. Rousseau, 
 
 founded on Facts" .... 386 
 
 Answer to the foregoing, addressed to Miss 386 
 
 The cornelian 386 
 
 On the death of a young lady, cousin to the author, 
 
 and very dear to him .... 387 
 
 To Emma 387 
 
 An occasional prologue, delivered previous to the 
 
 performance of " The Wheel of Fortune" at a 
 
 private theatre 387 
 
 On the death of Mr. Fox .... 388 
 
 ToM. S.G 388 
 
 To Caroline .,.,,. 388 
 
 To Caroline ...... 389 
 
 To Caroline ...... 389 
 
 t 
 
 PA6B 
 
 Stanzas to a lady 389 
 
 The first kiss of love .... 389 
 
 To Mary 390 
 
 To woman 390 
 
 ToM. S.G 390 
 
 To a beautiful quaker .... 390 
 
 Song 391 
 
 To 391 
 
 To Mary 392 
 
 To Lesbia 392 
 
 Lines addressed to a young lady . . 392 
 
 Love's last adieu 393 
 
 Damaetas 393 
 
 To Marion 393 
 
 Oscar of Alva 394 
 
 To the Duke of Dorset . . . .397 
 
 TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. 
 
 Adrian's address to his soul when dying, with 
 
 Translation 398 
 
 Translation from Catullus . . , 398 
 Translation of the epitaph on Virgil and Ti- 
 
 bullus 398 
 
 Imitation of Tibullus .... 398 
 
 Translation from Catullus . . . 398 
 
 Imitated from Catullus .... 398 
 
 Translation from Horace .... 398 
 
 Translation from Anacreon . . . 399 
 
 Ode III 399 
 
 Fragments of school exercises . . . 399 
 
 The episode of Nisus and Eurialus . . 399 
 
 Translation from the Medea of Euripides . 402 
 
 FUGITIVE PIECES. 
 
 Thoughts suggested by a college examination 403 
 
 To the Earl of 404 
 
 Answer to some elegant verses sent by a friend 
 to the author, complaining that one of his de- 
 scriptions was rather too warmly drawn 405 
 
 Granta 405 
 
 Lachin y. Gair 406 
 
 To Romance 407 
 
 Elegy on Newstead Abbey . . . 407 
 On a change of masters at a great public school 409 
 Childish recollections .... 409 
 Answer to a beautiful poem, written by Montgo- 
 mery, author of " The Wanderer in Switzer- 
 land," &c. &c. entitled " The Common Lot " 413 
 To the Rev. J. T. Becher ... 413 
 The death of Calmar and Orla . . . 414 
 
 To E. N. L., Esq 415 
 
 To 416 
 
 Stanzas 416 
 
 Lines written beneath an elm in the churchyard 
 
 of Harrow on the Hill . . . .417 
 
 Critique, extracted from the Edinburgh Review 417 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 Preface 419 
 
 Postscript 430 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE 431 
 
 THE' CURSE OF MINERVA . . . 441 
 THE WALTZ. 
 
 To the publisher . . . . 444 
 
 AGE OF BRONZE ... . 447 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 Preface , 453 
 
 MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 Advertisement ...... 461 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 The Blues 467 
 
 Third Act of Manfred, in its original shape, as 
 
 first sent to the publisher . . . 470 
 
 To my dear Mary Anne . . . 472 
 
 To Miss Chaworth 472 
 
 Fragment 47S 
 
 The prayer of nature .... 47S 
 
XIV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Fragment .... ... 473 
 
 On revisiting Harrow . ... 473 
 
 L'amitie est 1' amour sans ailes . . . 473 
 
 To my son . .... 474 
 
 Epitaph on John Adams, of Southwell , 475 
 
 Fragment . .... . 475 
 
 To Mrs. * * * 475 
 
 A love-song 475 
 
 Stanzas to ******* . . . . 475 
 
 To the same . . , , . 476 
 Song ...... .476 
 
 Stanzas to * * *, on leaving England . 476 
 
 Lines to Mr. Hodgson . '. . . . 477 
 
 Lines in the travellers' book at Orchomenus . 477 
 
 Epistle to Mr. Hodgson .... 478 
 
 On Moore's last operatic farce , . . 478 
 
 On Lord Thurlow's poems . . . 478 
 
 To Lord Thurlow 478 
 
 To Thomas Moore . . . . 478 
 
 Fragment of an epistle to Thomas Moore . 479 
 
 The Devil's drive 479 
 
 Windsor poetics .... • 480 
 
 Additional stanzas to the ode to Napoleon . 480 
 
 To Lady Caroline Lamb ... 480 
 
 Stanzas for music . .... 480 
 Address intended to be recited at the Caledonian 
 
 meeting ...*... 481 
 
 ToBelshazzar 481 
 
 On the Prince Regent's returning the picture of 
 
 Sarah Countess of Jersey to Mrs. Mee . 481 
 
 Hebrew Melodies 482 
 
 Lines intended for the opening of " The Siege of 
 
 Corinth" 482 
 
 Extract from an unpublished poem . . 482 
 
 To Augusta 482 
 
 Fragment of a poem on hearing that Lady Byron 
 
 wasilL— 1S16 484 
 
 On the bust of Helen by Canova . . 484 
 
 To Thomas Moore . . ... 484 
 
 Stanzas to the river Po .... 484 
 
 Sonnet to George the Fourth . . . 484 
 
 The Irish Avatar 485 
 
 Francesca of Rimini . . . , . 485 
 
 Stanzas . . . » . . , 486 
 
 Stanzas . . . . . . . 487 
 
 Impromptu ... ... .487 
 
 To the Countess of Blessington . . . 487 
 
 On this day I complete ray thirty-sixth year . 487 
 
 POEMS FROM MANCrsCRIPTS COLLECTED Ilf 1833, 
 
 To a Lady who presented the Author with a vel- 
 vet band which bound her tresses . . 488 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Remembrance , 488 
 
 The Adieu 488 
 
 To a vain Lady 489 
 
 To Anne 490 
 
 To the same . 490 
 
 To the Author of a Sonnet beginning " ' Sad is 
 my verse,' you say, ' And yet no tear.' " . 490 
 
 On finding a Fan 490 
 
 Farewell to the Muse . .... 490 
 
 To an Oak at Newstead . . . . 491 
 
 Lines on hearing that Lady Byron was ill .491 
 
 Stanzas " Could love for ever" ... 492 
 Stanzas to a Hindoo Air .... 492 
 
 Lines intended for the First Canto of Childe Ha- 
 rold's Pilgrimage .... 493 
 
 Don Jtjan 
 
 Canto I. . . . . .495 
 
 Canto n. . . ... 509 
 
 Canto m 522 
 
 Canto IV. . . . . 530 
 
 Canto V. . . ... .537 
 
 Preface to Cantos VI. VH. VIII. . . 547 
 
 Canto VL . . . . .543 
 
 Canto VII. . ... 556 
 
 Canto VIII 561 
 
 Canto IX. . ... 570 
 
 Canto X. , . . . 575 
 Canto XL .... 581 
 
 Canto XII. . . . . .687 
 
 Canto Xm. . . . .592 
 
 Canto XIV. . .... 599 
 
 Canto XV. . . . . . 606 
 
 Canto XVL . . . .612 
 
 Notes to Canto I. . . . . 620 
 
 Notes to Canto III. ... 620 
 
 Notes to Canto IV. . . . .621 
 
 Notes to Canto V. . . . 621 
 
 Notes to Canto VI. .... 622 
 
 Notes to Canto VII. ... 622 
 
 Notes to Canto VIII. . . . 622 
 
 Notes to Canto IX. . . . 622 
 
 Notes to Canto X. . . . .623 
 
 Notes to Canto XL . . . . 623 
 
 Notes to Canto XII. . . . 623 
 
 Notes to Canto XIII. . . . 624 
 
 Notes to Canto XIV. . . . .624 
 
 Notes to Canto XV. . . . 624 
 
 Notes to Canto XVI. . . . .625 
 
 Dedication . ... 626 
 
THE 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron, 
 was born in Holies-street, London, on the 
 22d of January, 178S. His name was of 
 Norman origin, and still exists, among the 
 noblest in France, in the family of the Duke 
 de Biron. His direct ancestor, Ralph de 
 Biron, accompanied William the Conqueror 
 to England, and he and his descendants for 
 several succeeding reigns, held large posses- 
 sions in Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, and 
 Lancashire. James Byron, of Horestan 
 Castle, Derbyshire, appears on the "Oxford 
 List," as one of the English Knights who 
 followed the banner of Richard Coeur de 
 Lion to Palestine, and he or his brother 
 became a hostage for the payment of the 
 ransom of that monarch after his captivity. 
 In the wars of the three Edwards, and of 
 the White and Red Roses, the family were 
 highly distinguished, and were engaged in 
 almost every battle, from Cressy to Bos- 
 worth Field. Newstead Abbey, near Not- 
 tingham, with the lands adjoining it, was 
 presented by Henry VIIL on the dissolution 
 of the monasteries to Sir John Byron, and 
 in 1643, his great grandson was created a 
 peer by Charles L with the title of Baron 
 Byron, of Rochdale, in the county of Lan- 
 caster. During the political struggles of 
 that period, the Byrons adhered faithfully to 
 the Crown, and suffered greatly by confis- 
 cation and otherwise. At the battle of 
 Edgehill seven brothers of the name were 
 present, four of whom fell at Marston 
 Moor. William, the fifth Lord, succeeded 
 to the title in 1736, and, in 1765, was tried 
 before the House of Peers for killing his 
 relation Mr. Chaworth, in a desperate scuffle 
 or duel in London, and found guilty of man- 
 slaughter, but pleaded the privilege of the 
 peerage, and was discharged. He retired 
 to Newstead Abbey, and resided there, 
 living in a very unsocial, savage, and eccen- 
 tric manner, till his death in 1798. 
 
 John, the father of the poet, was the son 
 of Lord William's eldest brother, Admiral 
 
 Byron, the celebrated voyager. He was a 
 captain in the guards, and notorious, alike 
 for his personal beauty, and the profligacy 
 of his conduct. In his twenty-seventh year, 
 he won the affections of Lady Caermarthen, 
 the wife of the Marquis of Caermarthen ; 
 fled with her to the Continent, and, on her 
 husband's obtaining a divorce, married her. 
 She died in 1784, leaving one daughter, 
 Augusta Byron, afterwards Mrs. Leigh. In 
 the following year, he married Catherine 
 Gordon, the only child of George Gordon. 
 Esq. of Gight, in Scotland. She was of 
 noble, and indeed, of princely ancestry, being 
 a lineal descendant of Sir William Gordon, 
 son of the Earl of Huntly by a daughter 
 of James I. She was possessed of pro 
 perty to the amount of more than £-20,000 
 sterling, which was very soon nearly ex- 
 pended in paying her husband's debts, and 
 contributing to his extravagancies. In the 
 summer of 1786, they left Scotland, and 
 resided in France, until the close of the 
 year 1787, when Mrs. Byron returned to 
 London, and continued there until the birth 
 of the poet in January 1788. At this time 
 all her estate had been sacrificed, with the 
 exception of about i2l50 sterling per an- 
 num, vested in trustees for her use. From 
 London she proceeded with her infant to 
 Aberdeen, where she was soon after joined 
 by Captain Byron, who, after passing at 
 intervals two or three months with her, 
 during which they lived very unhappily 
 together, departed again for France, and 
 died at Valenciennes in 1791. 
 
 At five years old, young Byron was sent 
 to a day school kept by a Mr. Bowers, where 
 he remained a year. He was then placed 
 for a time under the care of two other in- 
 structers, and at seven entered the Gram- 
 mar School at Aberdeen. In the summer 
 of 1796, after an attack of scarlet fever, he 
 was removed for change of air, to the High- 
 lands, and resided, with his mother, for some 
 time, at Ballater, on the Dee, about forty 
 
XVI 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 miles from Aberdeen. To his pleasant re- 
 collections of this period, and its scenes and 
 associations, he often recurs in his writings. 
 By the death without issue, of William, 
 the fifth Lord, in May, 1798, he succeeded 
 to his estates and titles, and his cousin the 
 Earl of Carhsle, the son of the late Lord's 
 sister, was appointed his guardian. In the 
 autumn of that year, he accompanied his 
 motlier to Newstead Abbey, which had 
 been the principal seat of the family since 
 its presentation, and continued to be so 
 until it was purchased by Colonel Wildman 
 in 1814. On their arrival there, he was, in 
 consequence of a lameness in one of his 
 feet, occasioned, it is said, by an accident 
 which occurred at his birth, and afterwards 
 increased by improper treatment, placed at 
 Nottingham under the care of a person 
 who professed the cure of such cases, and 
 he received at the same time lessons in 
 Latin, from Mr. Rogers, a schoolmaster of 
 that town. He was removed, in a short 
 time, to London, to the charge of the emi- 
 nent physician, Doctor Baillie, and studied 
 for two years at the school of Doctor Glen- 
 nie at Dulwich. But neither the Notting- 
 ham practitioner, nor the skill of Doctor 
 Baillie, succeeded in relieving the infirmity 
 in his foot, which continued to be a source 
 of extreme annoyance and mortification to 
 him during life. 
 
 In one of his vacations at this time, 
 (1800,) he visited his cousin, Miss Parker, 
 and " his first dash into poetry," he says in 
 one of his memorandums, " was the ebulli- 
 tion of a passion for her." The verses he 
 alludes to are published in this volume, 
 page 387. She was the daughter of Ad- 
 miral Sir Peter Parker, on whose death 
 in 1814, he wrote the lines beginning, 
 " There is a tear for all who die " In the 
 summer of 1801, he visited Cheltenham 
 and immediately on his return was placed 
 at Harrow, under the tuition of Doctor 
 Drury, for whom he appears to have uni- 
 formly entertained the utmost respect and 
 afiection. In the autumn of 1802, he passed 
 some time with his mother at Bath, and 
 proceeded with her to Nottingham, where 
 she took lodgings, Newstead being for that 
 season let to Lord Grey de Ruthven. Here 
 he cultivated an intimacy with Miss Mary 
 Anne Chaworth; to whom he had been 
 previously introduced in London. She re- 
 sided at Annesley, in the neighbourhood of 
 Nottingham. They were distantly related, 
 the third Lord Bvron. who succeeded to the 
 
 title in 1679, having married a daughter of 
 Viscount Chaworth of Ireland. Mr. Cha- 
 worth, who fell in the dispute with the Lord 
 Byron of 1765, was of the same family. 
 He visited Annesley daily for nearly six 
 weeks, passing most of the time with his 
 cousin, and became deeply and devotedly 
 attached to her. He was then but fifteen. 
 She was two or three years older, very 
 beautiful, and an heiress with large expec- 
 tations, and seems to have looked upon him, 
 at the moment, as a mere schoolboy, and 
 laughed at his passion and himself accord- 
 ingly. He has pictured in " The Dream," 
 page 199, the story of his love for her, and 
 its fate and consequences. It appears, 
 young as he then was, to have made an in- 
 delible impression upon him, and to have 
 given, at least in his own opinion, a colour- 
 ing of the deepest and darkest importance 
 to the events and feelings of his after life. 
 Allusions to the subject as one of painful 
 and of pow^erful interest, are to be found in 
 almost every page of his works. Many of 
 his smaller poems, particularly the lines 
 " Well, thou art happy, &c." page 189, 
 w^ere addressed to her. In the following 
 year, 1805, she was married to Mr. Mus- 
 ters, a gentleman of the neighbourhood, 
 and it is said, that the marriage proved un- 
 happy. She died in 1831. During one 
 of his vacations at this period, he studied 
 French with the Abbe de RoufHgny in 
 London, but made little progress. He 
 afterwards read that language with ease, 
 but never attempted to speak it. He passed 
 the vacation of 1804 with his mother at 
 Southwell, in Nottinghamshire, and in Oc- 
 tober 1805, left Harrow for Trinity Col- 
 lege, Cambridge. 
 
 On a visit to Southwell in the following 
 summer, (1806,) he became intimate with 
 the family of the Pigots, and to a lady of 
 that family the earliest of his letters which 
 have been preserved was addressed. In 
 August, a dispute with his mother, whose 
 violence of temper, at times, exceeded all 
 bounds, compelled him to fly to London. 
 She however pursued him, and they were 
 soon reconciled. About the first of Novem- 
 ber his first collection of poems was put in 
 press at Newark by Mr. Ridge, a bookseller 
 of that place, and about a hundred copies 
 circulated among his friends. All these, 
 however, he immediately recalled, and in 
 the January following printed for private 
 distribution a second collection, omitting 
 many pieces which had appeared in the firsts 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XVII 
 
 It was entitled " Poems on various Occa- 
 sions," and the author's name was not given. 
 In May, or June, after numerous alterations 
 and additions, the work appeared in its pub- 
 lished shape, with the title of " Hours of 
 Idleness, &c." and its second edition was 
 dedicated to his guardian, Lord Carlisle. 
 In the present collection, see this volume, 
 page 382, the reader will find all the poems 
 which were originally suppressed, and no- 
 tices of the variations of the different edi- 
 tions. He also wrote previous to, and about 
 this time, several occasional verses, not in- 
 cluded in any of his pubUcations, which 
 have been collected since his death, and are 
 now pubUshed, from page 467 to page 488. 
 The minor Reviews, such as the Critical, 
 Monthly, Antijacobin, &c. gave the " Hours 
 of Idleness" a very favourable reception, 
 but the appearance, in the spring of 1808, 
 of the article in the Edinburgh Review 
 (see this volume, page 417,) satirically and 
 severely criticizing it, destroyed for the 
 moment all his hopes of fame, humbled his 
 ambition, and wounded his pride to the 
 quick. Yet to this article may be traced 
 all his future literary eminence. The very 
 reaction of his spirit against what he deem- 
 ed oppression, roused him to a full con- 
 sciousness of his own powers, and to a 
 concentration of them all upon one object. 
 The criticism has been generally attributed 
 to Mr. Jeffrey, the ostensible editor of the 
 Review, although there is no positive cer- 
 tainty from whose pen it emanated. He, 
 however, in his character of editor, neces- 
 sarily sanctioned it, and upon him, in par- 
 ticular, Lord Byron for a/long time poured 
 the vials of his wrath. 
 
 Previous to this, and since his depar- 
 ture from Harrow, Lord Byron had passed 
 his life between the dissipations of Cam- 
 bridge and London, and had obtained no 
 other distinction than the college reputation 
 among his fellows of being a clever, but a 
 careless and dissipated student. His most 
 Intimate associates were Mr. Matthews, Mr. 
 Hobhouse, Mr. Scroope Davies, and a few 
 other young men of his own age and habits, 
 whom he occasionally invited to Newstead, 
 which he had slightly repaired and fitted 
 up as a temporary residence. The follow- 
 ing extract of a letter from Mr. Matthews to 
 a lady of his acquaintance, written from 
 London soon after this period, contains an 
 mteresting and amusing description of the 
 Abbey and its inmates. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey is situate one hun- 
 
 dred and thirty-six miles from London ; 
 four on this side Mansfield. Though sadly 
 fallen to decay, it is still completely an Ahhey^ 
 and most part of it is standing in the same 
 state as when it was first built. There are 
 two tiers of cloisters, with a variety of cells 
 and rooms about them, which, though not 
 inhabited, nor in an inhabitable state, might 
 easily be made so ; and many of the origi-^ 
 nal rooms, among which is a fine stone hall, 
 are still in use. Of the Abbey Church only 
 one end remains ; and the old kitchen, with 
 a long range of apartments, is reduced to a 
 heap of rubbish. Leading from the Abbey 
 to the modern part of the habitation is a 
 noble room, seventy feet in length and twen- 
 ty-three in breadth : but every part of the 
 house displays neglect and decay, save those 
 which the present Lord has lately fitted up. 
 " The house and gardens are entirely 
 surrounded by a wall with battlements. In 
 front is a large lake, bordered here and there 
 with castellated buildings, the chief of which 
 stands on an eminence at the farther extre- 
 mity of it. Fancy all this surrounded with 
 bleak and barren hills, with scarce a tree to 
 be seen for miles, except a solitary clump or 
 two, and you will have some idea of New- 
 stead. 
 
 " Ascend, then, with me the hall steps, that 
 I may introduce you to my Lord and his 
 visitants. But have a care how you pro- 
 ceed ; be mindful to go there in broad day- 
 light, and with your eyes about you. For, 
 should you make any blunder, — should you 
 go to the right of the hall steps, you are laid 
 hold of by a bear ; and, should you go to 
 the left, your case is still worse, for you run 
 full against a wolf! — Nor, when you have 
 attained the door, is your danger over ; for 
 the hall being decayed, and therefore stand- 
 ing in need of repair, a bevy of inmates are 
 very probably banging at one end of it with 
 their pistols ; so that if you enter without 
 giving loud notice of your approach, you 
 have 'only escaped the wolf and the bear to 
 expire by the pistol-shots of the merry 
 monks of Newstead. 
 
 " Our party consisted of Lord Byron 
 and four others ; and was, now and then, 
 increased by the presence of a neighbouring 
 parson. As for our way of living, the order 
 of the day was generally this : — For break 
 fast we had no set hour, but each suited his 
 own convenience, — every thing remaining 
 on the table till the whole party had done ; 
 though had one wished to breakfast at the 
 early hour of ten, one would have been 
 
xvm 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 rather lucky to find any of the servants up. 
 Our average hour of rising was one. I, 
 who generally got up between eleven and 
 twelve, was always, — even when an invalid, 
 — the first of the party, and was esteemed 
 a prodigy of early rising. It was frequently 
 past two before the breakfast party broke 
 up. Then, for the amusements of the 
 morning, there was reading, fencing, single- 
 stick, or shuttlecock, in the great room ; 
 practising with pistols in the hall ; walking 
 — riding — cricket — sailing on the lake, play- 
 ing with the bear, or teazing the wolf Be- 
 tween seven and eight we dined, and our 
 evening lasted from that time till one, two, 
 or three in the morning. The evening di- 
 versions may be easily conceived. 
 
 " I must not omit the custom of handing 
 round, after dinner, on the removal of the 
 cloth, a human skull filled with Burgundy. 
 After revelling on choice viands, and the 
 finest wines of France, we adjourned to tea, 
 where we amused ourselves with reading or 
 improving conversation, — each according 
 to his fancy, — and, after sandwiches, &c. 
 retired to rest. A set of monkish dresses, 
 which had been provided, with all the pro 
 per apparatus of crosses, beads, tonsures, 
 &c. often gave a variety to our appearance, 
 and to our pursuits." 
 
 It was at Newstead Abbey, in the early 
 part of September, that he began to prepare 
 his Satire, the " English Bards and Scotch 
 Reviewers," for the press. Although its 
 immediate preparation was evidently has- 
 tened by the critique in the Edinburgh 
 Review, yet, as appears from his letters, it 
 had been projected a long time previous, 
 and three or four hundred lines of it written. 
 He had the proof sheets printed from the 
 manuscript by Ridge at Newark, and in the 
 beginning of the next year took them up to 
 London for publication. He had then (Ja- 
 nuary, 1809) become of age, and found his 
 estates greatly embarrassed, as well by the 
 improvidence of his immediate ancestors as 
 by his own pecuniary suppHes during his 
 minority, which he had been compelled to 
 borrow at an exorbitant interest. Heavy 
 incumbrances remained for many years after 
 upon his property, and distressed him ex- 
 ceedingly. His Satire was put in press by 
 Cawthorne, the London pubHsher of the 
 " Hours of Idleness," and its publication was 
 superintended by Mr. Dallas, to whom he 
 had made a present of the copy-right. Mr. 
 Dallas was professionally a man of letters, 
 and the author of several novels of limited 
 
 popularity, and rather indifferent merit ; to 
 one of which Lord Byron contributed the 
 chapter included in this collection, page 
 271. He was related by marriage to 
 George Byron, then an officer in the Bri- 
 tish navy, the cousin of the poet, and his 
 successor in the title. One of the objects 
 of Lord Byron in visiting London at this 
 period was to take his seat in the House of 
 Peers, previous to going abroad. He had for 
 several months made arrangements for a 
 voyage to India, and had applied for infor- 
 mation relative to his route, &c. to the 
 Arabic professor at Cambridge, and taken 
 other steps with a similar intention ; but he 
 finally abandoned this project, and resolved 
 on visiting Greece. Before the meeting of 
 Parliament, he wrote to his guardian, Lord 
 Carlisle, and reminded him that he should 
 become of age at the commencement of the 
 session, in the hope of being introduced by 
 him personally into the House. He re- 
 ceived, to his great disappointment, a cold 
 and formal reply, merely pointing out the 
 technical mode of proceeding in such cases. 
 This so excited his indignation that he in- 
 stantly erased from the Satire several cou- 
 plets complimentary to Lord Carlisle, and 
 inserted the biiter lines, and still more bitter 
 note, which now^ stand in it. On the ISth 
 of March he took his seat in the House of 
 Lords, placing himself on one of the oppo- 
 sition benches, and continued a steady ad- 
 herent of the Whig party till his death. 
 His Satire appeared on the 18th or 20th of 
 March, and met a ready and rapid sale. He 
 then returned to Newstead, where he spent 
 between two and three months in preparing 
 a second edition for the press ; and about 
 the 11 th of June, left London for Falmouth, 
 with his friend Mr. Hobhouse, on their way 
 to the East. 
 
 They embarked at Falmouth, in the 
 Lisbon packet, on the 2d of July, and ar- 
 rived in four days at Lisbon, from whence 
 they journeyed on horseback to Seville and 
 Cadiz, and sailed from the latter place for 
 Gibraltar, in the Hyperion frigate. On the 
 19th of August, they left Gibraltar for 
 Malta, having first sent home two of Lord 
 Byron's servants, Murray and young Rush- 
 ton, the " Yeoman" and " Page" of the 
 " Good Night" in Childe Harold, the lat- 
 ter being unable, from ill health, to go on. 
 His valet, Fletcher, remained with them. 
 At Malta he formed an acquahitance with 
 Mrs. Spencer Smith, the " Florence" of his 
 poetry, and was on the point of fighting a 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XIX 
 
 duel with an officer of the garrison, but 
 satisfactory explanations having been made 
 on the ground by the friend of his anta- 
 gonist, the affair was amicably adjusted. 
 They sailed in the brig Spider on the 
 19th for Prevesa, which they reached on 
 the 29th, having touched at Patras on their 
 way. From Prevesa they journeyed to 
 Joannina, the capital of Albania, the an- 
 cient Epirus, and from thence to Tepelenfe, 
 St nine days distance, for the purpose of 
 visiting Ali Pacha, the then chief of a great 
 portion of Greece, and one of the most 
 celebrated Viziers of the Ottoman empire, 
 by whom they were received with marked 
 civiUty and attention. They were among 
 the earliest English travellers through Al- 
 bania, a country at that time hardly known 
 to the rest of Europe. The letters of Lord 
 Byron at this period, published in this col- 
 lection of his works, together with the text 
 and notes of the first and second Cantos 
 of Childe Harold, and many of his other 
 poems, notes, &c. contain such numerous 
 details of their various adventures during 
 "this and their subsequent journeys and 
 ■voyages in the Levant, as render a par- 
 ticular description in this sketch unneces- 
 sary. 
 
 On the 3d of November they returned 
 from Tepelen^ through Joannina to Pre- 
 vesa, and on the 15th, attended by a guard 
 of forty or fifty Albanians, they traversed 
 Acarnania and Etoha to Missolonghi, 
 -crossed the gulf of Corinth to Patras, and 
 proceeded from thence by land to Vostizza, 
 where they obtained a first view of Mount 
 Parnassus. They sailed to the opposite 
 shore of the gulf in a small boat ; rode on 
 horseback from Salona to Delphi, and after 
 travelling through Livadia, and visiting 
 Thebes, &c. arrived at Athens on the 25th 
 <of^ December. 
 
 At Athens, they resided for two or three 
 -months, making occasional excursions in its 
 neighbourhood. They lodged in the house 
 of Theodora Macri, a Greek lady, to whose 
 eldest daughter, the fines on page 184, 
 *' Maid of Athens ere we part, &c." were 
 addressed. On the 5th of March, 1810, 
 they embarked in an Engfish sloop of war 
 for Smyrna, where they remained, with the 
 exception of a few days employed in a visit 
 to the ruins of Ephesus, until the 11th of 
 April. The first two Cantos of Childe 
 Harold were completed at Smyrna, as ap- 
 pears from the following memorandum pre- 
 fixed to the original manuscript. 
 
 " Byron. Joannina in Albania, 
 Begun October 31st, 1809 : 
 Concluded Canto 2d, Smyrna, 
 March 28th, 1810. 
 
 " Byron." 
 
 The Salsette frigate then lying at Smyr- 
 na, had been ordered to Constantinople for 
 the purpose of conveying to England Mr. 
 Adair, the English ambassador at the Porte, 
 and Lord Byron and Mr. Hobhouse took 
 passage in her on the 11th April. The 
 next morning they landed at Tenedos, and 
 the day after left the ship, with a party of 
 officers to visit the ruins of Troas. On the 
 14th, they anchored in the Dardanelles, 
 where they lay for nearly three weeks. 
 While at anchor there. Lord Byron with 
 Mr. Ekenhead, a lieutenant of the frigate, 
 accomplished the achievement of which he 
 was thr mgh life particularly proud, that of 
 swimming from Sestos to Abydos. Their 
 first attempt was made on a day in the latter 
 part of April, and failed, owing to the cold- 
 ness of the water, and their ignorance of the 
 nature of the current. On the 3d May, they 
 made a second attempt, and the weather 
 being warmer, succeeded. The Salsette 
 arrived at Constantinople on the 13th May, 
 and remained there about three months, 
 during which time Lord Byron was pre- 
 sented to the Sultan, and made an expedi- 
 tion to the Black Sea and the Cyanean 
 Symplegades. On the 14th of July, he 
 left Constantinople in the same frigate, in 
 company with Mr. Adair and Mr. Hob- 
 house. The two latter gentlemen pro- 
 ceeded in her to England, but Lord Byron 
 was on the 15th, at his own request, landed 
 at the island of Zea, with two Albanians, 
 a Tartar, and his Engfish servant, Fletcher, 
 from whence he sailed to Athens, and 
 reached there on 'the 18th. 
 
 At Athens he met an old acquaintance 
 and fellow collegian, the Marquis of Sligo, 
 and in a day or two left there in company 
 with him for the Morea. They parted at 
 Corinth, the Marquis going from thence to 
 Tripolitza, and Lord Byron to Patras. 
 During the two fofiowing months he made 
 the tour of the Morea, &c. and, after a long 
 and dangerous illness at Patras, returned to 
 Athens in December, and there fixed his 
 head quarters during the remainder of his 
 stay in Greece. His principal companion at 
 this time was Lord Sligo, and he was also in- 
 timate with Mr. Bruce, afterwards celebrated 
 for the part he took in the romantic escape of 
 
XK 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 the French General Lavalette from prison, 
 and with Lady Hester Stanhope, the eccen- 
 tric chieftainess of the Bedouin Arabs. He 
 "vvas employed in collecting the materials 
 which form the notes to the 2d Canto of 
 Childe Harold, and in the words of Mr. 
 Moore, '' as if in utter defiance of the ' ge- 
 nius k)ci,' " he there wrote his " Hints from 
 Horace," a satire which, impregnated as it 
 is with London hfe from beginning to end, 
 ■bears the date, " Athens, Capuchin convent, 
 March 12, ISIL" 
 
 His pecuniary affairs while abroad were 
 greatly embarrassed, and the want of re- 
 mittances probably prevented him from 
 .undertaking a voyage to Egypt, which in 
 ithe month of March he had contemplated, 
 and no doubt hastened his return home. He 
 •went te the island of Malta in May, where 
 lie suffered severely from an attack of fever, 
 ■to which he seems to have been constitu- 
 l;ionally subject, being three or four times 
 while in the Levant, reduced by similar at- 
 tacks to almost the last extremity. On the 
 3d of June, as soon as his health permitted, 
 he set sail from Malta in the Volage frigate 
 for England, and reached London on the 
 14th of Juh^, having been absent a little 
 more tiian two years. 
 
 Th'e day after his arrival in London, Mr. 
 Dallas called upon him, and in the course 
 of a brief conversation, Lord Byron men- 
 tioned having written the " Hints from Ho- 
 race," which he said he considered a good 
 finish to the " English Bards and Scotch 
 Reviewers," adding that he intended to put 
 it in press immediately, and requesting Mr. 
 Dallas to superintend its publication. Mr. 
 Dallas took the manuscript home with him, 
 and on perusing it, Avas, to use his own 
 words, " grievously disappointed." He re- 
 turned it the next morning, and though 
 unwilling to speak of it as he really thought, 
 could not refrain from expressing some sur- 
 prise that its author should 'have produced 
 nothing else during his two years' absence. 
 Lord Byron told him that he had occasion- 
 ally written short poem.s, besides a great 
 many stanzas in the measure of Spenser 
 and added, " they are not worth troubling 
 you with, but you may have them all if you 
 like." He then took the manuscripts of 
 Childe Harold from a small trunk, and 
 said they had been read but by one person, 
 (probably Mr. Hobhouse,) who had found 
 very little to commend and much to con- 
 demn, and that he himself was of the same 
 opinion. Mr. Dallas on the contrary, on 
 
 perusing the poem, at once appreciated it« 
 merit and anticipated its success, but it was 
 some time before he could overcome Lord 
 Byron's real or assumed repugnance to its 
 publication. The " Hints from Horace" 
 was his especial favourite. He was very 
 desirous of having it printed without delay ; 
 and it was accordingly handed to Caw- 
 thorne, the pubUsher of the " English Bards 
 and Scotch Reviewers," for that purpose. 
 Mr. Dallas, however, finally prevailed upon 
 him to suppress it at the moment, and 
 although Lord Byron always dwelt upon it 
 with pleasure, and subsequently took pains 
 at various times to prepare it for the press, 
 it never met the approbation of his book- 
 sellers or their literary censors, and did not 
 appear until after his death. 
 
 The publication of Childe Harold being 
 determined upon, the manuscript was placed 
 by Mr. Dallas, to whom the copy-right had 
 been presented, in the hands of Mr. Mur- 
 ray the bookseller, and was immediately 
 put in press. The " English Bards and 
 Scotch Reviewers" had previous to this 
 time passed to a fourth edition ; a fifth was 
 now issued with various additions, after 
 which that work was suppressed, and every 
 copy so far as was practicable called in and 
 destroyed. In America, however, and on 
 the Continent, where the English law of 
 copy-right could not be enforced, it conti- 
 nued to be published with the other works 
 of its author. 
 
 On the 23d of July, Lord Byron wrote 
 to his mother, who was then at Newstcad, 
 stating that he was detained in town by 
 some law affairs for a day or two, but should 
 visit her as soon as possible. The next 
 morning he received inteUigence that she 
 was dangerously ill, and instantly started 
 for Newstead, but did not reach there until 
 after her death. Her last illness is said tc 
 have been rendered fatal by a fit of rage 
 brought on by reading her upholsterer's 
 bill. She is described as a short, corpulent 
 person, exceedingly fretful and impatient in 
 her disposition ; and her conduct towards 
 her son from his childhood appears to have 
 been alternately indulgent and abusive, and 
 without the least judgment or self-command. 
 She undoubtedly loved him to the extreme 
 of fondness, and was ambitiously proud of 
 him, yet so ungovernable were her passions, 
 that she, at times, treated him with a cruelty, 
 and even brutality almost beyond belief. 
 He said to Lord Sligo, in reference to her, 
 while in Greece, " Look there," pointing to 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XXI 
 
 P' his foot, " it is to her false delicacy at my 
 birth I owe that deformity, and yet as long 
 as I can remember, she has never ceased to 
 taunt and reproach me with it." In a pas- 
 sage in his suppressed Memoirs relating to 
 his early days, he is said to have described 
 the horror and humiliation which came over 
 him when in one of her fits of passion she 
 called him a " lame brat," and the opening 
 of " The Deformed Transformed," indeed 
 the whole drama itself, was too evidently 
 occasioned by that painful recollection. Yet 
 notwithstanding the sufferings her unhappy 
 temperament had caused him, he uniformly 
 paid her the greatest courtesy and personal 
 respect ; and the manner in which he la- 
 mented her loss proved the unimpaired in- 
 tegrity of his affection. 
 
 Besides that of his mother, he was com- 
 pelled to mourn at this period the death of 
 no less than six of his relations and inti- 
 mate friends. Among the number were 
 Wingfield, one of his Harrow favourites, 
 Eggleston, his protog^ at Cambridge, of 
 whom he was romantically fond, and Mat- 
 thews, a young man of extraordinary pro- 
 mise. •'' In the short space of one month," 
 he says, in a note to Childe Harold, " I 
 have lost her who gave me being, and most 
 of those who made that being tolerable ;" 
 and his letters, for a long time after, are 
 written in a style of melancholy reckless- 
 ness, indicative of habitual gloom and de- 
 spondency. 
 
 • He remained at Newstead until late in 
 the autumn ; and, after a visit to Rochdale, 
 in Lancashire, on business connected with 
 his estates in that quarter, returned through 
 Cambridge to London the latter part of 
 Octolier. About this time he became inti- 
 mate with Mr. Moore, the poet, afterwards 
 his biographer, and one of his few firm and 
 faithful friends, and with Lord Holland, both 
 of whom he had violently attacked in the 
 *^EngHsh Bards and Scotch Reviewers." 
 The origin of his acquaintance with Mr. 
 Moore was a note appended to that satire, 
 and the singularly curious and characteristic 
 correspondence which followed it is contain- 
 ed in this volume, page 36, &c. That 
 correspondence led to an introduction at the | 
 house of Mr. Rogers, the author of " Hu- ' 
 man Life," &c. and on the day it took place, 
 Mr. Campbell, the author of the " Plea- 
 sures of Hope," Lord Byron, and Mr. 
 Moore, dined with that gentleman, forming, 
 as one of Lord Byron's biographers very 
 justly observes, " a poetical group not easily! 
 d 
 
 him, by this his first interview with Lord 
 Byron. " What I chiefly remember to have 
 remarked was the nobleness of his air, his 
 beauty, and the gentleness of his voice and 
 manners. Being in mourning for his mo- 
 ther, the colour, as well of his dress, as of 
 his glossy curling and picturesque hair, gave 
 more effect to the pure, spiritual paleness 
 of his features, in the expression of which, 
 when he spoke, there was a perpetual 
 play of lively thought, though melancholy 
 was their habitual character when in re- 
 pose." 
 
 The following further extracts from Mr. 
 Moore's Notices, will give the reader an ac- 
 curate general idea of Lord Byron's personal 
 appearance. 
 
 " Of his face, the beauty may be pro- 
 nounced to have been of the highest order, 
 as combining at once regularity of features 
 with the most varied and interesting expres- 
 sion. His eyes, though of a hght gray, 
 were capable of all extremes of meaning, 
 but it was in the mouth and chin that the 
 great beauty as well as expression of his 
 countenance lay. 
 
 " His head was remarkably small, — so 
 much so as to be rather out of proportion 
 with his face. The forehead, though a lit- 
 tle too narrow, was high, and appeared more 
 so from his having his hair (to preserve it, 
 as he said) shaved over the temples ; while 
 the glossy, dark-brown curls, clustering over 
 his head, gave the finish to its beauty. When 
 to this is added, that his nose, though hand- 
 somely, was rather thickly shaped, that his 
 teeth were white and regular, and his com- 
 plexion colourless, as good an idea perhaps 
 as it is in the power of mere words to con- 
 vey may be conceived of his features. 
 
 " In height he was, as he himself has in- 
 formed us, five feet eight inches and a half, 
 and to the length of his limbs he attributed 
 his being such a good swimmer. His hands 
 were very white, and — according to his own 
 notion of* the size of hands as indicating 
 
xxil 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON, 
 
 On the 27th of February, 1812, in a de- 
 bate on the subject of the Nottingham 
 Frame-breakers, he made his first speech in 
 the House of Lords. He had previously- 
 prepared himself, not only by composing, 
 but writing it beforehand. It was flatter- 
 ingly received, but obtained no permanent 
 popularity, and his after efforts as an orator 
 were generally considered failures. In 
 April following, he spoke a second time, in 
 favour of the claims of the Irish Catholics, 
 and, in June, accompanied the presentation 
 of a petition in behalf of Major Cartwright, 
 with some introductory remarks, which 
 closed his parliamentary career as a speak- 
 er. His display, on the second and third 
 occasions, was less promising than at first. 
 His delivery was mouthing and theatrical, 
 and in a kind of chanting tone, which is said 
 to have also disfigured his recitation of 
 poetry. 
 
 On the first of March, Childe Harold ap- 
 peared, and " the impression" says Mr. 
 Moore, " which it produced on the public, 
 was as instantaneous as it has proved deep 
 and lasting. The fame of its author had 
 not to wait for any of the ordinary grada- 
 tions, but seemed to spring up like the pa- 
 lace of a fairy tale, in a night." The re- 
 ception of the poem, indeed, was such, that 
 there was no undue extravagance in the 
 memorandum made by Lord Byron himself 
 in his suppressed Memoirs, " I awoke one 
 morning and found myself famous." The 
 first edition was immediately disposed of, 
 and numerous editions followed in quick 
 succession. 
 
 Previous to this period, notwithstanding 
 the advantages of his birth and title. Lord 
 Byron had not mingled, to any great extent, 
 in the gay world of London, his companion- 
 ship having been mostly confined to his col- 
 lege and travelling acquaintances, and to a 
 few intimate friends ; but the universal ac- 
 clamation with which his poem was now 
 hailed, and the mysterious interest it at- 
 
 intervals of retirement, until his separation 
 from Lady Byron. 
 
 In August he went to Cheltenham, where, 
 at the request of the Managers, through 
 Lord Holland, he wrote the Address spoken 
 at the opening of the new theatre, Drury 
 Lane. He also there wrote the poem on 
 " Waltzing." It was published anony- 
 mously ; but as it created no sensation, at 
 least in comparison with Childe Harold, he 
 thought proper to suppress it, and even to 
 contradict, through Mr. Murray, its pub 
 lisher, the rumour of its being his. " The 
 Curse of Minerva" had been printed also 
 anonymously, and for private circulation 
 only, soon after his return from the East. 
 Its immediate object, an attack on Lord 
 Elgin, relative to the statues, &c. sent by 
 him from Greece, was more fully accom- 
 phshed in the notes to Childe Harold, which 
 contained the substance of the poem. The 
 opening fines were afterwards made to form 
 the commencement of the Corsair. Neither 
 the " Waltz," nor the " Curse of Minerva," 
 was included in any English collection of 
 his works during his lifetime. 
 
 The first edition of the Giaour was pub- 
 lished in May, 1813. It was materially 
 improved, and gradually enlarged through 
 various subsequent editions, the fifth being 
 announced in September. In the beginning 
 of December, it was followed by the Bride 
 of Abydos, and in January, 1814, by the 
 Corsair. The latter poem created for the 
 moment a greater excitement with the pub- 
 lic than even Childe Harold, and met with 
 an unexampled sale, fourteen thousand 
 copies being disposed of in less than a week. 
 The Ode to Napoleon was written in April, 
 and the Hebrew Melodies about the same 
 time. The lines " To a Lady weeping," 
 alluding to George the Fourth, then Prince 
 Regent, and his daughter, the Princess 
 Charlotte, were originally printed in a news- 
 paper, and attributed to Mr. Moore ; but 
 their appearance among other small poems 
 in the same volume with the Corsair, fixed 
 their authorship upon Lord Byron, and in 
 connexion with the " Windsor Poetics," 
 then for the first time reported to be his, 
 jrought down upon his head a violent storm 
 )f invective and abuse, from the ministerial 
 )artisans, which uniting with other causes 
 )f disquietude and apprehension relating 
 o his political career, induced him about 
 he first of May, not only again to repeat 
 lis determination expressed in the preface 
 to the Corsair, of writing no more for 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XXlll 
 
 years ; but to attempt purchasing back the 
 copy-rights of all his works, so far as they 
 had been disposed of, and suppressing every 
 line he had written. In pursuance of this 
 resolution, he wrote to Mr. Murray, en- 
 closing the amount paid for Childe Harold, 
 the Corsair, &c. and ordering the unsold 
 copies destroyed ; but, on being answered 
 that such a proceeding would be deeply in- 
 jurious to Mr. Murray, he abandoned his 
 project, and allowed the pubUcation to pro- 
 ceed. 
 
 Lara appeared in August. It was at 
 first published in the same volume with 
 Jacqueline, a poem by Mr. Rogers ; the 
 names of both authors being omitted. 
 With the exception of the Ode to Water- 
 loo, Napoleon's Farewell, and other occa- 
 sional poems, he did not come before the 
 public as an author between this period and 
 the publication of the Siege of Corinth 
 and Parisina, in the spring of 1816. 
 
 On the 2d of January, 1815, Lord Byron 
 was married to Anne Arabella Milbanke, 
 daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke, afterwards 
 Noel, of Seaham, in the county of Durham. 
 She was nearly connected by blood with the 
 families of Lord Wentworth, Lord Mel- 
 bourne, and others of the English nobility. 
 Her immediate fortune was about ten thou- 
 sand pounds sterhng, but on the death of 
 her father and mother, which took place a 
 few years after her marriage, she became 
 possessed of estates to a very large amount. 
 Lord Byron had addressed her about a year 
 previous, and although his suit was at that 
 time rejected, yet her refusal was accom- 
 panied with every assurance of esteem and 
 regard, and a friendly correspondence was 
 kept up between them. A second applica- 
 tion in September proved successful. 
 
 The disastrous result of the marriage 
 appears to have been anticipated by her 
 husband even at the bridal altar. The 
 " coming events cast their shadows before." 
 His prose account of the wedding, in his 
 suppressed Memoirs, is said by Mr. Moore 
 to have agreed closely in all its circum- 
 stances with his poetical description of it in 
 " The Dream." 
 
 Towards the close of the month of March 
 he took up his residence in London, where 
 he lived during the succeeding year in a 
 style of great splendour and expense, far 
 beyond his income or his expectations ; 
 and soon became deeply involved in the 
 most distressing pecuniary embarrassments. 
 His time was passed in the whirlwind of 
 
 fashionable dissipation, and behind the 
 scenes of Drury Lane Theatre, of which he 
 had in June been chosen one of the Ma- 
 naging Committee, in company with Lord 
 Essex, Douglas Kinnaird, Mr. Whitbread, 
 and others. By ihe month of November, 
 his pecuniary dijfRculties had increased to 
 such an alarming degree that he was not 
 only under the necessity of selling his libra- 
 ry, but an execution was levied on his fur- 
 niture, and his very beds were seized by 
 bailiffs. His privilege as a member of the 
 Upper House of Parliament exempted his 
 person from arrest. 
 
 On the tenth of December his daughter, 
 Ada Augusta Byron, was born ; and, about 
 the first of February following, a separation 
 between Lady Byron and himself took place. 
 She had left London a few days before on 
 a visit to her father in Leicestershire, and 
 Lord Byron was to follow her as soon as he 
 could make some arrangements of his mo- 
 ney affairs. They had parted in kindness. 
 She wrote him on the road a letter in a 
 style of the most playful fondness imagina- 
 ble, but immediately on her arrival at Kirkby 
 Mallory, the seat of her family, her father 
 wrote, informing him that she would not 
 again return. They never afterwards met. 
 
 The particular causes of this event still 
 remain in obscurity. The reader will find 
 Lord Byron's views of the subject detailed 
 in many of his letters, and elsewhere 
 throughout his writings. His Lady, on 
 the appearance of Mr. Moore's Biography, 
 in 1830, caused a letter to be published, 
 exonerating her father and mother from 
 charges connected with it, of which they 
 had been accused, but throwing no farther 
 Hght upon it. 
 
 The current of popular opinion was, at 
 the moment, fearfully strong against Lord 
 Byron. He was immediately shunned, if 
 not still more harshly treated, by almost all 
 classes, especially by those who had pre- 
 viously courted his intimacy. Lady Jer- 
 sey, and two or three others, were the 
 only ladies of distinction in London who 
 adhered to his fallen fame, and dared to at- 
 tempt his defence. Except in their circles, 
 he was virtually banished from society. 
 Every species of reproach and obloquy was 
 heaped upon his head. Exaggerated state- 
 ments of his private conduct, and dark hints 
 and vague insinuations of the most criminal 
 profligacy, were circulated and believed. 
 " In every form of paragraph, pamphlet, 
 and caricature," says Mr. Moore, " both 
 
XXIV 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 his person and character were held up to 
 odium ; hardly a voice was raised, or at least, 
 Hstened to, in his behalf; and though a few 
 faithful friends remained unshaken by his 
 side, the utter hopelessness of stemming the 
 torrent was felt as well by them as by him- 
 self, and after an effort or two to gain a fair 
 hearing, they submitted in silence." This 
 could not be long endured. On the 25th of 
 April, 1816, he left England for Ostend. 
 
 Immediately previous to his departure, 
 the lines to his sister, Mrs. Leigh, beginning 
 "Though the day of my destiny's over," 
 and the first stanza to Mr. Moore, " My 
 boat is on the shore," were written. The 
 " Fare thee well," intended for Lady Byron, 
 and the " Sketch fromprivatehfe," alluding 
 to a Mrs. Charlton, her governess, had ap- 
 peared about the first of April. 
 
 From Ostend, he journeyed to the Rhine, 
 visiting Brussels and Waterloo, entered 
 Switzerland at Basle, and proceeded by 
 the route of Berne and Lausanne to Ge- 
 neva. He removed in a few weeks to Dio- 
 data, a villa about three miles from Geneva, 
 where with occasional voyages on the Lake, 
 and excursions to Coppet, Chamouni, the 
 Bernese Alps, &c. in company with Mr. 
 Hobhouse, Mr. Shelley, and one or two other 
 intimate acquaintances, he passed the 
 summer. He there wrote the third Canto 
 of Childe Harold, the Monody on the Death 
 of Sheridan, the stanzas " To Augusta," 
 " The Fragment," " The Prisoner of Chil 
 Ion," &c. 
 
 In October, he crossed the Simplon to 
 Milan, and on the 10th of November took 
 up his residence at Venice. He soon after 
 commenced the study of the Armenian 
 language with the brothers of a monastery 
 near that city, and in March following, 
 (1817,) translated the Two Epistles, page 
 299. " Manfred" was finished at this time, 
 and sent to London. The Third Act, as 
 originally written, is included in this col- 
 lection of his Poems, page 470. It was 
 altered to its present state in June, and the 
 drama was published in July. In April 
 he left Venice for Rome, visiting Ferrara, 
 where he wrote the " Lament of Tasso," 
 and passing a day or two at Florence on his 
 way. He returned from Rome to Venice 
 «arly in June, and in July began the 4th 
 Canto of Childe Harold, which was gra- 
 dually enlarged until its publication in 
 March 1818. Beppo, Mazeppa, and the 
 Ode to Venice, were written in the course 
 of the spring and summer of that year, and 
 
 the 1st Canto of Don Juan in September. 
 The latter was originally dedicated to 
 Southey in some prefatory verses, said to 
 have been very able and very bitter ; but 
 on Mr. Murray's refusal to publish the 
 poem except anonymously, Lord Byron 
 suppressed the dedication, alleging as a 
 reason his unwillingness to attack Southey 
 " under cloud of night." 
 
 About this period he became acquainted 
 with the Countess Guiccioli, to whom, in 
 the Italian character of " cavaherservente," 
 he devoted himself for several succeedmg 
 years, and by whose future movements his 
 own were almost exclusively governed du- 
 ring the remainder of his residence in Italy. 
 They appear to have been mutually and 
 passionately attached to each other, and 
 the liaison, however reprehensible, had the 
 good effect of weaning him from still more 
 disreputable attachments. She was a Ro- 
 magnese lady, the daughter of Count 
 Gamba, a nobleman of high rank and an- 
 cient name at Ravenna, and had been 
 married at sixteen or seventeen, without 
 reference to her choice or affection, to the 
 Count Guiccioli, an old and wealthy wi- 
 dower of that country ; whose great opu- 
 lence had rendered his otherwise worse 
 than indifferent reputation respectable. She 
 was on a visit at Venice with her husband, 
 when Lord Byron was introduced to her. 
 She was then about twenty, but appeared 
 much younger, with a singularly fair and 
 delicate complexion, large, dark, and lan- 
 guishing eyes, and a profusion of light au- 
 burn hair. She proceeded with her hus- 
 band to Ravenna about the middle of April, 
 1819, and in June, Lord Byron visited her 
 there. The Lines to the Po, alluding to 
 her, were written on his journey. They 
 returned through Bologna to Venice, in 
 October, At Bologna he wrote the letter 
 to Roberts, the Editor of the British Re- 
 view, and the Sonnet relating to the heir of 
 Lord Edward Fitzgerald. 
 
 He received about this time, at Venice, 
 a visit from Mr. Moore, in the course of 
 which he presented to that gentleman a 
 large manuscript volume, which he called 
 his " Life and Adventures." It appears 
 not to have been a detail of the events of 
 his life in a regular series, but a collection 
 of various journals, memoranda, &c. At 
 Lord Byron's request, the copy-right was 
 immediately disposed of for Mr. Moore's 
 benefit, to Mr. Murray, for two thousand 
 guineas, with the understandings that the 
 
LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 
 
 XXV 
 
 work was not to be published until after the 
 author's death. When that event took 
 place, Mr. Moore repaid to Mr. Murray 
 the money advanced, and placed the manu- 
 script at the disposal of Lord Byron's sis- 
 ter, Mrs. Leigh ; at whose request, and in 
 accordance with the opinion of many of the 
 friends of her brother, and of other parties 
 interested, it was destroyed. An unwilling- 
 ness to wound the feelings of many of the 
 persons mentioned in it, is said to have 
 been the only motive for its destruction. 
 
 In December, Lord Byron again left 
 Venice for Ravenna, where he continued to 
 reside during most of the two succeeding 
 years. He there wrote the 3d, 4th, and 
 5th Cantos of Don Juan, the Prophecy of 
 Dante, the translations from Pulci and 
 Dante ; the Letters relating to the Contro- 
 versy with Mr. Bowles ; the Letter to the 
 Editor of Blackwood's Magazine; Ma- 
 rino Faliero ; Sardanapalus ; The Two 
 Foscari ; Cain ; Heaven and Earth ; The 
 Vision of Judgment, and other smaller 
 poems. Having disposed of Newstead 
 Abbey, and secured, after a long Chancery 
 suit, the possession of his Lancashire es- 
 tates, his pecuniary affairs had now be- 
 come in good order, and he was enabled to 
 live in comparative splendour. Of his yearly 
 income, (nearly £4,000 sterling,) he devoted 
 a great portion to charitable purposes, and 
 was much beloved and respected in Ra- 
 venna, particularly by the poorer classes, 
 by whom his residence there was deemed a 
 public blessing. He himself was strongly 
 attached to Ravenna. He preferred it to 
 every other part of Italy, and intended to 
 have made it his permanent place of abode. 
 But the Romagnese authorities, suspecting 
 him, and certainly not without reason, of a 
 political connexion with the enemies of the 
 existing government, took measures which 
 indirectly compelled him to hasten his de- 
 parture. Count Gamba, and his son, Count 
 Pietro Gamba, the father and brother of the 
 Countess Guiccioli, were, in July 1821, ba- 
 nished from the Roman States. They were 
 accused of a participation in the revolution- 
 ary projects of the secret societies which, 
 under the name of the Carbonari, had long 
 been organized throughout Italy. The 
 Countess, who had the preceding year ob- 
 tained from the Pope a decree of separation 
 from her husband, on condition that she 
 should in future reside with her father, ac- 
 companied them to Pisa, where, in the No- 
 vember following, Lord Byron joined them. 
 
 In consequence of the death of Lady 
 Noel, the mother of Lady Byron, which 
 took place in the early part of the year 1822, 
 he assumed the title of Noel Byron, and to 
 most of his letters, &c. written after this pe- 
 riod, that signature is affixed. 
 
 At Pisa he remained until the middle of 
 May. He then passed a few weeks at 
 Montenero, a villa near Leghorn, returned 
 to Pisa in July, and in September removed 
 to Genoa, where he remained till his final 
 departurefor Greece, in July 1823. During 
 this period were written Werner, The De- 
 formed Transformed, The Island, The Age 
 of Bronze, and the last Cantos of Don Juan. 
 The Lord Chancellor had, in a case brought 
 before him in the year 1821, refused to pro- 
 tect the copy-right of Cain, on the ground 
 of its supposed irreligious tendency. For 
 this, and other unexplained reasons, Mr. 
 Murray had long decHned or delayed the 
 publication of several works forwarded to 
 him by Lord Byron,which appears to have oc- 
 casioned for a short time a personal estrange- 
 ment between them. The works in ques- 
 tion, together with those above named, were 
 accordingly handed, at Lord Byron's request, 
 to another bookseller, Mr. John Hunt, by 
 whom they were soon afterwards published. 
 The Vision of Judgment, the Translation 
 from Pulci, the Blues, Heaven and Earth, 
 and the Letter to Roberts, appeared in the 
 "Liberal," a periodical work printed in 
 London by Mr. John Hunt, but conducted 
 principally by his brother Mr. Leigh Hunt, 
 then in Italy. With the exception of Lord 
 Byron's contributions, and one or two from 
 Mr. Shelley, it contained little or no merit, 
 and was abandoned after the fourth number. 
 Lord Byron's motive in connecting himself 
 with it, as well in a literary as in a pecuniary 
 point of view, was solely to aid Mr. Leigh 
 Hunt, who was at the time suffering in ill- 
 health and poverty. His only reward seems 
 to have been a querulous murmuring on the 
 part of that person during the Hfe of his be- 
 nefactor, and an ungrateful volume of the 
 most pitiful and perfidious calumnies after 
 his death. 
 
 It appears from a statement pubUshed by 
 Mr. Murray, that during the life-time of Lord 
 Byron, he paid for the copy-right of his 
 poems, &.C. as follows : — 
 
 Childe Harold, Cantos 1st and 2d . . . £600 
 » „ „ 3d . . . . 1575 
 
 » » 4th 2100 
 
 Giaour ^ . 525 
 
 Bride of Abydos 625 
 
 Corsair >, . . 525 
 
XXVI 
 
 LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 
 
 Lara 700 
 
 Siege of Corinth 525 
 
 Parisina 625 
 
 Lament of Tasso 315 
 
 Manfred 315 
 
 Beppo 525 
 
 Don Juan, Cantos 1st and 2d . . . . 1525 
 „ „ 3d, 4th, and 5th . . . . 1525 
 
 Dog© of Venice 1050 
 
 Sardanapalus, Cain, and Foscari . . . .1100 
 
 Mazeppa 525 
 
 Prisoner of Chillon 525 
 
 Sundries 450 
 
 £15,455 
 
 He afterwards purchased the copy-rights 
 of all the other works, including those pub- 
 lished by Cawthorne, the Hunts, &c. at an 
 expense of nearly iB 10,000 more. Several 
 of the above were presented by Lord 
 Byron to Mr. Dallas, and the later Cantos 
 of Don Juan to Hunt. 
 
 While at Pisa, Lord Byron received 
 inteUigence of the death of his natural 
 daughter, Allegra, a loss which distressed 
 him at the moment, almost to madness. She 
 had been sent to him from Switzerland to 
 Venice in September 1818, then nearly two 
 years old, by her mother, an Englishwoman, 
 and had continued with him until a short 
 time previous to his leaving Ravenna, 
 when he placed her in a convent not far 
 from that city, to commence her education. 
 She died of a fever in April 1822. His 
 friend, Mr. Shelley, who had been for some 
 time residing at Pisa, and with whom he 
 had renewed the social and literary inter- 
 course previously formed in Switzerland, 
 was a few months after drowned in a vio- 
 lent storm in the Bay of Spezea, near Leg- 
 horn. 
 
 On the 13th of July 1823, Lord Byron 
 left Genoa for Greece. His preparations 
 for a visit to that country for the purpose 
 of offering his personal means and services 
 to assist the Greeks in their struggle for 
 freedom, had been for some time going on, 
 a correspondence with several of their 
 chiefs, and with the Greek Committee in 
 London, having been commenced the pre 
 ceding April. He had obtained, through 
 the aid of his bankers in Genoa, partly by 
 anticipating his income, and partly from 
 other resources, an advance of a large 
 sum, and had chartered an Enghsh brig, 
 the Hercules, for the voyage, and loaded 
 her with arms, ammunition, and hospital 
 stores. His suite consisted of Count Pie- 
 tro Gamba, (the brother of the Countess 
 Guiccioli,) Mr. Trelawny, (an English gen- 
 
 tleman,) Doctor Bruno, (an Italian surgeon,) 
 and eight servants. After touching for 
 supplies at Leghorn, where they remained 
 a few days, they sailed for Cephalonia, and 
 reached Argolosti, the chief port in that 
 island, on the 21st of July. 
 
 He there determined to wait for such in- 
 formation from the Greek governments as 
 should enable him to decide as to his future 
 proceedings, and despatched messengers to 
 Corfu and Missolonghi, the latter the then 
 seat of government of Western Greece, in 
 the hope of obtaining it. During their ab- 
 sence he visited Ithaca, where he contri- 
 buted largely to the relief of a great num- 
 ber of distressed families who had fled thi- 
 ther from Scio. He continued on board 
 the Hercules in the harbour of Argolosti for 
 more than six weeks, but the adverse in- 
 terests and contradictory statements and 
 requests of the various rival factions, still 
 rendering uncertain the best method of 
 benefiting Greece, he finally took up his 
 abode on shore in a small village called 
 Metaxata, about seven miles from Argo- 
 losti. 
 
 At length, the arrival at Missolonghi of 
 a Greek fleet which had been long expected, 
 induced him to beUeve that the time had 
 arrived when his presence there could be 
 useful. He accordingly on the 29th of 
 December embarked in a small Greek ves- • 
 sel, called a Mistico, Count Gamba, with 
 the horses and heavy baggage following in 
 a larger ship. The latter was, the next 
 day, brought to by a Turkish frigate, and 
 carried into Patras, but in an interview with 
 the Pacha of that place. Count Gamba 
 succeeded in procuring her release, and 
 reached Missolonghi on the 4th of January. 
 
 The Mistico, with Lord Byron and his 
 suite on board, touched at Zante, where 
 they received a quantity of specie, and pro- 
 ceeded for Missolonghi. On their way they 
 narrowly escaped capture from the frigate 
 above mentioned. Fortunately the Turks 
 mistook the vessel for a Greek brulot or 
 fireship, and were in consequence afraid to 
 fire. With difficulty they eluded her, and 
 reached Dragomestri, a small seaport on 
 the coast of Acarnania in safety, where 
 they were detained for some time by a vio- 
 lent gale, and did not arrive at Missolonghi 
 until the 5th of January. 
 
 Lord Byron was received by Prince 
 Mavrocordato, at the head of the magistracy 
 and the whole population civil and mili- 
 tary, with distinguished honours, and every 
 
LIPS OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 XXVli 
 
 token of gratitude and delight. But the 
 pleasure derived from such a welcome was 
 too soon embittered. He found all things 
 in a wretched stale of disorganization, the 
 chiefs divided into numerous and conflicting 
 parties, each desirous of enlisting him in its 
 separate views, and the soldiers and inhabi- 
 tants imagining that he and he only could 
 quiet their unhappy dissensions, and unite 
 the efforts of all against the common enemy. 
 He immediately employed himself day and 
 night in effecting this object, and partially 
 succeeded. He formed and equipped at his 
 own expense a corps of Suliotes, a part of 
 whom he had previously collected and armed 
 at Cephalonia. Their number was now 
 augmented to between five and six hundred, 
 of whom, on the first of February having 
 previously received a regular commission as 
 an officer in the Greek service, he assumed 
 the command. They were brave and hardy 
 mountaineers, but undisciplined and unma- 
 nageable ; and by their riotous conduct and 
 savage deportment, as well towards the other 
 military bodies as the inhabitants, kept the 
 garrison in a continual state of alarm, and 
 their leader in a fever of annoyance and mor- 
 tification. To his command was also at- 
 tached a corps of artillery, the necessary 
 supplies for which arrived in the early part 
 of February, under the care of Captain 
 Parry, an English officer of engineers sent 
 by the Greek Committee from London. An 
 attack on Lepanto, then in the hands of the 
 Turks, had been for some time contemplated 
 by Lord Byron, and on the 14th of Febru- 
 ary the artillery corps was perfected, and all 
 things in readiness to start the following day, 
 when a sudden and fatal dispute with the 
 Suliotes took place. They broke out into 
 open mutiny, demanding increase of pay and 
 emoluments, pecuUar privileges of military 
 rank, and various other exactions. Satisfied 
 that no reliance could in peril be placed 
 upon them, and at the same time that -^vith- 
 out their aid the Greek force was in- 
 sufficient for the attempt on Lepanto, he 
 very reluctantly abandoned the expedition. 
 His health had for a long time previous 
 to this period been greatly impaired. While 
 at Dragomestri he had imprudently bathed 
 after a day of violent exertion. A severe 
 cold was the consequence, and the inces- 
 sant labour of mind and body to which he 
 devoted himself at Missolonghi, rendered him 
 from day to day more feeble and feverish. 
 The climate of that place is extremely un- 
 
 healthy, and the military quarters where he 
 resided were comfortless and exposed. On 
 the evening of the 15th of February, the 
 day after the abandonment of the expedition 
 to Lepanto, he vfas suddenly seized with a 
 convulsive fit which deprived him for se- 
 veral minutes of his senses, distorting for the 
 moment his features in a most fearful man- 
 ner, and leaving him exhausted and unable 
 to move for many days. 
 
 He was, however, gradually recovering 
 until the 9 th of April. In the interim he 
 had occupied Inmself in repairing the for- 
 tifications at Missolonghi, and in the forma- 
 tion of a brigade with a view to offensive or 
 defensive measures, as events might require. 
 He had also made arrangements for visiting 
 Salon, there to meet a congress of the 
 Greek chiefs, in the hope that his presence 
 might aid in putting an end to their con- 
 tinual and fatal dissensions. But on the 
 morning of the 9th of April, immediately 
 after his return home from a long ride with 
 Count Gamba, during which they had been 
 overtaken by a heavy shower, he was again 
 seized with a convulsive shuddering, fol- 
 lowed by fever and violent pain. The next 
 day he was better and rode out as usual, 
 but on the 12th he was confined to his 
 chamber, and his disorder continued to in- 
 crease in strength and danger hourly till the 
 l7th, when he was prevailed upon to con- 
 sent to be bled, to which he had at all times 
 before decidedly objected. A consultation 
 of his physicians was held in the afternoon 
 of the 18th, and it was then evident alike to 
 them and to Lord Byron that his end was 
 fast approaching. He endeavoured in a con- 
 versation with Fletcher his EngUsh servant 
 to express to him his last wishes, but his 
 voice was so faint and low, and Ms language 
 so incoherent, that but little he said could be 
 understood. The names of Lady Byron, of 
 his daughter, of his sister Augusta, and a 
 few others, were alone distinguishable. 
 Early in the evening of that day, he sunk 
 into a slumber, in which he lay with oc- 
 casional struggles from suffocation during 
 the next twenty-four hours. At a few 
 minutes past six o'clock in the evening of 
 the 19th he was observed to open his eyes 
 and instantly close them. The physicians 
 felt his pulse. He had expired. 
 
 Immediately after his death, the foUovdng 
 proclamation was issued by Prince Mavro- 
 cordato, and similar honours were paid to 
 his memory throughout Greece. 
 
XXVlll 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 « PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT OF 
 WESTERN GREECE. 
 
 " The present day of festivity and re- 
 joicing has become one of sorrow and of 
 mourning. The Lord Noel Byron departed 
 this Ufe at six o'clock in the afternoon, after 
 an illness of ten days ; his death being 
 caused by an inflammatory fever. Such 
 was the effect of his Lordship's illness on 
 the public mind, that all classes had for- 
 gotten their usual recreations of Easter, 
 even before the afflicting event was appre- 
 hended. 
 
 " The loss of this illustrious individual is 
 undoubtedly to be deplored by all Greece ; 
 but it must be more especially a subject of 
 lamentation at Missolonghi, where his ge- 
 nerosity has been so conspicuously dis- 
 played, and of which he had even become 
 a citizen, with the further determination of 
 participating in all the dangers of the war. 
 
 " Every body is acquainted with the 
 beneficent acts of his Lordship, and none 
 can cease to hail his name as that of a real 
 benefactor. 
 
 " Until, therefore, the final determination 
 of the National Government be known, and 
 by virtue of the powers with which it has 
 been pleased to invest me, I hereby decree, 
 
 " 1st. To-morrow morning, at day fight, 
 thirty-seven minute guns will be fired from 
 the Grand Battery, being the number which 
 corresponds with the age of the illustrious 
 deceased. 
 
 " 2d. All the public offices, even the tri- 
 bunals, are to remain closed for three suc- 
 cessive days. 
 
 " 3d. All the shops, except those in which 
 provisions or medicines are sold, will also 
 be shut ; and, it is strictly enjoined, that 
 every species of public amusement, and 
 other demonstrations of festivity at Easter, 
 shall be suspended. 
 
 " 4th. A general mourning will be ob- 
 served for twenty-one days. 
 
 " 5th. Prayers and a funeral service are 
 to be offered up in all the churches. 
 
 (Signed) 
 
 " A. Mavrocordato, 
 
 " George Praidis, Secretary. 
 
 " Given at Missolonghi, 
 tftis 19th day of April, 1824." 
 
 The funeral ceremony took place in the 
 church of Saint Nicolas, at Missolonghi, 
 on the 22d. The coffin was a rude chest 
 of wood, covered with a black mantle. It 
 was carried on the shoulders of the officers 
 of his brigade, relieved from time to time 
 by others ; and followed by all the troops of 
 the garrison, and the whole population. In 
 the church a helmet, a sword, and a crown 
 of laurel were placed upon the bier. After 
 the Greek service for the dead was over, it 
 remained guarded by a detachment of sol- 
 diers, and surrounded by crowds, who 
 thronged from all quarters, to pay their last 
 look of tribute, until the night of the 23d, 
 when it was privately carried back to his 
 house by his own officers. On the 2d of 
 May it was embarked under a morning sa- 
 lute from the guns of the fortress, on board 
 a transport sent by the public authorities 
 from the island of Zante, and on the 25th 
 of May the Florida, an English armed ship, 
 received it, under the charge of Colonel 
 Stanhope, one of his coadjutors in the 
 Greek cause, and sailed from Zante to 
 England. Two days, the 9th and 10th of 
 July, the body lay in state in London, and 
 on Friday the 16th of July, was placed in 
 the vault of his family, and next to the 
 coffin of his mother, in the parish church 
 of Hucknell, a small village near Newstead 
 Abbey. Over the chancel of the church 
 is a tablet of white marble, bearing the fol- 
 lowing inscription : 
 
 IN THE VAULT BENEATH, 
 
 WHERE MANY OF HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTHER 
 
 ARE BURIED, 
 
 LIE THE REMAINS OF 
 
 GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, 
 
 LORD BYRON, OF ROCHDALE, 
 
 IN THE COUNTY OF LANCASTER, 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF " CHILDE HAROLd's PILGRIMAGE." 
 
 HE WAS BORN IN LONDON ON THE 22d OF 
 
 JANUARY, 1788, 
 
 HE DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN GREECE, 
 
 ON THE 19tH of APRIL, 1824, 
 
 ENGAGED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO 
 
 RESTORE THAT 
 
 COUNTRY TO HER ANCIENT FREEDOM AND 
 
 RENOWN. 
 
 i 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 LETTER L 
 
 rO MISS PIGOT OF SOUTHWELL. 
 
 "Burgage Manor, August 29th, 1804 
 " I received the arms, my dear JNIiss Pigot, and am very 
 much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken. It 
 is impossible I should have any fault to find with them 
 The sight of the drawings gives me great pleasure for a 
 double reason, — in the first place, they will ornament my 
 books, in the next, they convince me that you have not 
 entirely /o/-g-9«era me. I am, however, sorry you do not 
 return sooner, you have already been gone an age. I per 
 haps may have talcen my departure for London before you 
 come back ; but, however, I will hope not. Do not 
 overlook my watch-ribbon and purse, as I wish to carry 
 them with me. Your note was given me by Harry, at 
 the play, whither I attended Miss Lyon and Doctor 
 
 S ; and now I have set down to answer it before 
 
 I go to bed. If I am at Southwell when you return, — 
 and I sincerely hope you will soon, for I very much 
 regret your absence, — I shall be happy to hear you sing 
 my favourite, ' The Maid of Lodi.' My mother, to- 
 gether with myself, desires to be affectionately remem- 
 bered to Mrs. Pigot, and believe me, my dear Miss 
 Pigot, I remain your affectionate friend, 
 
 " BVROJT. 
 
 " P. S. If you think proper to send me any answer to 
 this, I shall be extremely happy to receive it. Adieu. 
 
 " P. S. 2d. As you say you are a novice in the art of 
 knitting, I hope it don't give you too much trouble. Go 
 on slowly, but surely. Once more, adieu." 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 TO MR. PIGOT. 
 
 « 16 Piccadilly, August 9th, 1806. 
 "my dear pigot, 
 "Many thanlts for your amusing narrative of the last 
 proceedings of my amiable Alecto,* who now begins to 
 feel the effects of her folly. I have just received a pe- 
 nitential epistle, to which, apprehensive of pursuit, I 
 have despatched a moderate answer, with a kind of pro- 
 mise to return in a fortnight ; — this, however, (entre nouSy) 
 I never mean to fulfil. Her soft wurblings must have 
 delighted her auditors, her higher notes being particularly 
 musical, and on a calm moonlight evening would be heard 
 to great advantage. Had I been present as a specta- 
 tor, nothing would have pleased me more ; but to have 
 come forward as one of the ' dramatis personae,' — St. 
 Dominic defend me from such a scene ! Seriously, your 
 
 * His Mother. Her recent violence of temper had compelled him to 
 fly to London. 
 
 mother has laid me under great obligations, and you, 
 with the rest of your family, merit my warmest thanks for 
 your kind connivance at my escape from ' Mrs. Byron 
 furiosa.' 
 
 " Oh ! for the pen of Ariosto to rehearse, in epic, the 
 scolding of that momaitous eve, — or rather, let nie invoke 
 the shade of Dante to inspire me, for none but the au- 
 thor of the ' Inferno^ could properly preside over such an 
 attempt. But, perhaps, where the pen might fail, the 
 pencil would succeed. What a group! — Mrs. B. the 
 principal figure ; you cramming your ears with cotton, as 
 
 the only antidote to total deafiaess ; Mrs. in vain 
 
 endeavouring to mitigate the wrath of the lioness robbed 
 of her whelp ; and last, though not least, Elizabeth and 
 Wously, — wonderful to relate ! — both deprived of their 
 parts of speech, and bringing up the rear in mute asto- 
 nishment. How did S. B. receive the intelligence? 
 How ma.ny puns did he utter on so facetious an event ? 
 In your next inform me on this point, and what excuse 
 you made to A. You are probably by this time tired of 
 deciphering this hieroglyphical letter ; — hke Tony Lump- 
 kin, you will pronounce mine to be a d d up and 
 
 down hand. All Southwell, without doubt, is involved in 
 amazement. Apropos, how does my blue-eyed nun, the 
 fair * * ? is she ^ robed in sable garb of wo ?' 
 
 " Here I remam at least a week or ten days ; previous 
 to my departure you shall receive my address, but what 
 it will be I have not determined. My lodgmgs must be 
 kept secret from Mrs. B. ; you may present my compli- 
 ments to her, and say any attempt to pursue me will fail, 
 as I have taken measures to retreat immediatelv to 
 Portsmouth, on the first intimation of her removal from 
 Southwell. You may add, I have now proceeded to a 
 friend's house in the country, there to remain a fortnight. 
 
 " I have now blotted (I must not saj' written) a com- 
 plete double letter, and in return shall expect a monstrous 
 budget. Without doubt, the dames of Southwell repro- 
 bate the pernicious example I have shown, and tremble 
 lest their babes should disobey their mandates, and quit 
 in dudgeon their mammas on any grievance. Adieu. 
 When you begin your next, drop the 'lordship,' and put 
 ' Byron' in its place. Believe me yours, &c. 
 
 ''Byron.' 
 
 LETTER IIL 
 to miss pigot. 
 
 "London, August 10th, 1806. 
 
 "my dear BRIDGET, 
 
 " As I have already troubled your brother with more 
 than he will find pleasure in deciphering, you are the 
 next to whom I shall assign the difficult employment of 
 perusing this 2d epistle. You %vill perceive from my 1st, 
 that no idea of Mrs. B.'s arrival had disturbed me at the 
 
LETTERS, 180G. 
 
 time it was written ; not so the present, since the ap- 
 pearance of a note from the illustrious cause of my sud- 
 den dp.campment has driven the ' natural ruby from my 
 cheeks,' and comjiletely blanclied my wo-begone counte- 
 nance. This gunpowder intimation of her arrival, (con- 
 found her activity !) breathes less of terror and dismay 
 than you will probably imagine from the volcanic tem- 
 perament of her ladyship, and concludes with the com- 
 fortable assurance of d\\ present motion being prevented 
 by the faiiue of her journey, for which my blessings are 
 due to the rouiih roads and restive quadrupeds of his ma- 
 jes y's highways. As I have not the smallest inclmation 
 to be chased round the country, I shall e'en make a merit 
 of necessity, and since, like Macbeth, ' They 've tied me 
 to the stake, I cannot fly,' I shall imitate that valorous 
 tyrant, and ' bear-like fight the course,' all escape being 
 precluded. I can now engage with less disadvantage, 
 having draAvn the enemy from her intrenchments, though, 
 lil^e the prototype to whom I have compared myself, with 
 an excellent chance of being knocked on the head. 
 
 However, 'lay on, Macduff, and d d be he who first 
 
 cries, hold, enough.' 
 
 " I shall remain in tovra for, at least, a week, and ex- 
 pect to hear from you before its expiration. I presume 
 the printer has brought you the offspring of my poetic 
 mania. Remember, in the first line, to read Houd \he 
 winds whisde,'* instead of 'round,' which that blockhead 
 Ridge has inserted by mistake, and makes nonsense of 
 the whole stanza. Addio! — Now to encounter my 
 Hydra. Yours ever." 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 TO MR. PIGOT. 
 
 "London, Sunday, midnight, August 10th, 1806. 
 
 " DEAR PIGOT, 
 
 " This astonishing packet will, doubtless, amaze you, 
 but having an idle hour this evening, I wrote the enclosed 
 stanzas, which I request you to deliver to Ridge, to be 
 printed sepiarate from my other compositions, as you will 
 perceive them to be improper for the perusal of ladies ; 
 of course, none of the females of your family must see 
 them. I offer a thousand apologies for the trouble I have 
 given you in this and other mstances. Yours truly." 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 TO MR. PIGOT. 
 
 "Piccadilly, August 16th, 1806. 
 "I cannot exactly say with Caesar, 'Veni, vidi, vici:' 
 however, the most important part of his laconic account 
 of success applies to my present situation ; for, though 
 Mrs. Byron took the trouble of ^coming' and 'seeing' yet 
 your humble servant proved the victor. After an obsti- 
 nate engagement of some hours, in which we suffered 
 considerable damage, from the quiclaiess of the enemy's 
 fire, they at length retired in confusion, leaving behind the 
 artillery, field equipage, and some prisoners ; their defeat 
 is decisive of the present campaign. To speak more in- 
 telhgibly, Mrs. B. returns immediately, but I proceed, 
 with all my laurels, to Worthing, on the Sussex coast ; 
 to which place you will address (to be left at the post- 
 oflice) your next epistle. By the enclosure of a 2d 
 jingle of rhyme^ you will probably conceive my muse to 
 be vastly proline ; her inserted production was brought 
 forth a few years ago, and found by accident on Thurs- 
 day among some old papers. I have recopied it, and, 
 adding the proper date, request it may be printed with 
 the rest of the family. I thought your sentiments on the 
 
 See Hours of Idleness, page : 
 
 last bantling would coincide with mine, but it was im- 
 possible to give it any other garb, being founded on facts 
 Mv stay at Worthing will not exceed three weeks, and 
 you may possibly behold me again at Southwell the mid- 
 dle of September. 
 
 * + + ** + ** 
 
 "Will you desii-e Ridge to suspend the printing of my 
 poems till he hears further from me, as I have deter- 
 mined to give them a new form entirely. This prohibi- 
 tion does not extend to the last two pieces 1 have sent 
 with my letters to you. You will excuse the dull vanity 
 of this epistle, as my brain is a chaos of absurd images, 
 and full of business, preparations, and projects. 
 
 " I shall expect an answer with impatience ; — believe 
 me, there is nothing at this moment could give me greater 
 dehght than your letter." 
 
 LETTER VL 
 
 TO MR. PIGOT. 
 
 "London, August, 18th, 1806. 
 "I am just on the point of setting off for Worthing, and 
 write merely to request you will send that idle scoundrel 
 Charles, [his groom,] with my horses immediately; tell him 
 I am excessively provoked he has not made his appear- 
 ance before, or written to inform me of the cause of his 
 delay, particularly as I suppUed him with money for his 
 journey. On no pretext is he to postpone his march one 
 day longer, and ifj in obedience to the caprices of Mrs. B. 
 (who, I presume, is again spreading desolation through 
 her little monarchy,) he thiriks proper to disregard my 
 positive orders, I shall not, in future, consider him as my 
 sen^ant. He must bring the surgeon's bill with him, 
 which I ^^ill discharge immediately on receiving it. Nor 
 can I conceive the reason of his not acquainting Franl^, 
 [his valet,] with the state of my unfortunate quadrupeds. 
 Dear Pigot, forgive \h\spetxdant effusion, and attribute it 
 to the idle conduct oiihaX precious rascal, who, instead of 
 obeying my injunctions, is sauntering through the streets 
 of that political Pandemonium, Nottingham. Present 
 my remembrances to your family and the Leacrofts, and 
 beheve me, &c. 
 
 "P. S. I delegate to you the unpleasant task of de- 
 spatching him on his journey — Mrs. B.'s orders to the 
 contrary are not to be attended to ; he is to proceed first 
 to London, and then to Worthing, without delay. Every 
 thing I have left must be sent to London. My Poeticsyou 
 will pack up for the same place, and not even reserve a 
 copy for yourself and sister, as 1 am about to give them 
 an entire new form : when they are complete, you shall 
 have the first fruits. Mrs. B. on no account is to see or 
 touch them. Adieu." 
 
 LETTER Vn. 
 
 TO MR. PIGOT. 
 
 "Little Hampton, August 26th, 1806. 
 "I this morning received your epistle, which I was 
 obliged to send for to Worthing, whence I have removed 
 to this place, on the same coast, about eight miles distant 
 from the former. You will probably not be displeased 
 with this letter, when it informs you that I am 30,000/. 
 richer than I was at our parting, havmg just received in- 
 telligence from my lawyer that a cause has been gained 
 at Lancaster assizes,* which will be worth that sum by 
 the time I come of age. Mrs. B. is doubtless acquainted 
 of this acquisition, though not apprized of its exact value^ 
 of which she had better be ignorant j for her behaviour 
 
 * III a suit undertaken for the recovery of the Rochdale property. 
 
LETTERS, 1807. 
 
 on any sudden piece of favourable intelligence is, if possi- 
 ble, more ridiculous than her detestable conduct on the 
 most trifling circumstance of an unpleasant nature. 
 You may give my compliments to her, and say that her 
 detaining my servant's things shall only lengthen my ab- 
 sence ; for unless they are immediately despatched to 
 16 Piccadilly, together %\-ith those which have been so 
 long delayed belonging to myself^ she shall never again 
 behold my radiant countenance illuminating her gloomy 
 mansion. If they are sent, I may probably appear in 
 less than two years from the date of my present epistle. 
 "Metrical compUment is an ample reward for my 
 strains; you are one of the few votaries of Apollo who 
 unite the sciences over which that deity presides. I 
 wish you to send my poems to my lodgings in London 
 immediately, as I have several alterations and some ad- 
 ditions to make ; every copy must be sent, as I am about 
 to amend them, and you shall soon behold them in aU 
 their glory. I hope you have kept them from that Upas 
 tree, that antidote to the arts, Mrs. B. Entre nous, — you 
 may expect to see me soon. Adieu. Yours ever." 
 
 affair must end. Whether we renew our intimacy or 
 
 not is of very trivial consequence. 
 
 "JNIy time has lately been much occupied with very 
 different pursuits. I have been transporting a servant,* 
 who cheated me, — rather a disagreeable event: per- 
 forming in private theatricals; pubUshing a volume of 
 poems, (at the request of my friends, for their perusal;) 
 making love, and taking physic. The last two amuse- 
 ments have not had the best effect in the world ; for my 
 attentions have been divided among so vadiny fair damsels, 
 and the drugs I swallow are of such variety in their com- 
 position, that between Venus and jEsculapius I am 
 harassed to death. However, I have still leisure to de- 
 vote some hours to the recollections of past, regretted 
 friendships, and in the interval to take the advantage of 
 the moment, to assure you how much I am, and ever will 
 be, my dearest Clare, 
 
 " Your truly attached and sincere 
 
 "Btron" 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 TO Miss PIGOT. 
 
 "my dear BRIDGET, 
 
 "I have only just dismounted from my Pegasus, which 
 has prevented me from descending to plain prose in an 
 epistle of greater length to your /air self. You regretted 
 In a former letter, that my poems were not more exten- 
 sive ; I now for your satisfaction announce that I have 
 nearly doubled them, partly by the discovery of some I 
 conceived to be lost, and partly by some new productions. 
 We shall meet on Wednesday next ; till then, beheve 
 me yours affectionately, " ByRON. 
 
 "P. S. Your brother John is seized with a poetic 
 mania, and is now rhyming away at the rate of three lines 
 per hour — so much for inspiration ! Adieu !" 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF CLARE. 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 TO MR. PIGOT. 
 
 "Southwell, Notts, February 6th, 1807. 
 
 "my DEAREST CLARE, 
 
 "Were I to make all the apologies necessary to atone 
 for my late negligence, you would justly say you had re- 
 ceived a petition instead of a letter, as it would be filled 
 with prayers for forgiveness ; but instead of this, I wU 
 acknowledge my sins at once, and I trust to your friend- 
 ship and generosity rather than to my own excuses. 
 Though my health is not perfectly re-established, I am 
 out of all danger, and have recovered every thing but my 
 spirits, which are subject to depression. You will be as- 
 tonished to hear I have lately written to Delawarre, for 
 the purpose of explaming (as far as possible, without in- 
 volving some old friends of mine in the business) the 
 cause of my behaviour to him during my last residence at 
 Harrow, (nearly two years ago,) which you will recoUect 
 was rather 'en cavalier.' Since that period I have dis- 
 covered he was treated with injustice, both by those who 
 misrepresented his conduct, and by me in consequence of 
 their suggestions. I have therefore made all the repara- 
 tion m my power, by apologizing for my mistake, though 
 with very faint hopes of success ; indeed I never expected 
 any answer, but desired one for form's sake ; that has 
 not yet arrived, and most probably never will. However, 
 I have eased my o^^•Il conscience by the atonement, which 
 is humiliating enough to one of my disposition , yet I 
 could not have slept satisfied with the reflection of having, 
 even unintentionally, injured any individual. I have done 
 all that could be done to repair the injury, and there the 
 
 "Southwell, Jan. 13,1807. 
 
 " I ought to begin with sundry apologies, for my own 
 negligence, but the variety of my avocations in prose and 
 verse must plead my excuse. With this epistle you will 
 receive a volume of all my Juvenilia published since your 
 departure : it is of considerably greater size than the copy 
 in your possession, which I beg you will destroy, as the 
 present is much more complete. That unlucky poem to 
 my poor IMaryf has been the cause of some animadver- 
 sion from ladies in years. I have not printed it in this 
 collection, in consequence of my being pronounced a 
 most profligate sinner, in short, a 'young Moore,' by 
 
 , your + * * friend. I beheve in general 
 
 they have been favourably received, and surely the age 
 of their author will preclude severe criticism. The ad- 
 ventures of my life from sixteen to nineteen, and the dis- 
 sipation into which I have been thrown in London, have 
 given a voluptuous tint to my ideas ; but the occasions 
 which called forth my muse could hardly admit any other 
 colouring. This volume is vastly correct and miracu- 
 lously chaste. Apropos, tallcing of love, + * + * 
 
 " If you can find leisure to answer this farrago of un- 
 connected nonsense, you need not doubt what gratifica- 
 tion will accrue from your reply to yours ever, &c." 
 
 LETTER XL 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 
 
 "Southwell, March 6, 1807. 
 "dear bankes, 
 " Your critique^ is valuable for many reasons : in the 
 first place, it is the only one in which flattery has borne 
 so slight a part ; in the next, I am cloyed with insipid 
 compliments. I have a better opinion of your judgment 
 and ability than yomfeelings. Accept my most sincere 
 thanks for your kind decision, not less welcome, because 
 totally unexpected. With regard to a more exact esti- 
 mate, I need not remind you how few of the best poems, 
 in our language, will stand the test of minute or verbal 
 criticism : it can therefore hardly be expected the effu- 
 sions of a boy, (and most of these pieces have been pro- 
 duced at an early period,) can derive much merit either 
 from the subject or composition. Many of them were 
 written under great depression of spirits, and during se- 
 
 ' His valet Frank. 
 
 t The " Mary" here meutioned was not the heiress of Annesley, nor 
 the "Mary" of Aberdeen. The verses in the Hours of Idleness, en. 
 titled " To Mary on receiving her picture," were addresiod to lier. 
 
 i On the "Hoiu-s of Idleness."' 
 
LETTERS, 1B07. 
 
 vere indisposition ; hence the gloomy turn of the ideas. 
 We coincide in opinion that the ^poesies irotiqucs' are the 
 most exceptionable ; they were, however, grateful to the 
 deities^ on whose altars they were offered — more I seek 
 not. 
 
 " The portrait of Pomposus* was drawn at Harrow, 
 after a long sitting ; this accounts for the resemblance, or 
 rather the caricatura. He is your friend, he never was 
 mine— {or both our sakes I shall be silent on this head. 
 The collegiate rhymes are not personal ; one of the notes 
 may appear so, but could not be omitted. 1 have little 
 doubt they will be deservedly abused ; a just punishment 
 for my unfiUal treatment of so excellent an Ahna Mater. 
 I sent you no copy, lest we should be placed in the situa- 
 tion of Gil Bias and the Archbishop of Grenada: though 
 running some hazard from the experiment, I wished your 
 verdict to be unbiassed. Had my ' Libellus'' been pre- 
 sented previous to your letter, it would have appeared a 
 species of bribe to purchase compliment. I feel no hesi- 
 tation in saying, I was more anxious to hear your critique, 
 however severe, than the praises of the million. On the 
 same day I was honoured with the encomiums of Mac- 
 kenzie, the celebrated author of the 'Man of Feehng.' 
 Whether his approbation or yours elated me most, I can- 
 not decide. 
 
 "You will receive my Juvenilia, at least all yet pub- 
 lished. I have a large volume in manuscript, which 
 may in part appear hereafter ; at present I have neither 
 time nor inchnation to prepare it for the press. In the 
 spring I shall return to Trinity, to dismantle my rooms, 
 and bid you a final adieu. The Cam will not be much 
 increased by my tears on the occasion. Your farther re- 
 marks, however caustic or bitter to a palate vitiated with 
 the sweets of adulation, will be of ser^dce. Johnson has 
 shown us that no poetry is perfect ; but to correct mine 
 would be an Herculean labour. In fact I never looked 
 beyond the moment of composition, and published merely 
 at the request of my friends. Notwithstanding so much 
 has been said concerning the ' Genus irritabile vatum,' 
 we shall never quarrel on the subject. Poetic fame is 
 by no means the ' acme' of my wishes. Adieu. 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 " Byron. 
 
 be exchanged, and others substituted in their place. 
 
 The whole will be considerably enlarged, and appear the 
 latter end of May. This is a hazardous experiment ; but 
 want of better employment, the encouragement I have 
 met with, and my own vanity, induce me to stand the test, 
 though not without sundry palpitations. The book will 
 circulate fast enough in this country, from mere curiosity, 
 what I prin " 
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 
 TO MR. FALKNER. 
 « SIR, 
 
 "The volume* of httle pieces which accompanies 
 this, would have been presented before, had I not been 
 apprehensive that INIiss Falkner's indisposition might 
 render such trifles unwelcome. There are some errors 
 of the printer which I have not had time to correct in the 
 collection : you have it thus, with ' all its imperfections 
 on its head,' a heavy weight, when joined with the faults 
 of its author. Such ' Juvenilici,' as they can claim no 
 great degree of approbation, I may venture to hope, will 
 also escape the severity of uncalled for, though perhaps 
 not undeserved, criticism. 
 
 " They were written on many and various occasions, 
 and are now published merely for the perusal of a 
 friendly circle. Beheve me, sir, if they afford the 
 slightest amusement to yourself and the rest of my social. 
 readers, I shall have gatfiered all the bays 1 ever wish to 
 adorn the head of 
 
 " Yours, very truly, 
 "Byron. 
 
 "P. S. I hope Miss F. is in a state of recovery." 
 
 LETTER XIV. 
 
 TO MR. PIGOT. 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. — [FRAGMENT.] 
 
 " For my o^vn part, I have suffered severely in the de- 
 cease of my two greatest friends, the only beings I ever 
 loved, (females excepted:) I am therefore a solitary 
 animal, miserable enough, and so perfectly a citizen of the 
 world, that whether I pass my days in Great Britain or 
 Kamschatka is to me a matter of perfect indifference. 
 I cannot evince greater respect for your alteration than 
 by immediately adopting it — this shall be done in the 
 next edition. I am sorry your remarks are not more 
 frequent, as I am certain they would be equally benefi- 
 cial. Since my last, I have received two critical opi- 
 nions from Edinburgh, both too flattering for me to de- 
 tail. One is from Lord Woodhouslee, at the head of the 
 Scotch hterati, and a most voluminous writer, (his last 
 work is a life of Lord Kaimes;) the other from Mac- 
 kensie, who sent his decision a second time, more at 
 length. I am not personally acquainted with either of 
 these gentlemen, nor ever requested their sentiments on 
 the subject : their praise is voluntary, and transmitted 
 through the medium of a friend, at whose house they 
 read the productions. 
 
 " Contrary to my former intention, I am now preparing 
 a volume for the pubhc at large ; my amatory pieces will 
 
 • Doctor Butler, Head Master 
 Idleness, " page 409, &c. 
 
 Harrow School. See " Hours of 
 
 "SouthweU, April, 1807. 
 "my dear pigot, 
 " AUow me to congratulate you on the success of your 
 first examination — ' Courage, mon ami.' The title of Dr. 
 wdll do wonders with the damsels. I shall most proba- 
 bly be in Essex or London when you arrive at this d — d 
 place, where I am detained by the pubhcation of my 
 rhymes. 
 
 "Adieu. — Beheve me yours very truly, 
 " Byron. 
 
 " P. S. Since we met, I have reduced myself by 
 violent exercise, much physic, and hot bathing, from 14 
 stone 6 lb. to 12 stone 7 lb. In all I have lost 27 pounds. 
 
 Bravo ! — ^what 
 
 youi 
 
 LETTER XV, 
 
 TO MISS PIGOT. 
 
 "June 11th, 1807. 
 
 "dear queen BESS, 
 
 " Savage ought to he immortal : — though not a ihormgh- 
 bred bull-dog, he is the finest puppy I ever sav:, and will 
 answer much better ; in his great and manifold kinduess 
 he has already bitten my fingers, and disturbed the 
 gravity of old Boatswain, who is grievously discomposed. 
 I wish to be informed what he costs, his expenses, &c. &c., 
 
 that I may indemnify Mr. G . My thanks are aU 
 
 I can «^ive for the trouble he has taken, malte a long 
 
 The Hours of Idleness. 
 
I. E T T E R S, 
 
 1807. 
 
 speech^ and conclude it with 12 3 4 5 6 7.* I am out of 
 practice, so deputize you as Legate, — ambassador would 
 not do in a matter concerning the Pope, which I presume 
 this must, as the whole turns upon a Bidl. Yours, 
 
 "Byron. 
 « P. S. I write in bed." 
 
 LETTER XVI. 
 
 TO MISS PIGOT. 
 
 « Cambridge, June 30th, 1807. 
 
 " ' Better late than never. Pal,' is a saying of which you 
 know the origin, and as it is applicable on the present oc- 
 casion, you will excuse its conspicuous place in the front 
 of my epistle. I am almost superannuated here. My 
 old friends, (with the exception of a very few,) all de- 
 parted, and I am preparing to follow them, but remain till 
 Monday to be present at three Oratorios, two Concerts, a 
 Fair, and a Ball. I find I am not only thinner hut taller 
 by an inch since my last visit. I was obhged to teU every 
 body my name, nobody ha\ing the least recollection of 
 my visage or person. Even the hero of my Cornelian,'] 
 (who is now sitting vis-a-vis, reading a volume of my 
 Poetics,) passed me in Trinity walks without recognising 
 me in the least, and was thimderstruck at the alteration 
 which had taken place in my countenance, &c. &c. 
 Some say I look better, others worse, but all agree I am 
 thinner — more I do not require. I have lost 2 lb. in my 
 weight since I left our cursed, detestable, and abhorred 
 abode of scandal, where, excepting yourself and John 
 Becher, I care not if the whole race were consigned to 
 the Pit o{ Acheron, which I would visit in person rather 
 tlian contaminate my sandals with the polluted dust of 
 Southwell. Seriously, unless obliged by tlie emptiness of 
 my purse to revisit Mrs. B., you ^vill see me no more. 
 
 " On Monday I depart for London. I quit Cambridge 
 with httle regret, because our set are vanished, and my 
 musical protege before mentioned has left the clioir, and is 
 stationed in a mercantile house of considerable eminence 
 in the metropolis. You may have heard me observe he 
 is exactly, to an hour, two years younger than myself. I 
 found him grown considerably, and, as you will suppose, 
 very glad to see his former Patron. He is nearly my 
 height, very thin, very fair complexion, dark eyes, and 
 light locks. My opinion of his mind you already know ; 
 — I hope I shall never have occasion to change it. Every 
 body here conceives me to be an invalid. The university 
 at present is very gay, from the fetes of divers kinds. I 
 supped out last night, but eat (or ate) nothing, sipped a 
 bottle of claret, went to bed at 2 and rose at 8. I have 
 commenced early rising, and find it agrees with me. 
 The Masters and the Fellows all very polite, but look a 
 little askance — don't much admire lampoons — truth al- 
 ways disagreeable. 
 
 "Write, and teli me how the inhabitants of your mena- 
 gerie go on, and if ray publication goes of well: do the 
 quadrupeds growl 7 Apropos, my bull-dog is deceased — 
 ' Flesh both of cur and man is grass.' Address your an- 
 swer to Cambridge. If I am gone, it will be forwarded. 
 Sad news just arrived — Russians beat — a bad set, eat 
 nothing but oil, consequently must melt before a hard fire. 
 I get awkward in my academic habiliments for want of 
 practice. Got up in a window to hear the oratorio at St 
 Mary's, popped down in the middle of the Messiah, tore 
 a wqful rent in the back of my best black silk gown, and 
 damaged an egregious pair of breeches. Mem. — ^nevei 
 tumble from a church window during service. Adieu, 
 dear * * * * ! do not remember me to any body : — to 
 
 * He here alludes to an odd fancy or trick of his own ; whenever he was 
 at a loss forsomelhingtosav, lieiisert togaljbleover '•] 234 56 7." 
 
 t Mr. Edleston. See the lines " lo E." Hours cf Idleness, page38!; 
 and " The Cornelian," Hours of Idleness, page 385, 
 
 fcrrget and be forgotten by the people of Sosithweli is all I 
 aspire to." 
 
 LETTER XVII. 
 
 TO MISS PIGOT. 
 
 « Trin. Coll. Cam.b. July 5th, 1807. 
 
 "Since my last letter I have determined to reside 
 another year at Granta, as my rooms, &c. &c. are finished 
 in great style, several old friends come up again, and 
 many new acquaintances made ; consequently, my incli- 
 nation leads me forward, and I shall return to college in 
 October, if still alive. My life here has been one con- 
 tinued routine of dissipation — out at different places every 
 day, engaged to more dinners, &c. &c. than my stay 
 would permit me to fulfil. At this moment I write with a 
 bottle of claret in my head, and tears in my eyes ; for I have 
 just parted with my ' Cornelian,^ who spent the evening 
 with me. As it was our last interview, I postponed my 
 engagement to devote the hours of the Sabbath to friend- 
 ship : — Edleston and I have separated for the present, 
 and my mind is a chaos of hope and sorrow. To-mor- 
 row I set out for London : you will address your answer 
 to ' Gordon's Hotel, Albemarle-street,' where 1 sojourn 
 during my \'isit to the metropolis. 
 
 " I rejoice to hear you are interested in my proteg^: he 
 has been my almost constant associate since October, 
 1805, when I entered Trinity College. His voice first at- 
 tracted my attention, his countenance fixed it, and his 
 manners attached me to him for ever. He departs for 
 a mercantile house in toum in October, and we shall pro- 
 bably not meet till the expiration of my minority, when I 
 shall leave to his decision either entering as a partner 
 through my interest, or residing with me altogether. Of 
 course he would in his present frame of mind prefer the 
 latter, but he m.ay alter his opinion previous to that period ; 
 — however, he shall have his choice. I certainly love 
 him more than any human being, and neither time nor 
 distance have had the least effect on my (in general) 
 changeable disposition. In short, we shall put Lady E. 
 Butler and Miss Ponsonby to the blush, Pylades and 
 Orestes out of countenance, and want nothing but a ca- 
 tastrophe like JVisus and Euryalus, to give Jonathan and 
 David the • go by.' He cer( ainly is perhaps more at- 
 tached to me than even I am in return. During the 
 whole of my residence at Cambridge we met every day, 
 summer and winter, without passing one tiresome mo- 
 ment, and separated each time with increasing reluc- 
 tance. I hope you will one day see us together, he is 
 the only being I esteem, though I like many.* 
 
 " The Marquis of Tavistock was down the other day ; 
 I supped with him at his tutor's — entirely a whig party. 
 The opposition muster strong here now, and Lord 
 Huntingdon, the Duke of Leinster, &c. &c. are to join us 
 in October, so every thing will be splendid. The music 
 is all over at present. Met with another ^accidency' — 
 upset a butter-boat in the lap of a lady — look'd very blue 
 — spectators grinned — 'curse 'em!' Apropos, sorry to 
 say, been drunk every day, and not quite sober yet — how- 
 ever, touch no meat, nothing but fish, soup, and vegeta- 
 bles, consequently it does me no harm — sad dogs all the 
 Cantabs. Mem. — liie mean, to reform next January. This 
 place is a monotony of endless variety — lilie it — hate 
 Southwell. Has Ridge sold well'' or do the ancients 
 demur? What ladies have bought? + * * * 
 
 "Saw a girl at St. Mary's the image of Anne * * *, 
 thought it was her — all in the wrong — the lady stared, so 
 did I — I blushed, so did not the lady — sad thing — wish 
 women had more modesty. Talking of women, puts me 
 in mind of my terrier Fanny — how is she ? Got a head- 
 ache, must go to bed, up early in the morning to travel. 
 
 Edleston. See Letter 101. 
 
6 LETTERS, 1807 
 
 My protege breakfasts with me ; parting spoils my appe- 
 tite — excepting from Southwell. Mem. — I hate South- 
 well. Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER XIX. 
 
 TO MISS PIGOT. 
 
 "August 2d, 1807. 
 "London begins to disgorge its contents— town is 
 empty — consequently I can scribble at leisure, as occu- 
 pations are less numerous. In a fortnight I shall de- 
 
 LETTER XVIIL 
 
 TO MISS PIGOT. 
 
 "Gordon's Hotel, July 1 3th, 1807 
 
 " You write most excellent epistles — a fig for other 
 correspondents with their nonsensical apologies for 
 'knowing nought about it,^ — you send me a delightful 
 budget. I am here in a perpetual vortex of dissipation, 
 (very pleasant for all that,) and, strange to tell, I get 
 thinner, being now below eleven stone considerably. 
 Stay in town a month, perhaps six weeks, trip into Essex, 
 and then, as a favour, iiradiate Southwell for three days 
 with the light of my countenance; but nothing shall 
 ever make me reside there again. I positively return to 
 Cambridge in October; we are to be uncommonly gay, 
 or in truth I should cut the University. An extraordinary 
 circumstance occurred to me at Cambridge, a girl so 
 very like * * * made her appearance, that nothing but 
 the most minute inspection could have undeceived me. 
 I wish I had asked \i she had ever been at H * * *. 
 
 " What the devil would Ridge have ? is not fifty in a 
 fortnight, before the advertisements, a sufficient sale ? I 
 near many of the London booksellers have them, and 
 Crosby has sent copies to the principal watering-places. 
 Are they lilced or not in Southwell ?***** 
 I wish Boatswain had swallowed Damon ! How is 
 Bran ? by the immortal gods, Bran ought to be a Count 
 of the Holy Roman Empire. * * * 
 
 " The intelligence of London cannot be interesting to 
 you, who have rusticated all your life — the annals of 
 fouts. riots, balls, and boxing-matches, cards and crim. 
 cons., parliamentary discussion, political details, mas- 
 querades, mechanics, Argyle-street Institution and 
 aquatic races, love and lotteries, Brooks's and Buona- 
 parte, opera-singers and oratorios, wine, women, wax- 
 works, and v.'eathercocks, can't accord with your insu- 
 lated ideas of decorum and other silly expressions not in- 
 serted in our vocabulary. 
 
 " Oh ! Southwell, Southwell, how I rejoice to have left 
 thee, and how I cirse the heavy hours I dragged along, 
 for so many months, among the Mohawks who inhabit 
 your kraals ! — However, one thing I do not regret, wliich 
 is having ^ared o^a sufficient quantity of flesh to enable 
 me to slip into ' an eel skin,' and vie with the slim beaux 
 of modern times ; though, I am sorry to say, it seems to 
 be the mode among gentlemen to grow fat, and I am told 
 I am at least 141b. below the fashion. However, I de- 
 crease instead of enlarging, which is extraordinary, as 
 violent exercise in London is impracticable ; but I attri- 
 bute the phenomenon to our evening squeezes at public and 
 private parties. I heard from Ridge this morning, (the 
 14th, my letter was begun yesterday:) he says the 
 Poems go on as well as can be wished, the seventy-five 
 sent to town are circulated, and a demand for fifty more 
 complied with, the day he dated his epistle, though the 
 advertisements are not yet half published. Adieu. 
 
 "P. S. Lord Carhsle, on receiving my Poems, sent, 
 before he opened the boolc, a tolerably handsome letter : 
 — I have not heard from him since. His opinions I 
 neitlier know nor care about ; if he is the least insolent, I 
 shall enroll him with JButler* and the other worthies. 
 He is in Yorkshire, poor man ! and very ill ! He said he 
 had not time to read the contents, but thought it neces- 
 sary to acknowledge the receipt of the volume immedi- 
 ately. Perhaps the earl 'bears no brothei' near the 
 throne,' — ifso^ 1 will make his sceptre totter in his hands. 
 —Adieu!" 
 
 * Dr. Butler. Sec Letter XI. 
 
 part to fulfil a country engagement ; but expect two 
 epistles from you previous to that period. Ridge does 
 not proceed rapidly in Notts — very possible. In town 
 things wear a more promising aspect, and a man whose 
 works are praised by reviewers, admired by dutchesses, 
 and sold by every bookseller of the metropolis, does not 
 dedicate much consideration to rustic readers. 1 have 
 now a reviev/ before me, entitled ' Literary Recreations,' 
 where my hardship is applauded far beyond my deserts. 
 I Icnow nothing of the critic, but think him a very dis- 
 cerning gentleman, and myself a. devilish clever fellow. 
 His critique pleases me particularly because it is of 
 great length, and a proper quantum of censure is admi- 
 nistered, just to give an agreeable i-elish to the praise. 
 You know I hate insipid, unquahfied, commonplace 
 compliment. If you would wish to see it, order the 13th 
 number of 'Literary Recreations' for the last month. 
 I assure you I have not the most distant idea of the 
 writer of the article — it is printed in a periodical publi- 
 cation — and though I have written a paper, (a review of 
 Wordsworth,*) which appears in the same work, I am 
 ignorant of every other person concerned in it — even 
 the editor, whose name I have not heard. My cousin. 
 Lord Alexander Gordon, who resided in the same hotel, 
 told me his mother, her Grace of Gordon, requested he 
 would introduce my poetical Lordship to her Highness, 
 as she had bought my volume, admired it exceedingly in 
 common with the rest of tliO fashionable world, and 
 wished to claim her relationship with the author. I 
 was unluckily engaged on an excursion for some days 
 afterward, and as the dutchess was on the eve of de- 
 parting for Scotland, I have postponed my introduction 
 till the winter, when I shall favour the lady, whose taste I 
 shall not dispute, with my most sublime and edifying con- 
 versation. She is now in the Highlands, and Alexander 
 took his departure a few days ago, for the same blessed 
 seat of ' dark rolling winds.' 
 
 " Crosby, my London pubhsher, has disposed of his 
 second importation, and has sent to Ridge for a third — 
 at least so he says. In every bookseller's window I see 
 my own name and say nothing, but enjoy my fame in se- 
 cret. My last reviewer kindly requests me to alter my 
 determination of writing no more, and 'a Friend to the 
 Cause of Literature' begs I will gratify the public with 
 some new work ' at no very distant period.' Who 
 would not be a bard ? — that is to say, if all critics would 
 be so polite. However, the others will pay me off, I doubt 
 not, for this gentle encouragement. If so, have at 'em I 
 By-the-by, I have written at my intervals of leisure, 
 after tw o in the morning, three hundred and eighty fines 
 in blank verse, of Bosworth Field. I have luckily got 
 Hutton's account. I shall extend the Poem to eight or 
 ten books, and shall have finished it in a year. Whether 
 it will be published or not must depend on circumstances. 
 So much for egotism ! My laurels have turned my brain, 
 but the cooling acids of forthcoming criticisms will pro- 
 bably restore me to modesty. 
 
 " Southwell is a damned place — I have done with it— 
 
 * This first attempt of Lord By)on at reviewing:, (for he, once or 
 twice afterward, tried his hand at tliis least poetical of employmeats,) 
 is remarkable only as showing how plausibly he could assume the esta- 
 blislied tone and phraseology of these minor judgment-seals of criticism. 
 For instance : — " The volumes before us are by the Author of Lyrical 
 Ballads, a collection which has not undeservedly met with a consider- 
 able share of public applause. The characteristics of Mr. Wordsworth's 
 muse are simple and flowing, though occasionally inharmonious, verse, 
 — strong and sometimes irresistible appeals to the feelings, with unex- 
 ceptionable sentiments. Though the present work may not equal hia 
 former efforts, many of the poems possess a native elegance," &c. &c»— 
 Moore, 
 
LETTERS, 1807. 
 
 at least in all probability : excepting yourself; I esteem 
 no one within its precincts. You were my only ra- 
 tional companion ; and in plain truth, I had more respect 
 for you than the whole hevy^ with whose foibles I amused 
 myself in compliance with their prevailing propensities. 
 You gave yourself more trouble with me and my manu- 
 scripts than a thousand dolls would have done. Be- 
 lieve me, I have not forgotten your good-nature in this 
 circle of sin, and one day I trust I shall be able to evince 
 my gratitude. Adieu, yours, &c. 
 
 «P. S. Remember me to Dr. P." 
 
 LETTER XX. 
 
 TO MISS PIGOT. 
 
 ''London, August 11th, 1807. 
 
 " On Sunday next I set off for the Highlands.* A 
 friend of mine accompanies me in my carriage to Edin- 
 burgh. There we shall leave it, and proceed in a tan- 
 dem, (a species of open carriage,) through the western 
 passes to Inverary, where we shall purchase sheliies, to 
 enable us to view places inaccessible to vehicular con- 
 veyances. On the coast we shall hire a vessel and visit 
 the most remarkable of the Hebrides, and, if we have 
 time and favourable weather, mean to sail as far as Ice- 
 land, only three hundred miles from the northern ex- 
 tremity of Caledonia, to peep at Hecla. This last inten- 
 tion you will Iceep a secret, as my nice mamma would 
 imagine I was on a Voyage of Discovery, and raise the 
 accustomed maternal war-whoop. 
 
 "Last week I swam in the Thames from Lambeth 
 through the two bridges, Westminster and Blackfriars, a 
 distance, including the different turns and tacks made 
 on the way, of three miles ! You see I am in excellent 
 training in case of a squall at sea. I mean to collect all 
 the Erse traditions, poems, &c. &c., and translate, or 
 expand the subject to fill a volume, which may appear 
 next spring under the denomination of ' The Highland 
 Harp,' or some title equally pi-cturesqice. Of Bosworth 
 Field, one book is finished, another just begun. It will 
 be a work of three or four years, and most probably 
 never conclude. What would you say to some stanzas 
 on Mount Hecla ? they would be written at least with 
 fire. How is the immortal Bran ? and the Phoenix of 
 canine quadrupeds, Boatswain? I have lately pur- 
 chased a thorough-bred bull-dog, worthy to be the co- 
 adjutor of the aforesaid celestials — his name is Smut! — 
 ' bear it, ye breezes, on your balmy wings.' 
 
 " Write to me before I set off, I conjure you by the 
 fifth rib of your grandfather. Ridge goes on well with 
 the books — I thought that worthy had not done much in 
 the country. In town they have been very successful ; 
 Carpenter (Moore's publisher) told me a few days ago 
 they sold all theirs immediately, and had several inquiries 
 made since, which, from the books being gone, they 
 could not supply. The Duke of York, the Marchioness 
 of Headfort, the Dutchess of Gordon, &c. &c. were 
 among the purchasers, and Crosby says the circulation 
 will be still more extensive in the winter ; the summer 
 season being very bad for a sale, as most people are ab 
 sent from London. However, they have gone off ex- 
 tremely well altogether. I shall pass very near you on 
 my journey through Newark, but cannot approach. 
 Don't teli this to Mrs. B., who supposes I travel a dif- 
 ferent road. If you have a letter, order it to be left at 
 Ridge's shop, where I shall call, or the post-office, New- 
 ark, about 6 or 8 in the evening. If your brother would 
 ride over, I should be devilish glad to see him — he can 
 
 return the same night, or sup with us, and go home the 
 next morning — the Kingston Arms is my inn. 
 
 " Adieu, yours ever, 
 
 "BVRON." 
 
 LETTER XXL 
 
 TO MISS PIGOT. 
 
 "Trinity College, Cambridge, Oct. 26th, 1807. 
 "my dear ****, 
 
 " Fatigued with sitting up till four in the mornmg for 
 the last two days at hazard, I take up my pen to inquire 
 how your highness and the rest of my female acquaint- 
 ance at the seat of archiepiscopal grandeur go on. I 
 know I deserve a scolding for my negligence in not wri- 
 ting more frequently; but racing up and down the 
 country for these last three months, how was it possible 
 to fulfil the duties of a correspondent ? Fixed at last for 
 six weeks, I write, as thin as ever, (not having gained an 
 ounce siuce my reduction,) and rather in better humour ; 
 — but, after all, Southwell was a detestable residence. 
 Thank St. Dominica, I have done with it : I have been 
 twice within eight miles of it, but could not prevail on 
 myself to suffocate in its heavy atmosphere. This place 
 is wretched enough — a villanous chaos of din and drunk- 
 enness, nothing but hazard and Burgundy, hunting, 
 mathematics and Newmarket, riot and racing. Yet it 
 is a paradise compared with the eternal dulness of 
 Southwell. Oh ! the misery of doing nothing but make 
 love, enemies, and verses. 
 
 " Next January (but this is entre nous only, and pray 
 let it be so, or my maternal persecutor will be throwing 
 her tomahawk at any of my curious projects) I am 
 going to sea, for four or five months, with my cousin, 
 Capt. Bettesworth, who commands the Tartar, the finest 
 frigate in the navy. I have seen most scenes, and wish 
 to look at a naval life. We are going probably to the 
 
 Mediterranean, or to the AYest Indies, or — to the d 1*, 
 
 and if there is a possibility of taking me to the latter, 
 Bettesworth will do it -, for he has received four-and- 
 twenty wounds in different places, and at this momen't 
 possesses a letter from the late Lord Nelson, stating 
 Bettesworth as the only officer in the navy who had 
 more wounds than himself.* 
 
 " I have got a new friend, the finest in the world, a 
 tame bear. When I brought him here, they asked me 
 what I meant to do with him, and my reply was, ' he 
 should sit for a fellowship.'' Sherard will explain the 
 meaning of the sentence, if it is ambiguous. This an- 
 swer dehghted them not. We have several parties 
 here, and this evening a large assortment of jockeys, 
 gamblers, boxers, authors, parsons, and poets, sup with 
 me, — a precious mixture, but they go on well together: 
 and for me, I am a spice of every thing except a jockey ; 
 by-the-by, I was dismounted again the other day. 
 
 " Thank your brother in my name for his treatise. I 
 have written 214 pages of a novel, — one poem of 380 
 hnes,t to be pubUshed (without my name) in a few 
 weeks, with notes, — 560 lines of Bosworth Field, and 250 
 lines of another poem in rhyme, besides half a dozen 
 smaller pieces. The poem to be published is a Satire. 
 Apropos, I have been praised to the sides in the Critical 
 Review, and abused greatly in another pubhcation. So 
 much the better, they tell me, for the sale of the book ; it 
 keeps up controversy, and prevents it being forgotten. 
 Besides, the first men of all ages have had their share, 
 nor do the humblest escape ; — so I bear it like a philo- 
 sopher. It is odd two opposite critiques came out on 
 the same day, and out of five pages of abuse my censor 
 only quotes two lines from different poems, in support of 
 
 * This plan (which he never put in practice) had been talked of by 
 him before he left South^vell. — Moore. 
 
 * See postscript to the English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 
 \ English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 
 
8 
 
 LETTERS, 18CS. 
 
 his opinion. Now the proper way to cut up is to quote 
 long passages, and make them appear absurd, because 
 simple allegation is no proof. On the other hand, there 
 are seven pages of praise, and more than my modesty 
 will allow said on the subject. Adieu. 
 
 "P. S. Write, write, write ! ! !" 
 
 LETTER XXIL 
 
 TO MR. DALLAS. 
 
 "Dorant's Hotel, Albemarle-street, Jan. 20th, 1808. 
 
 " SIR, 
 
 "Your letter was not received till this morning, I pre- 
 sume from being addressed to me in Notts, where I have 
 not resided since last June, and as the date is the 6th, 
 you will excuse the delay of my answer. 
 
 " If the httle volume* you mention has given pleasure 
 to the author of Percival and Aubrey^ 1 am sufficiently 
 repaid by his praise. Though our periodical censors 
 have been uncommonly lenient, I confess a tribute from 
 a man of acknowledged genius is still more flattering. 
 But I am afraid I should forfeit all claim to candour, 
 if I did not decline such praise as I do not deserve ; 
 and this is, I am sorry to say, the case in the present in- 
 stance. 
 
 "My compositions speak for themselves, and must 
 stand or fall by their own worth or demerit : thus far I 
 feel highly gratified by your favourable opinion. But 
 my pretensions to virtue are unluckily so few, that though 
 I should be happy to merit, I cannot accept, your ap- 
 plause in that respect. One passage m your letter 
 struck me forcibly ; you mention the two Lords Lyttle- 
 ton in a manner they respectively deserve, and will be 
 surprised to hear the person who is now addressing you 
 has been frequently compared to the latter. I know I 
 am injuring myself in your esteem by this avowal, but 
 the circumstance was so remarkable from your observa- 
 tion, that I cannot help relating the fact. The events of 
 my short life have been of so singular a nature, that, 
 though the pride commonly called honour has, and I trust 
 ever will, prevent me from disgracing my name by a 
 mean or cowardly action, I have been already held up as 
 the votary of licentiousness, and the disciple of infidelity. 
 How far justice may have dictated this accusation I 
 carmot pretend to say, but, like the gentleman to whom 
 my rehgious friends, in the warmth of their charity, have 
 already devoted me, I am made worse than I really am. 
 However, to quit myself, (the worst theme I could pitch 
 upon,) and return to my Poems, I cannot sufficiently ex- 
 press my thanks, and I hope I shall some day have an 
 opportunity of rendering them in person. A second edi- 
 tion is now in the press, v.'ith some additions and consi- 
 derable omissions ; you will allow me to present you 
 with a copy. The Critical, Monthly, and Anti- Jacobin 
 Reviews have been very indulgent; but the Eclectic 
 has pronounced a furious Philippic, not against the book 
 but the author, where you will find all I have mentioned 
 asserted by a reverend divine who wrote the critique. 
 
 " Your name and connexion with our family have been 
 long known to me, and I hope your person will be not 
 less so ; you will find me an excellent compound of a 
 ' Brainless' and a ' Stanhope. 'f I am afraid you will 
 hardly be able to read this, for my hand is almost as bad 
 as my character, but you will find me, as legibly as 
 possible, 
 
 " Your obhged and obedient servant, 
 " Byron." 
 
 • Hours of Idleness. 
 
 t Characters in Die novel called Percival. 
 
 LETTER XXni. 
 
 TO MR. DALLAS. 
 
 "Dorant's, January 21st, 1808. 
 
 " SIR. 
 
 "Whenever leisure and incUnation permit me the 
 pleasure of a visit, I shall feel truly gratified in a per- 
 sonal acquaintance with one whose mind has been loner 
 known to me in his writings. 
 
 " You are so far correct in your conjecture, that I am 
 a member of the University of Cambridge, where I shall 
 take my degree of A. M. this term ; but were reasoning, 
 eloquence, or virtue the objects of my search, Granta is 
 not their metropohs, nor is the place of her situation an 
 ' El Dorado,' far less a Utopia. The intellects of her 
 children are as stagnant as her Cam,* and their pursuits 
 limited to the church — not of Christ, but of the nearest 
 benefice. 
 
 "As to my reading, I beheve I may aver, wthout hy- 
 perbole, it has been tolerably extensive in the historical ; 
 so that few nations exist, or have existed, with whoso 
 records I am not in some degi-ee acquainted, from He- 
 rodotus down to Gibbon. Of the classics, I loiow about 
 as much as most school boys after a disciphne of thirteen 
 years ; of the law of the land as much as enables me to 
 Ivcep 'within the statute' — to use the poacher's vocabu- 
 lary. I did study the ' Spirit of Laws' and the Law of 
 Nations ; but when I saw the latter violated every 
 month, I gave up my attempts at so useless an accom- 
 plishment ; — of geography, I have seen more land on 
 maps than I should wish to traverse on foot ; — of mathe- 
 matics, enough to give m.e the headache without clearing 
 the part affected ; — of philosophy, astronomy, and meta- 
 physics, more than I can comprehend ; and of common 
 sense so little, that I mean to leave a Byronian prize at 
 each of our ' Almae Matres' for the first discovery, — 
 though I rather fear that of the Longitude wiU pre- 
 cede it. 
 
 " I once thought myself a philosopher, and talked non- 
 sense with great decorum : I defied pain, and preached 
 up equanimity. For some time this did very well, for 
 no one was in pain for me but my friends, and none lost 
 their patience but my hearers. At lasr, a fall from my 
 horse convinced me bodily suffering was an evil ; and 
 the worst of an argument overset my maxims and my 
 temper at the same moment, so I quitted Zeno for Aris- 
 tippus, and conceive that pleasure constitutes the to kuXov. 
 In morality, I prefer Confucius to the Ten Command- 
 ments, and Socrates to St. Paul, though the latter tv.-o 
 agree in their opinion of marriage. In religion, I favour 
 the Catholic emancipation, but do not acknowledge the 
 Pope ; and I have refused to take the Sacrament, be- 
 cause I do not thinli eating bread or drinking wine from 
 the hand of an earthly vicar will make me an inheriter 
 of heaven. I hold virtue in general, or the virtues se- 
 verally, to be only in the disposition, each a.feeling, not a 
 principle. I beUeve truth the prime attribute of the 
 Deity ; and death an eternal sleep, at least of the body. 
 You have here a brief compendium of the sentiments of 
 the wicked George Lord Byron ; and, till I get a new 
 suit, you will perceive I am badly clothed. I remam, 
 " Yours very truly, 
 « Byron." 
 
 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 TO MR. HENRY DRURY.f 
 
 "Dorant's Hotel, Jan. 13th, ISOS. 
 "my dear sir, 
 " Though the stupidity of my servants, or the porter of 
 the house, in not showing you up stairs, (where I should 
 
 * SeeE.B.andS.R. p. 499. 
 t Son of Uocior Drury, Lord By 
 cbool. 
 
 fonner Master at Harrow 
 
LETTERS, 1808, 
 
 9 
 
 have joined you directly,) prevented me the pleasure of 
 seeing you yesterday, I hoped to meet you at some pub- 
 lic place in the evening. However, my stars decreed 
 otherwise, as they generally do, when I have any favour 
 to request of them. I think you would have been sur- 
 prised at my figure, for, since our last meeting, I am re- 
 duced four stone in weight. I then weighed fourteen 
 stone seven pound, and now only ten stone and a half. I 
 have disposed of mj superfluities by means of hard exer- 
 cise and abstinence. ♦ * * 
 
 " Should your Harrow engagements allow you to 
 visit town between this and February, I shall be most 
 happy to see you in Albemarle-street, If I am not so 
 fortunate, I shall endeavour to join you for an afternoon 
 at Harrow, though, I fear, your cellar will by no means 
 contribute to my cure. As for my worthy preceptor, 
 Dr. B., our encounter would by no means prevent the 
 mutual endearments he and I were wont to lavish on each 
 other. We have only spoken once since my departure 
 from Harrow in 1805, and then he pohtely told Tatersall 
 I was not a proper associate for his pupils. This was 
 long before my strictures in verse : but, in plain prose, 
 had I been some years older, I should have held my 
 tongue on his perfections. But being laid on my back, 
 when that schoolboy thing was written — or rather dic- 
 tated — expecting to rise no more, my physician having 
 taken his sixteenth fee, and I his prescription, I could 
 not quit this earth without leaving a memento of my 
 constant attachment to Butler in gratitude for his mani- 
 fold good offices. 
 
 " I meant to have been down in July ; but thinking my 
 appearance, immediately after the pubhcation, would be 
 construed into an insult, I directed my steps elsewhere. 
 Besides, I heard that some of the boys had got hold of 
 my Libellus, contrary to my wishes certainly, for I never 
 transmitted a single copy till October, when I gave one 
 to a boy, sin-ce gone, after repeated importmiities. You 
 will, 1 trust, pardon this egotism. As you had touched 
 on the subject, I thought some explanation necessary. 
 Defence I shall not attempt, 'Hie murus aheneus esto, 
 nil conscire sibi' — and 'so on' (as Lord Baltimore said, 
 on his trial for a rape) — I have been so long at Trinity 
 as to forget the conclusion of the line ; but, though I can- 
 not finish my quotation, I will my letter, and entreat you 
 to beUeve me, gratefully and affectionately, &c. 
 
 "P. S. I will not lay a tax on your time by requiring 
 an answer, lest you say, as Butler said to Tatersall, 
 (when I had written his reverence an impudent epistle 
 on the expression before mentioned,) viz. ' that I wanted 
 to draw him into a correspondence.' " 
 
 LETTER XXV. 
 
 TO MR. HARNESS. 
 
 "Dorant's Hotel, Albemarle-street, Feb. 11, 1808. 
 "my dear harness, 
 "As I had no opportunity of returning my verbal 
 thanks, I trust you will accept my written acknowledg- 
 ments for the compUment you v/ere pleased to pay some 
 production of my unlucky muse last November — I am 
 induced to do this not less from the pleasure I feel in the 
 praise of an old schoolfellow, than from justice to you, 
 for I had heard the story with some slight variations. 
 Indeed, when we met this morning, Wingfield had not 
 undeceived me, but he will tell you that I displayed no 
 resentment in mentioning what I had heard, though I 
 was not sorry to discover the truth. Perhaps you 
 hardly recollect some years ago a short, though, for the 
 time, a warm friendship between us ? Why it was not 
 of longer duration, I know not. I have still a gift of 
 yours in my possession, that must always prevent me 
 from forgetting it. I also remember being favoured with 
 2 
 
 the perusal of many of your compositions and several 
 other circumstances very pleasant in their day, which I 
 will not force upon your memory, but entreat you to be- 
 lieve me, with much regret at their short continuance, 
 and a hope they are not irrevocable, yours very sin- 
 
 :erely, &c. 
 
 • ByRON." 
 
 LETTER XXVL 
 
 TO MR. HARNESS. — [FRAGMENT.] 
 
 "March 1808. 
 We both seem perfectly to recollect, with a mixture 
 of pleasure and regret, the hours we once passed to- 
 ether, and 1 assure you most sincerely they are num- 
 bered among the happiest of my brief chronicle of enjoy- 
 ment. I am now getting into years, that is to say, I was 
 twenty a month ago, and another year will send me into 
 the world to run my career of folly with the rest. I was 
 then just fourteen, — you were almost the first of my 
 Harrow friends, certainly the first in my esteem, if not in 
 date ; but an absence from Harrow for some time, shortly 
 after, and new connexions on your side, and the difference 
 in our conduct (an advantage decidedly in your favour) 
 from that turbulent and riotous disposition of mine, which 
 impelled me into every species of mischiefj — all these 
 circumstances combined to destroy an intimacy, which 
 Affection urged me to continue, and Memory compels 
 me to regret. But there is not a circumstance attending 
 that period, hardly a sentence we exchanged, which is 
 not impressed on my mind at this moment. I need not 
 say more, — this assurance alone must convince you, had 
 I considered them as trivial, they would have been less 
 indelible. How well I recollect the perusal of your 
 ' first flights !' There is another circumstance you do 
 not know ; — the first lines I ever attempted at Harrow 
 were addressed to you. You were to have seen them; 
 but Sinclair had the copy in his possession when we 
 went home ; — and, on our return, we were strangers. 
 They were destroyed, and certainly no great loss ; but 
 you will perceive from this circumstance my opinions at 
 an age when we cannot be hypocrites. 
 
 " I have dwelt longer on this theme than I intended, 
 and I shall now conclude with what I ought to have be- 
 gun. We were once friends, — nay, we have always 
 been so, for our separation was the effect of chance, not 
 of dissension. I do not know how far our destinations 
 in life may throw us together, but if opportunity and in- 
 clination allow you to w^aste a thought on such a hare- 
 brained being as myself, you will find me at least sincere, 
 and not so bigoted to my faults as to involve others in the 
 consequences. Will you sometimes write to me ? I do 
 not ask it often, and, if we meet, let us be what we should 
 be and what we were.^ 
 
 LETTER XXVIL 
 
 TO MR. BECHER. 
 
 "Dorant's Hotel, Feb. 26, 1808 
 
 "my dear BECHER, 
 
 « + * * + Now for Apollo. I am 
 
 happy that you still retain your predilection, and that the 
 public allow me some share of praise. I am of so much 
 importance that a most violent attack is preparing for me 
 in the next number of the Edinburgh Review. This 1 
 had from the authority of a friend who has seen the proof 
 and manuscript of the critique. You know the system 
 of the Edinburgh gentlemen is universal attack. They 
 praise none , and neither the pubUc nor the author ex- 
 pects praise from them. It is, however, something to be 
 noticed, as they profess to pass judgment only on works 
 requiring the public attention. You will see this, when 
 
10 
 
 LETTERS, 18C8. 
 
 it comes out ; — it is, I understand, of the most unmerciful 
 description ; but I am aware of it, and hope you will not 
 be hurt by its severity. 
 
 " Tell Mrs. Byron not to bc out of humour with them, 
 and to prepare her mind for tlie greatest hostility on 
 their part. It ^vill do no injury whatever, and I trust her 
 mind will not be ruffled. They defeat their object by 
 indiscriminate abuse, and they never praise, except the 
 partizans of Lord Holland and Co. It is nothing to be 
 abused when Southey, Moore, Lauderdale, Strangford, 
 and Payne Knight share the same fate. 
 
 "I am sorry — but 'Childish Recollections' must be 
 suppressed during this edition. I have altered, at your 
 suggestion, the obnoxioiis aUmions in the sixth stanza of 
 my last ode. 
 
 " And now, my dear Becher, I must return my best 
 acknowledgments for the interest you have taken in me 
 and my poetical bantlings, and I shall ever be proud to 
 show how much I esteem the advice and the adviser 
 Believe me most truly, &c." 
 
 LETTER XXVIII. 
 
 TO MR. BECHER. 
 
 "Dorant's, March 28, 1808. 
 
 " I have lately received a copy of the new edition 
 from Ridge, and it is high time for me to return my best 
 thanlis to you for the trouble you have taken in the su- 
 perintendence. This I do most sincerely, and only re- 
 gret that Ridge has not seconded you as I could wish, — 
 at least, in the bindings, paper, &c. of the copy he sent 
 to me. Perhaps those for the pubhc may be more re- 
 spectable in such articles. 
 
 « You have seen the Edinburgh Review, of course. 
 I regret that Mrs. Byron is so much annoyed. For my 
 own part, these ' paper bullets of the brain' have only 
 taught me to stand fire; and, as I have been lucky 
 enough upon the whole, my repose and appetite are not 
 discomposed. Pratt, the gleaner, author, poet, &c. &c., 
 addressed a long rhyming epistle to me on the subject, 
 by way of consolation ; but it was not well done, so I do 
 not send it, though the name of the man might make it 
 go down. The E. R^. have not performed their task 
 well ; — at least the Uterati tell me this, and I think / 
 could write a more sarcastic critique on myself than any 
 yet published. For instance, instead of the remark, 
 ill-natured enough, but not keen, — about Mac Pherson, 
 I (quoad reviewers) could have said, ' Alas, this imita- 
 tion only proves the assertion of Doctor Johnson, that 
 many men, women, and children could write such poetry 
 as Ossian's.' 
 
 " I am thin and in exercise. During the spring or 
 summer I trust we shall meet. I hear Lord Ruthyn 
 leaves Newstead in April. * * * As soon as he 
 quits it for ever, I wish much you would take a ride over, 
 survey the mansion, and give me your candid opinion on 
 lie most advisable mode of proceeding with regard to 
 the house. Entre nous, I am cursedly dipped ; my 
 debts, every thing inclusive, will be nine or ten thousand 
 before I am twenty-one. But I have reason to think 
 my property will turn out better than general expecta- 
 tion may conceive. Of Newstead I have little hope or 
 care ; but Hanson, my agent, intimated my Lancashire 
 property was worth three Newsteads. I believe we 
 have it hollow ; though the defendants are protracting 
 the surrender, if possible, till after my majority, for the 
 purpose of forming some arrangement with me, thinking 
 I shall probably prefer a sum in hand to a reversion. 
 Newstead I may sell ; — perhaps I will not, — though of 
 that more anon. I will come do\vn in May or June 
 * * * ♦ "Yours most truly, &c." 
 
 LETTER XXIX. 
 
 TO MR. JACKSON.* 
 
 «N. A. Notts, Sept. 18, 1808. 
 "dear jack, 
 
 " I wish you would inform me what has been done by 
 Jekyll, at No. 40, Sloane-square, concerning the pony I 
 returned as unsound. 
 
 " I have also to request you will call on Louch at 
 Brompton, and inquire what the devil he meant by 
 sending such an insolent letter to me at Brighton ; and 
 at the same time tell him I by no means can comply 
 with the charge he has made for things pretended to be 
 damaged. 
 
 " Ambrose behaved most scandalously about the pony. 
 You may tell Jekyll if he does not refund the money, I 
 shall put the affair into my lawyer's hands. Five-and- 
 
 twenty guineas is a sound price for a pony, and by , 
 
 if it cost me five hundred pounds, I will make an exam- 
 ple of Mr. Jekyll, and that immediately, unless the cash 
 is returned. " Beheve me, dear Jack, &c." 
 
 LETTER XXX. 
 
 TO MR. JACKSOX. 
 
 "N.A.Notts, Oct. 4, 1808 
 " You will make as good a bargain as possible with this 
 Master Jekyll, if he is not a gentleman. If he is a 
 gentleman, inform me, for 1 shall take very different 
 steps. If he is not, you must get what you can of the 
 money, for I have too much business on hand at present 
 to commence an action. Besides, Ambrose is the man 
 who ought to refund, — but I have done with him. You 
 can settle with L. out of the balance, and dispose of the 
 bidets, &c. as you best can. 
 
 " I should be very glad to see you here ; but the house 
 is filled with workmen and undergoing a thorough re- 
 pair. I hope, however, to be more fortunate before 
 many months have elapsed. 
 
 "If you see Bold Webster, remember me to him, and 
 tell him I have to regret Sydney, who has perished, I 
 fear, in my rabbit warren, for we have seen nothing of 
 him for the last fortnight. 
 
 "Adieu. — Believe me, &c." 
 
 LETTER XXXL 
 
 TO MR, JACKSON. 
 
 "N. A. Notts, Dec. 12, 1808. 
 
 "my DEAR JACK, 
 
 " You will get the greyhound from the owner at any 
 price, and as many more of the same breed (male or fe- 
 male) as you can collect. 
 
 " Tell D'Egville his dress shall be returned — I am 
 obliged to him for the pattern. I am sorry you should 
 have so much trouble, but I was not aware of the diffi- 
 culty of procurmg the animals in question. I shall have 
 finished part of my mansion in a few weeks, and, if you 
 can pay me a visit at Christmas, I shall be very glad to 
 see you. " Beheve me, &c." 
 
 LETTER XXXIL 
 
 TO MR. BECHER. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Notts, Sept. 14th, 1808. 
 
 "my dear BECHER, 
 
 "I am much obliged to you for your inquiries, and shall 
 profit by them accordingly. I am going to get up a play 
 
 The PugUist. 
 
 i uole to Don Juau, Canto XI. 
 
LETTERS, 180&. 
 
 11 
 
 here ; the hall will constitute a most admirable theatre. 
 I have settled the dram. pers. and can do without ladies, 
 as I have some young friends who will make tolerable 
 substitutes for females, and we only want three male 
 characters, beside Mr. Hobhouse and myself^ for the 
 play we have fixed on, which will be the Revenge. 
 Pray direct Nicholson the carpenter to come over to me 
 immediately, and inform me what day you will dine and 
 nass the night here. '-'Beheve me, &c." 
 
 LETTER XXXIII. 
 
 TO THE HONOURABLE* MRS. BYRON. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Notts, Oct. 7th, 1808. 
 "dear madam, 
 " I have no beds for the H * * s, or any body else at 
 present. The H * * s sleep at Mansfield. I do not 
 know that I resemble Jean Jacques Rousseau.f I have 
 no ambition to be like so illustrious a madman — but this 
 I know, that I shall live in my outi manner, and as much 
 alone as possible. When my rooms are ready I shall 
 be glad to see you ; at present it would be improper, and 
 uncomfortable to both parties. You can hardly object 
 to my rendering my mansion habitable, notwithstandmg 
 ray departure for Persia in March, (or May at farthest,) 
 since you will be tmant till my return ; and in case of 
 any accident, (for I have already arranged my will to be 
 drawn up the moment I am twenty-one,) I have taken 
 care you shall have the house and manor for life, besides 
 a sufficient income. So you see my improvements are 
 not entirely selfish. As I have a friend here, we will go 
 to the Infirmary Ball on the 12th ; we will drink tea with 
 Mrs. Byron at eight o'clock, and expect to see you at 
 the ball. If that lady will allow us a couple of rooms to 
 dress in, we shall be highly obliged: — if we are at the 
 ball by ten or eleven it will be time enough, and we shall 
 return to Newstead about three or four. 
 
 "Adieu. BeUeve me, 
 " Yours very truly, 
 "Byron." 
 
 LETTER XXXIV. 
 
 TO MRS. BYRON. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Nov. 2d, 1808, 
 
 "dear MOTHER, 
 
 "If you please, we will forget the things you mention. 
 I have no desire to remember them. When my rooms 
 are finished, I shall be happy to see you ; as I tell but 
 the truth, you will not suspect me of evasion. I am fur- 
 nishing the house more for you than myself^ and I shall 
 establish you in it before I sail for India, which I expect 
 to do in March, if nothing particularly obstructive occurs. 
 I am now fitting up the green drawing-room ; the red for 
 a bed-room, and the rooms over as sleeping-rooms. 
 They will be soon completed \ — at least, I hope so. 
 
 " I wish you would inquire of Major Watson (who is 
 an old Indian) what things will be necessary to provide 
 for my voyage. I have already procured a friend to 
 write to the Arabic professor at Cambridge for some m- 
 formation I am anxious to procure. I can easily get 
 letters from government to the ambassadors, consuls, &c. 
 and also to the governors at Calcutta and Madras. I 
 shall place my property and my will in the hcinds of 
 trustees till my return, and I mean to appoint you one. 
 From Hanson I have heard nothing — when I do, you 
 shall have the particulars. 
 
 "After all, you must own my project is not a bad one. 
 If I do not travel now, I never shall, and all men should 
 one day or other. I have at present no connexions to 
 keep me at home ; no \^ife, or unprovided sisters, bro- 
 thers, &c. I shall take care of you, and when I return I 
 may possibly become a pohtician. A few years' know- 
 ledge of other countries than our own will not incapaci- 
 tate me for that part. If we see no nation but our own 
 we do not give manldnd a fair chance — it is from experi- 
 ence, not books, we ought to judge of them. There is 
 notliing like inspection, and trusting to our own senses. 
 " Yours very truly, 
 " Byron." 
 
 LETTER XXXV. 
 
 TO MR. HODGSON. 
 
 " A few weeks ago I wrote to * * *, to request he 
 would receive the son of a citizen of London, well known 
 to me, as a pupil ; the family having been particularly 
 polite during the short time I was with them induced me 
 to this application. Now, mark what follows, — as some- 
 body sublimely saith. On this day arrives an epistle, 
 signed * + +, containing not the smallest reference to 
 tuition, or mtuition, but a joetition for Robert Gregson, of 
 pugilistic notoriety, now in bondage for certain paltry 
 pounds sterling, and hable to take up his everlasting 
 abode in Banco Regis. Had the letter been from any 
 of my lay acquaintance, or, in short, from any person but 
 the gentleman whose signature it bears, I should have 
 marvelled not. If * ♦ * is serious, I congratulate pugi- 
 hsm on the acquisition of such a patron, and shall be 
 most happy to advance any sum necessary for the hbe- 
 ration of the captive Gregson. But I certainly hope to 
 be certified from you, or some respectable housekeeper, 
 of the fact, before I write to * * * on the subject. 
 When I say the fact, 1 mean of the letter being written 
 by * + *j not having any doubt as to the authenticity of 
 the statement. The letter is now before me, and I keep 
 it for your perusal." 
 
 • Thus addressed always by Lord Byron, but without any right to 
 the diitinction. 
 t See Memorandum, page 261. 
 
 LETTER XXXVI. 
 
 TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 
 
 "Reddish's Hotel, Jan. 25, 1809. 
 "my dear sir, 
 " My only reason for not adopting your lines* is be- 
 cause they are your lines. You will recollect what 
 Lady Wortley Montague said to Pope : 'No touching, 
 for the good will be given to you, and the bad attributed 
 to me.' I am determined it shall be all my own, except 
 such alterations as may be absolutely requisite ; but I 
 am much obliged by the trouble you have taken and 
 your good opinion. 
 
 " The couplet on Lord C may be scratched out, and 
 the following uaserted : 
 
 " Roscommon ! Sheffield ! with your spirits fled, &c. 
 
 " This will answer the purpose of concealment. Now, 
 for some couplets on Mr. Crabbe, which you may place 
 after ' Giflx)rd, Sotheby, M'Neil :' 
 
 " There be who say in these enlightened days, &c. 
 
 " I am sorry to differ with you with regard to the title, 
 but I mean to retain it with this addition : ' The English 
 Bards and Scotch Reviewers ;' and, if we call it a 
 Satire, it will obviate the objection, as the bards also 
 were Welsh. * * * * 
 
 " Yours very sincerely, 
 
 " Byron." 
 
 * Mr. Dallas had written some lines, and requested Lord Byron to in- 
 sert them in the Satire, the " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers ' 
 then in press.— The letters following to Mr. Dallas, relate to that wort 
 
12 
 
 LETTERS, 18C9. 
 
 LETTER XXXVIL 
 
 TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 
 
 "my dear sir, 
 *' Suppose we have this couplet — * 
 
 Feb. 7th, 1809. 
 
 " Though sweet the sound disdain a borrow'd tone, 
 Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own ; 
 
 or, 
 
 " Though soft the echo scorn a borrow'd tone, 
 Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 
 
 "So much for your admonitions ; but my note of notes,f 
 my sohtary pun must not be given up — no, rather 
 
 " ' Let mightiest of all the beasts of chace. 
 That roam in woody Caledon' 
 
 come against me : my Etnnotation must stand. 
 
 " We shall never sell a thousand ; then why print so 
 many ? Did you receive my yesterday's note ? I am 
 troubling you, but I am apprehensive some of the lines 
 are omitted by your young amanuensis, to whom, how- 
 ever, I am infinitely obhged. 
 
 " Believe me, yours very truly, 
 
 « Byron." 
 
 NOTES TO MR. DALLAS. 
 
 "Feb. 11,1809. 
 " I wish you to call if possible, as I have some altera- 
 tions to suggest as to the part about Brougham. " B ." 
 
 " Excuse the trouble, but I have added two lines which 
 are necessary to complete the poetical character of 
 Lord CarHsle. 
 
 " in his age 
 
 His scenes alone had daran'd our sinking stage ; 
 But managers for once cried, ' hold, enough !' 
 Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 
 
 suppression of Vice. The lines will come well in after 
 the couplets concerning Naldi and Catalani. 
 
 "Yours trulv, 
 "Byron." 
 "Feb. 22d, 1809." 
 
 LETTER XXXVIII. 
 
 to MRS. BYRON. 
 
 «Feb. 12th, 1809." 
 
 "Yours, &c. 
 
 « B." 
 
 "I -wish you much to call on me, about one, not later, 
 if convenient, as I have some tliirty or forty lines for 
 addition. 
 
 "BeUeveme, &c. «B." 
 
 "Feb. 15, 1809." 
 
 '*Ecce iterum Crispinus! — I send you some lines to 
 be placed after « GifTord, Sotheby, M'Neil.' Pray call 
 to-morrow any time before two, and beheve me, &c. 
 
 " B." 
 
 "P. S. Print soon, or I shall overflow with more 
 rhyme. 
 
 "Feb. 16th, 1809." 
 
 " I enclose some lines to be inserted, the six first after, 
 ' Lords too are bards, &c.' or rather immediately follow- 
 ing the line : 
 
 *• ' Oh ! who would take their titles with their rhymes ?' 
 
 The four next will wind up the panegyric on Lord 
 Carlisle, and come after 'tragic stuff.' 
 
 "Yours, trulv, "B." 
 
 *Feb. 19th, 1809." 
 
 " A cut at the opera — Ecce signum ! from last night's 
 observation, and inuendoes against the Society for the 
 
 "8, St. James's-street, March 6th, 1809. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 " My last letter was written under great depression of 
 spirits from poor Falkland's death,* who has left without 
 a shilling four children and his wife. I have been en- 
 deavouring to assist them, which, God knows, I cannot 
 do as I could wish, from my own embarrassments, and 
 the many claims upon me from other quarters. 
 
 "What you say is all very true: come what may, 
 JVewstcad and I stand or fall together. I have now 
 lived on the spot, I have fixed my heart upon it, and no 
 pressure, present or future, shall induce me to barter the 
 last vestige of our mheritance. I have that pride within 
 me which will enable me to support difficulties. I can 
 endure privations ; but could I obtain in exchange for 
 Newstead Abbey the first fortune in the country, I 
 would reject the proposition. Set your mind at ease on 
 that score ; Mr. Hanson tallts hke a man of business on 
 the subject, I feel like a man of honour, and I will not 
 sell Newstead. 
 
 " I shall get my seat on the return of the affidavits 
 fromCarhais, in Cornwall, and will do something in the 
 House soon : I must dash, or it is all over. My Satire 
 must be kept secret for a month ; after that you may say 
 what you please on the subject. Lord Carlisle has used 
 me infamously, and refused to state any particulars of 
 my family to the Chancellor. I have lashed him in my 
 rhymes, and perhaps his Lordship may regret not bemg 
 more conciUatory. They tell me it will have a sale ; I 
 hope so, for the bookseller has behaved well, as far as 
 publishing well goes. 
 
 "Beheve me, yours truly. 
 
 " P. S. You shall have a mortgage on one of the 
 farms." 
 
 * Mr. Dallas objected to the lines as originally written : 
 " Translation's servile worK at length disown. 
 And Quit Achaia's muse to court your own." 
 
 f See English Bards, and note, p. 425. 
 
 LETTER XXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. HARNESS. 
 
 " 8, St. James's-street, March 18th, 1809. 
 
 " There was no necessity for your excuses : if you 
 have time and inchnation to write, ' for what we receive, 
 the Lord make us thankful.' — If I do not hear from you, 
 I console myself with the idea that you are much more 
 agreeably employed. 
 
 " I send down to you by this post a certain Satire 
 lately pubUshed, and in return for the three and sixpence 
 expenditure upon it, only beg that if you should guess 
 the author, you will keep his name secret ; at least, for 
 the present. London is fuU of the Dulce's business. 
 The Commons have been at it these last three nights 
 and are not yet come to a decision. I do not know it 
 the affair will be brought before our House, unless in the 
 shape of an impeachment. If it makes its appearance 
 in a debatable form, I believe I shall be tempted to say 
 something on the subject. — I am glad to hear you like 
 Cambridge : firstly, because to loiow that you are happy 
 is pleasant to one who wishes you all possible sublunarv 
 enjoyment ; and, secondly, I admire the morality of the 
 sentiment. Alma Mater was to me injusta noverca : and 
 the old Beldam only gave me my M. A. degree because 
 
 See English Bards, and note, p. 126. 
 
LETTERS, 1S09. 
 
 13 
 
 she could not avoid it. — ^You know what a farce a noble 
 Cantab, must perform. 
 
 "I am going abroad, if possible, in the spring, and 
 before I depart I am collecting the pictures of my most 
 intimate schoolfellows ; I ha%'e already a few, and shall 
 want yours, or my cabinet will be incomplete. I have 
 employed one of the first miniature-painters of the day 
 to take them, of course at my own expense, as I never 
 allow my acquaintance to incur the least expenditure to 
 gratify a whim of mine. To mention this may seem in- 
 delicate ; but when I tell you a friend of ours first re- 
 fused to sit, under the idea that he was to disburse on 
 the occasion, you will see that it is necessary to state 
 these prelinnnaries to prevent the recurrence of any 
 similar mistake. I shaJl see you in time, and will carry 
 you to the limner. It will be a tax on your patience for 
 a week, but pray excuse it, as it is possible the resem- 
 blance may be the sole trace I shall be able to preserve 
 of our past friendship and present acquaintance. Just 
 now it seems fooUsh enough, but in a few years, when 
 some of us are dead, and others are separated by inevi- 
 table circumstances, it will be a kind of satisfaction to 
 retain in these images of the hving the idea of our 
 former selves, and to contemplate in the resemblance of 
 the dead, all that remains of judgment, feehng, and a host 
 of passions. But all this would be dull enough for you, 
 and so good night, and to end my chapter, or rather my 
 homily, beUeve me, dear H. yours most affectionately. 
 
 "P. S. I do not know how you and Alma ]\Iater 
 agree. I was but an untoward child myself, and I be- 
 lieve the good lady and her brat were equally rejoiced 
 when I was weaned ; and, if I obtained her benediction 
 at parting, it was, at best, equivocal." 
 
 LETTER XL. 
 
 TO R. C. DALLAS, ESCl. 
 
 "AprH 25th, 1809. 
 
 "dear SIR, 
 
 " I am just arrived at Batt's Hotel, Jermyn-street, St. 
 James's, from Newstead, and shall be very glad to see 
 you when convenient or agreeable. Hobhouse is on his 
 way up to town, full of printing resolution, and proof 
 against criticism. 
 
 " Believe rae, with great smcerity, yours truly, 
 
 " Byron." 
 
 LETTER XLI. 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 
 
 " Twelve o'clock, Friday night. 
 
 "my dear BANKES, 
 
 " I have just received your note : believe me, I regret 
 most sincerely that I was not fortunate enough to see it 
 before, as I need not repeat to you, that your conversa- 
 tion for half an hour would have been much more agree- 
 able to me than gambling or drinking, or any other 
 fashionable mode of passing an evening abroad or at 
 home. I really am very sorry that I went out previous 
 to the arrival of your despatch : in future, pray let me 
 hear from you before six, and whatever my engagements 
 may be, 1 will always postpone them. Believe me, 
 with that deference which I have always from my child- 
 hood paid to your talents^ and with somewhat a better 
 opinion of your heart than I have hitherto entertained, 
 " Yours ever, &c." 
 
 LETTER XLIL 
 
 TO MRS. BYRON. 
 
 "Falmouth, June 22d, 1809. 
 "dear mother, 
 '• I am about to sail in a few days ; probably before 
 this reaches you, Fletcher begged so hard, that I have 
 
 continned him in my service. If he does not behave 
 well E^broad, I will send him back in a traiisport. I have 
 a German servant, (who has been with Mr. Wilbraham 
 in Persia before, and was strongly recommended to me 
 by Dr. Butler of Harrow,*) Robert, and WiUiam ; they 
 constitute my whole suite. I have letters in plenty — 
 you shall hear from me at the different ports I touch 
 upon ; but you must not be alarmed if my letters mis- 
 carry. The continent is in a fine state — an insurrec- 
 tion has broken out at Paris, and the Austrians are 
 beating Buonaparte — the Tyrolese have risen. 
 
 " There is a picture of me in oil, to be sent down to 
 Newstead soon. — 1 wish the INIiss Pigots had some- 
 thing better to do than carry my miniatures to Notting- 
 ham to copy. Now they have done it, you may ask 
 them to copy the others, which are greater favourites 
 than my own. As to money matters, I am ruined — at 
 least till Rochdale is sold ; and if that does not turn out 
 well, I shall enter into the Austrian or Russian service 
 — perhaps the Turkish, if I like their manners. The 
 world is all before me, and I leave England without re- 
 gret, and without a wish to revisit any thing it contains, 
 except yourself^ and your present residence. 
 
 " Beheve me, yours ever sincerely. 
 
 "P. S. Pray teU Mr. Rushton his son is well, and 
 doing well ; so is Murray, indeed better than I ever saw 
 him ; he will be back in about a month. I ought to add 
 the leaving Murray to my few regrets, as his age perhaps 
 wiU prevent my seeing him again. Robert I take with 
 me ; I hke him, because, like myself, he seems a friend- 
 less animal." 
 
 LETTER XLIII. 
 
 TO MR. HENRY DRURY. 
 
 "Falmouth, June 25th, 1809. 
 
 "my dear DRURY, 
 
 " We sail to-morrow in the Lisbon packet, having 
 been detained till now by the lack of wind, and other ne- 
 cessaries. These being at last procured, by this time to- 
 morrow evening we shall be embarked on the vide 
 i;orld of waters, j;or all the uorld like Robinson Crusoe. 
 The Malta vessel not sailing for some weeks, we have 
 determined to go by way of Lisbon, and, as my servants 
 term it, to see 'that there Portingale ;' thence to Cadiz 
 and Gibraltar, and so on our old route to Malta and 
 Constantinople, if so be that Captain Kidd, our gallant 
 commander, understands plain sailing and Mercator, and 
 takes us on our voyage all according to the chart. 
 
 " Will you tell Dr. Butler that I have taken the trea- 
 sure of a servant, Friese, the native of Prussia Proper, 
 into my service from his recommendation. He has 
 been all among the Worshippers of Fire in Persia, and 
 has seen Persepolis and all that. 
 
 "Hobhouse has made woundy preparations for a book 
 on his return ; — 100 pens, two gallons of japan ink, and 
 several volumes of best blanlv, is no bad provision for a 
 discerning public. I have laid down my pen, but have 
 promised to contribute a chapter on the state of morals, 
 &c. &c. 
 
 " ' The cock is crowing, 
 I must be going, 
 And can no more.' — Ghost of Gaffer Thumb. 
 
 " Adieu. Believe me, &c. &c." 
 
 LETTER XLIV. 
 
 TO MR. HODGSON. 
 
 "Falmouth, June 25th, 1809. 
 
 "my dear HODGSON, 
 
 "Before this reaches you, Hobhouse, two officers' 
 wives, three children, two waiting-maids, ditto subalterns 
 
 * The Page and Yeoman of the " Good Night," in the first Canto of 
 ChiJde Harold. 
 
14 
 
 LETTERS, 1S09. 
 
 for tlie troops, three Portuguese esquires and domestics, 
 in all nineteen souls, will have sailed in the Lisbon 
 packet, with the noble Captain ICidd, a gallant com- 
 mander as ever smuggled an anchor of right Nantz. 
 
 " We are going to Lisbon first, because the iSIalta 
 packet has sailed, d' ye see ? — from Lisbon to Gibraltar, 
 IVIalta, Constantinople, and ' all that,' as Orator Henley 
 said, when he put the Church, and ' all that,' in danger. 
 
 " This town of Falmouth, as you will partly conjecture, 
 is no great ways from the sea. It is defended on the sea- 
 side by tway castles, St. Maws and Pendennis, ex- 
 tremely well calculated for annoying every body except 
 an enemy. St. Maws is garrisoned by an able-bodied 
 person of fourscore, a widower. He has the whole com- 
 mand and sole management of six most unmanageable 
 pieces of ordnance, admirably adapted for the destruc- 
 tion of Pendennis, a like tower of strength on the oppo- 
 site side of the Charmel. We have seen St. Maws, but 
 Pendennis they will not let us behold, save at a distance, 
 because Hobhouse and I are suspected of having al- 
 ready taken St. INIaws by a coup de main. 
 
 " The town contains many quakers and salt fish — the 
 oysters have a taste of copper, owing to the soil of a 
 mining country — the women (blessed be the Corpora- 
 tion therefor !) are flogged at the cart's tail Avhen they 
 pick and steal, as happened to one of the fair sex yester- 
 day noon. She was pertinacious in her behaviour, and 
 damned the mayor. * * 
 
 "Hodgson! remember me to the Drury, and remem- 
 ber me to — yourself when drunk : — I am not worth a 
 sober thought. Look to my Satire at Cawthome's, 
 Cockspur-street, + * * 
 
 " 1 don't know when I can write again, because it de- 
 pends on that experienced na^ngator, Captain Kidd, and 
 the ' stormy winds that (don't) blow,' at tliis season. 
 leave England without regret — 1 shall return to it 
 %vithout pleasure. I am hke Adam, the first convict, 
 sentenced to transportation, but I have no Eve, and have 
 eaten no apple but what was sour as a crab ; — and thus 
 ends my first chapter. Adieu. Yours, &c." 
 
 than England, and I am infinitely amused wdth my pil- 
 crrimage as far as it has gone. 
 
 " To-morrow we start to ride post near 400 miles as 
 far as Gibraltar, where we embark for Melita and By- 
 zantium. A letter to IVIalta will find me, or to be for- 
 w^arded, if I am absent. Pray embrace the Drury and 
 D\\yer and all the Ephcsiaiis you encounter. I am 
 writing mth Butler's donative pencil, which makes m} 
 bad hand worse. Excuse illegibility, + ♦ * 
 
 "Hodgson! send me the news, and the deaths, and 
 defeats, and capital crimes, and the misfortunes of one's 
 friends ; and let us hear of literary matters, and the con- 
 troversies and the criticisms. All this will be pleasant — 
 
 suave mari magno,' &c. Talking of that, I have been 
 
 seasick, and sick of the sea. 
 
 Adieu. 
 "Yours faithfully, &c." 
 
 LETTER XLV. 
 
 TO MR. HODGSON. 
 
 "Lisbon, July 16th, 1809. 
 
 " Thus far have we pursued our route, and seen all 
 sorts of marvellous sights, palaces, convents, &c. — 
 which, being to be heard in my friend Hobhouse's forth- 
 coming Book of Travels, I shall not anticipate by smug- 
 ghng any account whatsoever to you in a private and 
 clandestine maimer. I must just observe that the village 
 of Cintra* in Estremadura is the most beautiful, perhaps, 
 in the world. * + + 
 
 " I am very happy here, because I loves oranges, and 
 talk bad Latin to the monks, who understand it, as it is 
 like their o^^^l, — and 1 goes into society, (with my pocket 
 pistols,) and I swims in the Tagus all across at once, 
 and I rides on an ass or a mule, and swears Portuguese, 
 and have got a diarrhoea and bites from the musquitoes. 
 But what of that? Comfort must not be expected by 
 follcs that go a pleasuring. * * * 
 
 " When the Portuguese are pertinacious, I say, * Car- 
 racho !' — the great oath of the grandees, that very well 
 supphes the place of 'Damme,' — and, when dissatisfied 
 with my neighbour, I pronounce him ' Ambra di merdo.' 
 With these two phrases, and a third. 'Avra Bouro,' 
 which signifieth ' Get an ass,' I am universally under- 
 stood to be a person of degree and a master of languages. 
 How merrily we hves that travellers be ! — if we had food 
 and raiment. But, in sober sadness, any thing is better 
 
 See ChiMe Harold, Canto I. stanza ISth. &c. 
 
 LETTER XLVL 
 
 TO MR. HODGSON. 
 
 "Gibraltar, August 6, 1809. 
 "I have just arrived at this place after a journey 
 through Portugal, and a part of Spain, of nearly 500 
 miles. We left Lisbon and travelled on horseback to 
 Seville and Cadiz, and thence in the Hyperion frigate to 
 Gibraltar. The horses are excellent — we rode seventy 
 miles a day. Eggs and wine and hard beds are all the 
 accommodation we found, and, in such torrid weather, 
 quite enough. My health is better than in England. 
 
 ' Seville is a fine town, and the Sierra Morena, part 
 of which we crossed, a very sufficient mountain, — but 
 damn description, it is always disgusting. Cadiz, sweet 
 Cadiz I — it is the first spot in the creation. * * * 
 The beauty of its streets and mansions is only excelled 
 by the loveliness of its inhabitants. For, with all na- 
 tional prejudice, I must confess the women of Cadiz are 
 as far superior to the English women in beauty as the 
 Spaniards are inferior to the English in every quality 
 that dignifies the name of man. + + + jugt as 1 
 began to know the principal persons of the city, I was 
 obUged to sail. 
 
 " You will not expect a long letter after my riding so 
 far ' on hollow pampered jades of Asia.' Talking of 
 Asia puts me in mind of Africa, which is within five 
 miles of my present residence, I am going over before 
 I go on to Constantinople. 
 
 «* * * Cadiz is a complete Cythera. Many of 
 the grandees who have left Madrid during the troubles 
 reside there, and I believe it is the prettiest and cleanest 
 tovm in Europe. London is filthy in the comparison. 
 * * * The Spanish women are all alike, their edu- 
 cation the same. The wife of a duke is, in information, 
 as the wife of a peasant, — the wife of a peasant, in man- 
 ner, equal to a dutchess. Certainly, they are fascinat- 
 ing ; but their minds have only one ideji, and the business 
 of their lives is intrigue. * * * 
 
 "I have seen Sir John Carr at Seville and Cadiz, and 
 like Swift's barber, have been down on my knees to beg 
 he would not put me into black and white. Pray re- 
 member me to the Drury-s and the Davies, and all of 
 that stamp who are yet extant. Send me a letter and 
 news to Malta. My next epistle shall be from Mount 
 Caucasus or Mount Sion. I shall return to Spam be- 
 fore I see England, for I am enamoured of the country. 
 Adieu, and beheve me, &c." 
 
 LETTER XL VII. 
 
 TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 
 
 '•Gibraltar, Aug. 11th, 1809. 
 
 "dear MOTHER, 
 
 "I have been so much occupied since my departure 
 from England, that till I could address you at length, I 
 
LETTERS, 1809. 
 
 15 
 
 have forborne writing altogether. As 1 have now 
 passed through Portugal, and a considerable part of 
 Spain, and have leisure at this place, I shall endeavour 
 to give you a short detail of my movements. We 
 sailed from Falmouth on the 2d of July, reached Lisbon 
 after a very favourable passage of four days and a half^ 
 and took up our abode in that city. It has often been 
 described without being worthy of description ; for, ex- 
 cept the view from the Tagus, which is beautiful, and 
 some fine churches and convents, it contains little but 
 filthy streets and more filthy inhabitants.* 
 
 " To mEdie amends for this, the village of Cintra, about 
 fifteen miles from the capital, is, perhaps in every re- 
 spect, the most dehghtful in Europe •, it contains beau 
 ties of every description, natural and artificial. Palaces 
 and gardens rising in the midst of rocks, cataracts, and 
 precipices ; convents on stupendous heights — a distant 
 view of the sea and the Tagus ; and, besides (though 
 that is a secondary consideration) is remarkable as the 
 scene of Sir H. D.'s Convention.f It unites in itself all 
 the wildness of the western highlands, with the verdure 
 of the South of France. Near this place, about ten 
 miles to the right, is the palace of Mafra, the boast of 
 Portugal, as it might be of any country, in point of mag- 
 nificence without elegance. There is a convent an- 
 nexed ; the monks, who possess large revenues, are 
 courteous enough, and understand Latin, so that we had 
 a long conversation : they have a large library, and 
 asked me if the English had any books in their country. 
 
 " I sent my baggage and part of the servants' by sea 
 to Gibraltar, and travelled on horseback from Aldea 
 Galheda, (the first stage from Lisbon, which is only ac- 
 cessible by water,) to Seville, (one of the most famous 
 cities in Spain,) where the government called the Junta 
 is now held. The distance to Seville is nearly four hun- 
 dred miles, and to Cadiz almost ninety miles further to- 
 wards the coast. I had orders from the government, and 
 every possible accommodation on the road, as an Eng- 
 lish nobleman, in an English vmiform, is a very respecta- 
 ble personage in Spain at present. The horses are re- 
 markably good, and the roads (I assure you upon my 
 honour, for you will hardly beheve it) very far superior 
 to the best British roads, without the smallest toll or 
 turnpike. You will suppose this when I rode post to 
 Seville in four days, through this parching country, in 
 the midst of summer, without fatigue or annoyance. 
 Seville is a beautiful town ; though the streets are nar- 
 row they are clean.| We lodged in the house of two 
 Spanish unmarried ladies, who possess six houses in 
 Seville, and gave me a cm-ious specimen of Spanish 
 manners. § They are women of character, and the eldest 
 a fine woman, the youngest pretty, but not so good a 
 figure as Donna Josepha. The freedom of manner 
 which is general here, astonished me not a little ; and in 
 the course of further observation I find that reserve is not 
 the characteristic of the Spanish belles, who are, in ge- 
 neral, very handsome, with large black eyes, Eind very 
 fine forms. The eldest honoured your unworthy son 
 with very particular attention, embracing him with great 
 tenderness at parting, (I was there but three days,) after 
 cutting off a lock of his hair, and presenting him with 
 one of her own, about three feet in length, which I send, 
 and beg you will retain till my return. Her last words 
 were, ' Adios, tu hermoso ! me gusto mucho.' — ' Adieu, 
 you pretty fellow, you please me much.' She offered a 
 share of her apartment, which my virtue induced me to 
 decHne; she laughed, and said I had some English 
 'amante,' (lover,) and added that she was going to be 
 married to an officer in the Spanish army. 
 
 "I left Seville, and rode on to Cadiz, through a beau- 
 tiful country. At Xeres, where the sherry we drank is 
 
 • See Childe Harold, Canto I. steuiza 16. t Ibid. 24. 
 
 I Ibid. 65, &c. § Dou Juan, Canto I. stanza 8. 
 
 made, I met a great merchant, a Mr. Gordon of Scot- 
 land, who was extremely poUte, and favoured me with the 
 inspection of his vaults and cellars, — so that I quaffed at 
 the fountain head. 
 
 "Cadiz,* sweet Cadiz, is the most delightful town 1 
 ever beheld, very different fi-om our English cities in 
 every respect, except cleanliness, (and it is as clean as 
 London,) but still beautiful and full of the finest women 
 in Spain, the Cadiz belles being the Lancashire witches 
 of their land. Just as I was introduced, and began to 
 lilce the grandees, I was forced to leave it for this cursed 
 place ; but before I return to England I will visit it 
 again. The night before I left it, I sat in the box at the 
 opera with Admiral Cordova's family; he is the com- 
 mander whom Lord St. Vincent defeated in 1797, and 
 has an aged wife and a fine daughter, Senorita Cordova; 
 the girl is very pretty in the Spanish style, in my opinion 
 by no means inferior to the Enghsh in charms, and cer- 
 tainly superior in fascination. Long black hair, dark 
 languishing eyes, clear olive complexions, and forms more 
 graceful in motion than can be conceived by an English- 
 man used to the drowsy, Ustless air of his countrywomen, 
 added to the most becoming dress, and, at the same time, 
 the most decent in the world, render a Spanish beauty 
 irresistible. I beg leave to observe that intrigue here is 
 the business of life ; when a woman marries she throws 
 off all restraint, but I beheve their conduct is chaste 
 enough before. If you make a proposal, which in Eng- 
 land would bring a box on the ear from the meekest of 
 virgins, to a Spanish girl, she thanks you for the honour 
 you intend her, and rephes, ' Wait till I am married, and 
 I shall be too happy.' This is literally and strictly true. 
 Miss C. and her Httle brother understood a Uttle French, 
 and, after regretting my ignorance of the Spanish, she 
 proposed to become my preceptress in that language. 
 I could only reply by a low bow, and express my regret 
 that I quitted Cadiz too soon to permit me to make the 
 progress which would doubtless attend my studies under 
 so charming a directress. I was standing at the back 
 of the box, which resembles our opera boxes, (the theatre 
 is large, and finely decorated, the music admirable,) in 
 the manner in which Enghshmen generally adopt, for 
 fear of incommoding the ladies in front, when this fair 
 Spamard dispossessed an old woman (an aunt or a 
 duenna) of her chair, and commanded me to be seated 
 next herselfj at a toierable distance from her mamma. 
 At the close of the performance I withdrew, and was 
 lounging with a party of men in the passage, when, en 
 passant, the lady turned round and called me, and I had 
 the honour of attending her to the admiral's mansion. I 
 have an invitation on my return to Cadiz, which I shall 
 accept, if I repass through the country on my return 
 from Asia. 
 
 "I have met Sir John Carr, knight errant, at Seville 
 and Cadiz. He is a pleasant man. I Hke the Spaniards 
 much. You have heard of the battle near Madrid, and 
 in England they call it a victory — a pretty victory ! 200 
 officers, and 5000 men killed, all English; and the 
 French in as great force as ever. I should have joined 
 the army, but we have no time to lose before we get up 
 the Mediterranean and Archipelago. I am going over 
 to Africa to-morrow ; it is only six miles from this for- 
 tress. My next stage is Caghari in Sardinia, where I 
 shall be presented to his majesty. I have a most su- 
 perb uniform as a court dress, indispensable in tra- 
 velling. 
 
 August 13th. — I have not been to Africa ; the vsand is 
 contrary ; but I dined yesterday at Algesiras, with Lady 
 Westmoreland, where I met General Castanos, the ce- 
 lebrated Spemish leader in the late and present war : to 
 day I dine with him ; he has offered me letters to Te- 
 tuan in Barbary, for the principal Moors ; and I am to 
 
 See Childe Harold, Canto I. stanza 65, &c. 
 
16 
 
 LETTERS, 1809. 
 
 have the house for a few days of one of the great men, 
 which was intended for Lady W. whose health will not 
 permit her to cross the Straits. 
 
 August 15th.— 1 could not dine with Castanos yester- 
 day, but this afternoon I had that honour ; he is pleasant, 
 and for aught I know to the contrary, clever, I cannot 
 go to Barbary. The MaUa packet sails to-morrow, and 
 myself in it. Admiral Purvis, with whom I dmed at 
 Cadiz, gave me a passage in a frigate to GibraUar, but 
 we have no ship of war destined for Malta at present. 
 The packets sail fast, and have good accommodations. 
 You shall hear from me on our route. Joe Murray de- 
 livers this. I have sent him and the boy back ; pray 
 show the lad every kindness, as he is my great favourite. 
 I hope this will find you well. 
 
 " Believe me, ever yours sincerely, 
 
 " Byron." 
 
 " P. S. So Lord G. is married to a rustic ! well done ! 
 If I wed, I will bring you home a Sultana, with half a 
 dozen cities for a dowry, and reconcile you to an Otto- 
 man daughter-in-law vv^ith a bushel of pearls, not larger 
 than ostrich eggs or smaller than walnuts." 
 
 had scarcely any other companion. I have found her 
 very pretty, very accomplished, and extremely eccentric. 
 Buonaparte is even now so mcensed against her, that her 
 life would be in some danger if she were taken prisoner 
 second time. 
 
 You have seen Murray and Robert by this time, and 
 received my letter — little has happened since that date. 
 1 have touched at Cagliari, in Sardmia, and at Girgenti, 
 Sicily, and embark to-morrow for Patras, from whence 
 I proceed to Yanina, where Ali Pacha holds his Court, 
 so I shall soon be among the Musselmans. 
 
 " Adieu. Believe me with sincerity, 
 
 "Yours ever, 
 « Byron *• 
 
 LETTER XLVIII. 
 
 TO MR. RXJSHTON. 
 
 "Gibraltar, August 15th, 1809 
 
 «MR. RUSHTON, 
 
 «I have sent Robert home with Mr. Murray, because 
 the country which I am about to travel through is in 
 state which renders it unsafe, particularly for one so 
 young. I allow you to deduct five-and-twenty pounds a 
 year for his education for three years, provided I do not 
 return before that time, and I desire he may be con- 
 sidered as in my service. Let every care be taken of 
 him, and let him be sent to school. In case of my death 
 I have provided enough in my will to render him inde- 
 pendent. He has behaved extremely well, and has tra- 
 velled a great deal for the time of his absence. Deduct 
 the expense of his education from your rent. 
 
 « Byron." 
 
 LETTER XLIX. 
 
 TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. BYRON. 
 
 «Malta,Sept. 15th, 1809 
 "dear mother, 
 " Though I have a very short time to spare, being to 
 sail immediately for Greece, I cannot avoid taking an 
 opportunity of telling you that I am well. I have been 
 in Malta a short time, and have found the inhabitants 
 hospitable and pleasant. This letter is committed to 
 the charge of a very extraordinary woman, whom you 
 have doubtless heard of, Mrs. Spencer Smith,* of whose 
 escape the Marquis de Salvo pubhshed a narrative a 
 few years ago. She has since been shipwrecked, and 
 her life has been from its commencement so fertile in re- 
 markable incidents, that in a romance they would appear 
 improbable. She was born at Constantinople, where 
 her father, Baron Herbert, was Austrian ambassador ; 
 married unhappily, yet has never been impeached in 
 point of character; excited the vengeance of Buonaparte 
 by a part in some conspiracy ; several times risked her 
 life; and is not yet twenty-five. She is here in her 
 way to England, to join her husband, being obUged to 
 leave Trieste, where she was paying a visit to her 
 mother, by the approach of the French, and embarks 
 soon in a ship of war. Since my arrival here, I have 
 
 LETTER L. 
 
 TO MRS. BYRON. 
 
 "Prevesa, Nov. 12, 1809. 
 
 "my dear MOTHER, 
 
 " I have now been some time in Turkey : this place 
 is on the coast, but I have traversed the interior of the 
 province of Albania on a visit to the Pacha. I left 
 Malta in the Spider, a brig of war, on the 21st of Sep- 
 tember, and arrived in eight days at Prevesa. I thence 
 have been about 150 miles, as far as Tepalen, his high- 
 ness's country palace, where I stayed three days.* The 
 name of the Pacha is Ali, and he is considered a man of 
 the first abilities : he governs the whole of Albania, (the 
 ancient lUyricum,) Epirus, and part of Macedonia. His 
 son, Vely Pacha, to whom he has given me letters, 
 governs the Morea, and has great mfluence in Egypt ; in 
 short, he is one of the most powerful men in the Otto- 
 man empire. When I reached Yanina, the capital, 
 after a journey of three days over the mountains, through 
 a country of the most picturesque beauty, I found that 
 Ali Pacha was with his army in lUyricum. besieging 
 Ibrahim Pacha in the castle of Berat. He had heard 
 that an Englishman of rank was in his dominions, and 
 had left orders in Yanina with the commandant to pro- 
 vide a house, and supply me with every kind of neces- 
 sary gratis ; and, though I have been allowed to make 
 presents to the slaves, &c., I have not been permitted to 
 pay for a single article of household consumption. 
 
 " I rode out on the vizier's horses, and saw the palaces 
 of himself and grandsons : they are splendid, but too 
 much ornamented with silk and gold. I then went over 
 tlie mountains through Zitza, a village with a Greek 
 monastery, (where I slept on my return,) in the most 
 beautiful situation (always excepting Cintra, in Portugal) 
 I ever beheld. In nine days I reached Tepalen. Our 
 journey was much prolonged by the torrents that had 
 fallen from the mountains, and intersected the roads. I 
 shall never forget the smgular scene on entering Tepa- 
 len at five m the afternoon, as the sun was going down. 
 It brought to my mind (with some change of dress, how- 
 ever) Scott's description of Branlisome Castle in his 
 Lay,a.iid the feudal system. The Albanians, in their 
 dresses, (the most magnificent m the world, consisting of 
 a long white kili, gold-worked cloak, crimson velvet gold- 
 laced jacket and waistcoat, silver-mounted pistols and 
 daggers,) the Tartars with their high caps, the Turks in 
 their vast peUsses and turbans, the soldiers and black 
 slaves with the horses, the former in groupes in an im- 
 mense large open gallery in front of the palace, the latter 
 placed in a kind of cloister below it, two himdred steeds 
 ready caparisoned to move in a moment, couriers en- 
 tering or passing out with despatches, the kettle-drums 
 beatinjr, boys calling the hour from the minaret of the 
 mosque, altogether, with the singular appearance of the 
 buildincr itself, formed a new and delightful spectacle to a 
 
 * The "Florence" of several of his smaller poems ; and alluded to 
 u Childe Harold, Caiilo II. siauza 30. 
 
 See Childe Harold, Canto II. stanza 55. 
 
LETTERS, 1809. 
 
 17 
 
 stranger. I was conducted to a very handsome apart- 
 ment, and my health inquired after by the vizier's secre- 
 tary, ' a-!a-mode Turque !' 
 
 " The next day I was introduced to Ali Pacha. I 
 was dressed in a full suit of staff uniform, with a very 
 magnificent sabre, &c. The vizier received me in a 
 large room paved with marble ; a fountain* was playing 
 in the centre ; the apartment was surrounded by scarlet 
 ottomans. He received me stemding, a wonderful com- 
 pliment from a Mussulman, and made me sit down on 
 his right hand. I have a Greek interpreter for general 
 use, but a physician of Ali's, named Femlario, who un- 
 derstands Latin, acted for me on this occasion. His 
 first question was, why, at so early an age, I left my 
 country? — (the Turks have no idea of travelling for 
 amusement.) He then said, the English minister, Cap- 
 tain Leake, had told him I was of a great family, and 
 desired his respects to my mother ; which I now, in the 
 name of Ah Pacha, present to yon. He said he was 
 certain I was a man of birth, because I had small ears, 
 curhng hair, and little white hands,! ^-^^ expressed him- 
 self pleased with my appearance and garb. He told me 
 to consider him as a father while I was in Turkey, and 
 said he looked on me as his son. Indeed, he treated me 
 like a child, sending me almonds and sugared sherbet^ 
 fruit and sweetmeats, tv.-enty times a day. He begged 
 me to visit him often, and at night, w^hen he was at lei- 
 sure. I then, after coffee and pipes, retired for the first 
 time. I saw him thrice afterward. It is singular that 
 the Turks, who have no hereditary dignities, and few- 
 great famihes, except the Sultans, pay so much respect 
 to birth ; for I found my pedigree more regarded than 
 my title. 
 
 " His highness is sixty years old. very fat, and not tall, 
 but with a fine face, hght blue eyes, and a white beard ; 
 his manner is very kind, and at the same time he pos- 
 sesses that dignity which I find universal among the 
 Turks. — He has the appearance of any thing but his 
 real character; for he is a remorseless tyrant, guilty of 
 the most horrible cruelties, very brave, and so good a 
 general that they call him the IMahometan Buonaparte. 
 Napoleon has twice offered to make him king of Epirus, 
 Dut he prefers the English interest, and abhors the 
 French, as he himself told me. He is of so much con- 
 sequence, that he is much courted by both ; the Alba- 
 nians being the most warlike subjects of the Sultan, 
 though Ali is only nominally dependent on the Porte. 
 He has been a mighty warrior ; but is as barbarous as 
 le is successfiil, roasting rebels, &c. &c. Buonaparte 
 sent him a snuffbox, with his picture ; he said the snufF- 
 sox was very well but the picture he could excuse, as he 
 neither liked it nor the original. His ideas of judging of 
 a man's birth from ears, hands, &c. were curious enough. 
 To me, he was, indeed, a father, giving me letters, 
 guards, and every possible accommodation. Our next 
 conversations were of war and travelling, pohtics and 
 England. He called my Albanian soldier, who attends 
 me, and told him to protect me at all hazard. His 
 name is A^iscillie, and like aU the Albanians, he is brave, 
 rigidly honest, and faithful : but they are cruel, though 
 not treacherous ; and have several vices, but no mean- 
 nesses. They are, perhaps, the most beautiful race, in 
 point of countenance, in the world ; their women are 
 sometimes handsome also, but they are treated hke 
 slaves, beaten^ and, in short, complete beasts of burden ; 
 they plough, dig, and sow. I found them carrying wood, 
 and actually repairing the highways. The men are all 
 soldiers, and war and the chace their sole occupation. 
 The women are the labourers, which, after all, is no 
 great hardship in so delightful a climate. Yesterday, 
 the 11th of November, I bathed in the sea ; to-day it is 
 so hot that I am WTiting in a shady room of the English 
 
 * See Don Juan. Canto V. stanza 55, and note. 
 t Ibid, stanza 106 and note. 
 
 3 
 
 consul's, with three doors wide open, no fire, or even^rc- 
 place in the house i except for cuUnary purposes. 
 
 " To-day I saw the remains of the town of Actium,^ 
 near which Antony lost the world, in a small bay, where 
 two frigates could hardly manoeuvre : a broken wall is 
 the sole remnant. On another part of the gulf stands 
 the ruins of Nicopolis, built by Augustus in honour of 
 his -victory. Last night I was at a Greek m.arriage ; but 
 this and a thousand things more I have neither time nor 
 space to describe. 
 
 " I am going to-morrow, -with a guard of fifly men, to 
 Patras in the Morea, and thence to Athens, where I 
 shall winter. Two days ago I was nearly lost in a 
 Turkish ship of war, owing to the ignorance of the cap- 
 tain and crew, though the storm was not violent. Fletcher 
 yelled after his wife, the Greeks called on all the saints, 
 the Mussulmans on Alia : the captain burst into tears 
 and ran below deck, telhng us to call on God ; the sails 
 were split, the mainyard shivered, the wind blowing 
 fresh, the night setting in, and all our chance was to 
 make Corfu, which is in possession of the French, or (as 
 Fletcher pathetically termed it) 'a watery erave.' I did 
 what I could to console Fletcher, but finding him incor- 
 rigible, wrapped myself up in my Albanian capote, (an 
 immense cloak,) and lay down on deck to wait the worst. 
 I have learned to philosophize in my travels, and if I had 
 not, complaint was useless. Luckily the wind abated, 
 and only drove us on the coast of Suli, on the main land, 
 where we landed, and proceeded, by the help of the na- 
 tives, to Prevesa again ; but I shall not trust Turkish 
 sailors in future, though the Pacha had ordered one of 
 his o\Mi galliots to take me to Patras. I am therefore 
 going as far as jMissolonghi by land, and there have only 
 to cross a small gulf to get to Patras. 
 
 "Fletcher's next epistle will be full of marvels: we 
 were one night lost for nme hours in the mountains in a 
 thunder-storm, and since nearly wrecked. In both 
 cases, Fletcher was sorely bewildered, from apprehen- 
 sions of famine and banditti in the first, and drowning in 
 the second instance. Plis eyes were a little hurt by the 
 lightning, or crying, (I don't know which,) but are now 
 recovered. When you write, address to me at Mr. 
 Strane's, EngUsh consul, Patras, IVIorea. 
 
 " I could tell you I know not how many incidents 
 that I think would amuse you, but they crowd on my 
 mind as much as they would swell my paper, and I can 
 neither arrange thern in the one, nor put them down on 
 the otlier, except in the greatest confusion. I hke the 
 Albanians much; they are not all Turks; some tribes 
 are Christians. But their religion makes httle dif- 
 ference in their manner or conduct. They are esteemed 
 the best troops in the Turkish service. I hved on my 
 route two days at once, and three days again, ui a bar- 
 rack at Salora, and never found soldiers so tolerable, 
 though I have been in the garrisons of Gibraltar and 
 Pvlalta, and seen Spanish, French, Sicihan, and British 
 troops in abundance. I have had nothing stolen, and 
 was always welcome to their pro\-ision and milk. Not 
 a week ago an Albanian chief, (every village has its 
 chiefj who is called Primate,) after helping us out of the 
 Turkish galley in her distress, feeding us, and lodging my 
 suite, consisting of Fletcher, a Greek, two Athenians, 
 a Greek priest, and my companion, Mr. Hobhouse, re- 
 fused any compensation but a written paper stating that 
 I v.-as well received ; and when I pressed him to accept 
 a few sequins, ' No,' he replied ; ' I wish you to love me, 
 not to pay me.' These are his words. 
 
 " It is astonishing how far money goes in this country. 
 While I was in the capital, I had nothing to pay, by the 
 vizier's order ; but since, though I have generally had 
 sixteen horses, and generally six or seven men, the ex- 
 pense h^s not been half as much as staying only three 
 
 Sec Childe Harold, Canto II. Etauia 15. 
 
18 
 
 LETTERS, 1810. 
 
 weeks m Malta, though Sir A. Ball, the governor, gave 
 me a house for nothing, and I had only one servant. By- 
 the-by, I expect Hanson to remit regularly ; for I am not 
 about to stay in this province for ever. Let him write 
 to me at Mr. Strane's, English consul, Patras. The 
 fact is, the fertility of the plains is wonderful, and specie 
 is scarce, which makes this remarkable cheapness. I 
 am going to Athens to study modern Greek, Avhich 
 differs much from the ancient, though radically similar. 
 I have no desire to return to England, nor shall I, unless 
 compelled by absolute want, and Hanson's neglect ; but 
 I shall not enter into Asia for a year or two, as I have 
 much to see in Greece, and I may perhaps cross into 
 Africa, at least the Egyptian part. Fletcher, like all 
 Enghshmen, is very much dissatisfied, though a httle re- 
 conciled to the Turks by a present of eighty piastres 
 from the vizier, which, if you consider every thing, and 
 the value of specie here, is nearly worth ten guineas 
 English. He has suffered nothing but from cold, heat, 
 and vermin, which those who lie in cottages and cross 
 mountains in a cold country must undergo, and of which 
 1 have equally partalien with himself; but he is not 
 valiant, and is afraid of robbers and tempests. I have 
 no one to be remembered to in England, and wish to 
 hear nothing from it, but that you are well, and a letter 
 or two on business from Hanson, whom you may tell to 
 write. I will write when I can, and beg you to be- 
 lieve me, 
 
 " Your affectionate son, 
 « Byron. 
 
 "P. S. I have some very magnifique' Albanian 
 dresses, the only expensive article in this country. 
 They cost 50 guineas each, and have so much gold they 
 would cost m England two hundred. I have been in- 
 troduced to Hussim Bey and Mahmout Pacha, both 
 little boys, grand-children of Ali, at Yanina. They are 
 totally unlike our lads, have painted complexions like 
 rouged dowagers, large black eyes, and features perfectly 
 regular. They are the prettiest little animals I ever 
 saw, and are broken into the court ceremonies already. 
 The Turkish salute is a slight inclination of the head, 
 with the hand on the breast. Intimates always kiss. 
 Mahmout is ten years old, and hopes to see me again. 
 "We are friends without understanding each other, like 
 many other folks, though from a different cause. He 
 has given me a letter to his father in the Morea, to whom 
 I have also letters from Ali Pacha." 
 
 the farther I go the more my laziness increases, and my 
 aversion to letter-writing becomes more confirmed. I 
 have written to no one but yourseff and Mr. Hanson, 
 and these are communications of business and duty ra- 
 ther than of inclination. 
 
 Fletcher is very much disgusted with his fatigues, 
 though he has undergone nothing that I have not shared. 
 He is a poor creature ; indeed English servants are de- 
 testable travellers. I have, besides him, two Albanian 
 soldiers and a Greek interpreter ; all excellent in their 
 way. Greece, particularly in the vicinity of Athens, is 
 delightful ; cloudless skies and lovely landscapes. But 
 I must reserve all account of my adventures till we 
 meet. I keep no journal, but my friend Hobhouse writes 
 ncessantly. Pray take care of Murray and Robert, 
 and tell the boy it is the most fortunate thing for him 
 that he did not accompany me to Turkey. Consider 
 this as merely a notice of my safety, and believe me, 
 "Yours, &c. &c. 
 
 "Byron." 
 
 LETTER LI. 
 
 TO MRS. BYRON. 
 
 « Smyrna, March 19, 1810. 
 
 "dear MOTHER, 
 
 ** I cannot write you a long letter, but as I know you 
 will not be sorry to receive any intelligence of my move- 
 ments, pray accept what I can give. I have traversed 
 the greatest part of Greece, besides Epirus, &c. &c. re- 
 sided ten weeks at Athens, and am now on the Asiatic 
 side on my way to Constantinople. I have just returned 
 from viewing the ruins of Ephesus, a day'sjourney from 
 Smyrna. I presume you have received a long letter I 
 wrote from Albania, with an account of my reception by 
 the Pacha of the province. 
 
 "When I arrive at Constantinople, I shall determine 
 whether to proceed into Persia or return, which latter I 
 do not wish, if I can avoid it. But I have no intelligence 
 from Mr. Hanson, and but one letter from yourself. I 
 shall stand in need of remittances whether I proceed or 
 return. I have written to him repeatedly, that he may 
 not plead ignorance of my situation for neglect. I can 
 give you no acconnt of any thing, for I have not time or 
 opportunity, the frigate sailing immediately. Indeed, 
 
 LETTER LIL 
 
 TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON, 
 
 « Smyrna, AprU 10th, 1810. 
 
 "dear MOTHER, 
 
 " To-morrow, or this evenmg, I sail for Constantinople 
 in the Salsette frigate, of thirty-six guns. She returns 
 to England with our ambassador, whom she is going up 
 on purpose to receive. I have written to you short 
 letters from Athens, Smyrna, and a long one from Al- 
 bania. I have not yet mustered courage for a second 
 large epistle, and you must not be angry, since I take all 
 opportunities of apprizing you of my safety : but even 
 that is an effort, writing is so irksome. I have been tra- 
 versing Greece, and Epirus, lUyria, &c. &c. and you 
 see by my date, have got into Asia. I have made but 
 one excursion lately, to the ruins of Ephesus. Malta is 
 the rendezvous of my letters, so address to that island. 
 Mr. Hanson has not written, though I wished to hear of 
 the Norfolk sale, the Lancashire lawsuit, &c. &c. I 
 am anxiously expecting fresh remittances, I believe 
 you will lilce Nottinghamshire, at least, my share of it. 
 Pray accept my good wishes m heu of a long letter, and 
 believe me, 
 
 " Youra sincerely and affectionately, 
 "Byron." 
 
 LETTER LIU. 
 
 TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 
 
 " Salsette Frigate, off the Dardanelles, April 17. 1810. 
 "dear madam, 
 "I write at anchor, (in our way to Constantinople,) off 
 the Troad, which I traversed two days ago. All the re- 
 mains of Troy are the tombs of her destroyers, among 
 which I see that of Antilochus from my cabin window. 
 These are large mounds of earth, like the barrows of the 
 Danes in your island. There are several monuments, 
 about twelve miles distant, of the Alexandrian Troas, 
 which I also examined ; but by no means to be compared 
 with the remnants of Athens and Ephesus. This will 
 be sent in a ship of war bound with despatches for 
 Malta. In a few days we shall be at Constantinople, 
 barring accidents. I have also written from Smyrna, 
 and shall, from time to time, transmit short accounts of 
 my movements, but I feel totally unequal to long letters. 
 "Beheve me, 
 " Yours very sincerely, 
 
 " Byron." 
 " P. S. No accounts from Hanson ! Do not complain 
 of short letters, I write to nobody but yourself and Mr. 
 Hanson. 
 
LETTERS, 1810. 
 
 19 
 
 LETTER LIV. 
 
 TO THE HON. MRS. BYROX. 
 
 « Constantinople, May 18th, 1810. 
 "dear madam, 
 " 1 arrived here in an English frigate from Smyrna, a 
 few days ago, without any events worth mentioning, ex- 
 cept landing to view the plains of Troy, and afterwards, 
 when we were at anchor in the Dardanelles, swimming 
 from Sestos to Abydos, m imitation of Monsieur Lean- 
 der, whose story you no doubt know too well for me to 
 add any thing on the subject, except that I crossed the 
 Hellespont without so good a motive for the undertaking. 
 As I am just going to visit the Captain Pacha, you will 
 excuse the brevity of my letter. When Mr. Adair 
 takes leave, I am to see the Sultan and the mosques, &c. 
 "Believe me, yours ever, 
 
 " Byron." 
 
 LETTER LV. 
 
 to MR. HENRY DRURY. 
 
 « Salsette Frigate, May 3d, 1810. 
 
 "my dear DRURY, 
 
 "When I left England, nearly a year ago, you re- 
 quested me to write to you — I will do so. I have 
 crossed Portugal, traversed the south of Spain, visited 
 Sardinia, Sicily, Malta, and thence passed into Turkey, 
 where I am still wandering. I first landed in Albania, 
 the ancient Epirus, where we penetrated as far as Mount 
 Tomarit — excellently treated by the chief Ali Pacha ; 
 and, after journeying through Illyria, Chaonia, &c. 
 crossed the gulf of Actium, with a guard of fifty Albani- 
 ans, and passed the Achelous in our route through Acar- 
 nania and ^Etolia. We stopped a short time in the 
 Morea, crossed the gulf of Lepanto, and landed at the 
 foot of Parnassus ; saw all that Delphi retains, and so 
 on to Thebes and Athens, at which last we remained 
 ten weeks. 
 
 "His majesty's ship Pylades brought us to Smyrna; 
 but not before we had topographized Attica, including, 
 of course, Marathon and the Sunian promontory. From 
 Smyrna to the Troad (which we visited when at anchor, 
 for a fortnight, off the tomb of Antilochus) was our next 
 stage ; and now we are in the Dardanelles, waiting for 
 a wind to proceed to Constantinople. 
 
 " This morning I svjam from Sestos to Abydos* The 
 immediate distance is not above a mile, but the current 
 renders it hazardous ; — so much so that I doubt whether 
 Leander's conjugal affection must not have been a little 
 chilled in his passage to Paradise. I attempted it a 
 week ago, and failed, — owing to the north wind, and the 
 wonderful rapidity of the tide, — though I have been 
 from my childhood a strong swimmer. But, this morn- 
 ing being calmer, I succeeded, and crossed the ' broad 
 Hellespont' in an hour and ten minutes. 
 
 " Well, my dear sir, I have left my home, and seen 
 part of Africa and Asia, and a tolerable portion of Eu- 
 rope. I have been with generals and admirals, princes 
 and pachas, governors and ungovernables, — but I have 
 not time or paper to expatiate. I wish to let you know 
 that I live with a friendly remembrance of you, and a 
 hope to meet you again ; and, if I do this as shortly as 
 possible, attribute it to any thing but forgetfulness. 
 
 " Greece, ancient and modern, you know too well to 
 require description. Albania, indeed, I have seen more 
 of than any Englishman, (except a Mr. Leake,) for it is 
 a country rarely visited, from the savage character of 
 the natives, though abounding in more natural beauties 
 than the classical regions of Greece,— which, however. 
 
 See Letter 4T7, &c. 
 
 are still eminently beautiful, particularly Delphi and 
 Cape Colonna in Attica. Yet these are nothing to parts 
 of Illyria and Epirus, where places without a name, and 
 rivers not laid down in maps, may, one day, when more 
 known, be justly esteemed superior subjects, for the 
 pencil and the pen, to the dry ditch of the lUssus and 
 the bogs of Boeotia. 
 
 " The Troad is a fine field for conjecture and snipe- 
 shooting, and a good sportsman and an ingenious scholar 
 may exercise their feet and faculties to great advantage 
 upon the spot ; — or, if they prefer riding, lose their way 
 (as I did) in a cursed quagmire of the Scamander, who 
 wriggles about as if the Dardan virgins still offered their 
 wonted tribute. The only vestige of Troy, or her de- 
 stroyers, are the barrows supposed to contain the car- 
 casses of Achilles, Antilochus, Ajax, &c. — but Mount 
 Ida is still in high feather, though the shepherds are 
 now-a-days not much like Ganymede. But why should 
 I say more of these things 1 are they not written in the 
 Boke of Gell 7 and has not H. got a journal ? I keep 
 none, as I have renounced scribbluig. 
 
 " I see not much difference between ourselves and the 
 Turks, save that we have * *, and they have none — 
 that they have long dresses, and we short, and that we 
 tallc much, and they little. ***** They 
 are sensible people. Ali Pacha told me he was sure I 
 was a man of rank, because I had sm.all ears and hands 
 and curling hair. By-the-by, I speak the Romaic, or 
 modern Greek, tolerably. It does not differ from the 
 ancient dialects so much as you would conceive ; but the 
 pronunciation is diametrically opposite. Of verse, ex- 
 cept in rhyme, they have no idea. 
 
 "1 like the Greeks, who are plausible rascals, — with 
 all the Turkish vices, without their courage. However, 
 some are brave, and all are beautiful, very much re- 
 sembling the busts of Alcibiades : — the women not quite 
 so handsome. I can swear in Turkish ; but, except one 
 horrible oath, and 'pimp,' and 'bread,' and 'water,' 1 
 have got no great vocabulary in that language. They 
 are extremely pohte to strangers of any rank, properly 
 protected ; and as I have two servants and two soldiers, 
 we get on with great eclat. We have been occasionally 
 in danger of thieves, and once of shipwreck, — but always 
 escaped. 
 
 "At Malta I fell in love with a married woman,* and 
 challenged an aid-de-camp of General * * (a rude 
 fellow, who grinned at something, — I never rightly knew 
 what) — but he explained and apologized, and the lady 
 embarked for Cadiz, and so I escaped murder and crim. 
 con. Of Spain I sent some account to our Hodgson, 
 but have subsequently written to no one, save notes to 
 relations and lawyers, to keep them out of my premises. 
 I mean to give up all connexion, on my return, with 
 many of my best friends — as I supposed them — and to 
 snarl all my life. But I hope to have one good-hu- 
 moured laugh with you, and to embrace Dwyer, and 
 pledge Hodgson, before I commence cynicism. 
 
 " Tell Doctor Butler I am now writing with the gold 
 pen he gave me before I left England, which is the rea- 
 son my scrawl is more unintelligible than usual. I have 
 been at Athens and seen plenty of these reeds for scrib- 
 bling, some of which he refused to bestow upon me, be- 
 cause topographic Gell had brought them from Attica. 
 But I will not describe, — no — you must be satisfied with 
 simple detail till my return ; and then we will unfold the 
 floodgates of colloquy. I am in a 36 gun frigate, going 
 up to fetch Bob Adair from Constantinople, who will 
 have the honour to carry this letter. 
 
 "And so H.'s hdke is out,f with some sentimental 
 sing-song of my own to fill up, — and how does it take, 
 eh ? and where the devil is the second edition of my 
 
 * See Letter 49. 
 
 t Hobhousc's Miscellanies, in which several of Lord Byron's smaller 
 pieces were originally published. 
 
20 
 
 LETTERS, I8I0. 
 
 Satire, with additions ? and my name on the title-page ? 
 and more lines tagged to the end, wilh a new exordium 
 and what not, hot from my anvil before I cleared the 
 Channel? The Mediterranean and the Atlantic roll 
 between me and criticism ; and the thunders of the Hy- 
 perborean Review are deafened by the roar of the 
 Hellespont. 
 
 "Remember me to Claridge, if not translated to col- 
 lege, and present to Hodgson assurances ofmy high con- 
 sideration. Now, you will ask, what shall I do next ? 
 and I answer, I do not know. I may return in a few- 
 months, but I have intents and projects after visiting 
 Constantinople.— Hobhouse, however, will probably be 
 back in September. 
 
 "On the 2d of July we have left Albion one year— 
 ' oblitus meorum obliviscendus et illis.' I was sick of 
 my own country, and not much prepossessed in favour of 
 any other ; but I ' drag on' ' my chain' without ' length- 
 ening it at each remove.' I am like the Jolly Miller, 
 caring for nobody, and not cared for. All countries are 
 mucli the same in my eyes. I smoke, and stare at 
 mountains, and twirl my mustachios very independently. 
 I miss no comforts, and the mosquitoes that wrack the 
 morbid frame of H. have, luckily for me, httle effect on 
 mine, because I live more temperately. 
 
 "I omitted Ephesus in my catalogue, which I visited 
 during my sojourn at Smyrna ; but the Temple has al- 
 most perished, and St. Paul need not trouble hunself to 
 epistolize the present brood of Ephesians, who have 
 converted a large church built entirely of marble into a 
 mosque, and I don't Icnow that tlie edifice looks the 
 worse for it. 
 
 " My paper is full, and my ink ebbmg — good afternoon ! 
 If you address to me at Malta, the letter will be for- 
 warded wherever 1 may be. Hobhouse greets you ; he 
 pines for his poetry, — at least, some tidings of it. I al- 
 most forgot to tell you that I am dying for love of three 
 Greek girls at Aihens, sisters. I lived m the same 
 house. Teresa, Mariana, and Katinka, are the names 
 of these divinities, — all of them under 15. 
 
 " Your razeivoTarog Sn'Xos, 
 
 " BVK0>'." 
 
 out of the question. I have been very well treated by 
 the Pachas and Governors, and have no complamt to 
 make of any kind. Hobhouse will one day inform you 
 of all our adventures, — were I to attempt the recital, 
 neither my paper nor your patience would hold out 
 during the operation. 
 
 Nobody, save yourself, has written to me since I left 
 England ; but indeed I did not request it. I except my 
 relations, who \\Tite quite as often as I wish. Of Hob- 
 house's volume I know nothing, except that it is out •, 
 and of my second edition I do not even know that, and 
 certainly do not, at this distance, interest myself in the 
 
 tter. "+***! hope you and Bland roll down 
 the stream of sale with rapidity. 
 
 " Of my return I cannot positively speak, but think it 
 probable Hobhouse will precede me in that respect. 
 We have been very nearly one year abroad. I should 
 wish to gaze away another, at least, in these ever-green 
 climates ; but I fear business, law business, the worst of 
 employments, will recall me previous to that period, if 
 not very quickly. If so, you shall have due notice, 
 
 " I hope you wi J find me an altered personage, — I ^o 
 not mean in body, but in manner, for I begin to find out 
 that nothing but virtue will do in this d — d world. I am 
 tolerably sick of vice, which I have tried in its agreeable 
 varieties, and mean, on my return, to cut all my dissolute 
 acquaintance, leave off viine and carnal company, and 
 betake myself to politics and decorum. I am very 
 serious and cynical, and a good deal disposed to moralize; 
 but, fortunately for you, the coming homily Ls cut off by 
 default of pen and defection of paper. 
 
 "Good morrow! If you write, address to me at 
 Malta, -whence your letters will be forwarded. You 
 need not remember me to any body, but believe me, 
 " Yours with all faith, 
 
 "Byron." 
 
 LETTER LTI. 
 
 TO MR. HODGSON. 
 
 " Salsette Frigate, in the Dardanelles, off 
 Abydos, May 5th, 1810. 
 
 "I am on my way to Constantinople, after a tour 
 through Greece, Epirus, &c. and part of Asia Minor, 
 some particulars of which I have just communicated to 
 our friend and host H. Drury. Wilh these, then, I shall 
 not trouble you ; but, as you will perhaps be pleased to 
 hear that I am well, &c. I take the opportunity of our 
 ambassador's return to forward the few lines I have time 
 to despatch. We have undergone some inconveniences 
 and incurred partial perils, but no events worthy of com- 
 munication, unless you will deem it one that two day 
 ago 1 swam from Sestos to Abjdos. This, — with a few 
 alarms from robbers, and some danger of shipwreck in a 
 Turkish galliot six months ago, a visit to a Paclia, a pas 
 sion for a married woman at Malta, a challenge to an 
 officer, an attachment to three Greek girls at Athens, 
 with a great deal of buffoonery and fine prospects, — 
 form all that has distinguished my progress since my 
 departure from Spain. 
 
 " Hobhouse rhymes and jcumalizes ; T stare and do no- 
 thing — unless smoking can be deemed an active amuse- 
 ment. The Turks take too much care of their women 
 to permit them to be scrutinized ; but I have lived a good 
 deal with the Greeks, whose modern dialect I can con- 
 verse in enough for my purposes. AYith the Turks I 
 have also some male acquaintances — fenaale society is 
 
 LETTER LVII. 
 
 TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. BYROX. 
 
 "Constantinople, May 24th, 1810. 
 "dear mother, 
 
 " I wrote to you very shortly the other day on my ar- 
 rival here, and as another opportunity avails, take up my 
 pen again, that the frequency of my letters may atone 
 for their brevity. Pray did you ever receive a picture of 
 me in oil by Sanders, in Vigo-lane, London ? (a noted 
 limner :) if not, write for it immediately ; it was paid for, 
 except the frame, (if frame there be,) before I left Eng- 
 land. I behove 1 mentioned to you in my last, that my 
 only notable exploit, lately, has been swimmmg from 
 Sestos to Abydos on the third of this month, in humble 
 imitation of Leander, of amorous memory, though I had 
 no Hero to receive me on the other shore of the Helles- 
 pont, Of Constantinople you have, of course, read fifty 
 descriptions by sundry travellers, which are in general 
 so correct, that I have nothing to add on the subject. 
 
 " When our ambassador takes his leave, I shall ac- 
 company him to see the sultan, and afterward probably 
 return to Greece. I have heard nothing of Mr. Hanson, 
 but one remittance, without any letter from that gentle- 
 man. If you have occasion for any pecuniary supply, 
 pray use my funds as far as they go v.ithout reserve ; 
 and, lest this should not be enough, in my next to INIr. 
 Hanson I will direct him to advance any sum you may 
 want, leaving it to your discretion how much, in the pre- 
 sent state ofmy affairs, you may thinlc proper to require. 
 I have already seen the most interesting parts of Turkey 
 in Europe and Asia JNIinor, but shall not proceed farther 
 till I hear from England : in the mean time I shall ex- 
 pect occasional supplies, according to circumstances ; 
 and shall pass my summer among my friends, the 
 Greeks of the INIorea. 
 
LETTERS, 1810. 
 
 21 
 
 " You will direct to Malta, where my letters are for- 
 warded, and believe me to be, 
 
 " With great sincerity, 
 
 "Yours ever. 
 
 "P. S. Fletcher is well ; pray take care of my boy 
 Robert, and the old man Murray. It is fortunate they 
 returned ; neither the youth of the one, nor the age of the 
 other, would have suited the changes of chmate and fa- 
 tigue of travelling." 
 
 LETTER LVIII. 
 
 TO MR. HENRY DRURY. 
 
 "Constantinople, June 17th, 1810. 
 
 " Though I wrote to you so recently, I break in upon 
 you again to congratulate you on a child being born, as a 
 letter from Hodgson apprizes me of that event, ia which 
 I rejoice. 
 
 " I am just come from an expedition through the Bos- 
 phorus to the Black Sea and the Cyanean Symplegades, 
 up which last I scrambled at as great a risk as ever the 
 Argonauts escaped in their hoy. You remember the 
 beginning of the nurse's dole in the Medea, of which I beg 
 you to take the following translation, done on the summit. 
 
 " Oh how I wish that an embargo 
 Had kept in port the good ship Argo ! 
 Who, still unlaunch'd from Grecian docks, 
 Had never pass'd the Azure rocks ; 
 But now I fear her trip will be a 
 Damn'd business for my Miss Medea, &c. &c. 
 
 as it very nearly was to me ; — for, had not this sublime 
 passage been in my head, I should never have dreamed 
 of ascending the said rocks,* and bruising my carcass in 
 honour of the ancients. 
 
 " I have now sat on the Cyaneans, swam from Sestos 
 to Abydos, (as I trumpeted in my last,) and, after passing 
 through the Morea again, shall set sail for Santa Maura, 
 and toss myself from the Leucadian promontory ; — sur- 
 viving which operation, I shall probably rejoin you in 
 England. H. who will deliver this, is bound straight for 
 these parts ; and as he is bursting with his travels, I shall 
 not anticipate his narratives, but merely beg you not to 
 believe one word he says, but reserve your ear for me, if 
 you have any desire to be acquainted with the truth. 
 ********* 
 
 " I am bound for Athens once more, and thence to the 
 Morea ; but my stay depends so much on my caprice, 
 that I can say nothing of its probable duration. I have 
 been out a year already, and may stay another ; but I am 
 quicksilver, and say nothing positively. We are all very 
 much occupied doing nothing, at present. We have seen 
 every thing but the mosques, which we are to view v/ith a 
 firman on Tuesday next. But of these and other sun- 
 dries let H. relate, with this proviso, that / am to be re- 
 ferred to for authenticity ; and I beg leave to contradict 
 all those things whereon he lays particular stress. But, 
 if he soars, at any time, into wit, I give you leave to ap- 
 plaud, because that is necessarily stolen from his fellow- 
 pilgrim. Tell Davies that H. has made excellent use of 
 his best jokes in many of his majesty's ships of war ; but 
 add, also, that I always took care to restore them to the 
 right owner ; in consequence of which he, (Davies,) is no 
 less famous by water than by land, and reigns unrivalled 
 in the cabm, as in the 'Cocoa Tree.' 
 
 "And Hodgson has been publishing more poesy — I 
 wish he would send me his 'Sir Edgar,' and 'Bland's 
 Anthology' to Malta, where they will be forwarded. In 
 my last, v.'hich I hope you received, I gave an outline of 
 the ground we have covered. If you have not been over- 
 taken by this despatch, H.'s tongue is at your service. 
 Remember me to Dwyer, who owes me eleven guineas. 
 Tell him to put them m my banker's hands at Gibraltar 
 
 * See ChiMe Harold, Canto IV. sta:iza !73 ; also answer to Bowles. 
 
 or Constantinople. I beheve he paid them once, but 
 that goes for nothing, as it was an annuity. 
 
 " I wish you would write. I have heard firom Hodgson 
 frequently. Malta is my post-office. I mean to be 
 with you by next Montem. You remember the last, — I 
 hope for such another ; but, after having swam across the 
 ' broad Hellespont,' I disdain Datchett. Good afternoon I 
 " I am yours, very sincerely, 
 
 " Byron." 
 
 LETTER LIX. 
 
 TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 
 
 "Constantinople, June 28th, 1810. 
 "my dear mother, 
 " I regret to perceive by your last letter, that several of 
 mine have not arrived, particularly a very long one, 
 written in November last, from Albania, when I was on a 
 visit to the Pacha of that province. Fletcher has also 
 written to his spouse perpetually. Mr. Hobhouse, who 
 will forward or dehver this, and is on his return to Eng- 
 land, can inform you of our different movements, but I am 
 very uncertain as to my own return. He will probably 
 be down to Nott's, some time or other; but Fletcher, 
 whom I send back as an incumbrance, (English servants 
 are sad travellers,) will supply his place in the interim, 
 and describe our travels, which have been tolerably ex- 
 tensive. I have written twice briefly from this capital, 
 from Smyrna, from Athens, and other parts of Greece ; 
 from Albania, the Pacha of which province desired his 
 respects to my mother, and said he was sure I was a 
 man of high birth, because I had small ears, curling hair, 
 and white hands ! ! He was very kind to me, begged me 
 to consider him as a father, and gave me a guard of forty 
 soldiers through the forests of Acarnania. But of this and 
 other circumstances I have written to you at large, and 
 yet hope you will receive my letters. 
 
 " I remember Mahmout Pacha, the grandson of All 
 Pacha, at Yanina, (a little fellow often years of age, with 
 large black eyes, which our ladies would purchase at any 
 price, and those regular features which distinguish the 
 Turks,) asked me how I came to travel so young, without 
 any body to take care of me. This question was put by 
 the little man with all the gravity of threescore. I cannot 
 now write copiously ; I have only time to tell you that I 
 have passed many a fatiguing, but never a tedious mo- 
 ment ; and that all I am afraid of is, that I shall contract 
 a gipsy-like wandering disposition, which ■will make home 
 tiresome to me : this, I am told, is very common with men 
 in the habit of peregrination, and, indeed, I feel it so. On 
 the third of May, I swam from Sestos to Abydos. You 
 know the stoiy of Leander, but I had no Hero to receive 
 me at landing. 
 
 " I also passed a fortnight in the Troad : the tombs of 
 Achilles and Esyetes still exist in large barrows, similar 
 to those you have, doubtless, seen in the North. The 
 other day I was at Belgrade, (a village in these environs,) 
 to see the house built on the same site as Lady Mary 
 Wortley's ; by-the-by, her Ladyship, as far as I can 
 judge, has lied, but not half so much as any other woman 
 would have done in the same situation. I have been in 
 all the principal mosques by the virtue of a firman ; this 
 is a favour rarely permitted to infidels, but the ambassa- 
 dor's departure obtained it for us. I have been up the 
 Bosphorus into the Black Sea, round the walls of the 
 city, and indeed I Imow more of it by sight, than I do of 
 London. 
 
 I hope to amuse you some winter's evening with the 
 details, but at present you must excuse me ; I am not 
 able to write long letters in June. 1 return to spend my 
 summer in Greece. I shall not proceed furtJier into 
 Asia, as I have visited Smyrna, Ephesus, and the Troad. 
 I write often, but you must not be alarmed when you do 
 not receive my letters ; consider we have no regular post 
 
22 
 
 LETTERS, I8I0. 
 
 further than Malta, where I beg you will in future send 
 your letters, and not to this city. Fletcher is a poor 
 creature, and requires comforts that 1 can dispense with. 
 He is very sick of his travels, but you must not believe his 
 account of the country ; he sighs for ale, and idleness, and 
 a wife, and the devil knows what besides. I have not 
 been disappointed or disgusted. I have lived with the 
 highest and the lowest. I have been for days in a 
 Pacha's palace, and have passed many a night in a cow- 
 house, and I find the people inoffensive and kind. I have 
 also passed some time with the principal Greeks in the 
 Morea and Livadia, and, though inferior to the Turks, 
 they are better than the Spaniards, who, in their turn, 
 excel the Portuguese. Of Constantinople you will find 
 many descriptions in different travels ; but Lady Wortley 
 errs strangely when she says, 'St. Paul's would cut a 
 strange figure by St. Sophia's.' I have been in both, 
 surveyed them inside and out attentively. St. Sophia's 
 is undoubtedly the most interesting from its immense an- 
 tiquity, and the circumstance of all the Greek emperors, 
 from Justinian, having been crowned there, and several 
 murdered at the altar, besides the Turkish sultans who 
 attend it regularly. But it is inferior in beauty and size 
 to some of the mosques, particularly ' Soleyman,' &c. 
 and not to be mentioned in the same page with St. Paul's, | 
 (I speak like a Cockney.) However, I prefer the Gothic 
 cathedral of Seville to St. Paul's, St. Sophia's, and any 
 religious building I have ever seen. 
 
 " The walls of the SeragUo are like the w-alls of New- 
 stead gardens, only higher, and much in the same order ; 
 but the ride by the walls of the city, on the land side, is 
 beautiful. Imagine four miles of immense triple battle- 
 ments, covered with ivy, surmounted with 218 towers, and, 
 on the other side of the road, Turkish burying-grounds, 
 (the loveUest spots on earth,) full of enormous cy- 
 presses. I have seen the ruins of Athens, of Ephesus, 
 and Delphi. I have traversed great part of Turkey, and 
 many other parts of Europe, and some of Asia ; but I 
 never beheld a work of nature or art which pelded an 
 impression like the prospect on each side from the 
 Seven Towers to the end of the Golden Horn. 
 
 ''Now for England. 1 am glad to hear of the pro- 
 gress of ' English Bards,' &c. — of course, you observed 
 I have made great additions to the new edition. Have 
 you received my picture from Sanders, Vigo-lane, Lon- 
 don ? It was finished and paid for long before I left 
 England : pray, send for it. You seem to be a mighty 
 reader of magazines : where do you pick up all this in- 
 telligence, quotations, &c. &c. ? Though I was happy 
 to obtain my seat without the assistance of Lord Carhsle, 
 I had no measures to keep with a man who declined in 
 terfering as my relation on that occasion, and I have 
 done with him, though I regret distressing Mrs. Leigh, 
 poor thing ! — I hope she is happy. 
 
 " It is my opinion tliat I\lr. B * * ought to marry Miss 
 R * *. Our first duty is not to do e\il ; but, alas ! that 
 is impossible : our next is to repair it, if in our power 
 The girl is his equal : if she were his inferior, a sum of 
 money and pro%'ision for the child would be some, though 
 a poor compensation : as it is, he should marry her. I 
 will have no gay deceivers on my estate, and I shall not 
 allow my tenants a privilege I do not permit myself^ 
 that of debauching each other's daughters. God knows, 
 I have been guilty of many excesses ; but, as I have laid 
 down a resolution to reform, and lately kept it, I expect 
 this Lothario to follow the example, and begin by re- 
 storing this girl to society, or, by the beard of my father 1 
 he shall hear of it. Pray take some notice of Robert, 
 who will miss his master : poor boy, he was very un- 
 
 "P. S. I opened my letter again to tell you that 
 Fletcher having petitioned to accompany me into the 
 Morea, I have taken him witli me, contrary to the inten- 
 tion expressed in my letter." 
 
 LETTER LX. 
 
 TO MRS. EVRON. 
 
 "Athens, July 25, 1810. 
 
 willing to return. I trust you are well and happy. It 
 will be a pleasure to hear from you, 
 
 " Beheve me, yours very sincerely, 
 "BrROii. 
 * P. S. How is Joe Murray ? 
 
 "DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 " I have arrived here in four days from Constantinople, 
 which is considered as singularly quick, particularly for 
 the season of the year. You northern gentry can have 
 no conception of a Greek summer ; which, however, is a 
 perfect frost compared with Malta and Gibrahar, where 
 I reposed myself in the shade last year, after a gentle 
 gallop of four hundred miles, without intermission, 
 through Portugal and Spain. You see, by my date, 
 that I am at Athens again, a place which I think I 
 prefer, upon the whole, to any I have seen. * * * 
 
 My next movement is to-morrow into the Morefi, 
 where I shsdl probably remain a month or two, and then 
 return to winter here, if I do not change my plans, 
 which, however, are very variable, as you may suppose ; 
 but none of them verge to England. 
 
 " The Marquis of Sligo, my old fellow-collegian, is 
 here, and wishes to accompany me into the Morea. 
 We shall go together for that purpose. Lord S. will 
 afterward pursue his way to the capital ; and Lord B. 
 having seen all the wonders in that quarter, will let you 
 know what he does next, of which at present he is not 
 quite certain. Malta is my perpetual post-office, from 
 w-hich my letters are forwarded to all parts of the habita- 
 ble globe : — by-the-by, 1 have now been in Asia, Africa, 
 and the east of Europe, and, indeed, made the most of 
 my time, without hurrjdng over the most mteresting 
 scenes of the ancient world. Fletcher, af\er having 
 been toasted, and roasted, and baked, and grilled, and 
 eaten by all sorts of creeping things, begins to philoso- 
 phize, is growTi a refined as well as resigned character, 
 and promises at his return to become an ornament to 
 his own parish, and a very prominent person in the 
 future family pedigree of the Fletcher's, whom I take to 
 be Goths by their accompUshments, Greeks by their 
 acuteness, and ancient Saxons by their appetite. He 
 (Fletcher) begs leave- to send half a dozen sighs to 
 Sally his spouse, and wonders (though I do not) that his 
 ill-written and worse spelled letters have never come to 
 hand ; as for that matter, there is no great loss in either 
 of our letters, saving and except that I wish you to 
 know we are well, and warm enough at this present 
 writing, God knows. You must not expect long letters 
 at present, for they are written with the sweat of my 
 brow, I assure you. It is rather singular that Mr. Han- 
 son has not written a syllable since my departure. 
 Your letters I have mostly received, as well as others ; 
 from which I conjecture that the man of law is either 
 angry or busy. 
 
 "I trust you like Newstead, and agree with your 
 neighbours ; but you know you are a vixen — is not that 
 a dutiful appellation ? Pray, take care of my books, 
 and several boxes of papers in the hands of Joseph ; and 
 pray leave me a few bottles of champagne to drink, for 
 I am very thirsty ; — but I do not insist on the last article, 
 w ithout you like it. I suppose you have your house full 
 of silly women, prating scandalous things. Have you 
 ever received my picture in oil from Sanders, London ? 
 It has been paid for these sixteen months : why do you 
 not get it? IVIy suite, consisting of two Turks, two 
 Greeks, a Lutheran, and the nondescript Fletcher, are 
 making so much noise that I am glad to sign myself 
 "Yours, &c. &c. 
 "Byron." 
 
LETTERS, 1810. 
 
 23 
 
 LETTER LXI. 
 
 TO MRS. BYROX. 
 
 « Patras, July 30, 1810, 
 "dear madam, 
 
 "In four days from Constantinople, with a favourable 
 wind, I arrived in the frigate at the island of Ceos, from 
 whence I took a boat to Athens, where I met my friend 
 the Marquis of Sligo, who expressed a wish to proceed 
 with me as far as Corinth. At Corinth we separated 
 he for Tripolitza, I for Patras, where I had some business 
 with the consul, Mr. Strane, in whose house I now 
 write. He has rendered me every service in his power 
 since I quitted Malta on my way to Constantinople, 
 whence I have written to you twice or thrice. In a few 
 days I visit the Pacha at Tripolitza, make the tour of 
 the Morea, and return again to Athens, which at present 
 is my headquarters. The heat is at present intense. 
 In England, if it reaches 98°, you are all on fire : the 
 other day, in travelling between Athens and Megara, 
 the thermometer was at 125° ! ! Yet I feel no incon 
 venience ; of course I am much bronzed, but I live tem 
 perately, and never enjoyed better health. 
 
 " Before I left Constantinople, I saw the Sultan, (with 
 Mr. Adair,) and the interior of the mosques, things 
 which rarely happen to travellers. Mr. Hobhouse is 
 gone to England : I am in no hurry to return, but have 
 no particular communications for your country, except 
 my surprise at Mr. Hanson's silence, and my desire 
 that he will remit regularly. I suppose some arrange- 
 ment has been made with regard to Wymondham and 
 Rochdale. Malta is my post-office, or to Mr. Strane, 
 consul-general, Patras, Morea. You complain of my 
 silence — I have written twenty or thirty times within the 
 last year: never less than twice a month, and often 
 more. If my letters do not arrive, you must not con- 
 clude that we are eaten, or that there is a war, or a pesti- 
 lence, or famine : neither must you credit silly reports, 
 which I dare say you have in Notts, as usual. I am 
 very well, and neither more nor less happy than I usually 
 am ; except that I am very glad to be once more alone, 
 for I was sick of my companion, — not that he was a bad 
 one, but because my nature leads me to solitude, and 
 that every day adds to this disposition. If I chose, 
 here are many men who would wish to join me — one 
 wants me to go to Egypt, another to Asia, of which I 
 have seen enough. The greater part of Greece is al- 
 ready my own, so that I shall only go over my old 
 ground, and look upon my old seas and mountains, the 
 only acquaintances I ever found improve upon me. 
 
 " I have a tolerable suite, a Tartar, two Albanians, an 
 interpreter, besides Fletcher ; but in this country these 
 are easily maintained. Adair received me wonderfully 
 well, and indeed I have no complaints against any one. 
 Hospitality here is necessary, for inns are not. I have 
 lived in the houses of Greeks, Turks, Italians, and 
 English — to-day in a palace, to-morrow in a cowhouse ; 
 this day with the Pacha, the next with a shepherd. I 
 shall continue to write briefly, but frequently, and am 
 glad to hear from you ; but you fill your letters with 
 things from the papers, as if Enghsh papers were not 
 found all over the world. I have at this moment a dozen 
 before me. Pray take care of my books, and believe me, 
 " My dear Mother, yours very faithfully, 
 " Byron." 
 
 LETTER LXII. 
 
 TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 
 
 "Patras, Oct. 2d, 1810. 
 "dear madam, 
 *It is now several months since I have received any 
 communication from you; but at tliis I am not sur- 
 
 prised, nor indeed have I any complaint to make, since 
 you have vi'ritten frequently, for which I thank you ; but 
 I very much condemn Mr. Hanson, who has not taken 
 the smallest notice of my many letters, nor of my re- 
 quest before I left England, which I sailed from on this 
 very day fifteen months ago. Thus one year and a 
 quarter have passed away, without my receiving the 
 least intelligence on the state of my affairs, and they 
 were not in a posture to admit of neglect, and I do con- 
 ceive and declare that Mr. Hanson has acted negli- 
 gently and culpably in not apprizing me of his proceed- 
 ings ; I will also add uncivilly. His letters, were there 
 any, could not easily miscarry: the communications 
 with the Levant are slow, but tolerably secure, at least 
 as far as Malta, and there I left directions which I know 
 would be observed. I have written to you several 
 times from Constantinople and Smyrna. You will per- 
 ceive by my date I am returned into the Morea, of 
 which I have been making the tour, and visiting the 
 Pacha, who gave me a fine horse, and paid me all possi- 
 ble honours and attention. I have now seen a good 
 portion of Turkey in Europe and Asia Minor, and shall 
 remain at Athens, and in the vicinity, till I hear frorr 
 England. I have punctually obeyed your injunctions of 
 writing frequently, but I shall not pretend to describe 
 countries which have been already amply treated of I 
 believe before this time Mr. Hobhouse will have arrived 
 in England, and he brings letters from me, written at 
 Constantinople. In these I mention having seen the 
 Sultan and the mosques, and that I swam from Sestos 
 to Abydos, an exploit of which I take care to boast. 
 
 "I am here on business at present, but Athens is my 
 headquarters, where I am very pleasantly situated in a 
 Franciscan convent. 
 
 " BeUeve me to be, with great sincerity, 
 
 " Yours, very affectionately, 
 " Byron. 
 
 "P. S. Fletcher is well, and discontented as usual; 
 his wife don't write, at least her scrawls have not ar- 
 rived. You yv\\\ address to Malta. Pray have you 
 never received my picture m oil from Sanders, Vigo- 
 lane, London ?" 
 
 LETTER LXIII. 
 
 TO MR. HODGSON. 
 
 "Patras, Morea, October 3d, 1810. 
 
 As I have just escaped from a physician and a fever, 
 which confined me five days to bed, you won't expect 
 much ' allegrezza' in the ensuing letter. In this place 
 there is an indigenous distemper, which, when the wind 
 blows from the gulf of Corinth, (as it does five months 
 out of six,) attacks great and small, and makes woful 
 work with visiters. Here be also two physicians, one of 
 whom trusts to his genius (never having studied) — the 
 other to a campaign of eighteen months against the sick 
 of Otranto, which he made in his youth with great 
 effect. 
 
 When I was seized with my disorder, I protested 
 against both these assassins ; — but what can a helpless, 
 feverish, toasted-and-watered poor wretch do ? In spite 
 of my teeth and tongue, the English consul, my Tartar, 
 Albanians, dragoman, forced a physician upon me, and 
 in three days vomited and glystered me to the last gasp. 
 In this state I made my epitaph — take it. 
 
 " Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove 
 To keep my lamp in strongly strove ; 
 But Romanelli was so stout, 
 He beat all three— and blew it out. 
 
 But Nature and Jove, being piqued at my doubts, did, in 
 fact, at last, beat Romanelli, and here J am, well but 
 weakly, at your service. 
 
24 
 
 LETTERS, 1811. 
 
 " Since I left Constantinople, I have made a tour of 
 the Morea, and visited Vely Pacha, who paid nie great 
 honours and gave nie a prclty stallion. H. is doubtless 
 in England before even the date of this letter — he bears 
 a despatch from me to your bardslnp. lie writes to me 
 from Malta, and requests my journal, if I keep one. I 
 have none, or he should have it ; but I have replied, in a 
 consolatory and cxhortatory epistle, praying him to 
 abate three and sixpence in the price of his next Boke, 
 seeing that half a guinea is a price not to be given for 
 any thing save an opera-ticket. 
 
 " As for England, it is long since I have heard from it. 
 Every one at all connected with my concerns is asleep, 
 and you are my only correspondent, agents excepted. 
 I have really no friends in the world ; though all my old 
 school-companions are gone fjrth into that v.orld, and 
 wallc about there in monstrous disguises, in the garb of 
 guardsmen, lawyers, parsons, fine gentlemen, and such 
 other masquerade dresses. So, I here shake hands and 
 cut with all these busy people, none of whom write to 
 me. Indeed, I asked it not ; — and here I am, a poor 
 traveller and heathenish philosopher, who hath peram- 
 bulated the greatest part of the Levant, and seen a 
 great quantity of very improvable land and sea, and, 
 after all, am no better than when I set out — Lord help 
 me! 
 
 "I have been out fifteen months this very day, and I 
 believe my concerns will draw me to England soon ; but 
 of this I will apprize you regularly from Malta. On all 
 points, Hobhouse will inform you, if you are curious as 
 to our adventures. 1 have seen some old English pa- 
 pers up to the 15th of May. I see the ' Lady of the 
 Lake' advertised. Of course it is in his old ballad 
 style, and pretty. After all, Scott is the best of them. 
 The end of all scribblement is to amuse, and he certainly 
 succeeds there. I long to read his new romance. 
 
 " And how does ' Sir Edgar ?' and your friend. Bland ? 
 I suppose you are involved in some literary squabble. 
 The only way is to despise all brothers of the quill. I 
 suppose you won't allow me to be an author, but 1 con- 
 temn you all, you dogs ! — I do. 
 
 " You don't luiow D s, do you ? He had a farce 
 
 ready for the stage before I left England, and asked me 
 for a prologue, which I promised, but sailed in such a 
 hurry, 1 never penned a couplet. I am afraid to ask 
 after his drama, for fear it should be damned — Lord for- 
 give me for using such a word ! — but the pit, sir, you 
 know, the pit — they will do those things, in spite of 
 merit. I remember this farce from a curious circum- 
 stance. When Drury-lane was burnt to the ground, by 
 which accident Sheridan and his son lost the few re- 
 maining shillings they were worth, what doth my friend 
 
 D do ? Why, before the fire was out, he writes a 
 
 note to Tom Sheridan, the manager of this combustible 
 concern, to mquire whether this farce was not converted 
 into fuel, with about two thousand other unactable 
 manuscripts, which of course were in great peri!, if not 
 actually consumed. Now, was not this characteristic ? 
 —the ruling passions of Pope are nothing to it. W^hile 
 the poor distracted manager was bewailing the loss of a 
 building only worth 300,000Z. together with some twenty 
 thousand pounds of rags and tinsel in the tiring rooms, 
 Bluebeard's elephants, and all that — in comes a note 
 from a scorching author, requiring at his hands two acts 
 and odd scenes of a farce ! ! 
 
 " Dear H. remind Drury that I am his well-wisher, 
 and let Scrope Davies be well affected towards me. 1 
 look forward to meeting you at Newstead, and renewing 
 our old Champagne evenings with all the glee of antici- 
 pation. I have written by every opportunity, and ex- 
 pect responses as regular as those of the liturgy, and 
 Boraewhat longer. As it is impossible for a man in his 
 senses to hope for happy days, let us at least look 
 forward to merry ones, wiiich come nearest to the other 
 
 in appearance, if not in reality ; and in such expectations 
 I remain, &c. 
 
 LETTER LXIV. 
 
 TO MRS. BYRON. 
 
 "Athens, January 14, 1811. 
 "my" dear madam, 
 
 " I seize an occasion to write as usual, shortly, but 
 frequently, as the arrival of letters, where there exists no 
 regular communication, i?, of course, very precarious. I 
 have lately made several small tours of some hundred or 
 two miles about the Morea, Attica, &c. as I have 
 finished my grand giro by the Troad, Constantinople, 
 &c. and am returned down again to Athens. I believe 
 I have mentioned to you more than once, that I swam 
 (in imitation of Leander, though without his lady) across 
 the Hellespont, from Sestos to Abydos. Of this, and 
 all other particulars, F. whom I have sent home with 
 papers, &c. will apprize you. I cannot find that he is 
 any loss, being tolerably master of the Italian and 
 modern Greek languages, which last I am also studying 
 with a master, I can order and discourse more than 
 enough for a reasonable man. Besides the perpetual 
 lamentations after beef and beer, the stupid, bigoted con- 
 tempt for every thing foreign, and insurmountable inca- 
 pacity of acquiring even a few words of any language, 
 rendered him, like all other English servants, an incum- 
 brance. I do assure you, the plague of speaking for 
 him, the comforts he required, (more than myself by far,) 
 the pilaws, (a Turkish dish of rice and meat,) which he 
 could not eat, the wines which he could not drink, the beds 
 where he could not sleep, and the long hst of calamities, 
 such as stumbling horses, want of tea ! ! ! &c. which as- 
 sailed him, would have made a lasting source of laughter 
 to a spectator, and inconvenience to a master. After all, 
 the man is honest enough, and, in Christendom, capable 
 enough ; but in Turkey, Lord forgive me ! my Albanian 
 soldiers, my Tartars and Janizary, worked for him and ; 
 us too, as my friend Hobhouse can testify. 
 
 " It is probable I may steer homewards in spring ; but, 
 to enable me to do that, I must have remittances. My 
 own funds would have lasted me very well ; but I was 
 obliged to assist a friend, who, I know, will pay me ; but, 
 in the mean time, I am out of pocket. At present, I do 
 not care to venture a winter's voyage, even if I were 
 otherwise tired of travelling ; but I am so convinced of 
 the advantages of looking at mankind instead of reading 
 about them, and the bitter effects of staying at home 
 with all the narrow prejudices of an islander, that I 
 think there should be a law among us, to set our young 
 men abroad, for a term, among the few alhes our wars 
 have left us. 
 
 " Here I see and have conversed with French, ItaUans, 
 Germans, Danes, Greeks, Turks, Americans, &c. &c. 
 &c. ; and, without losing sight of my own, I can judge of 
 the countries and manners of others. Where I see the 
 superiority of England, (which, by-the-by, we are a good 
 deal mistaken about in many things,) I am pleased, and 
 where I find her inferior, I am at least enlightened. 
 Now, I might have stayed, smoked in your towns, or 
 fogged in your country, a century, without being sure of 
 this, and without acquiring any thing more useful or 
 amusing at home. I keep no journal, nor have I any 
 intention of scribbling my travels. 1 have done with 
 authorship ; and if, in my last production, I have con- 
 vinced the critics of the world I was something more 
 than they took m.e for, I am satisfied ; nor will I hazard 
 that reputation by a future eflTort. It is true I have some 
 others in manuscript, but I leave them for those who 
 come after me ; and, if deemed worth publishing, they 
 may serve to prolong my memory when I myself shall 
 cease to remember. I have a famous Bavarian artist 
 
LETTERS, 1811. 
 
 25 
 
 taking some views of Athens, &c. &c. for me. This 
 wiil be better than scribbling, a disease I hope myself 
 cured of. I hope, on my return, to lead a quiet, recluse 
 life, but God knows and does best for us all ; at least, so 
 they say, and I have nothing to object, as, on the whole, I 
 have no reason to complain of my lot. I am convinced, 
 however, that men do more harm to themselves than 
 ever the devii could do to them. I trust . this will find 
 you well, and as happy as we can be ; you will, at least, 
 be pleased to hear I am so, and yours ever." 
 
 LETTER LXV. 
 
 TO MRS. BYRON. 
 
 "AthenSjFeb. 28, 1811. 
 "dear madam, 
 
 "As I have received a finnan for Egypt, &c. I shall 
 proceed to that quarter in the spring, and I beg you will 
 state to Mr. Hanson that it is necessary to further re- 
 mittances. On the subject of Newstead I answer, as 
 before, no. If it is necessary to sell, sell Rochdale. 
 Fletcher will have arrived by this time with my letters to 
 that purport. I will tell you fairly, I have, in the first 
 place, no opinion of funded property ; if, by any particu- 
 lar circumstcuices, I shall be led to adopt such a deter- 
 mination, I vn\i, at all events, pass ray life abroad, as my 
 only tie to England is Newstead, and, that once gone, 
 neither interest nor inclmation lead me northward. 
 Competence in your country is ample wealth in the east, 
 such is the difference in the value of money and the 
 abundance of the necessaries of life ; and I feel myself 
 so much a citizen of the world, that the spot where I can 
 enjoy a delicious climate, and every luxury, at a less ex- 
 pense than a common college life in England, will al- 
 ways be a country to me ; and such are in fact the 
 shores of the Archipelago. This then is the alternative 
 — if I preserve Newstead, I return ; if I sell it, I stay 
 away. I have had no letters since yours of June, but I 
 have written several times, and shall continue, as usual, 
 on the same plan. 
 
 " BeUeve me, yours ever, 
 " Byron. 
 
 "P. S. I shall most likely see you in the course of the 
 summer, but, of course, at such a distance, I cannot spe- 
 cify any particular month." 
 
 LETTER LXVL 
 
 TO MRS. BYRON. 
 
 " Volage frigate, at sea, June 25th, 1811. 
 "dear mother, 
 " This letter, which will be forwarded on our arrival at 
 Portsmouth, probably about the fourth of July, is begun 
 about twenty-three days after our departure from Malta. 
 I have just been two years (to a day, on the second of 
 July) absent from England, and I return to it with much 
 the same feelings which prevailed on my departure, viz. 
 indifference ; but within that apathy I certainly do not 
 comprise yourself, as I will prove by every means in my 
 power. You will be good enough to get my apartments 
 ready at Newstead, but don't disturb yourself on any 
 account, particularly mme, nor consider me in any other 
 Ught than as a \'isiter. I must only inform you that for 
 a long time I have been restricted to an entire vegetable 
 diet, neither fish nor flesh coming within my regimen ; so 
 I expect a powerful stock of potatoes, greens, and biscmt ; 
 I drinlt no wine. I have two servants, middle-aged men, 
 and both Greeks. It is my intention to proceed first to 
 town, to see Mr. Hanson, and thence to Newstead, on 
 my way to Rochdale. I have only to beg you will not 
 
 forget my diet, which it is very necessary for me to ob- 
 serve. 1 am well in health, as I have generally been, 
 with the exception of two agues, both of which I quickly 
 got over. 
 
 "My plans will so much depend on circumstances, 
 that I shall not venture to lay down an opinion on the 
 subject. My prospects are not very promising, but I 
 suppose we shall wrestle through life like our neighbours ; 
 indeed, by H.'s last advices, I have some apprehensions 
 of finding Newstead dismantled by Messrs. Brothers, 
 &c. and he seems detei-mined to force me into selling it, 
 but he will be baffled. I don't suppose I shall be much 
 pestered with visiters ; but if I am, you must receive 
 them, for I am determined to have nobody breaking in 
 upon my retirement : you know that I never was fond of 
 society, and I am less so than before, I have brought 
 vou a shawl, and a quantity of attar of roses, but these I 
 must smuggle, if possible. I trust to fjid my Ubrary in 
 tolerable order. 
 
 " Fletcher is no doubt arrived. I shall separate the 
 mill from Mr. B * *'s farm, for his son is too gay a de- 
 ceiver to inherit both, and place Fletcher in it, who has 
 served me faithflilly, and whose wife is a good woman ; 
 besides, it is necessary to sober young Mr. B * *, or he 
 will people the parish with bastards. In a word, if he had 
 seduced a dairymaid, he might have found something 
 like an apology ; but the girl is his equal, and in high hfe 
 or low life reparation is made in such circumstances. 
 But I shall not interfere flirther than (Uke Buonaparte) 
 by dismembering Mr. B.'s kingdom, and erecting part of 
 it mto a principality for field-marshal Fletcher ! 1 hope 
 you govern my little empire and its sad load of national 
 aebt with a wary hand. To drop my metaphor, I beg 
 leave to subscribe myself, yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. This letter was written to be sent from Ports- 
 mouth, bul, on arriving there, the squadron was ordered 
 to the Nore, from whence I shall forward it. This I 
 have not done before, supposing you might be alarmed 
 by the interval mentioned in the letter being longer than 
 expected between our arrival in port and my appearance 
 at Newstead," 
 
 LETTER LXVn. 
 
 to MR. HODGSON. 
 
 " Volage fi-igate, at sea, June 29th, 1811, 
 " In a week, with a fair wind, we shall be at Ports- 
 mouth, and on the 2d of July, I shall have completed (to 
 a day) two years of peregrination, from which I am re- 
 turning with as little emotion as I set out. I think, upon 
 the whole, I was more grieved at leaving Greece than 
 England, which I am impatient to see, simply because I 
 am tired of a long voyage. 
 
 " Indeed, my prospects are not very pleasant. Em- 
 barrassed in my private affairs, indifferent to public, 
 solitary without the wish to be social, with a body a Uttle 
 enfeebled by a succession of fevers, but a spirit, I trust, 
 yet unbroken, I am returning home without a hope, and 
 almost without a desire. The first thing I shall have to 
 encounter will be a lawyer, the next a creditor, then 
 colliers, farmers, surveyors, and all the agreeable attach- 
 ments to estates out of repair and contested coal-pits. 
 In short, I am sick and sorry, and when I have a little re- 
 paired my irreparable affairs, away I shall march, either 
 to campaign in Spain, or back again to the East, where I 
 can at least have cloudless skies and a cessation from 
 impertinence. 
 
 " I trust to meet, or see you, in town or at Newstead, 
 whenever you can make it convenient. — I suppose you 
 are in love and in poetry, as usual. That husband, H, 
 Drury, has never written to me, albeit I have sent him 
 more than one letter ; — but I dare say the poor man has 
 a family, and of course all his cares are confined to his 
 circle. 
 
26 
 
 LETTERS, 1811 
 
 «• ' For children fresh expenses get, 
 
 And Dicky now for school is &i.'—Warton. 
 
 If you see him, tell him I have a letter for him from 
 Tucker, a regimental chirurgeon and friend of his, who 
 prescribed for me, * * * and is a very worthy 
 man, but too fond of hard words. I should be too late 
 for a speech-day, or I should probably go down to Har- 
 row. 
 
 ******** 
 
 I regretted very much in Greece having omitted to carry 
 
 the Anthology with me — I mean Bland and Merivale's. 
 
 ******** 
 
 What has Sir Edgar done ? And the Imitations and 
 Translations — where are they? I suppose you don't 
 mean to let the public off so easily, but charge them 
 home with a quarto. For me, I am. ' sick of fops and 
 poesy and prate,' and shall leave the 'whole Castalian 
 state' to Bufo, or any body el<e. But you are a senti- 
 mental and sensibilitous person, and will rhyme to the 
 end of the chapter. Howbeit, I have written some 4000 
 lines, of one kind or another, on my travels. 
 
 " I need not repeat that I shall be happy to see you. 
 I shall be in town about the 8 th, at Dorant's Hotel, in 
 Albemarle-street, and proceed in a few days to Notts, 
 and thence to Rochdale on business. 
 
 " I am, here and there, yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER LXVIII. 
 
 TO MR. DALLAS. 
 
 stances where death has saved a man from damnation. 
 You were the ruin of that poor fellow among you : had it 
 not been for his patrons, he might now have been in very 
 good phght, shoe (not verse) making; but you have 
 made him immortal with a vengeance. I write this, sup- 
 posing poetry, patronage, and strong waters to have been 
 the death of him. If you are in town in or about the be- 
 ginning of July, you will find me at Dorant's in Albe- 
 marle-street, glad to see you. I have an Imitation of 
 Horace's Art of Poetry ready for Cawthorn, but don't let 
 that deter you, for I shan't inflict it upon you. You 
 know I never read my rhymes to visiters. I shall quit 
 town in a few days for Notts, and thence to Rochdale. 
 I shall send this the moment we arrive in harbour, that 
 is a week hence. 
 
 " Yours ever sincerely, 
 
 « Byron.* 
 
 « Volage frigate, at sea, June 28tli, 1811 
 •After two years' absence, (to a day, on the 2d of 
 July, before which we shall not arrive at Portsmouth,) I 
 am retracing my way to England. I have, as you know, 
 spent the greater part of that period in Turkey, except 
 two months in Spain and Portugal, which were then ac- 
 cessible. I have seen every thing most remarkable in 
 Turkey, particularly the Troad, Greece, Constantinople, 
 and Albania, into which last region very few have pene- 
 trated so high as Hobhouse and myself. I don't know 
 tliat I have done any thing to distinguish me from other 
 voyagers, unless you will reckon my swimming from 
 Sestos to Abydos, on May 3d, 1810, a tolerable feat for a 
 modern. 
 
 " I am coming back with little prospect of pleasure at 
 home, and with a body a little shaken by one or two 
 smart fevers, but a spirit I hope yet unbroken. My 
 affairs, it seems, are considerably involved, and much 
 business must be done with lawyers, colliers, farmers, 
 and creditors. Now this, to a man who hates bustle as 
 he hates a bishop, is a serious concern. But enough of 
 my home department. 
 
 "I find I have been scolding Cawthorn without a 
 cause, as I found two parcels with two letters from you 
 on my return to Malta. By these it appears you have 
 not received a letter from Constantinople, addressed to 
 Longman's, but it was of no consequence. 
 " My Satire, it seems, is in a fourth edition, a success rather 
 above the middling run, but not much for a production 
 which, from its topics, must be temporary, and of course 
 be successful at first, or not at all. At this period, 
 when I can think and act more coolly, I regret that I 
 have written it, though 1 shall probably find it forgotten 
 by all except those whom it has offended. 
 
 " Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany has not succeeded, but 
 he himself writes so good humouredly on the subject, I 
 don't know whether to laugh or cry with him. He met 
 with your son at Cadiz, of whom he speaks highly. 
 
 " Yours and Pratt's protege, Blackett the cobbler,* is 
 dead, in spite of his rhymes, and is probably one of the in- 
 
 LETTER LXIX. 
 
 TO MR. HENRY DRURY. 
 
 "Volage frigate, offUshant, July 17th, 1811. 
 
 "my dear DRURY, 
 
 " After two years' absence (on the second) and some 
 odd days, I am approaching your coimtry. The day of 
 our arrival you %vill see by the outside date of my letter. 
 At present, we are becalmed comfortably, close to Brest 
 Harbour ; I have never been so near it since I left Duck 
 Puddle. ******** 
 We left Malta thirty-four days ago, and have had a te- 
 dious passage of it. You will either see or hear from or 
 of me, soon after the receipt of this, as I pass through 
 town to repair my irreparable affairs : and thence I want 
 to go to Notts.and raise rents, and to Lanes, and sell 
 collieries, and back to London and pay debts; for it 
 seems I shall neither have coals or comfort till I go down 
 to Rochdale in person. 
 
 " I have brought home some marbles for Hobhouse ; 
 for myself, four ancient Athenian skulls,* dug out of 
 Sarcophagi ; a phial of attic hemlock ;f four live tortoises ; 
 a greyhound, (died on the passage ;) two five Greek ser- 
 vants, one an Athenian, t' other a Yaniote, who can 
 speak nothing but Romaic and Italian; and myself , ss 
 Moses in the Vicar of Wakefield says, slily, and I may 
 ay it too, for I have as little cause to boast of my expedi- 
 tion as he had of his to the fair. 
 
 " I wrote to you from the Cyanean Rocks, to tell you I 
 had swum from Sestos to Abydos ; have you received my 
 letter? * * * Hodgson, I suppose, is four 
 
 deep by this time. Vv^hat would he have given to have 
 seen, lilie me, the real Parnassus, where I robbed the 
 Bishop of Crissse of a book of geography; but this I only 
 call plagiarism, as it was done witliin an hour's ride of 
 Delphi." 
 
 ' SeenoU *.o UiuU fr* a Horace, page 
 
 LETTER LXX. 
 
 TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 
 
 « Reddish's Hotel, July 23d, 1811, 
 
 " St. James's-street, Londcm. 
 "my dear madam, 
 
 I am only detained by Mr. Hanson, to sign some 
 copyhold papers, and will give you timely notice of my 
 approach. It is with great reluctance I remain in town. 
 I shall pay a short visit as we go on to Lancashire on 
 Rochdale business. I shall attend to your directions, of 
 course, and am, 
 
 * With great respect, yours ever, 
 " Byron. 
 "P. S. You will consider Newstead as your house^ 
 not mine ; and me only as a visiter." 
 
 • Given afterward to Sir Walter Scott, 
 t lu the possession of Mr. Murray. 
 
LETTERS, 1811. 
 
 27 
 
 LETTER LXXI. 
 
 TO DR. PIGOT. 
 
 « Newport Pagnell, August 2, 181L 
 "my dear doctor, 
 
 " My poor mother died yesterday ! and I am on my 
 way from town to attend her to the family vault. I 
 heard one day of her illness, the next of her death. — 
 Thank God her last moments were most tranquil. I am 
 told she was in little pain, and not aware of her situation. 
 — I now feel the truth of Mr. Gray's observation, ' That 
 we can only have one mother.' — Peace be with her ! I 
 have to thank you for your expressions of regard, and as 
 in six weeks I shall be in Lancasliire on business, I may 
 extend to Liverpool and Chester, — at least I shall en- 
 deavour. 
 
 " If it \vill be any satisfaction, I have to inform you 
 that in November next the editor of the Scourge will be 
 tried for two different libels on the late Mrs. B. and 
 myselfj (the decease of Mrs. B. makes no difference in 
 the proceedings,) and as he is guilty, by his very foohsh 
 and unfounded assertion, of a breach of privilege, he will 
 be prosecuted with the utmost rigour. 
 
 " I inform you of this, as you seem interested in the 
 affair, which is now in the hands of the attorney-ge- 
 neral. 
 
 " 1 shall remain at Nevvstead the greater part of this 
 month, where I shall be happy to hear from you, after 
 my two years' absence in the East. 
 
 " I am, dear Pigot, 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 " Byron." 
 
 LETTER LXXIL 
 
 TO MR. SCROPE DAVIES. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, August 7th, 181L 
 
 « MY DEAREST DAVIES, 
 
 •* Some curse hangs over me and mine. My mother 
 lies a corpse in this house : one of my best friends is 
 drowned in a ditch. What can I say, or think, or do ? 
 I received a letter from him the day before yesterday. 
 My dear Scrope, if you can spare a moment, do come 
 down to me, I want a friend. Matthews's last letter 
 was written on Friday, — on Saturday he was not. In 
 abihty, who was like Matthews?* How did we all 
 shrink before him? You do me but justice in saying, I 
 would have risked my paltry existence to have preserved 
 his. This very evening did I mean to write, inviting 
 him, as I invite you, my very dear friend, to visit me. 
 God forgive * * * for his apathy ! What will our poor 
 Hobhouse feel! His letters breathe but of Matthews. 
 Come to me, Scrope, I am almost desolate — lefl almost 
 alone in the world — I had but you, and H. and M. and 
 let me enjoy the survivors while I can. Poor M. in his 
 letter of Friday, speaks of his intended contest for Cam- 
 bridge, and a speedy journey to London. Write or 
 come, but come if you can, or one or both. 
 
 "Yours ever." 
 
 LETTER LXXIIL 
 
 TO EOLTON, -ESQ.. 
 
 « Newstead Abbey, August 12th, 181L 
 
 *SIR, 
 
 I enclose a rough drafl of my intended wiU, which I 
 beg to have drawn up as soon as possible in the firmest 
 manner. The alterations are principally made in con- 
 sequence of the death of Mrs. Byron. I have only to 
 
 See Letter 462. 
 
 request that it may be got ready in a short time, and have 
 the honour to be, 
 
 " Your most obedient humble servant, 
 
 " Byron." 
 
 " Newstead Abbey, August 12th, 1811. 
 
 "directions for the CONTENTS OF A WILL TO 
 EE DRAWN UP IMMEDIATELY. 
 
 "The estate of Newstead to be entailed (subject to 
 certain deductions) on George Anson Byron, heir at law, 
 or whoever may be the heir at law on the death of Lord 
 B. The Rochdale property to be sold in part or the 
 whole, according to the debts and legacies of the present 
 Lord B. 
 
 " To Nicolo Giraud of Athens, subject of France, but 
 born in Greece, the sum of seven thousand pounds ster 
 ling, to be paid from the sale of such parts of Rochdale. 
 Newstead, or elsewhere, as may enable the said Nicole 
 Giraud, (resident at Athens and Malta in the year 1810,) 
 to receive the above sum on his attaining the age ol 
 twenty-one years. 
 
 "To William Fletcher, Joseph Murray, and Demetrius 
 Zograffo,* (native of Greece,) servants, the sum of fifty 
 pounds per ann. each, for their natural lives. To W"^ 
 Fletcher the mill at Newstead, on condition that he 
 payeth the rent, but not subject to the caprice of the 
 landlord. To Rt Rushton the sum of fifty pounds per 
 ann. for life, and a further sum of one thousand pounds 
 on attaining the age of twenty- five years. 
 
 " To Jii Hanson, Esq. the sum of two thousand pounds 
 sterling. 
 
 " The claims of S. B. Davies, Esq. to be satisfied on 
 proving the amount of the same. 
 
 "The body of Lord B. to be buried in the vault of the 
 garden of Newstead, without any ceremony or burial- 
 service whatever, or any inscription, save his name and 
 age. His dog not to be removed from the said vault. 
 
 " My library and furniture of every description to m} 
 friends J° Cam Hobhouse, Esq. and S. B. Davies, Esq 
 my executors. In case of their decease, the Rev. J 
 Becher of Southwell, Notts, and R. C. Dallas, Esq. ol 
 Mortlake, Surrey, to be executors. 
 
 " The produce of the sale of Wymondham in Norfolk, 
 and the late Mrs. B.'s Scotch propertj-, to be appropri- 
 ated in aid of the payment of debts and legacies." 
 
 " This is the last will and testament of me the Rl 
 Hon'''* George Gordon Lord Byron, Baron Byron of 
 Rochdale in the county of Lancaster. — I desire that my 
 body may be buried in the vault of the garden of New- 
 stead, without any ceremony or burial-service whatever, 
 and that no inscription, save my name and age, be written 
 on the tomb or tablet ; and it is my will that my faithful 
 dog may not be removed from the said vault. To the 
 performance of this my particular desire, I rely on the 
 attention of my executors hereinafter named." 
 
 "It is submitted to Lord Byron whether this clause re- 
 lative to the funeral had not better be omitted. The sub- 
 stance of it can be given in a letter from his lordship to the 
 executors, and accompany the will; and the will may 
 state that the funeral shall be performed in such manner as 
 his lordship may by letter direct, and, in defaidt of any 
 such letter, then at the discretion of Ms executors." 
 
 "It must stand. «B." 
 
 "I do hereby specifically order and direct that all 
 the claims of the said S. B. Davies upon me shall be 
 fully paid and satisfied as soon as conveniently may be 
 after my decease, on his proving [by vouchers, or other- 
 
 * ' If the papers lie not, (wliich they generally do,) Demetrius Zo- 
 graffo of Athens is at the head of the Athenian part of the Greek insur 
 rection. He was my servant in 1809, 1810, ISll, 1812, at different 
 intervals in those years, (for 1 left him in Greece when I went to Con- 
 stantinople,) and accompanied me to England in 1811 ; he returned to 
 Greece, spring, 1812. He was a clever, but not apparently an enter- 
 prising man ; but circumstances make men. His two sons {thc7i infants) 
 were named Miltiades and Alcibiades ; may the omen be happy !'— 
 MS. Journal, 
 
28 
 
 LETTERS, 1811. 
 
 wise, to the satisfaction of my executors hereinafter 
 named*] tlie amount thereof and the correctness of the 
 same." 
 
 " If Mr. Davies has any unsettled claims upon Lord 
 Byron^ that circumstance is a reason for his not being ap^ 
 pointed executor ; each executor having an opportunity of 
 paying himself his own debt without consulting his co- 
 executors." 
 
 " So much the better — if possible, let him be an execu- 
 tor. «B." 
 
 In sending a copy of the will, framed on these in- 
 structions, to Lord Byron, the solicitor accompanied 
 some of the clauses with marginal queries, calling the at- 
 tention of his cUent to points which he considered inex- 
 pedient or questionable : one or two of the clauses are 
 here inserted in full, with the respective queries and an- 
 swers annexed. 
 
 The two following letters contain further instructions 
 on the same subject : 
 
 LETTER LXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. BOLTON. 
 
 «Newstead Abbey, August 16th, 181 L 
 "sir, 
 "I have answered the queries on the margin.f I 
 wish Mr. Davies's claims to be most fully allowed, and, 
 further, that he be one of my executors. I wish the will 
 to be made in a manner to prevent all discussion, if possi- 
 ble, after my decease ; and this I leave to you, as a pro- 
 fessional gentleman. 
 
 " With regard to the few and simple directions for tlie 
 disposal of my carcass, I must have them implicitly ful- 
 filled, as they will, at least, prevent trouble and expense : 
 — and (what would be of Uttle consequence to me, but 
 may quiet the conscience of the survivors) the garden is 
 consecrated ground. These directions are copied verba- 
 tim from my former will ; the alterations in other parts 
 have arisen from the death of Mrs. B. 
 
 " I have the honour to be. 
 "Your most obedient, humble servant, 
 "Byron." 
 
 LETTER LXXVL 
 
 to MR. DALLAS. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Notts, August 12, 1811. 
 
 "Peace be with the dead! Regret cannot wake 
 them. With a sigh to the departed, let us resume the 
 dull business of life, in the certainty that we shall also 
 have our repose. Besides her who gave me being, I 
 have lost more than one who made that being tolerable. 
 — The best friend of my friend Hobhouse, Matthews, a 
 man of the first talents, and also not the worst of my 
 narrow circle, has perished miserably in the muddy 
 waves of the Cam, always fatal to genius : — my poor 
 schoolfellow Wingfield, at Coimbra — within a month,* 
 and while I had heard from all three, but not seen one. 
 Matthews wrote to me the very day before his death ; 
 and though I feel for his fate, I am still more anxious for 
 Hobhouse, who, I very much fear, will hardly retain his 
 senses ; his letters to me since the event have been most 
 incoherent. But let this pass — we shall all one day 
 pass along with the rest — the world is too full of such 
 things, and our very sorrow is selfish. 
 
 " I received a letter from you which my late occupa- 
 tions prevented me from duly noticing, — I hope your 
 friends and family will long hold together. I shall be 
 glad to hear from you, on business, on commonplace, or 
 any thing, or nothing — but death — I am already too fa- 
 miliar with the dead. It is strange that I look on the 
 skulls which stand beside me (I have always had four 
 in my study) without emotion, but I cannot strip the 
 features of those I have Imown of their fleshy covering, 
 even in idea, without a hideous sensation ; but the 
 worms are less ceremonious. — Surely, the Romans did 
 well when they burned the dead. — I shall be happy to 
 hear from you, and am " Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER LXXV. 
 
 to MR. BOLTON. 
 
 "Nev/stead Abbey, August 20, 1811. 
 "sir, 
 " The ^vitnesses shall be provided from among my 
 tenants, and I shall be happy to see you on any day most 
 convenient to yourself. I forgot to mention that it must 
 be specified by codicil, or otherwise, that my body is on 
 no account to be removed from the vault where I have di- 
 rected it to be placed ; and, in case any of my successors 
 within the entail, (from bigotry, or otherwise,) might 
 think proper to remove the carcass, such proceeding shall 
 be attended by forfeiture of the estate, which, in such 
 case, shall go to my sister, the Hon^le Augusta Leigh 
 and her heirs on similar conditions. I have the honour 
 to be, sir, "Your very obedient, humble servant, 
 
 "Byron." 
 
 * Over the words here placed between brackets, Lord Byron drew 
 his pen. 
 
 t In the clause enumerating the names and places of abode of the execu- 
 tors, the solicitor had left blanks for the Christian names of these gentle- 
 men, and Lord Byron, having filled up all but that of Dallas, writes in the 
 margin — "I forget the Christian name of Dallas — cut him out." He 
 also executed, on the 28th of this month, a codicil, by which he revoked 
 the bequest of his " household goods and furniture, library, pictures, sa- 
 bres, watches, plate, linen, trinkets, and other personal estate, (except 
 money and securities,) situate within ihe walls of the mansion-house and 
 premises at his decease— and bequeathed the same (except his wine and 
 spirituous liquors) to his friends, the said J. C. Hobhouse, S. B. Davies, 
 and Francis Hodgson, their executors, &c. to be equally divided between 
 them for their own use ;— and he bequeathed his wine And spirituous 
 liquors, which should be in the cellars and premises at Newstead, unto 
 his friend the said J. Becherfor his own use, and requested the said J. C. 
 Hobhouse, S. B. Davies, F. Hodgson, and J. Becher, respectively, to 
 accept the bequest therein contained, to them respectively, as a token of 
 his friendship." 
 
 LETTER LXXVII. 
 
 TO MR. HODGSON, 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, August 22d, 1811. 
 
 "You may have heard of the sudden death of my mo- 
 ther, and poor Matthews, which, with that of Wingfield, 
 (of which I was not fully aware till just before I left 
 town, and indeed hardly believed it,) has made a sad 
 chasm in my connexions. Indeed the blows followed 
 each other so rapidly that I am yet stupid from the 
 shock, and though I do eat, and drink, and talk, and 
 even laugh, at times, yet I can hardly persuade myself 
 that I am awake, did not every morning convince me 
 mournfully to the contrary. — I shall now waive the sub- 
 ject, — the dead are at rest, and none but the dead can 
 be so. 
 
 " You will feel for poor Hobhouse, — Matthews was 
 the * god of his idolatry ;' and if intellect could exalt a 
 rnan above his fellows, no one could refuse him pre-emi- 
 nence. I knew him most intimately, and valued him 
 proportionably, but I am recurring — so let us talk of life 
 and the living. 
 
 " If you should feel a disposition to come here, you 
 will find ' beef and a sea-coal fire,' and not ungenerous 
 wine. Whether Otway's two other requisites for an 
 Enghshman or not, I cannot tell, but probably one of 
 them. — Let me know when I may expect you, that I 
 may tell you when I go and when return. — I have not 
 yet been to Lanes. * * * * * * 
 
 Davies has been here, and has invited me to Cambridge 
 for a week m October, so that, peradventure, we may 
 encounter glass to glass. His gayety (death cannot 
 mar it) has done me service ; but, after all, ours was a 
 hollow laughter. 
 
 See Ciiilde Harold, note 19tb, to Canto L 
 
LETTERS, 1811. 
 
 29 
 
 " You will write to me ? I am solitary, and I never 
 felt solitude irksome before. Your anxiety about the 
 critique on * *'s book is amusing ; as it was anonymous, 
 certes, it was of little consequence : I wish it had pro- 
 duced a little more confusion, being a lover of literary 
 malice. Are you doing nothing? writing nothing? 
 printing nothing? why not your Satire on Methodism? 
 the subject (supposing the public to be blind to merit) 
 would do wonders. Besides, it would be as well for a 
 destined deacon to prove his orthodoxy. — It really would 
 give me pleasure to see you properly appreciated. I 
 say really^ as, being an author, my humanity might be 
 suspected. 
 
 " Believe me, dear H. yours always." 
 
 LETTER LXXVIIL 
 
 TO MR. DALLAS. 
 
 "Newstead, August 21, 1811. 
 
 * Your letter gives me credit for more acute feelings 
 than I possess ; for though I feel tolerably miserable, yet 
 I am at the same time subject to a kind of hysterical 
 nierriment, or rather laughter without merriment, which 
 I can neither account for nor conquer, and yet I do not 
 feel relieved by it ; but an indifferent person would think 
 me in excellent spirits. ' We must forget these things,' 
 and have recourse to our old selfish comforts, or rather 
 comfortable selfishness. I do not thinlc I shall return to 
 London immediately, and shall therefore accept freely 
 what is offered courteously — your mediation between 
 me and Murray. I don't think my name will answer 
 the purpose, and you must be aware that my plaguy 
 Satire will bring the north and south Grub-streets down 
 upon the ' Pilgrimage ;' — but, nevertheless, if Murray 
 makes a point of it, and you coincide with him, I will do 
 it daringly ; so let it be entitled, ' By the Author of 
 English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.' My remarks 
 on the Romaic, &c. once intended to accompany the 
 ' Hints from Horace,' shall go along with the other, as 
 being indeed more appropriate ; also the smaller poems 
 now in my possession, with a few selected from those 
 published in Hobhouse's Miscellany. I have found 
 among my poor mother's papers all my letters from the 
 East, and one in particular of some length from Albania. 
 F'rom this, if necessary, I can work up a note or two on 
 that subject. As I kept no journal, the letters written 
 on the spot are the best. But of this anon, when we 
 have definitively arranged. 
 
 " Has Murray shown the work to any one ? He may 
 — but I will have no traps for applause. Of course there 
 are little things I would wish to alter, and perhaps the 
 two stanzas of a buffooning cast on London's Sunday are 
 as well left out. I much wish to avoid identifying 
 Childe Harold's character with mine, and that, in sooth, 
 is my second objection to my name appearing in the 
 titlepage. When you have made arrangements as to 
 time, size, type, &c. favour me with a reply. I am 
 giving you a universe of trouble, which thanks cannot 
 atone for. I made a kind of prose apology for my skep- 
 ticism at the head of the MS. which, on recollection, is 
 so much more like an attack than a defence, tliat, haply, 
 it might better be omitted : — perpend, pronounce. After 
 all, I fear Murray wiU be in a scrape with the orthodox ; 
 but I cannot help it, though I wish him well through it. 
 As for me, ' I have supped full of criticism,' and I don't 
 think that the ' most dismal treatise' will stir and rouse 
 my ' fell of hair' till ' Birnam-wood do come to Dunsi- 
 nane.' 
 
 " I shall continue to write at intervals, and hope you 
 will pay me in kind. How does Pratt get on, or rather 
 get off Joe Blackett's posthumous stock ? You killed 
 that poor man among you, in spite of your Ionian friend 
 and myself, who would have saved him from Pratt, 
 
 poetry, present poverty, and posthumous oblivion. Cruel 
 patronage ! to ruin a man at his calling ; but then he is a 
 divine subject for subscription and biography ; and Pratt, 
 who makes the most of his dedications, has inscribed the 
 volume to no less than five families of distinction. 
 
 " I am sorry you don't like Harry White ; with a great 
 deal of cant, which in him was sincere, (indeed, it killed 
 him as you killed Joe Blackett,) certes, there is poesy 
 and genius. I don't say this on account of my simile 
 and rhymes ;* but surely he was beyond all the Bloom- 
 fields and Blacketts, and their collateral cobblers, whom 
 Lofft and Pratt have or may kidnap from their calling 
 into the service of the trade. You must excuse my flip- 
 pancy, for I am writing I know not what, to escape from 
 myself Hobhouse is gone to Ireland. Mr. Davies has 
 been here on his way to Harrowgate. 
 
 " You did not know Mr. Matthews ; he was a man of 
 the most astonishing powers, as he sufficiently proved at 
 Cambridge, by carrying off more prizes and fellowships, 
 against the ablest candidates, than any other graduate on 
 record ; but a most decided atheist, indeed, noxiously so. 
 for he proclaimed his principles in all societies. I knew 
 him well, and feel a loss not easily to be supplied to my- 
 self—to Hobhouse never. Let me hear from you, and 
 "BeUeve me, &c." 
 
 LETTER LXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Newstead Abbey, Notts, August 23, I8IL 
 "sir, 
 
 " A domestic calamity in the death of a near relation 
 has hitherto prevented my addressing you on the subject 
 of this letter. — My friend Mr. Dallas has placed in your 
 hands a manuscript poem written by me in Greece, 
 which he tells me you do not object to pubhshing. But 
 he also informed me in London that you wished to send 
 the MS. to Mr. Gilford. Now, though no one would 
 feel more gratified by the chance of obtaining his obser- 
 vations on a work than myselfj there is in such a proceed- 
 ing a kind of petition for praise, that neither my pride — 
 or whatever you please to call it — will admit. Mr. G. 
 is not only the first satirist of the day, but editor of one of 
 the principal Reviews. As such, he is the last man 
 whose censure (however eager to avoid it) I would de- 
 precate by clandestine means. You will therefore re- 
 tain the MS. in your own care, or, if it must needs be 
 shown, send it to another. Though not very patient of 
 censure, I would fain obtain fairly any little praise my 
 rhymes might deserve, at all events not by extortion and 
 the humble solicitations of a bandied-about MS. I am 
 sure a little consideration will convince you it would be 
 wrong. 
 
 " If you determine on publication, I have some smaller 
 poems, (never published,) a few notes, and a short disser- 
 tation on the literature of the modern Greeks, (written at 
 Athens,) which will come in at the end of the volume. — 
 And if the present poem should succeed, it is my inten- 
 tion, at some subsequent period, to publish some selec- 
 tions from my first work, — my Satire, — another nearly 
 the same length, and a few other things, with the MS. 
 now in your hands, in two volumes. — But of these here- 
 after. You will apprize me of your determination. I 
 am, sir, " Your very obedient, &c." 
 
 LETTER LXXX. 
 
 TO MR. DALLAS. 
 
 " Newstead Abbey, August 25, 1811. 
 " Being fortunately enabled to frank. I do not spare 
 •cribbling, having sent you packets within the last ten 
 
 See '■ English Ba 
 
LETTERS, 18il. 
 
 days. I am passing solitary, and do not expect my 
 agent to accompany me to Rochdale before the second 
 •week in September, a delay which perplexes me, as I 
 wish the business over, and should at present welcome 
 employment. I sent you exordiums, annotations, &c. for 
 the forthcoming quarto, if quarto it is to be ; and I also 
 have written to Mr. Murray my objection to sending 
 the MS. to Juvenal, but allowing lum to show it to any 
 others of the calling. Hobhouse is among the types al- 
 ready ; so, between his prose and my verse, the world 
 will be decently drawn upon for its paper money and pa- 
 tience. Besides all this, my ' Imitation of Horace' is 
 gasping for the press at Cawthorn's, but I am hesitating 
 as to the how and the when^ the single or the double, the 
 present or the future. You must excuse all this, for I 
 have nothing to say in tliis lone mansion but of myself 
 and yet I would willingly talk or think of aught else. 
 
 " What are you about to do ? Do you think of perch- 
 ing in Cumberland, as you opined when I was in the me- 
 tropolis? If you mean to retire, why not occupy Miss 
 ♦ * *'s 'Cottage of Friendship,' late the seat of Cob- 
 bler Joe, for whose death you and others are answer- 
 able? His « Orphan Daughter' (pathetic Pratt!) will, 
 certes, turn out a shoemaking Sappho. Have you no 
 remorse ? I think that elegant address to Miss Dallas 
 should be inscribed on the cenotaph which INIiss * * * 
 means to stitch to his memory. 
 
 " The newspapers seem much disappointed at his 
 majesty's not dying, or doing something better. I pre- 
 sume it is almost over. If parliament meets in October, 
 I shall be in town to attend. I am also invited to Cam- 
 bridge for the beginning of that month, but am first to 
 jaunt to Rochdale. Now Matthews is gone, and Hob- 
 bouse in Ireland, I have hardly one left there to bid me 
 welcome, except my inviter. At three-and-twenty I 
 am left alone, and what more can we be at seventy ? It 
 is true, I am young enough to begin again, but with 
 whom can I retrace the laughing part of life? It is odd 
 how few of my friends have died a quiet death, — I mean, 
 in their beds. But a quiet life is of more consequence. 
 Yet one loves squabbling and jostling better than yawn- 
 ing. This last word admonishes me to relieve you from 
 " Yours very truly, &c," 
 
 land. Did you ever hear of him and his ' Armageddon ?' 
 I think his plan (the man I don't know) borders on the 
 sublime ; though, perhaps, the anticipation of the ' Last 
 Day,' (according to you Nazarenes,) is a little too daring: 
 at least, it looks like telling the Lord what he is to do, 
 and might remind an ill-natured person of the line — 
 
 " • And fools rush in where angels fear to tread.' 
 
 " But I don't mean to cavil, only other foUis will, and he 
 may bring all the lambs of Jacob Behmen about his ears. 
 However, I hope he wiU bring it to a conclusion, though 
 Milton is in his way. 
 
 " Write to me — I dote on gossip — and make a bow to 
 Ju — ,* and shake George by the hand for me ; but, take 
 care, for he has a sad sea-paw. 
 
 " P. S. 1 would ask George here, but I don't Imow how 
 to amuse him — all my horses were sold when I left Eng- 
 land, and I have not had time to replace them. Never- 
 theless, if he will come down and shoot in September, he 
 will be very welcome ; but he must bring a gun, for I 
 gave away all mine to Ali Pacha, and other Turks. 
 Dogs, a keeper, and plenty of game, with a very large 
 manor, I have — a lalte, a boat, house-room, and neat 
 wines." 
 
 LETTER LXXXII. 
 
 TO R. C. DALLAS, ES^. 
 
 LETTER LXXXL 
 
 TO MR. DALLAS. 
 
 «Newstead Abbey, August 27, 1811. 
 
 " I was so sincere in my note on the late Charles 
 Matthews, and do feel myself so totally unable to do 
 justice to his talents, that the passage must stand for the 
 very reason you bring against it. To him all the men I 
 ever knew were pigmies. He was an intellectual giant. 
 It is true I loved W. better ; he was the earliest and the 
 dearest, and one of the few one could never repent of 
 having loved ; but in ability — ah ! you did not know 
 Matthews ! 
 
 "'Childe Harold' may wait and welcome — books are 
 never the worse for delay in the publication. So you 
 have got our heir, George Anson Byron, and his sister, 
 with you. 
 
 " You may say what you please, but you are one of 
 the murderers of Blackett, and yet you won't allow 
 Harry White's genius. Setting aside his bigotry, he 
 surely ranks next to Chatterton. It is astonishing how 
 Uttle he was known ; and at Cambridge no one thought 
 or heard of such a man, till his death rendered all notice 
 useless. For my own part, I should have been most 
 proud of such an acquaintance: his very prejudices 
 were respectable. There is a sucldng epic poet at 
 Grajita, a Mr. Townsend, pro^^g-e of the late Cumber- 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Sept. 4, 1811. 
 "my dear sir, 
 " I am at present anxious, as Cawthom seems to wish 
 it, to have a small edition of the " Hints from Horace" 
 published immediately : but the Latin (the most difficult 
 poem in the language) renders it necessary to be very 
 particular not only in correcting the proofs with Horace 
 open, but in adapting the parallel passages of the imita- 
 tion in such places to the original as may enable the rea- 
 der not to lose sight of the allusion. I don't Imow whe- 
 ther I ought to ask you to do this, but I am too far off to 
 do it for myself; and if you can condescend to my school- 
 boy erudition, you will oblige me by setting this thing 
 going, though you will smile at the importance I attach 
 to it. " Believe me, ever yours, 
 
 " Byron." 
 
 LETTER LXXXIIL 
 
 TO MR. aiURRAY. 
 
 'Newstead Abbey, Notts, Sept. 5, 1811. 
 
 'sir. 
 
 " The time seems to be past when (as Dr. .Tohnson 
 said) a man was certain to 'hear the truth from his 
 bookseller,' for you have paid me so many compliments, 
 that, if I was not the veriest scribbler on earth, I should 
 feel affronted. As I accept your compliments, it is but 
 fair I should give equal or greater credit to your objec- 
 tions, the more so, as I believe them to be well founded. 
 With regard to the political and metaphysical parts, 1 am 
 afraid I can alter nothing ; but I have high authority for 
 my errors in that point, for even the uSneid was a. politi- 
 cal poem, and written for a political purpose ; and as to 
 my unlucky opinions on subjects of more importance, I 
 am too sincere in them for recantation. On Spanish 
 affairs I have said what I saw, and every day confirms 
 me in that notion of the result formed on the spot ; and 
 I rather thinlc honest John Bull is beginning to come 
 round again to that sobriety which Massena's retreat 
 had begun to reel from its centre — the usual consequence 
 of unusual success. So you perceive I cannot alter the 
 sentiments ; but if there are any alterations in the struc- 
 ture of the versification you would wish to be made, I 
 
 Julia Heath, George Byron's sister. 
 
LETTERS, 1811. 
 
 31 
 
 will tag rhymes and turn stanzas as much as you please. 
 As for the ' orthodox^ let us hope they will buy, on pur- 
 pose to abuse — you will forgive the one, if they will do 
 the other. You are aware that any thing from my pen 
 must expect no quarter, on many accounts ; and as the 
 present publication is of a nature very different from the 
 former, we must not be sanguine. 
 
 " You have given me no answer to my question — tell 
 me fairly, did you show the MS. to some of your corps ? 
 — I sent an introductory stanza to Mr. Dallas, to be for- 
 warded to you ; the poem else will open too abruptly.* 
 The stanzas had better be numbered in Roman charac- 
 ters. There is a disquisition on the literature of the 
 modern Greeks, and some smaller poems, to come in at 
 the close. These are now at Newstead, but will be sent 
 in time. If Mr. D. has lost the stanza and note annexed 
 to it, write, and I will send it myself — You tell me to add 
 two Cantos, but I am about to visit my collieries in Lan- 
 cashire on the 15th mst. which is so unpoetical an em- 
 ployment that I need say no more. I am, sir, 
 
 " Your most obedient, &c." 
 
 LETTER LXXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. DALLAS. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Sept. 7, 1811. 
 
 " As Giffbrd has been ever my ' Magnus Apollo,' any 
 approbation, such as you mention, would, of course, be 
 more welcome than ' all Bokara's vaunted gold, than all 
 the gems of Samarkand.' But I am sorry the MS. was 
 shown to him in such a manner, and I had written to 
 Murray to say as much, before I was aware that it was 
 too late. 
 
 " Your objection to the expression ' central line,' I can 
 only meet by saying that, before Childe Harold left Eng- 
 land, it was his full intention to traverse Persia, and re- 
 turn by India, which he could not have done without 
 passing the equinoctial. 
 
 " The other errors you mention, I must correct in the 
 progress through the press. I feel honoured by the wish 
 of such men that the poem should be continued, but to do 
 that, I must return to Greece and Asia ; I must have a 
 warm sun and a blue sky ; I cannot describe scenes so 
 dear to me by a sea-coal fire. I had projected an addi- 
 tional Canto when I was in the Troad and Constantino- 
 ple, and if I saw them again, it would go on ; but under 
 existing circumstances and sensations, I have neither 
 harp, ' heart, nor voice' to proceed. I feel that you are 
 all right as to the metaphysical part ; but I also feel that 
 I am sincere, and that if I am only to write, ' ad captan- 
 dum vulgus^ I might as well edit a magazine at once, or 
 spin canzonettas for Vauxhall. 
 
 * + + :t::^ =(: + * 
 
 ' My work must make its way as well as it can ; I 
 know I have every thing against me, angry poets and 
 prejudices; but if the poem is a poem, it will surmount 
 these obstacles, and if not, it deserves its fate. Your 
 friend's Ode I have read — it is no great compliment to 
 pronounce it far superior to S * *'s on the same sub- 
 ject, or to the merits of the new chancellor. It is evi- 
 dently the production of a man of taste, and a poet, 
 though I should not be willing to say it was fully equal to 
 what might be expected from the author of ' Horm loniccB.'' 
 I thank you for it, and that is more than I would do for 
 any other Ode of the present day. 
 
 "I am very sensible of your good wishes, and, indeed, 
 I have need of them. My whole life has been at vari- 
 ance with propriety, not to say decency ; my circum- 
 stances are become involved ; my friends are dead or 
 estranged, and my existence a dreary void. In Mat- 
 thews I have lost my ' guide, philosopher, and friend ;' 
 
 * The present second stanza originally stood first. 
 
 in Wingfield a friend only, but one whom I could have 
 v/ished to have preceded in his long journey. 
 
 " Matthews was indeed an extraordinary man ; it has 
 not entered into the heart of a stranger to conceive such 
 a man ; there was the stamp of immortality in aU he said 
 or did ; and now what is he ? When we see such men 
 pass away and be no more — men, who seem created to 
 display what the Creator could make his creatures, ga- 
 thered into corruption, before the maturity of minds that 
 might have been the pride of posterity, what are we to 
 conclude ? For my own part I am bewildered. To me 
 he was much, toHobhouse every thing. — My poor Hob- 
 house doted on Matthews. For me, I did not love quite 
 so much as I honoured him ; I was indeed so sensible of 
 his infinite superiority, that though I did not envy, I stood 
 in awe of it. He,Hobhouse, Davies, and myself, formed 
 a coterie of our own at Cambridge and elsewhere. Da- 
 vies is a wit and man of the world, and feels as much as 
 such a character can do ; but not as Hobhouse has been 
 affected. Davies, who is not a scribbler, has always 
 beaten us all in the war of words, and by his colloquial 
 powers at once delighted and kept us in order. H. and 
 myself always had the worst of it with the other two ; and 
 even M. yielded to the dashing vivacity of S. D. But I 
 am talking to you of men, or boys, as if you cared about 
 such beings. 
 
 " I expect mine agent down on the 14th to proceed to 
 Lancashire, where, I hear from all quarters, that I have 
 a very valuable property in coals, &c. I then intend to 
 accept an invitation to Cambridge in October, and shall, 
 perhaps, run up to town. I have four invitations — to 
 Wales, Dorset, Cambridge, and Chester ; but I must be 
 a man of business. I am quite alone, as these long 
 letters sadly testify. I perceive, by referring to your 
 letter, that the Ode is from the author ; make my thanks 
 acceptable to him. His muse is worthy a nobler theme. 
 You will write, as usual, I hope. I wish you a good 
 evening, « And am, &c." 
 
 LETTER LXXXV. 
 
 TO R. C. DALLAS, ESq. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Sept. 10, 1811. 
 
 "dear SIR, 
 
 "I rather think in one of the opening stanzas of Childe 
 Harold there is this line — 
 
 " ' 'Tis said at times the sullen tear would start.' 
 
 Now, a line or two after, I have a repetition of the 
 epithet ^sullen reverie;' so (if it be so) let us have, 
 ' speechless reverie,' or ' silent reverie ;' but, at all events, 
 do away the recuiTence. 
 
 " Yours ever, " B . 
 
 "P. S. Perhaps, as 'reverie' impUes silence of itself 
 wayward, downcast, gloomy, wrinkling, joyless, may be: 
 better epithets." 
 
 LETTER LXXXVL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 'Newstead Abbey, Notts, Sept. 14, ISlt. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 " Since your former letter, Mr. Dallas informs me that 
 the MS. has been submitted to the perusal of Mr..Gifrord, 
 most contrary to my wishes, as Mr. D. could have ex- 
 plained, and as my own letter to you did, in fact, explain, 
 w'ltu my motives for objecting to such a proceeding. 
 Some late domestic events, of which you are probably 
 aware, prevented my letter from being sent before ; in- 
 deed, I hardly conceived you would so hastily thrust my 
 productions into the hands of a stranger,. who could be as 
 httle pleased by receiving them, as their author is at 
 their being offered in such a manner, and to such a man. 
 
32 
 
 LETTERS, 1811. 
 
 *My address, when I leave Newstead, will be to 
 'Rochdale, Lancashire ;' but I have not yet fixed the 
 day of departure, and 1 will apprize you when ready to 
 set off. 
 
 " You have placed me in a very ridiculous situation, 
 but it is past, and nothing more is to be said on the subject. 
 You hinted to me that you wished some alterations to be 
 made ; if they have nothing to do with pohtics or religion, 
 I will make them with great readiness. 
 
 "I am, sir, &c. &c.' 
 
 LETTER LXXXVII. 
 
 TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 
 
 " Newstead Abbey, Sept. 15, 181L 
 "my dear sir, 
 " My agent will not be here for at least a week, and 
 even afterwards my letters will be forwarded to Roch- 
 dale. I am sorry that Murray should groan on my ac- 
 count, though that is better than the anticipation of ap- 
 plause, of which men and books are generally disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 " The notes I sent are merely matter to be divided, ar- 
 ranged, and pubhshed for notes hereafter, in proper 
 places ; at present I am too much occupied with earthly 
 cares, to waste time or trouble upon rhyme, or its modern 
 indispensables, annotations. 
 
 " Pray let me hear from you, when at leisure. I have 
 written to abuse Murray for showing the MS. to Mr. 
 Gifford ; who must certainly think it was done by my 
 wish, though you know the contrary. 
 
 " Believe me, yours ever, 
 
 «B .» 
 
 LETTER LXXXVIIL 
 
 TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Sept. 16, 1811. 
 
 " DEAR SIR, 
 
 " I send you a motto — * 
 
 " ' L'univers est une esp4c€ de livre, &c.' 
 
 If not too long, I think it will suit the book. The pas- 
 sage is from a French volume, a great favourite with me 
 which I picked up in the Archipelago. I don't thinlc it 
 is well known in England. Moubron is the author, but 
 it is a work sLxty years old. Good morning. I won't 
 take up your time. " Yours ever, 
 
 "Byron." 
 
 LETTER LXXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Sept. 16, 1811, 
 " I return the proo^ which I should wish to be shown 
 to Mr. Dallas, who understands typographical arrange- 
 ments much better than I can pretend to do. The 
 printer may place the notes in his own way, or any way, 
 so that they are out of my way ; I care nothing about 
 types or margins. 
 
 " If you have any communication to make, I shall be 
 here at least a week or ten days longer. 
 
 " I am, sir, &c. Sec." 
 
 LETTER XC. 
 
 TO MR. DALLAS. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Sept. 17, 1811. 
 " I can easily excuse your not writing, as you have, I 
 hope, something better to do, and you must pardon my 
 
 frequent invasions on your attention, because I have at 
 this moment nothing to interpose between you and my 
 epistles. 
 
 " I cannot settle to any thing, and my days pass, with 
 the exception of bodily exercise to some extent, with uni- 
 form indolence, and idle insipidity. I have been ex- 
 pecting, and still expect, my agent, when I shall have 
 enough to occupy my reflections in business of no very 
 pleasant aspect. Before my journey to Rochdale, you 
 shall have due notice where to address me — I believe at 
 the postoffice of that township. From Murray I re- 
 ceived a second proof of the same pages, which I re- 
 quested him to show you, that any thing which may have 
 escaped my observation may be detected before the prin- 
 ter lays the corner-stone of an errata column. 
 
 " I am now not quite alone, having an old acquaintance 
 and schoolfellow with me, so old, indeed, that we have 
 nothing new to say on any subject, and yawn at each 
 other m a sort of quiet inquietude. I hear nothing from 
 Cawthorn, or Captain Hobhouse, and their quarto — Lord 
 have mercy on mankind ! We come on like Cerberus 
 with our triple publications. As for myself, by myself I 
 must be satisfied with a comparison to Janus. 
 
 " I am not at all pleased with Murray for showing the 
 MS. ; and I am certain Gifford must see it in the same 
 hght that I do. His praise is nothing to the purpose : 
 what could he say ? He could not spit in the face of one 
 who had praised him in every possible way. I must 
 own that I wish to have the impression removed from his 
 mind, that I had any concern in such a paltry transac- 
 tion. The more I think, the more it disquiets me ; so I 
 will say no more about it. It is bad enough to be a 
 scribbler, without having recourse to such shifts to extort 
 praise, or deprecate censure. It is anticipating, it is 
 begging, kneeling, adulating — the devil ! the devil ! the 
 devil ! and all without my wish, and contrary to my ex- 
 press desire. I wish Murray had been tied to Payne^s 
 neck when he jumped into the Paddington Canal, and so 
 tell him, — that is the proper receptacle for publishers. 
 You have thoughts of setthng in the country, why not 
 try Notts ? I think there are places which would suit 
 you in all points, and then you are nearer the metropolis. 
 But of this anon. 
 
 " I am yours, &c." 
 
 For " Childe Harold.' 
 
 LETTER XCL 
 
 TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Sept. 17, 1811. 
 "dear sir, 
 "I have just discovered some pages of observations on 
 the modern Greeks, written at Athens, by me, under the 
 title of ' Noctes Atticse.' They will do to cut up into 
 notes, and to be cut up afterwards, which is all that notes 
 are generally good for. They were written at Athens, 
 as you will see by the date. 
 
 "Yours ever. «B." 
 
 LETTER XCIL 
 
 TO MR. DALLAS. 
 
 « Newstead Abbey, Sept. 21, 1811. 
 • I have shown my respect for your suggestions by 
 adopting them ; but I have made many alterations in the 
 first proofj over and above ; as, for example : 
 
 " ' Oh Thou, ia Hellas deem'd of heavenly birlb, 
 
 &c. &c.' 
 " ' Since, shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
 
 Mine, &c.' 
 " ' Yet there I 've wander'd by the vaunted rill ;' 
 
 and so on. So I have got rid of Dr. Lowth, and ' drunk' 
 
LETTERS, 1811. 
 
 33 
 
 to boot, and very glad I am to say so. I have also sul- 
 Jenized the line as heretofore, and in short have been 
 quite conformable. 
 
 " Pray, write ; you shall hear when I remove to Lanes. 
 I have brought you and my friend Juvenal Hodgson upon 
 my back, on the score of revelation. You are fervent, 
 but he is quite glowing ; and if he takes half the pains to 
 save his own soul, which he volunteers to redeem mine, 
 great will be his reward hereafter. I honour and thank 
 you both, but am convinced by neither. Now for notes. 
 Besides those I have sent, I shall send the obser^'ations 
 on the Edinburgh Reviewer's remarks on the modern 
 Greek, an Albanian song in the Albanian {not Greek) lan- 
 guage, specimens of modern Greek from their New 
 Testament, a comedy of Goldoni's translated, one scene, 
 a prospectus of a friend's book, and perhaps a song or 
 two, all in Romaic, besides their Pater Noster ; so there 
 will be enough, if not too much, with what I have already 
 sent. Have you received the ' Noctes Atticae ?' I sent 
 also an annotation on Portugal, Hobhouse is also forth- 
 coming." 
 
 LETTER XCIII. 
 
 TO MR. DALLAS. 
 
 " Newstead Abbey, Sept. 23, 1811 
 *' Zhboa is the Portuguese word, consequently the 
 very best. Ulissipont is pedantic ; and, as I have Hellas 
 and Eros not long before, there w^ould be something like 
 an affectation of Greek terms, which I wish to avoid, 
 since I shall have a perilous quantity of modern Greek in 
 my notes, as specimens of the tongue ; therefore Lisboa 
 may keep its place. You are right about the ' Hints ;' 
 they must not precede the 'Romaunt,-' but Cawthorn 
 will be savage if they don't ; however, keep them back, 
 and him in good humour, if we can, but do not let him 
 publish. 
 
 " I have adopted, I believe, most of your suggestions, 
 but ' Lisboa' will be an exception, to prove the rule. I 
 have sent a quantity of notes, and shall continue ; but 
 pray let them be copied ; no devil can read my hand. 
 By-the-by, I do not mean to exchange the ninth verse of 
 the ' Good Night.' I have no reason to suppose my 
 dog better than his brother brutes, mankind ; and Argiis 
 we know to be a fable.* The ' Cosmopolite' was an ac- 
 quisition abroad. I do not believe it is to be found in 
 England. It is an amusing little volume, and full of 
 French flippancy. I read, though I do not speak, the 
 language. 
 
 I will be angry with Murray. It was a bookselling, 
 backshop, Patemoster-row, paltry proceeding, and if the 
 experiment had turned out as it deserved, I would have 
 raised all Fleet-street, and borrowed the giant's staff 
 from St. Dunstan's church, to immolate the betrayer of 
 trust. I have written to him as he never was written to 
 before by an author, I '11 be sworn, and I hope you will 
 amplify my wrath, till it has an effect upon him. You tell 
 me always you have much to write about. Write it, 
 but let us drop metaphysics; — on that point we shall 
 never agree. I am dull and drowsy, as usual. I do no- 
 thing, and even that notliing fatigues me. Adieu." 
 
 I have altered it as follows : — 
 
 ' Full from the heart of joy's delicious springs 
 Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.' 
 
 " If you will point out the stanzas on Cintra which you 
 wish recast, I will send you mine answer. Be good 
 enough to address your letters here, and they will either 
 be forwarded or saved till my return. My agent comes 
 to-morrow, and we shall set out immediately. 
 
 " The press must not proceed of course without my 
 seeing the proofs, as I have much to do. Pray do you 
 think any alterations should be made in the stanzas on 
 Vathek? I should be sorry to make any improper 
 allusion, as I merely wish to adduce an example of 
 wasted wealth, and the reflection which arose in survey- 
 ing the most desolate mansion in the most beautiful spot 
 I ever beheld. 
 
 " Pray keep Cawthorn back; he was not to begin till 
 November, and even that will be two months too soon. 
 I am so sorry my hand is unintelligible ; but I can neither 
 deny your accusation, nor remove the cause of it. — It is 
 a sad scrawl, certes. — A perilous quantity of armotation 
 hath been sent ; I think almost enough, with the speci- 
 mens of Romaic I mean to annex. 
 
 " I will have nothing to say to your metaphysics, and 
 allegories of rocks and beaches ; we shall all go to the 
 bottom together, so ' let us eat and drink, for to-morrow, 
 &c.' I am as comfortable in my creed as others, inas- 
 much as it is better to sleep than to be awake. 
 
 " I have heard nothing of Murray ; I hope he is 
 ashamed of himself. He sent me a vastly complimentary 
 pistle, with a request to alter the two, and finish another 
 canto. I sent him as civil an answer as if I had been 
 engaged to translate by the sheet, declined altering any 
 thing in sentiment, but offered to tag rhymes, and mend 
 them as long as he liked. 
 
 " I will write from Rochdale when I arrive, if my affairs 
 allow me ; but I shall be so busy and savage all the time, 
 with the whole set, that my letters will be as pettish as 
 myself. If so, lay the blame on coal and coal-heavers. 
 Very probably I may proceed to town by way of New* 
 stead on my return from Lanes. I mean to be at Cara» 
 bridge in November, so that at all events we shall be 
 nearer. I will not apologize for the trouble I have given, 
 and do give you, though I ought to do so ; but I have 
 worn out my politest periods, and can only say that I am 
 very much obliged to you. 
 
 " Believe me, yours always, 
 ^' Byron." 
 
 LETTER XCIV. 
 
 TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 
 
 " Newstead Abbey, Sept. 26, 1811 
 "my dear sir, 
 " In a stanza towards the end of canto first there is, in 
 tlae concluding line, 
 
 ' Some bitter bubbles up, and e'en on roses stings.' 
 
 LETTER XCV. 
 
 TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey. Oct. 10, 1811. 
 
 " DEAR SIR., 
 
 " Stanzas 24, 26, 29, though crossed, must stand with 
 their alterations. The other three are cut out to your 
 wishes.* We must, however, have a repetition of the 
 proof, which is the first. I will write soor. 
 
 " Yours ever, " B. 
 
 <' P. S. Yesterday I returned from Lanes." 
 
 See Letter 2'3. 
 
 * The foUownng are the six stanzas as they originally stood. Those 
 appearin" below, as 24, 26, 29, appeared in the poem, in an altered state, 
 numbered there as 24, 25, 26, of the first canto. The stanzas marked 
 below 25, 27, and 28, were those omitted : 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened, 
 
 Oh, dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
 With diadem bight Foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
 
 A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
 There sits in parchment robe arrayed, and by 
 
 His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
 Where blazoned glares a name spelt Wellesley : 
 
 And sundry signatures adorn the roll , 
 Whereat the'urchia points and laughs witli all his soul. 
 
34 
 
 LETTERS, 1811. 
 
 LETTER XCVL 
 
 TO MR. DALLAS. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811. 
 "I have returned from Lanes, and ascertained that 
 my property there may be made very valuable, but vari- 
 ous circumstances very much circumscribe my exertions 
 at present. I shall be in town on business in the begin- 
 ning of November, and perhaps at Cambridge before the 
 end of this month ; but of my movements you shall be 
 
 XXV. 
 in golden characters, right well designed, 
 
 First on the list appeareth one " Junot ;" 
 Then certain other glorious names we find ; 
 
 (Which rhyme corapelleth me to place below ;) 
 Dull victors ! baffled by a vanquished foe, 
 
 Wheedled by conynge tongues of laurels due, 
 Stand, worthy of each other, in a row 
 
 Sirs Artliur, Harry, and the dizzard Hew 
 Dalrympie, seely wight, sore dupe of tother tew. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Convention is the dwarfy demon styled 
 
 Thai foiled I 
 
 ;hts in Marialva's dome ; 
 
 Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
 
 And turned a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
 For well 1 wot, when flist the news' did come, 
 
 That Vimiera's field by Gaul was lost ; 
 For paragraph ne paper scarce had room, 
 
 Such pEsns teemed for our triumphant host, 
 In Courier, Chronicle, and eke in Morning Post. 
 
 XXVII. 
 But when Convention sent his handy work. 
 
 Pens, tongues, feet, hands, combined in wild uproar ; 
 Mayor, aldermen, laid down th' uplifted fork ; 
 
 The bench of Bishops half foigot to snore : 
 Stem Cobbett, who for one whole week forbore 
 
 To question aught, once more with trazisport leapt, 
 And bit his dev'lish quill agen, and swore 
 
 With foe such treaty never should be kept. 
 Then burst the blatant* beast, and roared and raged, and — slept ! ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 Thus unto heaven appealed the people ; heaven, 
 
 Which loves the lieges of our gracious king. 
 Decreed that ere our generals were forgiven, 
 
 Inquiry should be held about the thing. 
 But mercy cloaked the babes beneath her wing ; 
 
 And as they spared our foes so spared we them. 
 (Where was the pity of our sires for Byng ?)t 
 
 Yet knaves, not idiots, should the law condemn. 
 Then live ye, gallant knights ! and bless your judges' phlegm. 
 
 XXIX. 
 But ever since that martial synod met, 
 
 Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name ; 
 And folks in office at the mention sweat. 
 
 And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. 
 How will posterity the deed preclaim ! 
 
 Will notour own and fellow natious sneer. 
 To view these champions cheated of their fame 
 
 By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here. 
 Where scorn her finger points through many a coming year ? 
 
 Originally, the "little page," and "yeoman," of Childe Harold, 
 Canto I. were introduced in the following stanzas, which were after- 
 wards erased : 
 
 And of his train there was a henchman page 
 A peasant boy, who served his master well ; 
 And often would his pranksome prate engage 
 Childe Burun's ear when his proud heart'did swell 
 Mlth sullen thoughts that he disdain'd to tell. 
 Then would he smile on him, and AlwiuJ smiled, 
 When aught that from his young lips archly fell 
 The gloomy film from Harold's eye beguiled. 
 
 Him and one yeoman onlv did he take 
 To travel eastward to afar countrie ; 
 And though the boy was grieved to leave the lake, 
 On whose fair banks he grew from infancy, 
 Kftsoons his little heart beat merrily, 
 With hope of foreign nations to behold. 
 And many things right marvellous to see, 
 Of which our vaunting travellers oft have told, 
 From Mandeville 
 
 This stanza was also omitted : 
 
 Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
 Sights, saints, antiques, arts, anecdotes, and war, 
 Go, hie ye hence to Paternoster-row, — 
 Are they not written in the boke of Carr ? 
 Green l-:iin's Knight, and Europe's wandering star I 
 Then listen, readers, to the Man of Ink. 
 Hear what he did, and sought, and wrot^e afar. 
 All these are coop'd within one duario's brink. 
 This borrow, steal, (don't buy,) and tell us what you think. 
 
 * " Blatant beast," a figure for the mob ; I think first used by 
 Smollett in his Adventures of an Atom. Horace has the " Bellu multo- 
 rum capitnm." In England, fortunately enough, the illustrious mo- 
 bility have not even one. 
 
 t By this query it is not meant that our foolish generals should have 
 been shot, but that Byng might have been spared ; though the one 
 suffered and the others escaped, probably for Candide's reason, " pour 
 encourager lesautres." 
 
 J In the MS. the names " Robin" and "Rupert" had been suc- 
 cessively inserted here and scratched out again. 
 
 regularly apprized. Your objections I have in part done 
 away by alterations, which I hope will suffice ; and I 
 have sent two or three additional stanzas for both 
 ' Fyttes.^ I have been again shocked with a death, and 
 have lost one very dear to me in happier times ; but ' I 
 have almost forgot the taste of grief,' and ' supped full of 
 horrors' till I have become callous, nor have I a tear left 
 for an event which five years ago would have bowed 
 down my head to the earth. It seems as though I were- 
 to experience in my youth the greatest misery of age 
 My fi-iends fall around me, and I shall be left a lonely 
 
 I 
 
 The second paragraph in the preface was originally thus : 
 " It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a 
 high value, that in the fictitious character of ' Childe Harold,' I may in- 
 cur the suspicion of having drawn ' from myself.' This I beg leave once 
 for all to disclaim. I wanted a character to give some connexions to the 
 poem, and the one adopted suited my purpose as well as any other. In 
 some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, there might be 
 grounds for such an idea ; but in the main points, 1 should hope none 
 whatever. My reader will observe that when the author speaks in his 
 own person, he assumes a very diSereut tone from that of 
 
 ' The cheerless thing, the man without a friend,' 
 
 at least till death had deprived him of his nearest connexions, 
 
 " I crave pardon for this egotism, which proceeds from my wish to dis- 
 card any probable imputation of it to the text." 
 The note to Ca)ito I. stanza 21, was in the manuscript as follows : 
 " In the year 1809, it is a well-known fact, that the assa.ssinations in 
 the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity, were not confined by the Portu- 
 guese to their countrymen ; but Englishmen were daily butchered, and 
 so far from the sui-vivors obtaining redress, they were requested ' not to 
 interfere' if they perceived their compatriot defending himself against his 
 amiable allies. I was once stopped in the way to the theatre, at eight in 
 the evening, when the streets were not more empty than they generally 
 are, opposite to an open shop, and in a carriage with a friend, by three 
 of onr allies; and had we not fortunately been armed, I have not the 
 least doubt we should have ' adorned a tale,' instead of telling it. We 
 have heard wonders of the Portuguese lately, and their gallantry, — 
 pray Heaven it continue: yet 'would it were bedtime Hal, and al! 
 were well !' They must fight a great many hours ' by Shrewsbury 
 clock,' before the number of their slain equals that of our countrymen 
 butchered by these kind creatures, now metamorphosed into 'Caca- 
 dores,' and what not. I merely state a fact not confined to Portugal, 
 for in Sicily and Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome 
 average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever punished ! The 
 neglect of protection is disgraceful to our government and governors, for 
 the murders are as notorious as the moon that shines \ipon them, and 
 the apathy that overlooks them. The Portuguese, it is to be hoped, are 
 complimented with the 'Forlorn Hope.' If the cowards are become 
 brave, (like the rest of their kind, in a corner,) pray let them display it. 
 But there is a subscription for these ' ^gaal ds.Xov,' (they need not be 
 ashamed of the epithet once applied to the Spartans,) and all the cha- 
 ritable patronymicks, from ostentatious A to diffident Z, and 1/. Is. Od, 
 from 'an admirer of valour.' are in requisition for the lists at Lloyds, 
 and the honour of British benevolence. Well, we have fought and sub- 
 scribed, and bestowed peerages, and buried the killed by our friends 
 and foes ; and lo ! all this is to be done over again ! Like ' Young 
 The.' (in Goldsmith's Citizen of the World,) as we ' gi-ow older, we 
 grow never the better.' It would be pleasant to learn who will sub- 
 scribe for us, in or about the year 1825, and what nation will send fifty 
 thousand men, first lo be decimated in the capital, and then decimated 
 again (in the Irish fashion Time out of ten) in the bed of honour, which, 
 as Serjeant Kite says, is considerably larger and more commodious than 
 the ' bed of Ware.' Then they must have a poet to write the ' Vision 
 of Don Perceval,' and generously bestovr the profits of the well and 
 widely pointed quarto to i-ebuild the ' Backmynd' and the ' Canongate,' 
 or furnish new kilts for the half-roasted Highlanders. Lord Welling- 
 ton, however, has enacted marvels ; and so did his oriental brother, 
 whom I saw charioteering over the French flag, and heard clipping bad 
 Spanish, after listening to the speech of a patriotic cobbler of Cadiz, ou 
 the event of his own entry into that city, and the exit of some five thou- 
 sand bold Britons out of this ' best of all possible worlds.' Sorely were 
 we puzzled how to dispose of that same victory of Talavera ; and a 
 victory it surely was somewhere, for every body claimed it. The Spa- 
 nish despatch and mob called it Cuestas, and made no great mention of 
 the Viscount ; the French called it theirs, (to my great discomfiture, for 
 a French consul stopped my mouth in Greece with a pestilent l-'aris Ga- 
 zette, just as I had killed Sebastiana ' in buckram,' and King Joseph in 
 ' Kendal green,') and we have not yet determined what to call it, or 
 whose, for certes it was none of our own. Howbeit, Massena's retreat 
 is a great comfort, and as we have not been in the habit of pursuing for 
 some years past, no wonder we are a little awkward at first. No doubt 
 we shall improve, or if not, we have only to take to our old way of re- 
 trograding, and then we are at home." 
 
 The following note to Canto II. stanza 8, was in the original manu- 
 script, but omitted in the publication : 
 
 " In this age of bigotry, when the puritan and priest have changed 
 places, and the wretched cathohc is visited with the ' sins of his fathers,' 
 even unto generations far beyond the pale of the commandment, the cast 
 of opinion in these stanzas will doubtless meet with many a contemptuous 
 anathema. But let it be remembered, that the spirit they breathe is 
 desponding, not sneering, skepticism ; that he who has seen the Greek 
 and iJoslem superstitions contending for mastery over the former shrines 
 of Polytheism, — who has left in his own Country ' Fharisees thanking 
 God that they are not publicans and aiuiiers,' and Spaniards in theirs, 
 abhorring the heretics, who have holpen them in their need ; — will be 
 not a little bewildered, and begin to think that as only one of them can 
 be right, they may most of them be wrong. With regard to morals, and 
 the effect of religion on mankind, it appears, from all historical testi- 
 mony, to have had less eflect in making them love their neighbours, 
 than inducing that cordial christian abhorrence between sectaries and 
 schismatics. The Turks and duakers are the most tolerant. If an in- 
 fidel pays his heratik to the former, he may pray how, when, and where 
 he pleases ; and the mild tenets and devout demeanour of the latter, make 
 their lives the truest corameatary on the Sermon on the Mount." 
 
LETTERS, 1811. 
 
 35 
 
 tree before I am withered. Other men can always take 
 refuge in their families ; I have no resource but my own 
 reflections, and they present no prospect here or here- 
 after, except the selfish satisfaction of sur\iving my bet- 
 ters. I am indeed very wretched, and you will excuse 
 ray saying so, as you know I am not apt to cant of sen- 
 sibility. 
 
 "Instead of tiring yourself with my concerns, I should 
 be glad to hear your plans of retirement. I suppose 
 you would not like to be wholly shut out of society ? 
 Now I know a large village or small town, about twelve 
 miles offj where your family would have the advantage 
 of very genteel society, without the hazard of being an- 
 noyed by mercantile affluence ; where you would meet 
 with men of information and independence ; and where I 
 have friends to whom 1 should be proud to introduce 
 you. There are besides, a coffee-room, assembUes, &c. 
 &c. which bring people together. My mother ha,d a 
 house there some years, and I am well acquainted with 
 the economy of Southwell, the name of this httle com- 
 monwealth. Lastly, you will not be very remote from 
 me ; and though I am the very worst companion for 
 young people in the world, this objection v/ould not 
 apply to you, whom I could see frequently. Your ex- 
 penses too would be such as best suit your inchnations, 
 more or less, as you thought proper 5 but very little 
 would be requisite to enable you to enter into all the 
 gayeties of a country life. You could be as quiet or 
 bustling as you liked, and certainly as well situated as on 
 the lakes of Cumberland, unless you have a particulai- 
 tvish to be picturesque. 
 
 " Pray, is your Ionian friend in town ? You have 
 promised me an introduction. — You mention having con- 
 sulted some friends on the MSS. — Is not this contrary 
 to our usual way ? Instruct Mr. Murray not to allow 
 bis shopman to call the work ' Child of Harrow's Pilgri- 
 mage !!!!!' as he has done to some of my astonished 
 friends, who wrote to mquire after my sanity on the oc- 
 casion, as well they might. I have heard nothing of 
 Murray, v.hom I scolded heartily. — ]Must I write more 
 notes? — Are there not enough? — Cawthorn must be 
 kept back with the 'Hints.' — 1 hope he is gettmg on 
 with Hobhouse's quarto. Good evening. 
 
 " Yours ever, &c." 
 
 LETTER XCVIL 
 
 TO MB. HODGSON. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Oct. 13, 1811. 
 
 " You will begin to deem me a most liberal corre- 
 spondent ; but as my letters are free, you will overlook 
 their frequency. I have sent you answers in prose and 
 verse to all your late communications, and though I am 
 invading your ease again, I don't know why, or what to 
 put down that you are not acquainted with already. I 
 am gxow'mg nervous (how you will laugh!) — but it is 
 true, — really, wretchedly, ridiculously, fine-ladically ner- 
 vous. Your climate kills me ; I can neither read, write, 
 nor amuse myself, or any one else. ]My days are list- 
 less, and my nights restless ; I have very seldom any 
 society, and when I have, I run out of it. At 'this pre- 
 sent writing,' there are hi the next room three ladies, 
 and I have stolen away to write this grumblmg letter. — 
 I don't know that I sha'n't end with insanity, for I find a 
 want of method in arranging my thoughts that perplexes 
 me strangely ; but this looks more like silliness than 
 madness, as Scrope Davies would facetiously remark in 
 his consolmg manner. I must try tlie hartshorn of your 
 company ; and a session of Parliament would suit me 
 well, — any thing to cure me of conjugating the accursed 
 verb 'ennuyer.'' 
 
 "When shall you be at Cambridge? You have 
 hinted, I think, that your friend Bland is returned from 
 
 Holland. I have always had a great respect for his 
 talents, and for all that I have heard of his character ; 
 but of me, I believe, he knows nothing, except that he 
 heard my sixth-form repetitions ten months together, at 
 the average of two hnes a morning, and those never per- 
 fect. I remembered him and his ' Slaves' as I passed 
 between Capes Matapan, St. Angelo, and his Isle of 
 Ceriga, and I always bewailed the absence of the An- 
 thology. I suppose he will now translate Vondel, the 
 Dutch Shakspeare, and ' Gysbert van Amstel' \vill easily 
 be accommodated to our stage in its present state ; and 
 I presume he saw the Dutch poem, where the love of 
 Pyramus and Thisbe is compared to the passion of 
 Christ ; also the love of Lucifer for Eve, and other va- 
 rieties of Low Country literature. No doubt you will 
 thmk me crazed to talk of such things, but they are all 
 in black and white and good repute on the banlis of every 
 canal from Amsterdam to Allanaar. 
 
 'Yours ever. 
 
 «B. 
 
 " P. S. My Poesy is in the hands of its various pub- 
 lishers ; but the ' Hints from Horace,' (to which I have 
 subjoined some savage hues on Methodism, and fero- 
 cious notes on the vanity of the triple Editory of the 
 Edin. Annual Register,) my '■ Hints,^ I say, stand still, 
 and why ? — I have not a friend in the world (but you 
 and Drury) who can construe Horace's Latin, or my 
 English, well enough to adjust them for the press, or to 
 correct the proofs in a grammatical way. So that, unless 
 you have bowels when you return to town, (I am too far 
 off to do it for myselfj) this ineffable work will be lost to 
 the world for — I don't know how many weeks. 
 
 " ' Childe Harold's Pilgrimage' mast wait till Murray^ s 
 is finished. He is making a tour in INIiddlesex, and is 
 to return soon, when high matter may be expected. He 
 wants to have it in quarto, which is a cursed unsaleable 
 size ; but it is pestilent long, and one must obey one's 
 bookseller. I trust Murray will pass the Paddington 
 Canal without being seduced by Payne and Mackinlay's 
 example, — I say Payne and Mackinlay, supposing that 
 the partnership held good. Drury, the villain, has not 
 written to me ; 'I am never (as I\Irs. Lumpkin says to 
 Tony) to be gratified with the monster's dear wild 
 notes.' 
 
 'So you are going (going indeed!) into orders. You 
 must make your peace with the Eclectic Reviewers — 
 they accuse you of impiety, I fear, with uijustice. De- 
 metrius, the 'Sieger of Cities,' is here, with 'Gilpin 
 Horner.' The painter is not necessary, as the portraits 
 he already pamted are (by anticipation) very hke the 
 new animals. — "Write, and send me your ' Love Song' — 
 but I want ' paulo majora' from you. Make a dash be- 
 fore you are a deacon, and try a dry pubhsher. 
 
 " Yours alsvays, « B." 
 
 LETTER XCVIIL 
 
 TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 
 
 "October 14,1811. 
 
 " DEAR SIR, 
 
 " Stanza 9, for Canto II. somewhat altered, to avoid a 
 recurrence in a former stanza. 
 
 STANZA IX. 
 ' There, thou !— whose love and life together fled, 
 Have left me here to love and live in vain :— 
 Twined with rny heart, and can 1 deem thee dead, 
 
 When busy memory flashes o'er my brain ? 
 Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 
 
 And woo the vision to my vacant breast : 
 If aught of young remembrance then remain, 
 Be as it may 
 
 Whate'er beside Futurity's behest ; 
 or,— Howe'er may be 
 
 For me 'twere bliss enough to see thy spirit blest !' 
 
36 
 
 LETTERS, 1811. 
 
 «I think it proper to state to yon, that this stanza 
 alludes to an event which has taken place since my 
 arrival here, and not to the death of any male friend. 
 "Yours, "B." 
 
 LETTER XCIX. 
 
 TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ.. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Oct. 16, 1811. 
 « I am on the wing for Cambridge. Thence, after a 
 short stay, to London. Will you be good enough to 
 keep an account of all the MSS. you receive, for fear of 
 omission 1 Have you adopted the three altered stanzas 
 of the latest proof? I can do nothing more with them. — 
 1 am glad you like the new ones. — Of the last, and of the 
 trio, I sent you a new edition — to-day a. fresh note. The 
 lines of the second sheet I fear must stand ; I will give 
 you reasons when we meet. 
 
 " Believe me, yours ever, 
 "Bfron." 
 
 LETTER C. 
 
 TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 
 
 « Cambridge, Oct. 25, 181L 
 "dear sir, 
 " I send you a conclusion to the whole. In a stanza 
 towards the end of Canto I. in the line, 
 
 • Oh, known the earliest and beloved the most,' 
 
 I shall alter the epithet to ' esteemed the most,' The 
 present stanzas are for the end of Canto II. In the be- 
 ginning of the week 1 shall be at No. 8, my old lodgings, 
 m St. James's-street, where I hope to have the pleasure 
 of seeing you. 
 
 "Yours ever, "B," 
 
 LETTER CL 
 
 TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 
 
 « 8, St. James's-street, Oct. 31, 1811 
 "dear sir, 
 
 " I have already taken up so much of your time that 
 there needs no excuse on your part, but a great many on 
 mine, for the present interruption. I have altered the 
 passages according to your wish. With this note I 
 send a few stanzas on a subject which has lately occupied 
 much of my thoughts. They refer to the death of one 
 to whose name you are a stranger, and, consequently, 
 cannot be interested. I mean them to complete the 
 present volume. They relate to the same person whom 
 1 have mentioned in Canto II. and at the conclusion of 
 the poem.* 
 
 " I by no means intend to identify myself with Harold, 
 but to deny all connexion with him. If in parts I may 
 be thought to have dra\ATi from myself, believe me it is 
 but in parts, and I shall not own even to that. As to 
 the 'Monastic dome,' &c. I thought those circumstances 
 would suit him as well as any other, and I could de- 
 scribe what I had seen better than I could invent. I 
 would not be such a fellow as I have made my h ro for 
 the world. 
 
 "Yours ever, "B." 
 
 cornelian,* which some years ago I consigned to Miss 
 * * * *, indeed gave to her, and now I am going to make 
 the most selfish and rude of requests. The person who 
 gave it to me, when I was very young, is dead, and 
 though a long time has elapsed since we met, as it was 
 the only memorial I possessed of that person, (in whom 
 I was very much interested,) it has acquired a value by 
 this event I could have wished it never to have borne in 
 my eyes. If, therefore. Miss * + * * should have pre- 
 served it, I must, under these circumstances, beg her to 
 excuse my requesting it to be transmitted to me at No. 
 8, St. James's-street, London, and I will replace it by 
 something she may remember me by equally well. As 
 she was always so kind as to feel interested in the fate 
 of him that formed the subject of our conversation, you 
 may tell her that the giver of that cornehan died in May 
 last of a consumption, at the age of twenty-one, making 
 the sixth, within four months, of friends and relatives that 
 I have lost — between May and the end of August. 
 " BeUeve me, dear Madam, 
 
 " Yours very sincerely, 
 « Byron. 
 "P. S. I so to London to-morrow." 
 
 LETTER CIL 
 
 TO »nSS PIGOT. 
 
 "Cambridge, Oct. 28, 1811. 
 "dear madam, 
 " I am about to write to you on a silly subject, and yet 
 I cannot well do otherwise You may remember a 
 
 LETTER cm. 
 
 MR. MOORE TO LORD BYROX. 
 
 "Dublm, January 1,1810. 
 "my lord, 
 "Having just seen the name of 'Lord Byron' pre- 
 fixed to a work, entitled 'English Bards and Scotch 
 Reviewers,' in which, as it appears to me, the lie is given 
 to a public statement of mine, respecting an affair with 
 Mr. Jeffrey some years since, I beg you will have the 
 goodness to inform me whether I may consider youi 
 lordship as the author of this publication. 
 
 " I shall not, I fear, be able to return to London for a 
 week or two ; but, in the mean time, I trust your lord- 
 ship v.ill not deny me the satisfaction of knowing whether 
 you avow the insult contained in the passages alluded to. 
 " It is needless to suggest to your lordship the pro- 
 priety of keeping our correspondence secret. 
 " I have the honour to be, 
 " Your lordship's very humble servant, 
 
 "Thomas Moore. 
 
 " 22, Molesworth-street.' 
 
 LETTER CIV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 " Cambridge, Oct. 27, ISn. 
 
 " SIS, 
 
 " Your letter followed me from Notts, to this place, 
 which will account for the delay of my reply. Your 
 
 Mr. Eklleslon. See the Letter following. 
 
 * See Letter 17. 
 
 t The above letter was transmitted by Mr. Moore to a friend of his 
 in London, with a request that he would deliver it in person, but as it did 
 not reach London until a few days after Lord Byron's departure for the 
 Continent, INIr. Moore"s friend placed it the hands of Mr. Hodgson, who 
 undertook- to forward it, but, as appears by the correspondence to which 
 it gave rise, neglected to do so. On Lord Byron's return to England, 
 Mr. Moore again wrote to him referring to his former letter, expressing 
 doubts of its having reached him, and restating in nearly the same words 
 the nature of the insult wliich, as it appeared to him, the 
 
 question was calculated to convey. " It is now useless," he continued, 
 " to speak of the steps with which it was my intention to follow up that 
 letter. The time which has elapsed since then, tliough it has done away 
 neither the injury nor the feeling of it, has, in many respects, materially 
 altered my situation : and the only object which I have now in writing to 
 your lordship is, to preserve some consistency with that former letter, 
 and to prove to you that the injured feeUng still exists, however circum- 
 stances may compel me to be deaf to its dictates at present. When I 
 say ' injured feeling,' let me assure your lordship that there is not a 
 single vindictive sentiment in my mind towards you. 1 mean but to ex- 
 press that uneasiness, under (what I consider to be) a charge of false- 
 hood, which must haunt a man of any feeling to his gi-ave. unless the 
 insult be retracted or atoned for ; and which, if I did not feel. I should, 
 indeed, deserve far worse than your lordship's Satire could inflict upon 
 me." In conclusion he added, '• that so far from being influenced by any 
 angry or resentful feeling towards him, it would eive him sincere plea- 
 sure, if, by anv satisfactory explanation, he would enable him to seek 
 the honour o{ being hencefonvard ranlied among his acquaintance." 
 To this letter, Lord Byron returned the above answer. 
 
LETTERS, 1811, 
 
 37 
 
 former letter 1 never had the honour to receive ; — be as- 
 sured, in whatever part of the world it had found me, I 
 should have deemed it my duty to return and answer it 
 in person. 
 
 " The advertisement you mention, I Imow nothing of 
 — At the time of your meeting with Mr. Jeffrey, I had 
 recently entered College, and remember to have heard 
 and read a number of squibs on the occasion, and from 
 the recollection of these I derived all my knowledge on 
 the subject, without the slightest idea of 'gi^'ing the lie' 
 to an address which I never beheld. When I put my 
 name to the production which has occasioned this cor- 
 respondence, I became responsible to all whom it might 
 concern, — to explain where it requires explanation, and 
 where insufficiently or too sufficiently explicit, at all 
 events to satisfy. My situation leaves me no choice : 
 it rests with the injured and the angry to obtain repara- 
 tion in their own way. 
 
 " With regard to the passage in question, you were 
 certainly not the person towards whom I felt personally 
 hostile. On the contrary, my whole thoughts were en- 
 grossed by one whom I had reason to consider as my 
 worst literary enemy, nor could I foresee that his former 
 antagonist was about to become his champion. You 
 do not specify what you would wish to have done : I can 
 neither retract nor apologize for a charge of falsehood 
 which I never advanced. 
 
 " In the beginning of the week, I shall be at No. 8, St. 
 James's-street. — Neither the letter nor the friend to 
 whom you stated your intention ever made their ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 "Your friend, Mr. Rogers, or any other gentleman 
 delegated by you, will find me most ready to adopt any 
 conciliatory proposition which shall not compromise ray 
 own honour, — or, failing in that, to make the atonement 
 you deem it necessary to require. 
 
 *' I have the honour to be, sir, 
 
 " Your most obedient, humble servant, 
 
 « BVRON." 
 
 LETTER CV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 '8, St. James's-street, Oct. 29, ISU. 
 
 •SIR, 
 
 "Soon after my return to England, my friend, Mr. 
 Hodgson, apprized me that a letter for me was in his 
 possession ; but a domestic event hurrying me from 
 London immediately after, the letter (which may most 
 probably be your own) is still unopened in his keeping. 
 IfJ on examination of the address, the similarity of the 
 handwriting should lead to such a conclusion, it shall be 
 opened in your presence, for the satisfaction of all parties. 
 Mr. H. is at present out of town ; — on Friday I shall see 
 liim, and request him to forward it to my address. 
 
 •' With regard to the latter part of both your letters, 
 until the principal point was discussed between us, I felt 
 myself at a loss in what manner to reply. Was I to an- 
 ticipate friendship from one, who conceived me to have 
 charged him with falsehood? Were not advances 
 under such circumstances, to be misconstrued, — not, 
 perhaps, by the person to whom they were addressed, 
 but by others ? In my case, such a step w^as impracti- 
 cable. If you, who conceived yourself to be the offended 
 person, are satisfied that you had no cause for offence, it 
 will not be difficult to convince me of it. My situation, 
 as I have before stated, leaves me no choice. I should 
 have felt proud of your acquaintance, had it commenced 
 under other circumstances ; but it must rest with you to 
 determine how far it may proceed after so auspicious a 
 beginning. 
 
 "I have the honour to be, &c." 
 
 LETTER CVI. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "8, St. James's-street, Oct. 30, ISIL 
 
 « SIR, 
 
 "You must excuse my troubling you once more upon 
 this very unpleasant subject. It would be a satisfaction 
 to me, and I should think, to yourself^ that the unopened 
 letter in Mr. Hodgson's possession, (supposing it to prove 
 your own,) should be returned 'in statu quo' to the 
 wTiter, particularly as you expressed yourself ' not 
 quite easy under the manner in which I had dwelt on its 
 miscarriage.' 
 
 "A few words more, and I shall not trouble you 
 further. I felt, and still feel, very much flattered by 
 those parts of your correspondence, which held out the 
 prospect of our becoming acquainted. If I did not 
 meet them in the first instance as perhaps I ought, let 
 the situation in which I was placed be my defence. 
 You have now declared yourself satisfied, and on that 
 point we are no longer at issue. If] therefore, you still 
 retain any wish to do me the honour you hinted at, I 
 shall be most happy to meet you, when, where, and how 
 you please, and I presume you will not attribute my 
 saying thus much to any unworthy motive. 
 
 " I have the honour to remain, &c." 
 
 LETTER CVII. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "8, St. James's-street, Nov. 1, 1811. 
 
 " SIR, 
 
 "As I should be very sorry to interrupt your Sunday's 
 engagement, if Monday, or any other day of the ensuing 
 week, would be equally convenient to yourself and friend, 
 I will then have the honour of accepting his invitation. 
 Of the professions of esteem with which Mr. Rogers has 
 honoured me, I cannot but feel proud, though undeserv- 
 ing. I should be wanting to myself if insensible to the 
 praise of such a man : and should my approaching in- 
 terview \\\i\\ him and his friend lead to any degree of 
 intimacy with both or either, I shall regard our past cor- 
 respondence as one of the happiest events of my life. 
 " I have the honour to be, 
 "Your very sincere and obedient servant, 
 
 " Byron.* 
 
 LETTER CVIII. 
 
 TO MR. HARNESS. 
 
 "8, St. James's-street, Dec. 6, 1811. 
 
 "my dear harness, 
 
 " I will write again, but don't suppose I mean to lav 
 such a tax on your pen and patience as to expect regular 
 replies. When you are inclined, write ; when silent, I 
 shall have the consola;tion of knowing that you are much 
 better employed. Yesterday, Bland and I called on 
 Mr. Miller, who, being then out, will call on Bland to- 
 day or to-morrovv. I shall certainly endeavour to brincr 
 them together. — You are censorious, child ; when you 
 are a little older, you w411 learn to disUke every body, but 
 abuse nobody. 
 
 " With regard to tlie person of whom you speak, your 
 own good sense must direct you. I never pretend to 
 advise, being an implicit believer in the old proverb. 
 This present frost is detestable. It is the first I have 
 felt these three years, though I longed for one in the 
 oriental summer, when no such thing is to be had, unless 
 I had gone to the top ofHymettus for it. 
 
 '■'• I thank you most truly for the concluding part of 
 your letter. I have been of late not much accustomed 
 to kindness from any quarter, and I am not the less 
 
38 
 
 LETTERS, 1811. 
 
 pleased to meet with it again from one, where I had 
 known it earhest. I have not changed in all my ram- 
 bUngs, — Harrow and, of course, yourself never left me, 
 and the 
 
 ' Dulces reminiscitiu" Argos' 
 attended me to the very spot to which that sentence al- 
 ludes in the mind of the fallen Argive. — Our intimacy 
 began before we began to date at all, and it rests with 
 you to continue it till the hour which must number it and 
 me with the thmgs that were. 
 
 "Do read mathematics, — I should think X plus Y at 
 least as amusing as the Curse of Kehama, and much 
 more intelligible. Master S.'s poems are, in fact, what 
 parallel lines might be — viz. prolonged ad injinitum 
 without meeting any thing half so absurd as themselves. 
 
 ' WTiatnews, what news ? dueeu Oreaca, 
 What news of scribblers five .-' 
 
 S , W , C e, L-d, and L-e ?— 
 
 All damn'd, though yet alive.' 
 
 "Coleridge is lecturing. 'Many an old fool,' said 
 Hannibal to some such lecturer, ' but such as this, never.' 
 "Ever your! 
 
 &c.' 
 
 LETTER CIX. 
 
 TO MR. HARNESS. 
 
 "8, St. James's-street, Dec. 8, 1811. 
 
 " Behold a most formidable sheet, without gilt or black 
 edging, and consequently very vulgar and indecorous, 
 particularly to one of your precision ; but this being Sun- 
 day, I can procure no better, and will atone for its length 
 by not filling it. Bland I have not seen shace my last 
 letter ; but on Tuesday he dines with me and will meet 
 M * * e, the epitome of all that is exquisite in poetical or 
 personal accomplishments. How Bland has settled 
 with Miller, I know not, I have very Uttle interest with 
 either, and they must arrange their concerns according 
 to their own gusto. I have done my endeavours, at your 
 request, to bring them together, and hope they may agi-ee 
 to their mutual advantage. 
 
 "Coleridge has been lecturing against Campbell. 
 Rogers was present, and from him I derive the informa- 
 tion. We are going to make a party to hear this Ma- 
 nichean of poesy. — Pole is to marry Miss Long, and 
 will be a very miserable dog for all that. The present 
 ministers are to continue, and his majesty does continue 
 in the same state, ^o there 's folly and madness for you, 
 both in a breath. 
 
 " I never heard but of one man truly fortunate, and he 
 was Beaumarchais, the author of Figaro, who buried 
 two wives and gained three lawsuits before he was 
 thirty. 
 
 " And now, child, what art thou doing ? Reading, I 
 trust. I want to see you take a degree. Remember 
 this is the most important period of your life ; and don't 
 disappoint your papa and your aunt, and all your kin — 
 besides myself. Don't you know that all male children 
 are begotten for the express purpose of being graduates ? 
 and that even I am an A. M. though how I became so 
 the Public Orator only can resolve. Besides, you are 
 to be a priest ; and to confute Sir WilUam Drummond's 
 late book about the Bible, (printed, but not pubUshed,) 
 and all other infidels whatever. Now leave master H.'s 
 gig, and master S.'s Sapphics, and become as immortal 
 as Cambridge can make you. 
 
 "You see, Mio Carissimo, what a pestilent corre- 
 spondent I am likely to become ; but then you shall be as 
 quiet at Newstead as you please, and I won't disturb 
 your studies, as I do now. When do you fix the day, 
 that I may take you up according to contract ? Hodg- 
 son talks of making a third in our journey : but we can't 
 stow him, inside at least. Positively you shall go with 
 me as was agreed, and don't let me have any of your 
 politesse to H. on the occasion. I shall manage to ar- 
 
 range for both with a little contrivance. I wish H. was 
 not quite so fat, and we should pack better. Has he 
 left oft' vinous Uquors ? He is an excellent soul ; but I 
 don't think water would improve him, at least mternally. 
 You will want to know what I am doing — chewing 
 tobacco. 
 
 "You see nothing of my allies, Scrope Davies and 
 Matthews — they don't suit you ; and how does it happen 
 that I — who am a pipkin of the same pottery — continue 
 in your good graces ? Good night, — I will go on in the 
 morning. 
 
 " Dec. 9. — In a morning I 'm always sullen, and to- 
 day is as sombre as myself Rain and mist are worse 
 than a sirocco, particularly in a beef-eating and beer- 
 drinking country. My bookseller, Cawthorne, has just 
 left me, and tells me, with a most important face, that he 
 is in treaty for a novel of Madame D'Arblay's, for which 
 1000 guineas are asked ! He wants me to read the MS. 
 (if he obtains it,) which I shall do with pleasure ; but I 
 should be very cautious in venturing an opinion on her 
 whose Ceciha Dr. Johnson superintended. If he lends 
 it to me, I shall put it into the hands of Rogers and 
 Moore, who are truly men of taste. I have filled the 
 sheet, and beg your pardon ; I will not do it again. I 
 shall, perhaps, write again, but if not, beheve, silent or 
 scribbling, that I am, 
 
 "My dearest William, ever, &c." 
 
 LETTER ex. 
 
 TO MJl. HODGSON. 
 
 "London, Dec. 8, 1811. 
 " I sent you a sad Tale of Three Friars the other day, 
 and now take a dose in another style. I wrote it a day 
 or two ago, on hearing a song of former days. 
 
 ' Away, away, ye notes of wo,* &c. &c.' 
 " I have gotten a book by Sir W. Drummond, (printed, 
 but not published,) entitled CEdipus Judaicus, in which 
 he attempts to prove the greater part of the Old Testa- 
 ment an allegory, particularly Genesis and Joshua. He 
 professes himself a theistinthe preface, and handles the 
 literal interpretation very roughly. I wish you could 
 see it. Mr. W * * has lent it me, and I confess, to me, 
 it is W'Orth fifty Watsons. 
 
 " You and Harness must fix on the time for your visit 
 to Newstead ; I can command mine at your wish, unless 
 any thing particular occurs in the interim. * * * 
 Bland dines with me on Tuesday to meet Moore. 
 Coleridge has attacked the 'Pleasures of Plope,' and 
 all other pleasures whatsoever. Mr. Rogers was pre- 
 sent, and heard himself indirectly rowed by the lecturer. 
 We are going in a party to hear the new Art of Poetry 
 by this reformed schismatic ; and were I one of these 
 poetical luminaries, or of sufficient consequence to be 
 noticed by the man of lectures, I should not hear him 
 without an answer. For, you know, ' an' a man will be 
 beaten with brains, he shall never keep a clean doublet.' 
 Campbell will be desperately annoyed. I never saw a 
 man (and of him I have seen very little) so sensitive ; — 
 what a happy temperament ! I am sorry for it ; what 
 can he fear from criticism ? I don't know if Bland has 
 seen Miller, who was to call on him yesterday. 
 
 " To-day is the Sabbath, — a day I never pass plea- 
 santly, but at Cambridge ; and, even there, the organ is 
 a sad remembrancer. Things are stagnant enough in 
 town, — as long as they don't retrograde, 't is all very well. 
 Hobhouse writes and writes and wiites, and is an author. 
 I do nothing but eschew tobacco. I wish parliament 
 were assembled, that I may hear, and perhaps some day 
 be heard ; — but on this point I am not very sanguine. I 
 have many plans ; — sometimes I think of the East again. 
 
 See Poems p. 186. 
 
LETTERS, 1811. 
 
 39 
 
 and dearly beloved Greece, I am well, but weakly. 
 Yesterday Kinnaird told me I looked very ill, and sent 
 me home happy. 
 
 " You will never give up wine ; — see what it is to be 
 thirty ; if you were six years younger, you might leave 
 off any thing. You dnnk and repent, you repent and 
 drink. Is Scrope still interesting and invalid? And 
 how does Hinde with his cursed chyraistry ? To Har- 
 ness I have written, and he has written, and we have all 
 written, and have nothing now to do but write again, till 
 death splits up the pen and the scribbler. 
 
 " The Alfred has 354 candidates for six vacancies. 
 The cook has run away and left us liable, which makes 
 our committee very plaintive. Master Brook, our head 
 serving man, has the gout, and our new cook is none of 
 the best. I speak from report, — for what is cookery to 
 a leguminous-eating ascetic? So now you know as 
 much of the matter as I do. Books and quiet are still 
 there, and they may dress their dishes in their own way 
 for me. Let me know your determination as to New- 
 stead, and believe me, Yours ever, 
 
 " Nwatpwj'." 
 
 LETTER CXI. 
 
 TO MR. HODGSON. 
 
 « 8, St. James's-street, Dec. 12, 1811. 
 
 " Why, Hodgson ! I fear you have left off wine and me 
 at the same time, — I have written and written and 
 written, and no answer! My dear Sir Edgar, water 
 disagrees with you, — drink sack and write. Bland did 
 not come to his appointment, being unwell, but Moore 
 supplied all other vacancies most delectably. I have 
 hopes of his joining us at Newstead. I am sure you 
 would lilie him more and more as he developes, — at 
 least I do. 
 
 " How Miller and Bland go on, I don't know. Caw- 
 thorne talks of being in treaty for a novel of M^. D'Ar- 
 blay's, and if he obtains it (at 1000 gs. ! !) wishes me to 
 see the MS. This I should read with pleasure, — not 
 that I should ever dare to venture a criticism on her 
 whose writings Dr. Johnson once revised, but for the 
 pleasure of the thmg. If my worthy pubhsher wanted a 
 sound opinion, 1 should send the MS. to Rogers and 
 Moore, as men most alive to true taste. I have had 
 frequent letters from Wm. Harness, and you are silent ; 
 certes, you are not a schoolboy. However, I have the 
 consolation of knowing that you are better employed, viz. 
 reviewing. You don't deserve that I should add another 
 syllable, and I won't. " Yours, &c. 
 
 " P. S. I only wait for your answer to fix our meeting." 
 
 LETTER CXII. 
 
 TO MR. HAE.NESS. 
 
 «8, St. James's-street, Dec. 15, 1811. 
 " I wrote you an answer to your last, which, on reflec- 
 tion, pleases me as little as it probably has pleased your- 
 self. I will not wait for your rejoinder ; but proceed to 
 tell you, that I had just then been greeted with an epistle 
 of **'s, full of his petty grievances, and this at the mo- 
 ment when (from circumstances it is not necessary to 
 enter upon) I was bearing up against recollections to 
 which his imaginary sufferings are as a scratch to a 
 cancer. These things combined, put me out of humour 
 with him and all mankind. The latter part of my life 
 has been a perpetual struggle against affections which 
 imbittered the earliest portion ; and though I flatter 
 myself I have in a great measure conquered them, yet 
 there are moments (and this was one) when I am as 
 foolish as formerly. I never said so much before, nor 
 had I said this now, if I did not suspect myself of having 
 been rather savage in my letter, and wish to inform you 
 
 thus much of the cause. You know I am not one of 
 your dolorous gentlemen : so now let us laugh again. 
 
 " Yesterday I went with Moore to Sydenham to visit 
 Campbell. He was not visible, so we jogged homeward, 
 merrily enough. To-morrow I dine with Rogers, and 
 am to hear Coleridge, who is a kind of rage at present. 
 Last night I saw Kemble in Coriolanus ; — he was glori" 
 ous, and exerted himself wonderfully. By good luck, I 
 got an excellent place in the best part of the house, which 
 was more than overflowing. Clare and Delaware, who 
 were there on the same speculation, were less fortunate. 
 I saw them by accident, — we were not together. I 
 wished for you, to gratify your love of Shakspeare and of 
 fine acting to its fullest extent. Last week I saw an ex- 
 hibition of a different kind in a Mr. Coates, at the Hay- 
 market, who performed Lothario in a damned and damn- 
 able manner. 
 
 " I told you of the fate of B. and H. in my last. So 
 much for these sentimentaUsts, who console themselves 
 in their stews for the loss — the never to be recovered 
 loss — the despair of the refined attachment of a couple 
 of drabs ! You censure my life, Harness : when I com- 
 pare myself with these men, my elders and my betters, I 
 really begin to conceive myself a monument of prudence 
 — a walking statue — without feeling or failing ; and yet 
 the W'orld in general hath given me a proud pre-eminence 
 over them in profligacy. Yet I lilte the men, and, God 
 knows, ought not to condemn their aberrations. But I 
 own I feel provoked when they dignify all this by the 
 na.me of love — romantic attachments for tilings market- 
 able for a dollar '. 
 
 "Dec. 16. — I have just received your letter. I feel 
 your kindness very deeply. The foregoing part of my 
 letter, written yesterday, will I hope, account for the tone 
 of the former, though it cannot excuse it. I do like to 
 hear from you — more than like. Next to seeing you, I 
 have no greater satisfaction. But you have other duties 
 and greater pleasures, and I should regret to take a mo-- 
 ment from either. H * * was to call to-day, but I have 
 not seen him. The circumstances you mention at the- 
 close of your letter is another proof in favour of my opi-^ 
 nion of mankind. Such you will always find them— 
 selfish and distrustful. I except none. The cause of 
 this is the state of society. In the world, every one is to 
 stir for himself— it is useless, perhaps selfish, to expect 
 any thing from his neighbour. But I do not think we 
 are born of this disposition ; for you find friendship as a 
 schoolboy, and love enough before twenty. 
 
 " I went to see * * ; he keeps me in to^vn, where I 
 don't wish to be at present. He is a good man, but 
 totally without conduct. And now, my dearest William, 
 I must wish you good morrow, and remain ever most sin- 
 cerely and affectionately yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CXIII. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 « December 11, ISIL 
 "my dear moore, 
 " If you please, we vvill drop our formal monosyllables^ 
 and adhere to the appellations sanctioned by our godfa- 
 thers and godmothers. If you make it a point, I will 
 withdraw^ your name ; at the same time there is no oc- 
 casion, as I have this day postponed your election ' sine 
 die,' till it shall suit your wishes to be among us. I do 
 not say this from any awkwardness the erasure of your 
 proposal would occasion to me, but simply such is the 
 state of the case ; and, indeed, the longer your name is 
 up, the stronger will become the probability of success^ 
 and your voters more numerous. Of course you will de- 
 cide — your wish shall be my law. If my zeal has 
 already outrun discretion, pardon me, and attribute my 
 officiousness to an excusable motive. 
 
40 
 
 LETTERS, 1812. 
 
 " I wish you would go down with me to Newstead. 
 Hodgson will be there, and a young friend, named Har- 
 ness, the earUest and dearest I ever had from the third 
 form at Harrow to this hour. I can promise you good 
 wine, and, if you like shooting, a manor of 4000 acres, 
 fires, books, your own free will, and my own very indif- 
 ferent company. ' Balnea, vina *+'** + 
 
 " Hodgson will plague you, I fear, with verse ; — for my 
 own part, I will conclude, with Martial, ' nil recitabo 
 tibi ;' and surely the last inducement is not the least. 
 Ponder on my proposition, and believe me, my dear 
 Moore, "Yours ever, "Byro>\" 
 
 LETTER CXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "January 29, 1812. 
 
 "my dear MOORE, 
 
 " I wish very much I could have seen you ; I am in a 
 state of ludicrous tribulation. 
 
 ******** 
 " Why do you say that I dislike your poesy? I have 
 expressed no such opinion, either in print or elsewhere. 
 In scribbling, myself, it was necessary for me to find fault, 
 and I fixed upon the trite charge of immorality, because 
 I could discover no other, and was so perfectly qualified, 
 in the innocence of my heart, to ' pluck that mote from 
 my neighbour's eye.' 
 
 " I feel very, very much obliged by your approbation ; 
 but, at this moment, praise, even your praise, passes by 
 me like ' the idle wmd.' I meant and mean to send you 
 a copy the moment of publication ; but now, I can think 
 of nothing but damned, deceitful, — delightful woman, as 
 Mr. Listen says in the Knight of Snowdon. 
 "Believe me, my dear Moore, 
 
 " ever yours, most affectionately, 
 
 "Byron." 
 
 LETTER CXV. 
 
 TO ROBERT RUSHTON. 
 
 " 8, St. James's-street, Jan. 21, 1812. 
 
 " Though I have no objection to your refusal to carry 
 letters to Mealey's, you will take care that the letters are 
 taken by Spero at the proper time. I have also to ob- 
 serve, that Susan [a servant in the family] is to be 
 treated with civility, and not insulted by any person over 
 whom I have the smallest control, or, indeed, by any one 
 whatever, while I have the power to protect her. I am 
 truly sorry to have any subject of complaint against t/om ; 
 I have too good an opinion of you to think I shall have 
 occasion to repeat it, after the care I have taken of you, 
 and my favourable intentions in your behalf. I see no 
 occasion for any communication whatever between you 
 and the women, and wish you to occupy yourself in pre- 
 paring for the situation in which you will be placed. If 
 a common sense of decency carmot prevent you from 
 conducting yourself towards thein with rudeness, I should 
 at least hope that your own interest, and regard for a 
 master who has never treated you with unkindness, will 
 have some weight. " Yours, &c, 
 
 " Byron. 
 
 "P. S. — I wish you to attend to your arithmetic, to 
 occupy yourself in surveying, measuring, and making 
 yourself acquainted with every particular relative to the 
 land of Newstead, and you will write to me one letter 
 every week, that I may know how you go on." 
 
 LETTER CXVL 
 
 TO ROBERT RUSHTON. 
 
 " 8, St. James's-street, Jan. 25, 1812. 
 " Your refusal to carry the letter was not a subject of 
 remonstrance ; it was not a part of your business ; but 
 
 the language you used to the girl was (as she stated it) 
 highly improper. 
 
 "You say that you also have something to complain 
 of; then state it to me immediately ; it would be very 
 unfair, and very contrary to my disposition, not to hear 
 both sides of the question. 
 
 " If any thing has passed between you before or since 
 my last visit to Newstead, do not be afraid to mention it. 
 I am sure you would not deceive me, though she would. 
 Whatever it is, you shall be forgiven. I have not been 
 without some suspicions on the subject, and am certain 
 that, at your time of life, the blame could not attach to 
 you. You will not consult any one as to your answer, 
 but write to me immediately. I shall be more ready to 
 hear what you have to advance, as I do not remember 
 ever to have heard a word from you before against any 
 human being, which convinces me you would not ma- 
 hciously assert an untruth. There is not any one who 
 can do tlie least injury to you while you conduct yourself 
 properly. I shall expect your answer immediately. 
 
 "Yours, &c. "Byron" 
 
 LETTER CXVIL 
 
 TO MR. HODGSON. 
 
 "8, St. James's-street, Feb. 16, 1812. 
 
 "dear HODGSON, 
 
 "I send you a proof. Last week I was very ill and 
 confined to bed with stone in the kidney, but I am now 
 quite recovered. If the stone had got into my heart in- 
 stead of my kidneys, it would have been all the better. 
 The women are gone to their relatives, after many at- 
 tempts to explain what was already too clear. However, 
 I have quite recovered that also, and only wonder at my 
 folly in excepting my o^^^l strumpets from the general 
 corruption, — albeit, a two iTionths' weakness is better 
 than ten years. I have one request to make, which is, 
 never mention a woman again in any letter to me, or 
 even allude to the existence of the sex. I won't even 
 read a word of the feminine gender ; it must all be 
 ' propria quae maribus.' 
 
 "In the spring of 1813 I shall leave England for ever. 
 Every thing in my affairs tends to this, and my inchna- 
 tions and health do not discourage it. Neither my 
 habits nor constitution are improved by your customs or 
 your climate, I shall find employment in making myself 
 a good oriental scholar. I shaU retain a mansion in one 
 of the fairest islands, and retrace, at intervals, the most 
 interesting portions of the East. In the mean time, I 
 am adjusting my concerns, which will (when arranged) 
 leave me with wealth — sufficient even for home, but enough 
 for a principality in Turkey. At present they are in- 
 volved, but I hope, by taking some necessary but un- 
 pleasant steps, to clear every thing. Hobhouse is ex- 
 pected daily in London ; we shall be very glad to see 
 him ; and, perhaps, you will come up and ' drmk deep 
 ere he depart,' if not, ' Mahomet must go to the moun- 
 tain ;' but Cambridge will bring sad recollections to him, 
 and worse to me, though for very different reasons. I 
 beUeve the only human being that ever loved me in truth 
 and entirely was of^ or belonging to, Cambridge, and, in 
 that, no change can now take place. There is one con- 
 solation -in death — where he sets his seal, the impression 
 can neither be melted or broken, but endureth for ever. 
 " Yours always, " B." 
 
 LETTER CXVIII. 
 
 TO MASTER JOHN COWELL. 
 
 " 8, St. James's-street, Feb. 12, 1812. 
 
 "my dear JOHN, 
 
 " You have probably long ago forgotten the writer of j 
 these lines, who would, perhaps, be unable to recognise 
 
LETTERS, 
 
 1812. 
 
 41 
 
 yourself, from the difference which must naturally have 
 taken place in your stature and appearance since he 
 saw you last. 1 have been rambling through Portu, 
 Spain, Greece, &c. &c. for some years, and have found 
 so many changes on my return, that it would be very 
 unfair not to expect that you should have had your share 
 of alteration and miprovement with the rest. I write to 
 request a favour of you : a httle boy of eleven years, the 
 son of jMr. * *, my particular fnend, is about to become 
 an Etonian, and I should esteem any act of protection or 
 kindness to him as an obligation to myself; let me beg 
 of you then to take some httle notice of him at first, till 
 he is able to shift for himself, 
 
 " I was happy to hear a very favourable account of 
 you from a schoolfellow a few weeks a^o, and should be 
 glad to learn that your family are as well as I wish them 
 to be. I presume you are in the upper school ; as an 
 Etonian, you will look down upon a Harrow man ; but I 
 never, even in my boyish days, disputed your superiority, 
 which I once experienced in a cricket match, where I 
 had the honour of making one of eleven, who were 
 beaten to their hearts' content by your college in one 
 innings. 
 
 " Beheve me to be, with great truth, &c. &c." 
 
 LETTER CXIX. 
 
 TO MR. ROGEKS. 
 
 "February 4, 1812. 
 "my dear sir, 
 
 " With my best acknowledgments to Lord Holland, I 
 have to offer my perfect concurrence in the propriety of 
 the question previously to be put to ministers. If their 
 answer is in the negative, I shall, with his lordship's ap- 
 probation, give notice of a motion for a Committee of In- 
 quiry. I would also gladly avail myself of his most able 
 advice, and any information or documents with which he 
 might be pleased to intrust me, to bear me out in the 
 statement of facts it may be necessary to submit to the 
 House. 
 
 " From all that fell under my own observation during 
 my Christmas visit to Newstead, I feel convinced that, 
 if conciliatory measures are not very soon adopted, the 
 most unhappy consequences may be apprehended. 
 Nightly outrage and daily depredation are already at 
 their height, and not only the masters of frames, who 
 are obnoxious on account of their occupation, but persons 
 in no degree connected with the malcontents or their 
 oppressors, are hable to insult and pillage. 
 
 '' I am very much obhged to you for the trouble you 
 have taken on my account, and beg you to beheve me 
 ever your obliged and sincere, &c." 
 
 LETTER CXX. 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 '•'8, St. James's-street, Feb. 25, 1812. 
 "my lord, 
 " With my best thanks, I have the honour to return 
 the Notts, letter to your lordship. I have read it \^•ith 
 attention, but do not think I shall venture to avail myself 
 of its contents, SlS my view of the question differs in some 
 mecLSure from Mr. Coldham's. I hope I do not wrong 
 him, but his objections to the bill appear to me to be 
 founded on certain apprehensions that he and his coad- 
 jutors might be mistaken for the ' original advisers' (to 
 quote him) of the measure. For my ov,-n part, I con- 
 sider the manufacturers as a much injured body of men, 
 sacrificed to the views of certain individuals who have 
 enriched themselves by those practices which have de- 
 prived the frame-workers of employment. For instance : 
 — by the adoption of a certain kind of frame, one man 
 performs the work of seven — six are thus thrown out of 
 business. But it is to be observed that the work thus 
 6 
 
 done is far inferior in quality, hardly marketable at home, 
 and hurried over with a view to exportation. Surely, 
 my lord, however we may rejoice in any improvement in 
 the arts which may be beneficial to mankind, we must 
 not allow manldnd to be sacrificed to improvements in 
 mechanism. The maintenance and well-doincr of the 
 industrious poor is an object of greater consequence to 
 the community than the enrichment of a few monopolists 
 by any improvement in the implements of trade, which 
 deprives the workman of his bread, and renders the la- 
 bourer 'unworthy of his hire.' My own motive for op- 
 posing the bill is founded on its palpable injustice, and 
 its certain inefficacy. I have seen the state of these 
 miserable men, and it is a disgrace to a civilized country. 
 Their excesses may be condemned, but cannot be 
 subject of wonder. The effect of the present bill would 
 be to drive them into actual rebellion. The few words 
 I shall venture to offer on Thursday will be founded 
 upon these opinions formed from my own observations 
 on the spot.* By previous inquiry, I am com-inced 
 these men would have been restored to employment and 
 the county to tranquillity. It is, perhaps, not yet too 
 late, and is surely worth the trial. It can never be too 
 late to employ force in such circumstances. I beheve 
 your lordship does not coincide with me entirely on this 
 subject, and most cheerfully and sincerely shall 1 submit 
 to your superior judgment and experience, and take 
 some other line of argument against the bill, or be silent 
 altogether, should you deem it more advisable. Con- 
 demning, as every one must condemn, the conduct of 
 these wretches, I beheve in the existence of grievances 
 which call rather for pity than punishment. I have the 
 honour to be, with great respect, my lord, 
 " Your lordship's 
 " most obedient and obhged servant, 
 
 "Btrox. 
 "P. S. — I am a httle apprehensive that your lordship 
 will thmk me too lenient towards these men, and half a 
 frame-breaker myself,'^ 
 
 LETTER CXXI. 
 
 TO MR. HODGSOX. 
 
 " 8, St. James's-street, March 5, 1812. 
 "my dear hodgsox, 
 " We are not answerable for reports of speeches in 
 the papers, they are always given incorrecllv, and on 
 this occcision more so than usual, from the debate in the 
 Commons on the same night. The Morning Post should 
 have said eighteen years. However, you will find the 
 speech, as spoken, in the Parhamentary Register, when 
 it comes out. Lords Holland and GrenviUe, particularly 
 the latter, paid me some high compliments in the course 
 of their speeches, as you may have seen in the papers, 
 and Lords Eldon and Harrowby answered me. I have 
 had many marvellous eulogies repeated to me since, in 
 person and by proxy, from divers persons ministerial — 
 yea ministerial ! — as well as oppositionists ; of them I 
 shall only menuon Sir F. Burdett. He says, it is the 
 best speech by a lord since the 'Lord knows when,' 
 probably from a fellow-feeling in the sentiments. Lord 
 H. tells me I shall beat them all if I persevere, and 
 Lord G. remarked that the construction of some of my 
 periods are very hke Burke's!! And so much for 
 vanity. I spoke very violent sentences with a sort of 
 modest impudence, abused every thing and every body, 
 and put the Lord Chancellor very much out of humour ; 
 and if I may beheve what I hear, have not lost any 
 character by the experiment. As to my deUvery, loud 
 and fluent enough, perhaps a httle theatrical. I could 
 not recognise myself or any one else in the newspapers, 
 * + * 
 
 See his first Si;eech, page 272. 
 
42 
 
 LETTERS, 1812. 
 
 "My poesy comes out on Saturday. Hobhouse is 
 here ; I shall tell him to write. My stone is gone for 
 the present, but I fear is part of my habit. We all tallc 
 of a visit to Cambridge. 
 
 "Yours ever. "B." 
 
 LETTER CXXn. 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 "St. James's-street, March 5th, 1812. 
 
 *MY LORD, 
 
 "May I request your Lordship to accept a copy* of 
 the thing which accompanies this note? You have 
 already so fully proved the truth of the first line of 
 Pope's couplet, 
 
 ' Forgiveness to the injured doth belong, 
 
 tliM I long for an opportunity to give the lie to the verse 
 that follows. If I were not perfectly convinced that any 
 thing I may have formerly uttered in the bojash rashness 
 of my misplaced resentment had made as little impres- 
 sion as it deser%'ed to make, I should hardly have the con- 
 fidence — perhaps your lordship may give it a stronger 
 and more appropriate appellation — to send you a quarto 
 of the same scribbler. But your lordship, I am sorry to 
 observe to-day, is troubled with the gout : if my book can 
 produce a laugh against itself or the author, it will be of 
 some service. If it can set you to sleep, the benefit will 
 be yet greater ; and as some facetious personage observed 
 half a century ago, that ' poetry is a mere drug,' I offer 
 you mine as an humble assistant to the ' eau medecinale.' 
 I trust you will forgive this and all my other buffooneries, 
 and beheve me to be, with great respect, 
 
 " Your lordship's obUged and sincere servant, 
 
 " Byron." 
 
 In relanon to the following note of Lord Byron, Mr. 
 Moore says : — 
 
 "Not long afler the publication of Childe Harold, the 
 noble author paid me a visit, one morning, and, putting a 
 letter into my hands, which he had just received, request- 
 ed that I would undertake to manage for him whatever 
 proceedings it might render necessary. This letter, I 
 found, had been delivered to him by Mr. Leckie, (a gen- 
 tleman well kno\\Ti by a work on Sicilian affairs,) and 
 came from a once active and popular member of the 
 fashionable world. Colonel Greville, — its purport being to 
 require of his lordship, b,s author of 'English Bards, &c.' 
 such reparation as it was in his power to make for the 
 injury which, as Colonel Greville conceived, certain pas- 
 sages in that Satire, reflecting upon his conduct, as 
 manager of the Arg}'le Institution, were calculated to 
 inflict upon his character. In the appeal of the gallant 
 colonel, there were some expressions of rather an angry 
 cast, which Lord Byron, though fully conscious of the 
 length to which he himself had gone, was but Uttle in- 
 clined to brook, and, on my returning the letter into his 
 hands, he said, ' To such a letter as that there can be 
 but one sort of answer.' He agreed, however, to trust 
 the matter entirely to my discretion, and I had, shortly 
 after, an interview with the friend of Colonel Greville. 
 By this gendeman, who was then an utter stranger to 
 me, I was received with much courtesy, and with everv 
 disposition to bring the affair intrusted to us to an ami- 
 cable issue. On my premising that the tone of his friend's 
 letter stood in the way of negotiation, and that some ob- 
 noxious expressions which it contained must be removed 
 before I could proceed a single step towards explanation. 
 
 * Childe Harold. To his sister, Mrs. Leigh, one of the first presen- 
 tation copies was also sent, with the following inscription in it : — 
 
 " To Augusta, my dearest sister, and my best friend, who has ever 
 loved me much better than 1 deserved, this volume is piesenled by her 
 father't Kin, and moat affectionate brother, " B." 
 
 he most readily consented to remove this obstacle. At 
 his request I drew a pen across the parts I considered 
 objectionable, and he undertook to send me tiie letter 
 re-written, next morning. In the mean time, I received 
 from Lord Byron the following paper for my guidance.' 
 
 " With regard to the passage on Mr. Way's loss, no 
 unfair play was hinted at, as may be seen by referring to 
 the book ; and it is expressly added that the managers 
 were ignorant of that transaction. As to the prevalence 
 of play at the Argyle, it cannot be denied that there were 
 billiards and dice; — Lord B. has been a witness to the 
 use of both at the Argjde Rooms. These, it is pre- 
 sumed, come under the denomination of play. If play 
 be allowed, the President of the Institution can hardly 
 complain of being termed the 'Arbiter of Play,' — or 
 what becomes of his authority ? 
 
 " Lord B. has no personal animosity to Colonel 
 Greville. A public institution, to which he, himself was 
 a subscriber, he considered himself to have a right to 
 notice publicly. Of that institution. Colonel Greville 
 was the avowed director ; — it is too late to enter into the 
 discussion of its merits or demerits. 
 
 " Lord B. must leave the discussion of the reparation, 
 for the real or supposed injury, to Colonel G.'s friend 
 and Mr. Moore, the friend of Lord B. — begging them to 
 recollect that, while they consider Colonel G.'s honour. 
 Lord B. must also maintain his own. If the business 
 can be settled amicably, Lord B. will do as much as can 
 and ought to be done by a man of honour towards con- 
 cihation ; — if not, he must satisfy Colonel G. in the man- 
 ner most conducive to his further wishes." 
 
 " In the morning I received the letter, in its new form, 
 from Mr. Leckie, with the annexed note. 
 "'my dear sir, 
 " ' I found my friend very ill in bed ; he has, however, 
 managed to copy the enclosed, with the alterations pro- 
 posed. Perhaps you may wish to see me in the morn- 
 ing ; I shall therefore be glad to see you any time till 
 twelve o'clock. If you rather wish me to call on you, 
 tell me, and I shall obey your summons. 
 
 " 'Yours, very trulv, 
 
 '"G.^T. Leckie. 
 " With such facilities towards pacification, it is almost 
 needless to add, that there was but httle delay in settling 
 the matter amicably." 
 
 LETTER CXXIIL 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 
 
 "April 20th, 1812. 
 
 "my dear BANKES, 
 
 " I feel rather hurt (not savagely) at the speech you 
 made to me last night, and my hope is, that it was only 
 one of your profane jests. I should be very sorry that 
 any part of my behaviour should give you cause to supH 
 pose that I think higher of myseli^ or otherwise of you, 
 than I have always done. I can assure you that I am 
 as much the humblest of your servants as at Trin. Coll.; 
 and if I have not been at home when you favoured me 
 with a call, the loss was more mine than yours. In the 
 bustle of buzzing parties, there is, there can be, no 
 rational conversation ; but when I can enjoy it, there is 
 nobody's I can prefer to your own. 
 
 "Beheve me ever faithfully 
 
 " £uid most affectionately yours, 
 
 " Byron." 
 
 LETTER CXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 
 "my dear BANKES, 
 
 "My eagerness to come to an explanation has, I 
 trust, convinced you that whatever my unlucky manner 
 
LETTERS, 1812. 
 
 43 
 
 might inadvertently be, the change was as unintentional 
 as (if intended) it would have been ungrateful. I really 
 was not aware that, while we were together, I had 
 evinced such caprices ; that we were not so much in 
 each other's company as I could have wished, I well 
 know, but I think so acute an observer as yourself must 
 have perceived enough to explain this, without supposing 
 any slight to one in whose society I have pride and 
 pleasure. Recollect that I do not allude here to ' ex- 
 tended' or 'extending' acquaintances, but to circum- 
 stances you will understand, I think, on a little reflection. 
 
 " And now, my dear Bankes, do not distress me by 
 supposing that I can think of you, or you of me, otherwise 
 than I trust we have long thought. You told me not 
 long ago that my temper was improved, and I should be 
 sorry that opinion should be revoked. Believe me, your 
 friendship is of more account to me than all those absurd 
 vanities in which, I fear, you conceive me to take too 
 much interest. I have never disputed your superiority, 
 or doubted (seriously) your good will, and no one shall 
 ever ' make mischief between us' without the sincere 
 regret on the part of your ever affectionate, &c. 
 
 " P. S. I shall see you, 1 hope, at Lady Jersey's. 
 Hobhouse goes also." 
 
 NOTES TO MR. MOOKE. 
 
 "March 25th, 1812. 
 
 "Know all men by these presents, that you, Thomas 
 Moore, stand indicted — no — invited, by special and par- 
 ticular solicitation, to Lady Caroline Lamb's, to-morrow- 
 even, at half-past nine o'clock, where you will meet with 
 a civil reception and decent entertainment. Pray, come 
 — I was so examined after you this morning, that I en- 
 treat you to answer in person. Believe me, &c." 
 
 " Friday noon. 
 
 " I should have answered your note yesterday, but I 
 hoped to have seen you this morning. I must consult 
 with you about the day we dine with Sir Francis. I 
 suppose we shall meet at Lady Spencer's to-night. I 
 did not know that you were at Miss Berry's the other 
 night, or I should have certainly gone there. 
 
 "As usual, I am in all sorts of scrapes, though none, 
 at present, of a martial description. Believe me, &c." 
 
 "May 8th, 1812. 
 
 " I am too proud of being your friend to care with 
 whom I am linked in your estimation, and, God knows, 
 I W8.nt friends more at this time than at any other. I 
 am ' taking care of myself' to no great purpose. If you 
 knew my situation in every point of view, you would 
 excuse apparent and unintentional neglect. * + 
 
 I sh ill leave town, I think ; but do not you leave it with- 
 out seeing me. I wish you, from my soul, every happi- 
 ness you can wish yourself; and I think you have taken 
 the road to secure it. Peace be with you I I fear she 
 has abandoned me. Ever, &c." 
 
 "May 20th, 1812. 
 
 " On Monday, after sitting up all night, I saw Belling- 
 ham launched into eternity, and at three the same day 
 I saw * * * launched into the country. * * * 
 
 "I believe, in the beginning of June, I shall be down 
 for a few days in Notts. If so, I shall beat you up 
 ' en passant' with Hobhouse, who is endeavouring, 
 like you and every body else, to keep me out of scrapes. 
 
 " I meant to have written you a long letter, but I find I 
 cannot. If any thing remarkable occurs, you will hear 
 it from me — if good ; if bad, there are plenty to tell it. 
 In the mean time do you be happy. 
 
 " Ever yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. My best wishes and respects to Mrs. Moore, 
 -—she is beautiful. I may say so even to you, for I 
 never was more struck with a countenance." 
 
 LETTER CXXV. 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 " June 25th, 1812. 
 
 "my dear LORD, 
 
 "I must appear very ungrateflil, and have, indeed, 
 been very negligent, but till last night I was not apprized 
 of Lady Holland's restoration, and I shall call to-morrow 
 to have the satisfaction, I trust, of hearing that she is 
 well. — I hope that neither politics nor gout have assailed 
 your lordship since 1 last saw you, and that you also are 
 ' as well as could be expected.' 
 
 " The other night, at a ball, I was presented by ordei 
 to our gracious Regent, who honoured me with some 
 conversation, and professed a predilection for poetry. — 
 I confess it was a most unexpected honour, and I thought 
 of poor Brummell's adventure, with some apprehensions 
 of a similar blunder. I have now great hope, in the 
 event of Mr. Pye's decease, of warbling truth at court,' 
 like Mr. Mallett, of indifferent memory. — Consider 100 
 marks a year ! besides the wine and the disgrace ; but 
 then remorse would make me drown myself in my own 
 butt before the year's end, or the finishing of my first 
 dithyrambic. So that, after all, I shall not meditate our 
 laureate's death by pen or poison. 
 
 " Will you present my best respects to Lady Holland, 
 and believe me hers and yours very sincerely." 
 
 LETTER CXXVL 
 
 TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 " St. James's-street, July 6th, 1812, 
 
 " SIR, 
 
 " I have just been honoured with your letter. — I feel 
 sorry that you should have thought it worth while to 
 notice the ' evil works of my non-age,' as the thing is 
 suppressed voluntarily, and your explanation is too kind 
 not to give me pain. The Satire was written when I 
 was very young and very angry, and fully bent on dis- 
 playing my wrath and my wit, and now I am haunted 
 by the ghosts of my wholesale assertions. I cannot 
 sufficiently thank you for your praise ; and now, waiving 
 myself, let me talk to you of the Prince Regent. He 
 ordered me to be presented to him at a ball ; and after 
 some sayings peculiarly pleasing from royal lips, as to 
 my own attempts, he talked to me of you and your im- 
 mortalities: he preferred you to every bard past and 
 present, and asked which of your works pleased me 
 most. It was a difficult question. I answered, I 
 thouo-ht the ' Lay.' He said his own opinion was nearly 
 similar. In speaking of the others, I told him that I 
 thought you more particularly the poet of Princes, as 
 they never appeared more fascinating than in ' Marmion, 
 and the 'Lady of the Lake.' He was pleased to coin- 
 cide, and to dwell on the description of your Jameses as 
 no less royal than poetical. He spoke alternately of 
 Homer and yourselfj and seemed well acquainted with 
 both ; so that (with the exception of the Turks and your 
 humble servant) you were in very good company. I 
 defy Murray to have exaggerated his royal highness's 
 opinion of your powers, nor can I pretend to enumerate 
 all he said on the subject ; but it may give you pleasure 
 to hear that it was conveyed in language which would 
 only suffer by my attempting to transcribe it, and with a 
 tone and taste which gave me a very high idea of his 
 abilities and accomplishments, which I had hitherto con- 
 sidered as confined to manners, certainly superior to 
 those of any living gentleman. 
 
 " This interview was accidental. I never went to the 
 levee ; for having seen the courts of Mussulman and 
 Catholic sovereigns, my curiosity was sufficiently allayed, 
 and my politics being as perverse as my rhymes, I had, 
 in fact, ' no business there.' To be thus praised by your 
 Sovereign must be gratifying to you ; and if that gratifi- 
 
44 
 
 LETTERS, 1812. 
 
 cation is not alloyed by the communication being made 
 through me, the bearer of it will consider himself very 
 fortunately and sincerely 
 
 " Your obliged and obedient servant, 
 
 « BVRON. 
 
 "P. S. Excuse this scrawl, scratched in a great hurry 
 and just after a journey." 
 
 LETTER CXXVII. 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 « Cheltenham, September 10, 1812. 
 
 " MY DEAR LORD, 
 
 " The lines* which I slcetched off on your hint are still, 
 or rather loere, in an unfinished state, for I have just com- 
 mitted them to a flame more decisive than that of Drury. 
 Under all the circumstances, I should hardly wish a con- 
 test with Philo-drama — Philo-Drury — Asbestos, H * *, 
 and all the anonymes and synonymes of the Committee 
 candidates. Seriousl)',I think you have a chance ofsome- 
 thinor much better; for prologuizing is not my forte, and, 
 at all events, either my pride or my modesty won't let me 
 incur the hazard of having my rhymes buried in next 
 month's Magazine, under 'Essays on the Murder of Mr. 
 Perceval,' and ' Cures for the Bite of a Mad Dog,' as 
 poor Goldsmith complained of the fate of far superior 
 performances. 
 
 " I am still sufficiently interested to wish to know the 
 successful candidate ; and, among so many, I have no 
 doubt some will be excellent, particularly in an age when 
 writing verse is the easiest of all attainments. 
 
 "I cannot answer your intelligence with the 'like 
 comfort,' unless, as you are deeply theatrical, you may 
 wish to hear of Mr. * *, whose acting is, I fear, utterly 
 inadequate to the London engagement into which the 
 managers of Covent Garden have lately entered. His 
 figure is fat, his features flat, his voice unmanageable, his 
 action ungraceful, and, as Diggory says, 'I defy him to 
 eortort that d — d muffin face of his into madness.' I was 
 very sorry to see him in the character of the ' Elephant 
 on the slack rope ;' for, when I last saw him, I was in 
 raptures with his performance. But then I was sixteen, 
 — an age to which all London then condescended to 
 subside. After all, much better judges have admired, 
 and may again ; but I venture to ' prognosticate a pro- 
 phecy' (see the Courier) that he will not succeed. 
 
 " So, poor dear Rogers has stuck fast on ' the brow of 
 the mighty Helvellyn' — I hope not for ever. My best 
 respects to Lady H. — her departure, with that of my 
 other friends, was a sad event for me, now reduced to a 
 state of the most cynical solitude. ' By the waters of 
 Cheltenham I sat down and drank; when I remembered 
 thee, oh, Georgiana Cottage! As for our harps, we 
 hanged them upon the willows that grew thereby. Then 
 they said. Sing us a song of Drury-lane,' &c. — but I am 
 dumb and dreary cis the Israelites. The waters have 
 disordered me to my heart's content, — you were right, as 
 you always are. 
 
 "Believe me ever your obhged 
 
 ■• and affectionate servant, 
 « Byron." 
 
 LETTER CXXVIIL 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 "September 22, 1812. 
 
 *MY DEAR LORD, 
 
 " In a day or two I will send you something which you 
 will still have the liberty to reject if you dislike it. I 
 should like to have had more time, but will do my best, 
 
 Address a( the opening of Drury Lane Theatre. 
 
 — but too happy if I can oblige you, though 1 may offend 
 100 scribblers and the discerning public. 
 
 " Ever yours. 
 " Keep my name a secret ; or I shall be beset by alj 
 the rejected, and perhaps damned by a party." 
 
 LETTER CXXIX. 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 "Cheltenham, September 23, 1812. 
 
 "Ecco! — I have marked some passages with doublt 
 readings — choose between them — cut — add — reject — or 
 destroy — do with them as you will — I leave it to you and 
 the Committee — you cannot say so called a ^non com' 
 mittendo? What will they do (and I do) with the hun- 
 dred and one rejected Troubadours ? ' With trumpets, 
 yea, and with shawms,' will you be assailed in the most 
 diabolical doggerel. I wish my name not to transpire till 
 the day is decided. I shall not be in towTi, so it won't 
 much matter ; but let us have a good deliverer. I think J 
 
 Elliston should be the man, or Pope ; not Raymond, I ■ 
 implore you by the love of Rhythmus ! ^ 
 
 " The passages marked thus = =, above and below, 
 are for you to choose between epithets, and such like 
 poetical furniture. Pray write me a line, and believe J 
 me ever, &c. I 
 
 " My best remembrances to Lady H. Will you be 
 good enough to decide between the various readings 
 marked, and erase the other ; or our deliverer may be as 
 puzzled as a commentator, and belike repeat both. If 
 these versicles won't do I will hammer out some more 
 endecasyllables. 
 
 "P. S. Tell Lady H. I have had sad work to keep out 
 the PhcenLx — I mean the Fire-Office of that name. It 
 has ensured the theatre, and why not the Address ?" 
 
 LETTER CXXX. 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 « September 24. 
 " I send a recast of the first four Imes of the concluding 
 paragraph. 
 
 " This greeting o'er, the ancient nile obey'd, 
 The drama's homage by her Herald paid, 
 Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
 Springs from our hearts and fain would win your own. 
 The curtain rises, &c. &c. 
 
 And do forgive all this trouble. See what it is to have 
 to do even with the genteelest of us. Ever, &c." 
 
 LETTER CXXXL 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 " Cheltenham, Sept. 25, 1812. 
 "Still 'more matter for a May morning.' Having 
 patched the middle and end of the Address, I send one 
 more couplet for a part of the beginning, which, if not too 
 turgid, you will have the goodness to add. After thai 
 flagrant image of the Thames, (I hope no unlucky wag 
 will say I have set it on fire, though Dryden, in his 
 ' Annus Mirabilis,' and Churchill, in his ' Times,' did it 
 before me,) I mean to insert this : 
 
 " As flashing far the new Volcano shone 
 meteors 
 And swept the skies with lightnings not their own, 
 While thousands throng'd around the burning dome, &c. &c. 
 
 I think ' thousands' less flat than ' crowds collected' — but 
 don't let me plunge into the bathos, or rise into Nat. 
 Lee's Bedlam metaphors. B3'-the-by, the best view of 
 the said fire (which I myself saw from a housetop in 
 Covent- garden) was at Westminster Bridge, fi-om the 
 reflection on the Thames. 
 
LETTERS, 
 
 1812. 
 
 45 
 
 " Perhaps the present couplet had better come in after 
 * trembled for their homes,' the two lines after ; — as other- 
 wise the image certainly sinlcs, and it will run just as 
 well, 
 
 " The lines themselves, perhaps, may be better thus — 
 (' choose,' or ' refuse' — but please yourself.^ and don't 
 mind 'Sir Fretful') — 
 
 sadly 
 " As flash'd the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 
 The skies with lightnings awful as their own. 
 
 The last runs smoothest, and, I think, best ; but you know 
 better than best. ' Lurid' is also a less indistinct epithet 
 than ' livid wave,' and, if you think so, a dash of the pen 
 will do. 
 
 " I expected one line this morning ; in the mean time, 
 I shall remodel and condense, and if I do not hear from 
 you, shall send another copy. 
 
 " I am ever, &c." 
 
 LETTER CXXXIl. 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 "September 26, 1812. 
 You will think there is no end to my villanous 
 emendations. The fifth and sixth lines I think to alter 
 thus: 
 
 "Ye who beheld — oh sight admired and mourn'd, 
 Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd ; 
 
 because 'night' is repeated the next line but one; and, 
 as it now stands, the conclusion of the paragraph, ' wor- 
 thy him (Shakspeare) and you,^ appears to apply the 
 'you^ to those only who were out of bed and in Covent- 
 garden market on the night of conflagration, instead of 
 the audience or the discerning public at large, all of whom 
 are intended to be comprised in that comprehensive and, 
 I hope, comprehensible pronoun. 
 
 " By-the-by, one of my corrections in the fair copy 
 sent yesterday has dived into the bathos some sixty 
 fathom — 
 
 " When Garrick died, and Brinsley ceased to write. 
 
 Ceasing to live is a much more serious concern, and 
 ought not to be first ; therefore I will let the old couplet 
 stand, with its half rhymes ' sought' and ' wrote.'* Second 
 thoughts in every thing are best, but, in rhyme, third and 
 fourth don't come amiss. I am very anxious on this 
 business, and I do hope that the very trouble I occasion 
 you will plead its own excuse, and that it will tend to 
 show my endeavour to make the most of the time allot- 
 ted. I wish I had known it months ago, for in that case 
 I had not left one line standing on another. I always 
 scrawl in this way, and smooth as much as I can, but 
 never sufficiently ; and, latterly, I can weave a nine-line 
 stanza faster than a couplet, for which measure I have 
 not the cunning. When 1 began ' Childe Harold,' 1 had 
 never tried Spenser's measure, and now I cannot scribble 
 in any other. 
 
 "After all, my dear lord, if you can get a decent Ad- 
 dress elsewhere, don't hesitate lo put this aside. Why 
 did you not trust your own Muse ? I am very sure she 
 would have been triumphant, and saved the Committee 
 their trouble — ' 't is a joyful one' to me, but I fear I shall 
 not satisfy even myself. After the account you sent me, 
 't is no compliment to say, you would have beaten your 
 candidates ; but I mean that, in that case, there would 
 have been no occasion for their being beaten at all. 
 
 " There are but two decent prologues in our tongue — 
 Pope's to Cato — Johnson's to Drury-lane. These, with 
 
 the epilogue to the ' Distressed Mother,' and, I think, one 
 of Goldsmith's, and a prologue of old Colman's to Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher's Philaster, are the best things of the 
 kind we have. 
 
 " P. S. I am diluted to the throat with medicine for the 
 stone ; and Boisragon wants me to try a warm climate 
 for the winter — but I won't." 
 
 LETTER CXXXIII. 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 « September 27, 1812. 
 " I have just received your very kind letter, and hope 
 you have met with a second copy corrected and ad- 
 dressed to Holland House, with some omissions and this 
 new couplet, 
 
 " As glared each rising flash,* and ghastly shone 
 The skies with lightnings awful as their own. 
 
 As to remarks, I can only say I will alter and acquiesce in 
 any thing. With regard to the part which Whitbread 
 wishes to omit, I believe the Address will go off quicker 
 without it, though hke the agility of the Hottentot, at the 
 expense of its vigour. I leave to your choice entirely the 
 different specimens of stucco-work; and a brick of your 
 own will also much improve my Babylonish turret. I should 
 like EUiston to have it, with your leave. 'Adorn' and 
 'mourn' are lawful rhymes in Pope's death of the unfor- 
 tunate Lady — Gray has ' forlorn' and ' mourn' — and ' torn' 
 and ' mourn' are in Smollet's famous Tears of Scotland. 
 " As there will probably be an outcry among the re- 
 jected, I hope the Committee will testify (if it be need- 
 ful) that I sent in nothing to the congress whatever, with 
 or without a name, as your lordship well knows. All I 
 have to do with it is with and through you ; and though 
 1, of course, wish to satisfy the audience, I do assure 
 you my first object is to comply with your request, and 
 in so doing to shov^ the sense I have of the many obli- 
 gations you have conferred upon me. 
 
 "Yours ever, «B." 
 
 LETTER CXXXIV. 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 * " Such are the nances that here your plaudits sought, 
 When Garrick acted, and when Brinsley wrote." 
 At present the couplet stands thus : 
 
 " Dear are the days that made our annals bright, 
 Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write." 
 
 "September 27, 1812. 
 " I believe this is the third scravv-l since yesterday — all 
 about epithets. I think the epithet ' intellectual' won't 
 convey the meaning I intend ; and though I hate com- 
 pounds, for the present I will try (col' permesso) the 
 word 'genius-gifted patriarchs of our line'f instead. 
 Johnson has ' many-coloured life,' a compound — but they 
 are always best avoided. However, it is the only one in 
 ninety lines, but will be happy to give way to a better. 
 I am ashamed to intrude any more remembrances on 
 Lady H. or letters upon you ; but you are, fortunately 
 for me, gifted with patience already too often tried by 
 "Your,&c. &c." 
 
 LETTER CXXXV. 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 « September 28, 1812. 
 " Will this do better ? the metaphor is more complete. 
 
 lava of tke 
 " Till slowly ebb'd the spent volcanic wave, 
 And blackening ashes mark'd the Muse's grave. 
 
 If not, we will say 'burning' wave, and instead of 'burn- 
 ing clime,' in the line some couplets back, have 'glowing.' 
 " Is Whitbread determined to castrate all my cavalry 
 
 At present, "As glared the volumed blaze." 
 This, as finally altered, is 
 
 " Immortal names, emblazoned on our lino." 
 
46 
 
 LETTERS, 1812. 
 
 lines ?* I don't see why t' other house should be spared ; 
 besides, it is the public, who ought to know better ; and 
 you recollect Jolinson's was against sinular buffooneries 
 of Rich's — but, certes, I am not Johnson. 
 
 " Instead of ' effects,' say ' labours' — ' degenerate' will 
 do, will it ? IMr. Betty is no longer a babe, therefore 
 the line cannot be personal. 
 
 "WiUthisdo? 
 
 the burning 
 " Till ebb'd the lava of that molten waTe,t 
 
 with ' glowing dome,' in case you prefer ' burning' added 
 to this ' wave' metaphorical. The word ' fiery pillar' 
 was suggested by the ' pillar of fire' in the book of Ex' 
 odus, which went before the Israelites through the Red 
 Sea. I once tliought of saying 4ike Israel's pillar,' and 
 making it a simile, but I did not Icnow, — the great temp- 
 tation was leaving the epithet 'fierV for the supplement- 
 ary wave. I want to work up that passage, as it is the 
 only new ground us prologuizers can go upon — 
 
 " This is the place where, if a poet 
 Shined ia description, he might show it. 
 
 If I part with the possibility of a future conflagration, 
 we lessen the compliment to Shakspeare. However, 
 we will e'en mend it tlius : 
 
 " Yes, it shall be — the magic of that name, 
 
 That scorns the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame, 
 On the same spot, &c. &c. 
 
 There — the deuce is in it, if that is not an improvement 
 to Whitbread's content. Recollect, it is the ' name,' and 
 not the ' magic,' that has a noble contempt for those same 
 weapons. If it were the ' magic' my metaphor would 
 be somewhat of the maddest — so the ' name' is the ante- 
 cedent. But, my dear lord, your patience is not quite 
 so immortal — therefore, with many and sincere thanks, 
 I am 
 
 " Yours ever most affectionately. 
 "P. S. I foresee there will be charges of partiahty in 
 the papers ; but you know I sent in no Address : and 
 triad both vou and I must be that I did not, for, in that 
 case, their plea had been plausible. I doubt the Pit will 
 be testy ; but conscious innocence (a novel and plecising 
 sensation) makes me bold." 
 
 LETTER CXXXVr. 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAXD. 
 
 "Sept. 28. 
 "I have altered the middle couplet, so as I hope partly 
 to do away with W.'s objection. I do think, in the present 
 state of the stage, it has been unpardonable to pass over 
 the horses and Miss INIudie, Sac. As Betty is no longer 
 a boy, how can this be apphed to him? He is now to be 
 judged as a man. If he acts still hke a boy, die pubhc 
 will but be more ashamed of their blunder. I have, you 
 
 * The lines lie here alludes to, finally were omitted by the Commit- 
 tee ; they were these : 
 
 " Nay, lower still, the Drama yet deplores 
 That laie ehe deigned lo crawl up ,n ail-fours. 
 When Richard roars in Bosworth for a horse, 
 If you command, the steed m .st come in course. 
 If you decree, the Stage must cortdescend 
 To sooth the sickly taste we dare not mend. 
 Blame not our judgment should we acquiesce, 
 And gratify you more by showing less. 
 Oh, since "your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 
 Forbear to' mock us with misplaced applause ; 
 That public praise be ne'er again disgraced, 
 
 brutes lo man recall 
 From babes and brutes redeem a nation's taste. 
 Then pride shall doubly nerve the actors' powers, 
 When Reason's voice is echoed back by ours." 
 The last couplet but one was again altered in a subsequent copy thus : — 
 " TTie past reproach Itl present scenes refute, 
 Nor shift from man to babe, from babe io brute." 
 t The form of this couplet, as printed, is as follows :— 
 " Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
 UHurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall." 
 
 see, now taken it for granted that these things are re- 
 formed. I confess, I wish that part of the Address to 
 stand; but if W. is inexorable, e'en let it go. I have 
 also new cast the hues, and softened the hint of future 
 combustion,* and sent them off this morning. Will you 
 have the goodness to add, or insert, the approved altera- 
 tions as they arrive ? They ' come lilce shadows, so 
 depart ;' occupy me, and, I fear, disturb you. 
 
 " Do not let INIr. W. put his Address mto Elliston's 
 hands till vou have settled on these alterations. E. will 
 think it too long : — much depends on the speaking. I 
 fear it will not bear much curtailing, without chasms in 
 the sense. 
 
 " It is certainly too long in the reading ; but if Elliston 
 exerts himself such a favourite with the public will not 
 be thouglit tedious. / should think it so, if he were not 
 to speak it. 
 
 " Yours ever, &c. 
 
 " P. S. On looking again, I doubt my idea of having 
 ob\'iated AV.'s objection. To the other House, allusion 
 is a ' non sequitur' — but I wish to plead for this part, 
 because the thing really is not to be passed over. 
 Many after-pieces at the Lyceum by the same company 
 have already attacked this ' Augean Stable' — and John- 
 son, in his prologue against ' Limn,' (the harlequin-ma- 
 nager. Rich,) — 'Htmt,' — 'Mahomet,' &c. is surely a fair 
 precedent." 
 
 LETTER CXXXVU. 
 
 TO I,OED HOLLAND. 
 
 « Sept. 29, 1812. 
 
 " Shakspeare certainly ceased to reign in one of his 
 kingdoms, as George III. did in America, and George 
 IV. may in Ireland.f Now, we have nothing to do out 
 of our o\\-n realms, and when the monarchy was gone, 
 his majesty had but a barren sceptre. I have citt away, 
 you will see, and altered, but make it what you please ; 
 only I do implore, for my own gratification, one lash on 
 those accursed quadrupeds — ' a long shot, Sir Lucius, if 
 you love me.' I have altered ' wave,' &c. and the ' fire,' 
 and so forth, for the timid. 
 
 "Let me hear from you when convenient, and believe 
 me, &c. 
 
 "P. S. Do let ^/iaf stand, and cut out elsewhere. I 
 shall choke, if we must overlook their d — d menagerie." 
 
 LETTER CXXXTIIL 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND, 
 
 "Sept. 30, 1812. 
 
 "I send you the most I can make of it ; for I am not 
 so well as I was, and find I ' pall in resolution.' 
 
 "I wish much to see you, and will be at Tetbury by 
 twelve on Saturday ; and from thence I go on to Lord 
 Jersey's. It is impossible not to allude to the degraded 
 stale of the Stage, but I have lightened it, and endea- 
 voured to ob\-iate your other objections. There is a new 
 couplet for Sheridan, allusive to his Monody. All the 
 alterations I have marked thus [, — as you will see by 
 comparison with the other copy. I have cudgelled my 
 brains widi the greatest wilhngness, and only wish I had 
 more time to have done better. 
 
 "You will find a sort of clap-trap laudatory couplet 
 inserted for the quiet of the Committee, and I have 
 added, towards the end, the couplet you were pleased 
 to like. The whole Address is seventy-three lines, still 
 
 It had been, originally, 
 
 Though other piles may sink in future flame. 
 On the same spot," &c. &c. 
 
 t Some objection, it appears from I 
 and Shakspeare ceased to reign." 
 
 had been made to the pawsge, 
 
LETTERS, 1812. 
 
 47 
 
 perhaps loo long , and, if shortened, you will save time, 
 but, I fear, a little of what I meant for sense also. 
 
 " With myriads of thanks, I am ever, &c. 
 
 "My sixteenth edition of respects to Lady H. How 
 she must laugh at all this ! 
 
 "I wish Murray, my publisher, to print off some 
 copies as soon as your lordship returns to town — it %^ill 
 ensure correctness in the papers aftemard." 
 
 LETTER CXXXIX. 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 " Far be from him that hour which asks in vaiu 
 Tears such as flow for Garrick in his strain ; 
 
 or, 
 Far be that hour that vainly asks in turn 
 
 croicn'd his 
 Such verse for him as wept o'er Garrick'a urn. 
 
 "Sept. 30, 1812. 
 
 " Will you choose between these added to the lines 
 on Sheridan ?* 1 think they will vrmd up the panegyric, 
 and agi-ee with the train of thought preceding them. 
 
 "Now, one word as to the Committee — how could 
 they resolve on a rough copy of an Address never sent 
 in, unless you had been good enough to retain in memory, 
 or on paper, the thing they have been good enough to 
 adopt ? By-the-by, the circumstances of the case should 
 make the Committee less ' andus gloriae,' for all praise 
 of them would look plaguy suspicious. If necessary to 
 be stated at all, the simple facts bear them out. They 
 surely had a right to act as they pleased. My sole ob- 
 ject is one which, I trust, my whole conduct has shown ; 
 viz. that I did nothing insidious — sent in no Address 
 whatever — but, when applied to, did my best for them and 
 myself; but above all, that there was no undue partial- 
 ity, which will be what the rejected will endeavour to 
 make out. Fortunately — most fortunately — I sent m no 
 lines on the occasion. For I am sure that had they, in 
 that case, been preferred, it would have been asserted 
 that / was laiown, and owed the preference to private 
 friendship. This is what we shall probably have to en- 
 counter, but, if once spoken and approved, we sha'n't be 
 much embarrctssed by their brilliant conjectures, and, as 
 to criticism, an old author, like an old bull, grows cooler 
 (or ought) at every baiting. 
 
 " The only thing would be to avoid a party on the 
 night of deUver}- — afterward, tlie more the better, and 
 the whole transaction inevitably tends to a good deal of 
 discussion. Murray tells me diere are myriads of iron- 
 ical Addresses ready — some^ m imitation of what is called 
 my style. If they are as good as the Probationary Odes, 
 or Hawkins's Pipe of Tobacco, it will not be bad fun for 
 the imitated. 
 
 «Ever,&c." 
 
 LETTER CXL. 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 lines — two less than allotted. I w ill alter all Committee 
 objections, but I liope you won't permit EUiston to have 
 any voite whatever. — except in speaking it." 
 
 LETTER CXLI. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " High-street, Cheltenham, Sept. 5, 1812. 
 
 " Pray have' the goodness to send those despatches, 
 and a No. of the Edinburgh Review with the rest. 1 
 hope you have written to Mr. Thompson, thanked him 
 in my name for his present, and told him that I shall be 
 truly happy to comply with his request. How do you 
 ao on ? and when is the graven image, ' with bays and 
 wicked rhyme upon %^ to grace, or disgrace, some of our 
 tardy editions? 
 
 '•' Send me ' Rokeby.' Who the devil is he ? — no mat- 
 ter, he has good connexions, and will be well introduced. 
 I thanlv you for your inquiries: I am so so, but my 
 thermometer is sadly belov/ the poetical point. What 
 will you give -me or mine for a poem of six Cantos, {when 
 complete — ?20 rhyme, no recompense,) as hke the last two 
 as I can make them ? I have some ideas that one day 
 may be imbodied, and till winter I shall have much 
 leisure. 
 
 "P. S. My last question is in the true style of Grub- 
 street ; but, like Jeremy Diddler, I only ' ask for inform- 
 ation.' Send me Adair on Diet and Regimen, just re- 
 published by Ridgway." 
 
 "Octobers, 1812. 
 
 "A copy of this still altered is sent by the post, but this 
 vnll arrive first. It must be 'humbler' — ' yet aspiring' 
 does away the modesty, and, after aU, truth is truth. 
 Besides, there is a puff direct altered, to please your 
 plaguy renters. 
 
 "I shall be at Tetbury by twelve or one — ^but send 
 this for you to ponder over. There are several little 
 things marked thus / altered for your perusal. I have 
 dismounted the cavalry, and, I hope, arranged to your 
 general satisfaction. 
 
 "Ever, &c. 
 
 "At Tetbury by noon. I hope, after it is sent, there 
 will be no more elisions. It is not now so long — 73 
 
 * These added lines, as may be seen by reference to the printed Ad- 
 dress, were not retained. 
 
 LETTER CXLH. 
 
 TO MR. MTRRAY. 
 
 "Cheltenham, Sept. 14, 1812. 
 
 " The parcels contained some letters and verses, al! 
 (but one) anonymous and complimentary, and very 
 anxious for my conversion from certain infidelities into 
 which my good-natured correspondents conceive me to 
 have fallen. The books were presents of a convertible 
 kind. Also, 'Christian knowledge' and the 'Bioscope,' 
 a religious Dial of Life explained ; and to the author of 
 the former, (Cadell pubUsher,) I beg you will forward my 
 best thanks for his letter, his present, and, above all, his 
 good intentions. The ' Bioscope' contained a MS., 
 copy of very excellent verses, from whom I know not, 
 but evidently the composition of some one in the habit of 
 writino-, and of wTiting well. I do not know if he be the- 
 author of the ' Bioscope' which accompanied them ; but 
 whoever he is, if you can discover him, thank hmi from- 
 me most heartily. The other letters were from ladies^ 
 who are welcome to convert me when they please ; and 
 if 1 can discover them, and they be young, as they say 
 they are, I could convince them perhaps of my devotion. 
 I had also a letter from Mr. Walpole on matters of this- 
 world, which I have answered. 
 
 ^ So you are Lucien's publisher ? I am promised an 
 interview with him, and think 1 shall ask yoic for a letter 
 of introduction, as 'the gods have made him poetical.' 
 From whom could it come with a better grace than from 
 his publisher and mine? Is it not somewhat treasonable 
 in you to have to do with a relative of the ' direful foe,'' 
 as the INIorning Post calls his brother ? 
 
 « But my book on ' Diet and Regimen,' where is it ? I 
 thirst for S'cott's Rokeby ; let me have your first-begotten 
 copy. The Antijacobin Review Ls aE very well, and 
 not a bit worse than the (Quarterly, and at least less 
 harmless. Bv the by, have you secured my books ? I 
 want all the Reviews, at least the critiques, quarterly, 
 monthly, &c. Portuguese and English, extracted, and 
 bound up in one volume for my old age : and pray, sort 
 my Romaic books, and get the volumes lent to Mr. 
 Hobhouse — he has had them now a long time. If any 
 thin" occtirs, you will favour me with a line, and in wan« 
 ter we shall be nearer neighbours. 
 
48 
 
 LETTERS, 1812. 
 
 "P. S. I was applied to, to write the Address for 
 Drury-lane, but the moment I heard of the contest, 1 
 gave up the idea of contending against all Grub-street, 
 and threw a few thoughts on the subject into the fire. 
 I did this out of respect to you, being sure you would 
 have turned off any of your authors who had entered 
 the lists with such scurvy competitors. To triumph 
 would have been no glory ; and to have been defeated 
 — 'sdeath ! — 1 would have choked myself^ liive Otway, 
 with a quartern loaf; so, remember 1 had, and have, 
 nothing to do with it, upon my honour P 
 
 LETTER CXLIIL 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM BAIfKES 
 
 "Cheltenham, Sept. 28, 1812. 
 "my dear baxkes, 
 
 " When you point out to one how people can be inti- 
 mate at the distance of some seventy leagues, I will 
 plead guilty to your charge, and accept your farewell, 
 but not idttingly, till you give me some better reason than 
 my silence, which merely proceeded from a notion 
 founded on your own declaration of old, that you hated 
 writing and receiving letters. Besides, how was I to 
 find out a man of many residences? If I had addressed 
 you, now, it had been to your borough, where I must 
 have conjectured you were among your constituents. 
 So now, in despite of Mr. N. and Lady W. you shall 
 be as ' much better' as the Hexham post-office will allow 
 me to make you. I do assure you I am much indebted 
 to you for thinking of me at all, and can't spare you 
 even from among the superabundance of friends with 
 whom you suppose me surrounded. 
 
 "You heard that Newstead* is sold — the sum 
 £140,000 ; sixty to remain in mortgage on the estate for 
 three years, paying interest, of course. Rochdale is 
 also likely to do well — so my worldly matters are mend- 
 ing. I have been here some time drinking the w^aters, 
 simply because there are waters to drink, and they are 
 very medicinal, and sufficiently disgusting. In a few 
 days I set out for Lord Jersey's, but return here, where 
 I am quite alone, go out very Uttle, and enjoy in its full- 
 est extent the ' dolce far niente.' What you are about, 
 I cannot guess, even from your date ; not dancing to 
 the sound of the gitourney in theHaUs of the Lowthers? 
 one of whom is here, ill, poor thing, with a phthisic. I 
 heard that you passed through here (at the sordid inn 
 where I first alighted) the very day before I arrived in 
 these parts. We had a very pleasant set here ; at first 
 the Jerseys, Melbournes, Cowpers, and Hollands, but 
 all gone ; and the only persons I laiow are the Raw- 
 dons and Oxfords, with some later acquaintances of less 
 brilliant descent. 
 
 "But I do not trouble them much ; and as for your 
 rooms and your assembhes, ' they are not dreamed of in 
 our philosophy ! !' Did you read of a sad accident in 
 the Wye t' other day? a dozen dro^\Tied, and INIr. Ros- 
 soe, a corpulent gentleman, preserved by a boat-hook 
 or an eel-spear, begged, when he heard his wife was 
 saved — no — lost — to be thrown in again ! ! — as if he 
 could not have thrown himself in. had he wished it; but 
 this passes for a trait of sensibihty. What strange 
 V)eings men are, in and out of the Wye ! 
 
 " I have to ask you a thousand pardons for not fulfill- 
 ing some orders before I left to^\^l; but if you knew all 
 the cursed entanglements I had to wade tlirough, it 
 would be unnecessary to beg your forgiveness. When 
 will Parliament (the new one) meet? — in sixty days, 
 on account of Ireland, I presume ; the Irish election 
 will demand a longer period for completion than the 
 constitutional allotment. Yours, of course is safe, and 
 all your side of the question. Salamanca is the minis- 
 
 terial watchword, and all will go well with you. I hope 
 you will speak more frequently, I am sure at least you 
 ought, and it will be expected. I see Portman means 
 to stand again. Good night. 
 
 * Ever yours most affectionately, 
 
 " Nuaipwi'."* 
 
 LETTER CXLIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Cheltenham, Sept. 27, 1812. 
 
 "I sent in no Address whatever to the Committee ; 
 but out of nearly one hundred, (this is conJidentiaL,) 
 none have been deemed worth acceptance ; and in con- 
 sequence of their subsequent application to me, I have 
 written a prologue, which has been received, and will 
 be spoken. The MS. is now in the hands of Lord Hol- 
 land. 
 
 " I write this merely to say, that (however it is re- 
 ceived by the audience) you will publish it in the next 
 edition of Childe Harold; and I only beg you at present 
 to keep my name secret till you hear farther from me, 
 and as soon as possible I wish you to have a correct 
 copy, to do ^^ith as you think proper. 
 
 "P. S. I should wish a few copies prmted off" before^ 
 that the newspaper copies may be correct after the 
 delivery. ^^ 
 
 LETTER CXLV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Cheltenham, Oct. 12, 1812. 
 
 " I have a very strong objection to the engraving of 
 the portrait, and request that it may, on no account, be 
 prefixed ; but let all the proofs be burned, and the plate 
 broken. I will be at the expense which has been in- 
 curred ; it is but fair that / should, since I cannot per- 
 mit the publication. I beg, as a particular favour, that 
 you will lose no time in having this done, for which I 
 have reasons that I will state when I see you. For- 
 give all the trouble I have occasioned you. 
 
 " I have received no account of the reception of the 
 Address, but see it is vituperated in the papers, which 
 does not much embarrass an old author. I leave it to 
 your own judgment to add it, or not, to your next edi- 
 tion when required. Pray comply strictly with my 
 wishes as to the engraving, and believe me, &c. 
 
 "P. S. Favour me with an answer, as I shall not be 
 easy till I hear that the proofs, &c. are destroyed. I hear 
 that the Satirist has reviewed Childe Harold, in what 
 manner I need not ask ; but I wish to know if the old 
 personahties are revived ? I have a better reason for 
 asking this than any that merely concerns myself; but 
 in publications of tliat kind, others, particularly female 
 names, are sometimes introduced." 
 
 The sale was afterwards cancelled. 
 
 LETTER CXLVI. 
 
 TO LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 « Cheltenham, Oct. 14, 1812. 
 
 ■ "my dear LORD, 
 
 "I perceive that the papers, yea, even Perry's, are 
 somewhat ruffled at the injudicious preference of the 
 Committee. My friend Perry has, indeed, ' et tu Brute'-d 
 me rather scurvily, for which I will send him, for the 
 M.C.f the next epigram I scribble, as a token of my 
 full forgiveness. 
 
 " Do the Committee mean to enter into no explanation 
 of their proceedings ? You must see there is a leaning 
 towards a charge of partiality. You will, at least, acquit 
 me of any great anxiety to push myself before so manv 
 
 * a mode of signature he freciuently adopted. 
 
 t The Morning Chronicle, of wluch Mr. Pen-y was, the projirietor. 
 
 i 
 
LETTERS, 1812. 
 
 49 
 
 elder and better anonymous, to whom the twenty guineas 
 (which I take to be about two thousand pounds Bank 
 currency) and the honour would have been equally wel- 
 come. 'Honour,' I see, 'hath no sldll in paragraph- 
 writing.' 
 
 " I wish to know how it went off at the second reading, 
 and whether any one has had the grace to give it a 
 glance of approbation. I have seen no paper but Per- 
 ry's, and two Sunday ones. Perry is severe, and the 
 others silent. Ifj however, you and your Committee are 
 not now dissatisfied with your own judgments, I shall 
 not much embarrass myself about the brilliant remarks 
 of the journals. My own opinion upon it is what it 
 always was, perhaps pretty near that of the public. 
 
 " Beheve me, my dear lord, &c. &c. 
 
 "P. S. My best respects to Lady H. whose smiles 
 will be very consolatory, even at tliis distance." 
 
 LETTER CXLVII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Cheltenham, Oct. 18,1812. 
 
 "Will you have the goodness to get this Parody of a 
 peculiar kind* (for all the first lines are Bicsby's entire) 
 inserted in several of the papers, {correctly^ and copied 
 correctly; my hand is difficult,) — particularly the Morn- 
 ing Chronicle ? Tell Mr. Perry I forgive him all he has 
 said, and may say against my address, but he will allow 
 me to deal with the doctor — (audi alteram partem) and 
 not betray me. I cannot think what has befallen Mr. 
 Perry, for of yore we were very good friends ; — but no 
 matter, only get this inserted. 
 
 " I have a poem on Waltzing for you, of which I 
 make you a present ; but it must be anonymous. It is 
 in the old style of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 
 
 "P. S. With the next edition of Childe Harold you 
 may print the first fifty or a hundred opening lines of the 
 'Curse of Minerva,' down to the couplet beginning 
 
 " Mortal ('t was thus she spake, &c. 
 
 Of course, the moment the Satire begins, there you will 
 stop, and the opening is the best part." 
 
 LETTER CXLVm. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Oct. 19, 1812. 
 
 "Many thanks, but I mv^t pay the damage, and will 
 thank you to tell me the amount for the engraving. I 
 think the ' Rejected Addresses' by far the best thing of 
 the kind since the RoUiad, and wish you had published 
 them. Tell the author 'I forgive him, were he twenty 
 times over a satirist ;' and think his imitations not at all 
 inferior to the famous ones of Hawkins Browne. He 
 must be a man of very lively wit, and less scurrilous 
 than wits often are : altogether, I very much admire the 
 performance, and wish it all success. The Satirist has 
 taken a new tone, as you will see: we have now, I 
 think, finished with Childe Harold's critics. I have in 
 hand a . Satire on Waltzing,-^ which you must publish 
 anonymously; it is not long, not quite two hundred 
 lines, but will make a very small boarded pamphlet. In 
 a few days you shall have it. 
 
 " P. S. The editor of the Satirist ought .o be thanked 
 for his revocation ; it is done handsomely, after five 
 years' warfare." 
 
 LETTER CXLIX. 
 
 TO MR. »IURRAY. 
 
 "Oct. 23, 1812. 
 
 " Thanks, as usual. You go on boldly ; but have a 
 care of glutting the pubUc, who have by this time had 
 enough of Childe Harold. ' Waltzmg' shall be prepared. 
 It is rather above two hundred lines, with an introduc- 
 tory Letter to the Publisher. I think of pubUshing, with 
 Childe Harold, the opening lines of the 'Curse of Mi- 
 nerva,'* as far as the first speech of Pallas, — because 
 some of the readers like that part better than any I have 
 ever written, and as it contains nothing to affect the 
 subject of the subsequent portion, it will find a place as 
 a Descriptive Fragment. 
 
 "The plate is broken? between ourselves, it was un- 
 like the picture ; and besides, upon the whole, the fron- 
 tispiece of an author's visage is but a paltry exhibition. 
 At all events, this would have been no reconmiendation 
 to the book. I am sure Sanders v.'ould not have survived 
 the engraving. By-the-by, the picture may remain with 
 you or him (which you please) till my return. The one 
 of two remaining copies is at your service till I can give 
 you a better ; the other must be burned peremptorily. 
 Again, do not forget that I have an account with you, 
 and that this is included. I give you too much trouble to 
 allow you to incur expense also. 
 
 " You best know how far this ' Address riot' will affect 
 the future sale of Childe Harold. I hke the volume of 
 'Rejected Addresses' better and better. The other 
 parody which Perry, has received is mine also, (I be- 
 lieve.) It is Dr. Busby's speech versified. You are 
 removing to Albemarle-street, I find, and I rejoice that 
 we shall be nearer neighbours. I am going to Lord 
 Oxford's, but letters here will be forvvarded. When at 
 leisure, all communications fi-om you will be willingly 
 received by the humblest of your scribes. Did Mr. 
 Ward write the review of Home Tooke's Life in the 
 duarterly ? it is excellent." 
 
 LETTER CL. 
 
 TO MR. IVIURRAY. 
 
 * Among the Addresses sent in to the Drury-lane Committee was one 
 
 by Dr. Busby, entitled a Monologue, of which the Parody was enclosed in 
 
 this letter. The first four lines of the Doctor's Address are as follows : — 
 
 ' When energizing objects men pursue. 
 
 What are the prodigies they cannot do ? 
 
 A magic Edifice you here survey, 
 
 Shot from the ruins of the other day !' 
 
 Which verses are thus ridiculed in the Parody : — 
 
 "When energizing objects men pursue,' 
 
 The Lord knows what is writ by Lord knoWB who. 
 
 ' A modest Monologue you here survey,' 
 
 Hiss'd from the theatre the ' other day." 
 
 t See Poems p. 444. 
 
 7 
 
 "Cheltenham, Nov. 22, 1812. 
 
 " On my return here from Lord Oxford's, 1 found your 
 obUcfincr note, and will thank you to retain the letters, 
 and any other subsequent ones to the same address, till 
 I arrive in town to claim them, which will probably be 
 in a few days. I have in charge a curious and very 
 lonf MS. poem, written by Lord Brooke, {the friend of 
 Sir Philip Sidney,) which I wish to submit to the in- 
 spection of Mr. Gifford, with the following queries : — 
 first, whether it has ever been published, and, secondly, 
 (if not,) whether it is worth pubhcation? It is from 
 Lord Oxford's library, and must have escaped or been 
 overlooked among the MSS. of the Harleian Miscellany. 
 The writing is Lord Brooke's, except a different hand 
 towards the close. It is very long, and in the six-hne 
 stanza. It is not for me to hazard an opinion upon its 
 merits ; but I would take the liberty, if not too trouble- 
 some, to submit it to Mr. Gifford's judgment, which, 
 from his excellent edition of Massinger, I should con- 
 ceive to be as decisive on the writings of that age as on 
 those of our own. 
 
 "Now for a less agreeable and important topic. 
 How came Mr. Mac- Somebody, without consulting you 
 
 • See Poems p. 441. 
 
60 
 
 LETTERS, 1813. 
 
 or me, to prefix the Address to his volume* of 'Dejected 
 Addresses?' Is not this somewhat larcenous? I think the 
 ceremony of leave might have been asked, though I have 
 no objection to the thing itself; and leave the 'hundred and 
 eleven' to tire themselves with ' base comparisons.' I 
 should think the ingenuous public tolerably sick of the 
 subject, and, except the Parodies, I have not interfered, 
 nor shall ; indeed I did not know that Dr. Busby had 
 published his Apologetlcal Letter and Postscript, or I 
 should have recalled them. But I confess I looked 
 upon his conduct in a different Ught before its appear- 
 ance. I see some mountebank has taken Alderman 
 Birch's name to vituperate Dr. Busby ; he had much 
 better have pilfered his pastry, which I should imagine 
 the more valuable ingredient — at least for a puff. — Pray 
 secure me a copy of Woodfall's new Junius, and beheve 
 me, &c." 
 
 LETTER CLL 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. 
 
 " December 26 
 "The multitude of your recommendations has already 
 superseded my humble endeavours to be of use to you, 
 and, indeed, most of my principal friends are returned. 
 Leake from Joannina, Canning and Adair from the city 
 of the faithful, and at Smyrna no letter is necessary, as 
 the consuls are always willing to do every thing for per- 
 sonages of respectability. I have sent you i/iree, one to 
 Gibraltar, which, though of no great necessity, will, per- 
 haps, put you on a more intimate footing with a very 
 pleatdnt family there. You will very soon find out that 
 a man of any consequence has very little occasion for 
 any letters but to ministers and bankers, and of them 
 you have already plenty, I will be sworn. 
 
 " It is by no means improbable, that I shall go in the 
 spring, and if you will fix any place of rendezvous about 
 August, I will write or join you. — When in Albania, I 
 wish you would inquire after Dervise Tahiri and Vas- 
 cillie, (or Basil,) and make my respects to the viziers, 
 both there and in the Morea. If you mention my name 
 to Suleyman of Thebes, I think it will not hurt you; if I 
 had my dragoman, or wrote Turkish, I could have given 
 you letters of real service ; but to the English they are 
 hardly requisite, and the Greeks themselves can be of 
 httle advantage. Liston you know already, and 1 do 
 not, as he was not then minister. Mind you visit Ephe- 
 sus and the Troad, and let me hear from you when you 
 please. I believe G. Forresti is now at Yanina, but if 
 not, whoever is there will be too happy to assist you. 
 Be particular ahou.tJirmauns ; never allow yourself to be 
 bullied, for you are better protected in Turkey than any 
 where ; trust not the Greeks ; and take some knicknach- 
 eries for presents — watches, pistols, &c. &c. to the Beys 
 and Pachas. If you find one Demetrius, at Athens or 
 elsewhere, I can recommend him as a good dragoman. 
 I hope to join you, however ; but you will find swarms of 
 English now in the Levant. 
 
 " Believe me, &c." 
 
 would like it, he can have the substance for his second 
 edition ; if not, I shall add it to our next, though I thinlc 
 we already have enough of Lord Elgin. 
 
 " What I have read of this work seems admirably 
 done. My praise, however, is not much worth the au- 
 thor's having ; but you may thank him in my name for 
 his. The idea is new — we have excellent imitations of 
 the Satires, &c. by Pope ; but I remember but one imi- 
 tative Ode in his works, and none any where else. I 
 can hardly suppose that they have lost any fame by the 
 fate of the farce ; but even should this be the case, the 
 present publication will again place them on their pin- 
 nacle. " Yours, &C.'' 
 
 LETTER CLII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « February 20, 1813. 
 ^ In ' Horace in London,' I perceive some stanzas on 
 Lord Elgin, in which (waiving the kind compHment to 
 myself,) I heartily concur. I wish I had the pleasure 
 of Mr. Sm.ith's acquaintance, as I could communicate 
 the curious anecdote you read in Mr. T.'s letter. If he 
 
 * "The genuine Rejected Addresses, presented to the Committee of 
 Management for Drury-lane Theatre ; preceded by that v/ritten by Lord 
 Bvrou !uid adopted by the Committee :" — published by B. M'Millan. 
 
 LETTER CLHL 
 
 TO MR. ROGERS. 
 
 "March 25, 1813. 
 
 " I enclose you a draft for the usurious interest due to 
 Lord * *'s proiegd ; — I also could wish you would state 
 thus much for me to his lordship. Though the transac- 
 tion spealcs plainly in itself for the borrower's folly and 
 the lender's usury, it jiever was my intention to quash 
 the demand, as I legally might, nor to withhold payment 
 of principal, or, perhaps, even unlawful interest. You 
 know what my situation has been, and what it is. I have 
 parted with an estate, (which has been in my family for 
 nearly three hundred years, and was never disgraced by 
 being in possession of a lawyer, a churchman, or a woman^ 
 during that period,) to liquidate this and similar de- 
 mands ; and the payment of the purchase is still with- 
 held, and may be, perhaps, for years. If, therefore, I am 
 under the necessity of making those persons wait for 
 their money, (which, considering the terms, they can 
 afford to suffer,) it is my misfortune. 
 
 " When I arrived at majority in 1809, 1 offered my 
 own security on legal interest, and it was refused. 
 Now, I will not accede to this. This man I may have 
 seen, but I have no recollection of the names of any par- 
 ties but the agents and the securities. The moment 1 
 can, it is assuredly my intention to pay my debts. This 
 person's case may be a hard one ; but, under all circum- 
 stances, what is mine? I could not foresee that the 
 purchaser of my estate was to demur in paying for it. 
 
 " I am glad it happens to be in my power so far to 
 accommodate my Israelite, and only wish I could do as 
 much for the rest of the Twelve Tribes. 
 
 " Ever yours, dear R. 
 « Bn » 
 
 LETTER CLIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Westall has, I believe, agreed to illustrate your book,* 
 and I fancy one of the engravings will be from the pretty 
 little girl you saw the other day,t though without her 
 name, and merely as a model for some sketch connected 
 with the subject. I would also have the portrait (which 
 you saw to-day) of the friend who is mentioned in the 
 text at the close of Canto first, and in the notes, — which 
 are subjects sufficient to authorize that addition." 
 
 Early in the spring he brought out, anonymously, his 
 poem on Waltzing, which, though full of very lively 
 satire, fell so far short of what was now expected from 
 him by the pubUc, that the disavowal of it, which, as we 
 see by the following letter, he thought right to put forth, 
 found ready credence. 
 
 * A new edition of Childe Harold. 
 
 t Lady Charlotte Harley, to whom, under the name of lantbe, 
 introductory lines to Childe Harold were afterward addretied. 
 
LETTERS, 1813. 
 
 51 
 
 LETTER CLV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « April 21, 1813. 
 
 * I shall be in town by Sunday next, and will call and 
 have some conversation on the subject of Westall's de- 
 signs. I am to sit to him for a picture at the request of 
 a friend of mine, and as Sanders's is not a good one, you 
 will probably prefer the other. I wish you to have 
 Sanders's taken down and sent to my lodgings imme- 
 diately — before my arrival. I hear that a certain ma- 
 licious publication on Waltzing is attributed to me. 
 This report, I suppose, you will talte care to contradict, 
 as the author, I am sure, will not hke that I should wear 
 his cap and bells. Pvlr. Hobhouse's quarto will be out 
 immediately ; pray send to the author for an early copy, 
 which I wish to take abroad with me. 
 
 "P. S. I see the Exammer threatens some observa- 
 tions upon you next week. What can you have done 
 to share the wrath which has heretofore been principally 
 expended upon the Prince? I presume all your 
 Scribl-eri will be drawn up in battle array in defence of 
 the modern Tonson — Mr. Bucke, for instance. 
 
 " Send in my account to Bennet-street, as I wish to 
 settle it before sailing." 
 
 LETTER CLVL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 LETTER CLVIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Maidenhead, June 13, 1813 
 « * * * I have read the ' Strictures,'* which are 
 just enough, and not grossly abusive, in very fair cou' 
 plets. There is a note against Massinger near the end, 
 and one cannot quarrel with one's company, at any rate. 
 The author detects some incongruous figures in a pas 
 sage of English Bards, page 23, but which edition I do 
 not know. In the sole copy in your possession — I mean 
 the Jifth edition — you may make these alterations, that 1 
 may profit (though a little too late) by his remarks: — 
 For ^hellish instinct,' substitute '6?-utoZ instinct;' ^harpies' 
 alter to ^felons ;' and for ' blood-hounds' write ' heli- 
 hounds.'f These be 'very bitter words, by my troth,' 
 and the alterations not much sweeter ; but as I shall not 
 publish the thing, they can do no harm, but are a satis- 
 faction to me in the way of amendment. The passage 
 is only twelve lines. 
 
 " You do not answer me about H.'s book ; I want to 
 write to him, and not to say any thing unpleasing. If 
 you direct to Post-office, Portsmouth, till called for, I 
 will send and receive your letter. You never told me 
 of the forthcoming critique on Columbus, which is not 
 too fair ; and 1 do not think justice quite done to the 
 ' Pleasures,'! which surely entitle the author to a higher 
 rank than that assigned him in the duarterly. But I 
 must not cavil at the decisions of the invisible infallihles ; 
 and the article is very well written. The general hor- 
 ror 0? ^fragments' makes me tremulous for the 'Giaour;' 
 but you would publish it — I presume, by this time, to your 
 repentance. But as I consented, whatever be its fate, 
 I won't now quarrel with you, even though I detect it in 
 ray pastry ; but I shall not open a pie without apprehen^ 
 sion for some weeks. 
 
 " The books which may be marked G. O. I will carry 
 out. Do you know Clarke's Naufragia? I am told 
 that he Eisserts the Jirst volume of Robinson Crusoe was 
 written by the first Lord Oxford, when in the Tower, 
 and given by him to Defoe : if true, it is a curious anec- 
 dote. Have you got back Lord Brooke's MS.? and 
 what does Heber say of it? Write to me at Portsmouth. 
 " Ever yours, &c. 
 
 « N." 
 
 "June 18, 1813. 
 "dear sir, 
 " Will you forward the enclosed answer to the kindest 
 letter I ever received in my life, my sense of which I can 
 neither express to Mr. Gifford himself nor to any one 
 else. 
 
 "Everyoursjj "N." 
 
 LETTER CLVIII. 
 
 TO W. GIFFORD, ESQ. 
 
 " June 18, 1813. 
 
 «MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 "I feel greatly at a loss how to write to you at all — 
 still more to thank you as I ought. If you knew the 
 veneration with which I have ever regarded you, long 
 before I had the most distant prospect of becoming your 
 acquaintance, hterary or personal, my embarrassment 
 would not surprise you. 
 
 " Any suggestion of yours, even were it conveyed in 
 the less tender shape of the text of the Baviad, or a 
 Monlc Mason note in Massinger, would have been 
 obeyed ; I should have endeavoured to improve myself 
 by your censure : judge then if I should be less willing 
 to profit by your kindness. It is not for me to bandy 
 compliments with my elders and my betters : I receive 
 your approbation with gratitude, and will not return my 
 brass for your gold, by expressing more fully those sen- 
 timents of admiration, which, however sincere, would, I 
 Icnow, be unwelcome. 
 
 " To your advice on religious topics, I shall equally 
 attend. Perhaps the best way will be by avoiding them 
 altogether. The already published objectionable pas- 
 sages have been much commented upon, but certainly 
 have been rather strong!/ interpreted. I am no bigot to 
 infidelity, and did not expect that, because I doubted the 
 immortality of man, I should be charged with denying 
 the existence of a God. It was the comparative insig- 
 nificance of ourselves and our world, when placed in 
 comparison with the mighty whole, of which it is an 
 atom, that first led me to imagine that our pretensions 
 to eternity might be overrated. 
 
 " This, and being early disgusted with a Calvinistic 
 Scotch school, when I was cudgelled to church, for the 
 first ten years of my hfe, afflicted me with this malady ; 
 for, after all, it is, I believe, a disease of the mind as 
 much as other lands of hypochondria." 
 
 LETTER CLIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 On the Satire , by Mr . Crowe . t See English Bards . 
 
 t Poems, by Mr. Rogers. 
 
 "June 22, 1813. 
 
 + *** + + 
 
 " Yesterday I dined in company with ' * *, the Epi- 
 cene,' whose politics are sadly changed. She is for the 
 Lord of Israel and the Lord of Liverpool — a vile anti- 
 thesis of a Methodist and a Tory — talks of nothing but 
 devotion and the ministry, and, I presume, expects that 
 God and the government will help her to a pension. 
 :i: + * * * * 
 
 "Murray, the ava^ of pubhshers, the Anac of station- 
 ers, has a design upon you in the paper line. He wants 
 you to become the staple and stipendiary editor of a 
 periodical work. What say you? Will you be bound, 
 lilce ' Kit Smart, to write for ninety-nine years in the 
 Universal Visiter ?' Seriously, he talks of hundreds a 
 year, and — though I hate prating of the beggarly ele- 
 ments — his proposal may be to your honour and profit, 
 and, I am very sure, will be to our pleasure. 
 
 " I don't know what to say about ' firiendship.' I never 
 
52 
 
 LETTERS, 1813. 
 
 was in friendship but once, in my nineteenth year, and 
 then it gave me as much trouble as love. I am afraid, 
 as Whitbread's sire said to the king, when he wanted to 
 knight him, that I am ' too old :' but, nevertheless, no 
 one wishes you more friends, fame, and felicity, than 
 
 " Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CLX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "4, Benedictine-street, St. James's, July 8, 1813. 
 " I presume by your silence that I have blundered 
 into something noxious in my reply to your letter ; for 
 the which I beg leave to send, beforehand, a sweeping 
 apology, vi'hich you may apply to any, or all, parts of 
 that unfortunate epistle. If 1 err in my conjecture, I 
 expect the like from you, in putting our correspondence 
 so long in quarantine. God he knows what I have said ; 
 but he also knows, {if he is not as indifferent to mortals 
 as the nonchalant deities of Lucretius,) that you are the 
 last person I want to offend. So, if I have, — why the 
 devil don't you say it at once, and expectorate your 
 spleen? 
 
 " Rogers is out of town \Aith Madame de Stael, who 
 hath published an Essay against Suicide, which, I pre 
 sume, vvill make somebody shoot himself; as a sermon 
 by Blinkensop, in -proof of Christianity, sent a hitherto 
 most orthodox acquaintance of mine out of a chapel of 
 ease a perfect atheist. Have you found or founded a 
 residence yet? and have you begun or finished a Poem? 
 If you won't tell me v.-hat I have done, pray say what 
 you have done, or left undone, yourself. I am still in 
 equipment for voyaging, and anxious to hear from, or ofj 
 you before I go, v/hich anxiety you should remove more 
 readily, as you think I shan't cogitate about you after- 
 ward. I shall give the he to that calumny by fifty 
 foreign letters, particularly from any place where the 
 plague is rife, — ^^^thout a drop of vinegar or a whiff of 
 sulphur to save you from infection. Pray WTite : I am 
 sorry to say that ****., 
 
 " The Oxfords have sailed almost a fortnight, and my 
 sister is in towTi, which is a great comfort- — for, never 
 having been much together, v.^e are naturally more at- 
 tached to each other. I presume the illuminations have 
 conflagrated to Derby (or wherever you are) by this 
 time. We are just recovering from tumult, and train 
 
 pects. However, you know her ; is she clever, or sen- 
 sible, or good-tempered ? either ivould do — I scratch out 
 the will. I don't ask as to her beauty, that I see ; but 
 my circumstances are mending, and were not my other 
 prospects blackening, I would t?ke a wife, and that 
 should be the woman, had I a ch&nce. I do not yet 
 know her much, but better than I did. 
 
 " I want to get away, but find difficulty in compassing 
 a passage in a ship of war. They had better let me go; 
 if I cannot, patriotism is the word — ' nay, an' they '11 
 mouth, I '11 rant as well as they.' Now, what are you 
 doing ? writing, we all hope, for our own sakes. Re- 
 member you must edite my posthumous works, with a 
 Life of the Author, for which I will send you Confes- 
 sions, dated ' Lazaretto,' Smyrna, Malta, or Palermo — 
 one can die any where. 
 
 " There is to be a thing on Tuesday ycleped a na- 
 tional fete. The Regent and * * * are to be there, 
 and every body else, who has shillings enough for what 
 was once a guinea. Vauxhall is the scene — there are 
 six tickets issued for the modest women, and it is sup- 
 
 ed there will be three to spare. The passports for 
 the lax are beyond my arith^netic. 
 
 "P. S. The Stael last night attacked me most 
 furiously — said that I had 'no right to make love — that 
 I had used * * barbarously — that I had no feeling, and 
 was totally insensible to la belle passion, emd had been 
 all my Ufe.' I am very glad to hear it, but did not 
 know it before. Let me hear from you anon." 
 
 LETTER CLXII. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 oil, and transparent fripperies, and all the noise and 
 nonsense of victory. Drury-Jane had a large M. W. 
 which some thought was Marshal Wellington ; others that 
 it might be translated into Manager Whitbread ; while 
 the ladies of the vicinity and the saloon conceived the 
 last letter to be complimentary to themselves. I leave 
 this to the commentators to illuminate. If you do n't 
 answer this, I shan't say what you deserve, but I think 
 / deserve a reply. Do you conceive there is no Post- 
 Bag but the Twopenny ? Sunburn me, if you are not 
 too bad." 
 
 LETTER CLXI. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 ■July 13, 1813. 
 
 * Your letter set me at ease ; for I really thought (as 
 I hear of your susceptibility) that I had said — I know 
 not what — but somethmg I should have been very sorry 
 for, had it, or I, offended you ; though I do n't see how 
 a man with a beautiful wife, his aum children, quiet, 
 fame, competency, and friends, (I will vouch for a thou- 
 sand, which is more than I will for a unit in my own 
 behalQ can be offended with any thing. 
 
 " Do you laiow, Moore, I am amazingly inclined — 
 remember I say but inclined — to be seriously enamoured 
 with Lady A. F. — but this * * has ruined all my pros- 
 
 «July 25, 1813. 
 " I am not well versed enough in the ways of single 
 women to make much matrimonial progress. * * 
 " I have been dining like the dragon of Wantley for 
 this last week. My head aches with the vintage of 
 various cellars, and my brains are muddled as their 
 dregs. I met your friends, the D * *s : she sung one 
 of your best songs so well, that, but for the appearance 
 of affectation, I could have cried ; he reminds me of 
 Hunt, but handsomer, and more musical in soul, per- 
 haps. I wish to God he may conquer his horrible 
 anomalous complaint. The upper part of her face is 
 beautiful, and she seems much attached to her husband. 
 He is right, nevertheless, in leaving this nauseous town. 
 The first winter would infalhbly destroy her complexion, 
 and the second, very probably, every thmg else. 
 
 "I must tell you a story. M * * (of indifferent me- 
 mory) was dining out the other day, and complaining of 
 the Prince's coldness to his old wassailers. D' * * (a 
 learned Jew) bored him with questions — why this ? and 
 why that ? ' Why did the Prince act thus ?' ' Why, 
 sir, on account of Lord * *, who ought to be ashamed 
 of himself?' 'And Vvhy ought Lord * * to be ashamed 
 of himself?' ' Because the Prince, sir, * * * + 
 * * * 4: J 'And why, sir, did the Prince cut ?/o?<.^' 
 ' Because, G- — d d — mme, sir, I stuck to ray principles.' 
 'And why did you stick to your principles?' 
 
 " Is not this last question the best that ever was put, 
 when you consider to whom ? It nearly kiUed M * *. 
 Perhaps you may think it stupid, but, as Goldsmith said 
 about the peas, it v/as a very good joke when I heard it 
 — as I did from an ear-witness — and is only spoiled in 
 my narration. 
 
 " The season has closed with a Dandy Ball ; — but I 
 have dinners with the Harrowbys, Rogers, and Frere 
 and Mackintosh, where I shall drink your health in 
 a silent bumper, and regret your absence till 'too 
 much canaries' wash away my memory, or render it 
 superfluous by a vnsion of you at the opposite side 
 of the table. Canning has disbanded his party by 
 a speech from his + * * * — the true throne 
 
LETTERS, 1813. 
 
 53 
 
 ofa Tory. Conceive his turning them off in a formal 
 harangue, and bidding them think for themselves. 'I 
 have led my ragamuffins where they are well peppered. 
 There are but three of the 150 left alive, and they are 
 for the Toum^s-end {query, might not Falstaff mean the 
 Bow-street officer ? I dare say Malone's posthumous 
 edition will have it so) for hfe. 
 
 " Since I wrote last, I have been into the country. I 
 journeyed by night — no incident or accident, but an 
 alarm on the part of my valet on the outside, who, in 
 crossing Epping Forest, actually, I beheve, flung down 
 his purse before a mile-stone, with a glowworm in the 
 second figure of number XIX — mistaking it for a foot- 
 pad and dark lantern. I can only attribute his fears to 
 a pair of new pistols, wherewith I had armed him ; and 
 he thought it necessary to display his vigilance by call- 
 ing out to me whenever we passed any thing — no matter 
 whether moving or stationary. Conceive ten miles, 
 with a tremor every furlong. I have scribbled you a 
 fearfully long letter. This sheet must be blank, and is 
 merely a wrapper, to preclude the tabellarians of the 
 post from peeping. You once complained of my Tiot 
 writing ; — I will heap ' coals of fire upon your head' by 
 not complaining of your not reading. Ever, my dear 
 Moore, your 'n, (isn 't that the Staffordshire termination ?) 
 
 « ByRON." 
 
 LETTER CLXV. 
 
 TO MR. CROKER. 
 
 LETTER CLXm. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 '•'Bt. Str. August 2, 1813. 
 
 " DEAR SIR, 
 
 "I was honoured with your unexpected and very 
 obliging letter when on the point of leaving London, 
 which prevented me from acknowledging my obligation 
 as quickly as I felt it sincerely. I am endeavouring all 
 in my power to be ready before Saturday— and even if 
 I should not succeed, I can only blame my own tardi- 
 ness, which will not the less enhance the benefit I have 
 lost. I have only to add my hope of forgiveness for all 
 my trespasses on your time and patience, and with my 
 best wishes for your public and private welfare, I have 
 the honour to be, most truly, 
 
 " Your obliged and most obedient servant, 
 "Byron." 
 
 The following notes to Mr. Murray, have reference 
 to a fifth edition of the " Giaour" then m press. The 
 poem first appeared in the May preceding, and contained 
 originally but about four hundred lines, and was gradu- 
 ally increased through successive editions to its present 
 number, nearly fourteen hundred. In a note which ac- 
 companied the manuscript of the paragraph commencing 
 
 " Fair clime, where every season smiles," 
 
 he says, *I have not yet fixed the place of insertion for 
 the following lines, but will when I see you." 
 The whole portion from the line 
 
 " For there the rose o'er crag and vale," 
 down to 
 
 "And turn to groans his roundelay," 
 
 "July 27, 1813. 
 
 "When you next imitate the style of ' Tacitus,' pray 
 
 add, * de moribus Germanorum ;' — this last was a piece 
 
 of barbarous silence, and could only be taken from the 
 
 Woods, and, as such. I attribute it entirely to your sylvan 
 
 sequestration at Mayfield Cottage. You will find, on I was inserted during the revision of the proofs, 
 casting up accounts, that you are my debtor by several "' 
 sheets and one episde. I shall bring my action ; — if you 
 do n't discharge, expect to hear from my attorney 
 have forwarded your letter to Ruggiero ; but do n't 
 make a postman of me again, for fear I should be tempted 
 to violate your sanctity of wax or wafer. 
 
 "Believe me ever yours, indignantij/, 
 « Bn." 
 
 LETTER CLXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "July 28, 1813. 
 
 "Can't you be satisfied with the pangs of my jealousy 
 of Rogers, without actually making me the pander of 
 your epistolary intrigue ? This is the second letter you 
 have enclosed to m.y address, notwithstandmg a miracu- 
 lous long answer, and a subsequent short one or two of 
 your own. If you do so again, I can't tell to what pitch 
 my fury may soar. L shall send you verse or arsenic, 
 as likely as any thing, — four thousand couplets on sheets 
 beyond the privilege of franking ; that privilege, sir, of 
 which you take an undue advantage over a too suscepti- 
 ble senator, by forwarding your lucubrations to every 
 one but himself I wont frank from you, or for you, or 
 to you, may I be cursed if I do, unless you mend your 
 manners. I disown you — I disclaim you — and by all 
 the powers of Eulogy, I will write a panegyric upon you 
 — or dedicate a quarto^if you don't make me ample 
 amends. 
 
 "P. S. I am in traming to dine with Sheridan and 
 Rogers this evening. 1 have a Uttle spite against R. 
 and will shed his ' Clary wines pottle-deep.' This is 
 nearly my ultimate or penultimate letter ; for I am quite 
 equipped, and only wait a passage. Perhaps I may 
 wait a few weeks for Sligo ; but not if I can help it." 
 
 The passage stood originally thus : — 
 
 " Fair clime ! where ceaseless summer smilea 
 Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
 V7hich, seen from far Colonna's height, 
 Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
 And give to loneliness delight. 
 There shine the bright abodes ye seek. 
 Like dimples upon Ocean's cheek,— 
 So smiling round the waters lave 
 These Edens of the eastern wave. 
 Or if, at times, the transient breeze 
 Break the smooth crystal of the seas, 
 Or b-i-ush one blossom from the trees, 
 How grateful is the gentle air 
 That wakes and wafts the fragrance there." 
 
 The several passages beginning — 
 
 " He who hath bent hira o'er the dead :" 
 " The cygnet proudly walks the water :" 
 
 and 
 
 " My memory now is but the tomb :" 
 
 were added to the fourth edition, betvveen which and 
 the first, only six weeks intervened. 
 The verses commencing — 
 
 " The browsing camels' bells are tinkling :' 
 
 and the passage 
 
 "Yes, love indeed is light from heaven," 
 
 were inserted in the fifth edition, and subsequently th . 
 following — 
 
 ' ' She was a form of life and light, 
 That, seen, became a part of sight, 
 And rose, where'er I tum'd mine eye, 
 The Morning-star of memory!" 
 
 "If you send more proofs, I shall never finish this in- 
 fernal storj- — 'Ecce signum' — thirty-three lines more 
 enclosed ! to the utter discomfiture of the printer, and, 
 I fear, not to your advantage. "B." 
 
64 
 
 LETTERS, 18ia. 
 
 " Half-past two in the morning, Aug. 10, 1813. 
 
 "dear sir, 
 " Pray suspend the proofs^ for I am hitten again, and 
 have quantities for other parts of the bravura. 
 
 "Yours ever, "B. 
 " P. S. You shall have them in the course of the 
 day." 
 
 LETTER CLXVI. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Aug. 26, 1813. 
 
 " I have looked over and corrected one proof, but not 
 BO carefully (God knows if you can read it through, but 
 I can't) as to preclude your eye from discovering some 
 omission of mine or commission of your printer. If you 
 have patience, look it over. Do you know any body 
 who can stop — I mean point — commas, and so forth ? 
 for I am, I hear, a sad hand at your punctuation. I 
 have, but with some difficulty, not added any more to 
 this snake of a Poem, which has been lengthening its 
 rattles every month. It is now fearfully long, being 
 more than a canto and a half of Childe Harold, which 
 contains but 882 lines per book, with all late additions 
 inclusive. 
 
 " The last lines Hodgson likes. It is not often he 
 does, and when he don't, he tells me with great energy, 
 and I fret and alter. I have thrown them in to soften 
 the ferocity of our Infidel, and. for a dying man, have 
 given him a good deal to say for himself. * + * * 
 
 " I was quite sorry to hear you say you stayed in 
 town on my account, and I hope sincerely you do not 
 mean so superfluous a piece of politeness. 
 
 " Our six critiques ! — they would have made half a 
 Quarterly by themselves ; but this is the age of criticism." 
 
 The following refer apparently to a still later edition. 
 LETTER CLXVIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Stilton, Oct. 3, 1813. 
 " I have just recollected an alteration you may make 
 in the proof to be sent to Aston. — Among the lines on 
 Hassan's Serai, not far from the beginning, is this — 
 
 " Unmeet for Solitude to share. 
 
 Now to share imphes more than one., and SoUtude is a 
 single gentleman ; it must be thus — 
 
 " For many a gilded chamber 's there, 
 Which Solitude might well forbear ; 
 
 and so on. — My address is Aston-Hall, Rotherham. 
 
 " Will you adopt this correction ?• and pray accept a 
 Stilton cheese from me for your trouble. 
 
 "Ever yours, "BJ 
 
 "If* the old line stands, let the other run thus — 
 
 " Nor there will weary traveller halt, 
 To bless the sacred bread and salt. 
 
 "JVote. — To partake of food — to break bread and 
 taste salt with your host, ensures the safety of the 
 guest; even though an enemy, his person from that 
 moment becomes sacred. 
 
 " There is another additional note sent yesterday — 
 on the Priest in the Confessional. 
 
 "P. S. I leave this to your discretion; if any body 
 thinks the old line a good one, or the cheese a bad one, 
 do n't accept either. But, in that case, the word share 
 is repeated soon after in the hne — 
 
 " To share the master's bread and salt : 
 
 Thi« ia written on a separate slip of paper enclosed. 
 
 and must be altered to — 
 
 •' To break the master's bread and salt. 
 
 This is not so well, though — confound it !" 
 
 LETTER CLXVIII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Oct. 12, 1813. 
 
 "You must look the Giaour again over carefully; 
 
 there are a few lapses, particularly in the last page.-- 
 
 1 know 't was false ; she could not die ;' it was, and 
 
 ught to be — 'I knew.' Pray obssrve this cUid similar 
 
 mistakes. 
 
 "I have received and read the British Review. I 
 really think the writer in most points very right. The 
 only mortifying thing is the accusation of imitation. 
 Crabbers passage I never saw, and Scott 1 no further 
 meant to follow than in his lyric measure, which is 
 Gray's, Milton's, and any one's who likes it. The 
 Giaour is certainly a bad character, but not dangerous ; 
 and I think his fate and his feelings will meet with few 
 proselytes. I shall be very glad to hear from or of you, 
 vhen you please ; but do n't put yourself out of your 
 way on my account." 
 
 LETTER CLXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 " Bennet-street, Aug. 22, 1813. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "As our late — I might say, deceased — correspondence 
 had too much of the town-life leaven in it, we will now 
 ' paulo majora,' prattle a little of literature in all its 
 branches ; and first of the first — criticism. The Prince 
 is at Brighton, and Jackson, the boxer, gone to Margate, 
 having, I believe, decoyed Yarmouth to see a milling in 
 that polite neighbourhood. Mad", de Stael Holstein 
 has lost one of her young barons, who has been car- 
 bonadoed by a vile Teutonic adjutant, — lalt and killed 
 in a coffee-house at Scrawsenhawsen. Corinne is, of 
 course, what all mothers must be, — but will, I venture to 
 prophesy, do what few mothers could — write an Essay 
 upon it. She cannot exist without a grievance — and 
 somebody to see, or read, how much grief becomes her. 
 I have not seen her since the event ; but merely judge 
 (not very charitably) from prior observation. 
 
 " In a 'mail-coach copy' of the Edinburgh, I perceive 
 the Giaour is 2d article. The numbers are still in the 
 Leith smack — pray, which ivay is the windl The said 
 article is so very mild and sentimental, that it must be 
 written by Jeffrey in love; — you know he is gone to 
 America to marry some fair one, of whom he has been 
 for several quarters, dperdument amoureux. Seriously — 
 as Winifred Jenldns says of Lismahago— Mr. Jeffrey 
 (or his deputy) 'has done the handsome thing by me,' 
 and I say nothing."^ But this I will say, — if you and I 
 had knocked one another on the head in this quarrel, 
 how hs would have laughed, and what a mighty bad 
 figure we should have cut in our posthumous works. 
 By-the-by, I was called in the other day to meditate 
 between two gentlemen bent upon carnage, and, — after 
 a long struggle between the natural desire of destroying 
 one's fellow-creatures, and the dislike of seeing men 
 play the fool for nothing, — I got one to make an apology, 
 and the other to take it, and left them to live happy 
 ever after. One was a peer, the other a friend untitled, 
 and both fond of high play ; — and one, I can swear for, 
 though very mild, ' not fearful,' and so dead a shot, that, 
 though the other is the thinnest of men, he would have 
 spUt him like a cane. They both conducted themselves 
 
 See Don Juan, Canto X. stanza 16 
 
LETTERS, 1813. 
 
 55 
 
 very well, and I put them out of pain as soon as I 
 could. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "There is an American Life of G. F. Cooke, Scurra 
 deceased, lately published. Such a book ! — I believe, 
 since Drunken Barnaby's Journal, nothing like it has 
 drenched the press. All green-room and tap-room — 
 drams and the drama — brandy, whisky-punch, and, lat- 
 terly, toddy, overflow every page. Two things are 
 rather marvellous — first, that a man should live so long 
 drunlc, and, next, that he should have found a sober bio- 
 grapher. There are some very laughable things in it, 
 nevertheless : — but the pints he swallowed, and the parts 
 he performed, are too regularly registered. 
 
 '•'All this time you wonder I am not gone : so do I ; 
 but the accounts of the pkgue are very perplexing — not 
 so much for the thing itself as the quarantine established 
 in all ports, and from all places^ even from England. It 
 is true the forty or sixty days would, in all probability, 
 be as foolishly spent on shore as in the ship ; but one 
 lilces to have one's choice, nevertheless. Town is 
 awfully empty ; but not the worse for that. I am really 
 puzzled with my perfect ignorance of what I mean to 
 do ; — not stay, if I can help it, but where to go ? Sligo 
 is for the North, — a pleasant place, Petersburgh, in Sep- 
 tember, with one's ears and nose in a muff, or else 
 tumbling into one's neckcloth or pocket handkerchief! 
 If the winter treated Buonaparte with so little ceremony, 
 what would it inflict upon your solitary traveller? give 
 me a sun, I care not how hot, and sherbet, I care not 
 how cool, and my Heaven is as easily made as your Per- 
 sian's.* The Giaour is now 1000 and odd lines. 'Lord 
 Fanny spins a thousand such a day,' eh, Moore ? — thou 
 wilt needs be a wag, but I forgive it. 
 
 "Yours ever, "Bn. 
 
 "P. S. I perceive I have written a flippant and rather 
 cold-hearted letter; let it go, however. I have said 
 nothing, either, of the brilliant sex ; but the fact is, I am, 
 at this moment, in a far more serious, and entirely new, 
 scrape than any of the last twelvemonth, — and that is 
 saying a good deal. * * * It is unlucky we can 
 neither hve with or without these women. 
 
 " I am now thinking and regretting that just as I have 
 left Newstead, you reside near it. Did you ever see it ? 
 do — but do n't tell me that you like it. If I had known 
 of such intellectual neighbourhood, I do n't think I should 
 have quitted it. You could have come over so often, as 
 a bachelor, — for it was a thorough bachelor's mansion — 
 plenty of wine and such sordid sensuaUties — with books 
 enough, room enough, and an air of antiquity about all 
 (except the lasses) that would have suited you, when 
 pensive, and served you to laugh at when in glee. I 
 had built myself a bath and a vault — and now I shan't 
 even be buried in it. It is odd that we can't even be 
 certain of a grave, at least a particular one. I remem- 
 ber, when about fifteen, reading your poems there, — 
 which I can repeat almost now, — and asking all kinds 
 of questions about the author, when I heard that he was 
 not dead according to the preface ; wondering if I should 
 ever see him — and though, at that time, without the 
 smallest poetical propensity myself, very much taken, as 
 you may imagine, with that volume. Adieu — I commit 
 you to the care of the gods — Hindoo, Scandinavian, and 
 Hellenic ! 
 
 "P. S. 2d. There is an excellent review of Grimm's 
 Correspondence and Mad«. de Staei in this N°. of the 
 Edinburgh Review. * * * * 
 
 Jeffrey, himself, was my critic last year; but this is, I 
 believe, by another hand. I hope you are going on with 
 your grand coup — pray do — or that damned Lucien 
 Buonaparte will beat us all. I have seen much of his 
 
 poem in MS. and he really surpasses every thing be- 
 neath Tasso. Hodgson is translating him against ano- 
 ther bard. You and (I believe, Rogers) Scott, GifTord, 
 and myselfj are to be referred to as judges between the 
 twain, — that is, if you accept the office. Conceive our 
 different opinions ! I think we, most of us (I am talking 
 very impudently, you will think — tis, indeed !) have a 
 way of our own, — at least, you and Scott certainly 
 have." 
 
 LETTER CLXX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Aug. 28, 1813. 
 "Ay, my dear Moore, 'there was a time' — I have 
 heard of your tricks when ' you was campaigning at the 
 king of Bohemy.' I am much mistaken if, some fine 
 London spring, about the year 1815, that time does not 
 come again. After all we must end in marriage ; and 
 I can conceive nothing more delightful than such a state 
 in the country, reading the county newspaper, &c. and 
 kissing one's wife's maid. Seriously, I would incorpo- 
 rate with any woman of decent demeanour to-morrow— 
 that is, I would a month ago, but, at present, * + 
 * * * *_ 
 
 " Why do n't you ' parody that Ode ?'*— Do you 
 think I should be tetchy ? or have you done it, and won't 
 tell me ? — ^You are quite right about Giamschid, and I 
 have reduced it to a dissyllable within this half-hour.f 
 I am glad to hear you talk of Richardson, because it 
 tells me what you won't — that you are going to beat 
 Lucien. At least, tell me how far you have proceeded. 
 Do .you think me less interested about y,our works, or 
 less sincere than our friend Ruggiero ? I am not — and 
 never was. In that thing of mine, the ' English Bards, 
 at the time when I was angry with all the world, I never 
 ' disparaged your parts,' although I did not know you 
 personally ; — and have always regretted that you do n't 
 give us an entire work, and not sprinkle yourself in de- 
 tached pieces — beautiful, I allow, and quite done in our 
 language, but still giving us a right to expect a Shah 
 Nameh (is that the name?) as well as Gazels. Stick 
 to the East ; the oracle, Stael, told me it was the only 
 poetical policy. The North, South, and West, have all 
 been exhausted ; but from the East, we have nothing 
 but South ey's unsaleables, — and these he has contrived 
 to spoil, by adopting only their most outrageous fictions. 
 His personages do n't interest us, and yours will. You 
 will have no competitor ; and if you had, you ought to be 
 glad of it. The little I have done in that way is merely 
 a ' voice in the wilderness' for you ; and, if it has had 
 any success, that also will prove that the public are 
 orientalizing, and pave the path for you. 
 
 "I have been thinking of a story, grafted on the 
 amours of a Peri and a mortal — something like, only 
 more philanthropical, than Gazette's Diable Amoureux.| 
 It would require a good deal of poesy ; and tenderness 
 is not my forte. For that, and other reasons, I have 
 given up the idea, and merely suggest it to you, because, 
 in intervals of your greater work, I think it a subject 
 you might make much of. If you want any more books, 
 
 ' A Persian's Heav'n is easily made- 
 'T is but black eyes and lemonade. 
 
 * The Ode of Horace, 
 
 " Natis in usum Ijetitise," &c. 
 some passages of which Mr. Moore told him might be parodied, in allu- 
 sion to some of his late adventures : 
 
 " Q,uanta laboras in Charybdi! 
 Eigne puer meliore flamml. !" 
 
 t In his first edition of the Giaour he had used this word as a trisylla- 
 ble, — " Bright as the gem of Giamschid," — but on Mr. Moore's remark- 
 ing to him, upon the authority of Richardson's Pei-sian Dictionary, that 
 this was incorrect, he altered it lo " Bright as the ruby of Giamschid." 
 On seeing this, however, Mr. M. wrote to him " that, as the comparison 
 of his heroine's eye to a ' ruby' might unlucltily call up the idea of its 
 being bloodshot, he had better change the hne to ' Bright as the jewel of 
 Giamschid ;' '' — which he accordingly did in the following edition. 
 
 X See HeaTen and Earth, page 358. 
 
56 
 
 LETTERS, 1813. 
 
 there is 'Castellan's Moeurs des Ottomans,' the best 
 compendium of the kind I ever met with, in six small 
 tomes. I am really talcing a liberty by talking in this 
 style to my ' elders and my betters ;' — pardon it, and 
 do n't Rochefoucault my motives." 
 
 LETTER CLXXL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "August — September, I mean — 1, 1813. 
 
 " I send you, begging your acceptance, Castellan, and 
 three vols, on Turkish Literature, not yet looked into. 
 The last I will thank you to read, extract what you 
 want, and return in a week, as they are lent to me by 
 that brightest of northern constellations. Mackintosh, — 
 among many other kind things into which India has 
 warmed him, for I am sure your home Scotsman is of a 
 less genial description. 
 
 " Your Peri, my dear M., is sacred and inviolable ; I 
 have no idea of touching the hem of her petticoat. 
 Your affectation of a dislike to encounter me is so flat- 
 tering, that I begin to think myself a very fine fellow. 
 But you are laughing at me — 'stap my vitals, Tam! 
 thou art a very impudent person ;' and, if you are not 
 laughing at me, you deserve to be laughed at. Serious- 
 ly, what on earth can you, or have you, to dread from 
 any poetical flesh breathing? It really puts me out of 
 humour to hear you talk thus. 
 ***** * * 
 
 " The 'Giaour' I have added to a good deal; but still 
 in foolish fragments. It contains about 1200 lines, or 
 rather more — -now printing. You will allow me to send 
 you a copy. You delight me much by telling me that I 
 am in your good graces, and more particularly as to 
 temper ; for, unluckily, I have the reputation of a very 
 bad one. But they say the devil is amusing when pleased, 
 and I must have been more venomous than the old ser- 
 pent, to have hissed or stung in your company. It may 
 be, and would appear to a third person, an incredible 
 thing, but I know you will believe me when I say that I 
 am as anxious for your success as one human being can 
 be for another's, — as much as if I had never scribbled a 
 line. Surely the field of fame is wide enough fdr all ; 
 and if it were not, I would not willingly rob my neighbour 
 of a rood of it. Now you have a pretty property of 
 come thousand acres there, and when you have passed 
 your present Enclosure Bill, your income will be doubled 
 (there 's a metaphor, worthy of a Templar, namely, pert 
 and low,) while my wild common is too remote to in- 
 commode you, and quite incapable of such fertility. I 
 send you (which return per post, as the printer would 
 say) a curious letter from a friend of mine,* which will 
 let you into the origin of ' the Giaour.' Write soon. 
 '■ Ever, dear Moore, yours most entirely, &c. 
 
 " P. S. This letter was written to me on account of a 
 different story circulated by some gentlewomen of our 
 acquaintance, a little too close to the text. The part 
 erased contained merely some Turkish names, and cir- 
 cumstantial evidence of the girl's detection, not very im- 
 portant or decorous." 
 
 * The foUowins letter of Lord Sligo. 
 
 " Albany, Monday, Aug. 31, 1813. 
 " My dear Byron, 
 
 " You have requested me to tell you all that I heard at Athens about 
 the affair of rhatgirl who was so near being put an end to wliile you were 
 there ; you have asited me to mention every circumstance, in the remotest 
 degree relating to it, which I heard. In compliance with your wishes, I 
 write to you all I heard, and I cannot imagine it to be very far from the 
 fact, as the circumstance happened only a day or two before I arrived at 
 Athens, and consequently was a matter of common conversation at the 
 tiine. 
 
 " The new governor, unaccustomed to have the same intercourse with 
 the Christians as his predecessor, had of course the barbarous Turkish 
 ideas with regard to women. In consequence, and in compHance with 
 the strict letter of the Maliommedan law, he ordered this girl to be sewed 
 up in a sack, and thrown into the sea, — as is, indeed, quite customary at 
 Constantinople. As you were returning from bathing in the Piraeus, you 
 met the procession going down to execute the sentence of the Waywode 
 on this unfortunate girl. Report continues to say, that on finding out 
 what the object of their journey was, and who was the miserable sufferer, 
 you immediately interfered ; and on some delay in obeying your orders, 
 vou were obliged to inform the leader of the escort, that force should make 
 liim comply, — that, on farther hesitation, you drew a pistol, and told 
 him, that if he did not immediately obey your orders, and come back with 
 you to the Agt's house, you would shoot him dead. On this, the man 
 turned about and went with you to the governor's house ; here you suc- 
 ceeded, partly by personal threats, and partly by bribery and eatreaty, 
 
 LETTER CLXXIL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Sept. 5, 1813. 
 
 " You need not tie yourself down to a day with Tode- 
 rini, but send him at your leisure, having anatomized him 
 into such annotations as you want ; I do not believe that 
 he has ever undergone that process before, which is the 
 best reason for not sparing him now. 
 
 " Rogers has returned to town, but not yet recovered 
 of the Gluarterly. What fellows these reviewers are! 
 ' these bugs do fear us all.' They made you fight, and 
 me (the milkiest of men) a satirist, and will end by mak- 
 ing Rogers madder than Ajax. I have been reading 
 Memory again, the other day, and Hope together, and 
 retain all my preference of the former. His elegance is 
 really wonderful — there is no such thing as a vulgar line 
 in his book. * * * + 
 
 "What say you to Buonaparte? Remember, I back 
 him against the field, barring Catalepsy and the Ele- 
 ments. Nay, I iilmost wish him success against all 
 countries but this, — were it only to choke the Morning 
 Post, and his undutiful father-in-law, with that rebellious 
 bastard of Scandinavian adoption, Bernadotte. Rogers 
 wants me to go with him on a crusade to the Lakes, and 
 to besiege you on our way. This last is a great temp- 
 tation, but I fear it will not be in my power, unless you 
 would go on with one of us somewhere — no matter 
 where. It is too late for Madock, but we might hit upon 
 some scheme, high life or low, — the last would be much 
 the best for amusement. I am so sick of the other, that 
 I quite sigh for a cider-cellar, or a cruise in a smuggler's 
 sloop. 
 
 "You cannot wish m.ore than I do that the Fates 
 were a little more accommodating to our parallel lines, 
 which prolong ad infinitum without coming a jot the 
 nearer. I almost wish I were married too — which is 
 saying much. AH my friends, seniors and juniors, are 
 in for it, and ask me to be godfather, — the only species 
 of parentage which, I beheve, will ever come to my share 
 in a lawful way ; and, in an unlawful one, by the blessing 
 of Lucina, we can never be certain, — though the parish 
 may. I suppose I shall hear from you to-morrow. If 
 not, this goes as it is ; but I leave room for a P. S., in 
 case any thing requires an answer. Ever, &c. 
 
 " No letter — vHmporte. Rogers thinks the duarterly 
 will be at me this time : if so, it shall be a war of exter- 
 mination — no quarter. From the youngest devil down 
 to the oldest woman of that Review, all shall perish by 
 one fatal lampoon. The ties of nature shall be torn 
 asunder, for I will not even spare my bookseller ; nay, if 
 one were to include readers also all the better." 
 
 LETTER CLXXIII. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Sept. 8, 1813. 
 " I am sorry to see Tod, again so soon, for fear your 
 
 to procure her pardon on condition of her leaving Athens. I was told 
 that you then conveyed her in safety to the convent, and despatched her 
 off at night to Thebes, where she found a safe asylum. Such is the story 
 I heard, as nearly as I can recollect it at present. Should you wish to 
 ask me any further questions about it, I shall be very ready and willing 
 to answer them. 
 
 " I remain, my dear Byron, 
 
 " yours, very sincerely, 
 
 " SLIGO. 
 I am afraid yon will hardly be nble to read this scrawl ; but I am lo 
 hurried with the preparations for my journey, that you must excuse it.' 
 
LETTERS, 1813. 
 
 57 
 
 scrupulous conscience should have prevented you from fully 
 availing yourself of his spoils. By this coach I send you a 
 copy of diat av,ful pamphlet, 'the Giaour,' wliich has never 
 procured me half so high a compliment as your modest alarm. 
 You vnR (if inclined ui an evening) perceive that I have 
 added much in quantity, — a circumstance wlaich may truly 
 diminish your modest}' upon the subject. 
 
 " You stand certainly in gi-eat need of a ' lift' with IMack- 
 intosh. My dear IMoore, you strangely imderrate yourseE 
 I should conceive it an affectation ki any otlier ; but I tliink 
 I know you well enough to believe that you don't know your 
 own value. However, 't is a fault that generally mends ; 
 and, in your case, it really ought. I have heard liim speak 
 of you as highly as your v.ife could wish ; and enough to 
 give all your friends the jaundice. 
 
 " Yesterday I had a letter from Ali Pacha ! brought by 
 Doctor Holland, who is just returned from Albania. It is 
 in Latin, and begins ' ExceUentissime, nee non Carissime,' 
 and ends about a gun he wants made for liim ; — it is signed 
 ' Ali Vizir.' What do you tlink he has been about ? H. 
 teUs me that, last spring, he took a hostile town, where, 
 forty-two years ago, his mollier and sisters were treated as 
 Miss Cunigunde was by the Bulgarian cavalry. He takes 
 the town, selects all the survivors of this exploit — cliildren, 
 grandchildren, &c. to the tune of six hmidred, and has them 
 shot before his face. Recollect, he spared the rest of the 
 city, and confined liimself to the Tajquin pedigree, — which 
 is more than I would. So much for ' dearest friend.' " 
 
 LETTER CLXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Sept. 9, 1813. 
 "I Avrite to you from Murray's, and I may sa}-, from 
 Murray, who, if you are not predisposed in favour of any 
 other publisher, would be happy to treat v,ith you, at a fit- 
 ting time, for your woik. I can safely recommend him, as 
 fair, liberal, and attentive, and certamly, in point of reputa- 
 tion, he stands among die first of 'the trade.' I am sure he 
 would do you justice. I have written to you so much lately 
 that you wiU be glad to see so little now. Ever, &c. &c." 
 
 LETTER CLXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Sept. 27, 1813. 
 
 "^ THOMAS MOORE, 
 
 " (Thou wilt never be called ' true Thomas,' like he of 
 Ercildoune,) why don't you write to me ? — as you won't, I 
 must. I was near you at Aston the otlier day, and hope I 
 soon shall be again. If so, you must and shall meet me, 
 and go to Madock and elsewhere, and talie what, in flash 
 dialect, is poetically termed ' a lark,' widi Rogers and me for 
 accomplices. Yesterday, at HoUand-house, I was intro- 
 duced to Southey — tlie best-looking bard I have seen for 
 some time. To have that poet's head and shoulders, I 
 would almost have written liis Sapphics. He is certainly a 
 prepossessing person to look on, and a man of talent, and all 
 that, and — there is his eulogy. 
 
 « * * xea.di me part of a letter from you. By the foot of 
 Pharaoh, I believe there was abuse, for he stopped short, so 
 he did, after a fine saying about our correspondence, and 
 looked — I wish I could revenge myself by attacking you, or 
 by telling you that I have had to defend you — an agreeable 
 way which one's friends have of recommending themselves, 
 by saying — * Ay, ay, / gave it ]Mr. Such-a-one for what he 
 said about your bebg a plagiary, and a rake, and so on.' 
 But do you know that you are one of the very few whom 1 
 never have the satisfaction of hearing abused, but the 
 reverse ; — and do you suppose I will forgive that ? 
 
 "I have been in the country, and ran away from the 
 Doncaster races. It is odd, — I was a visiter in the same 
 house wliich cams to my sire as a residence with Lady 
 Carmarthen (with whom he adulterated before his majority 
 
 8 
 
 — by-the-by, remember, she was not my mamma) — and 
 they thrust me into an old room, with a nauseous picture 
 over the cliimney, wliich I should suppose my papa regarded 
 witli due respect, and wliich, inheriting the family taste, I 
 looked upon witli gieat satisfaction. I stayed a week with 
 the family, and behaved very well— though the lady of the 
 house is young, and religious, and pretty, and the master is 
 rny particular friend. I felt no ■v'iish for any tiling but a 
 poodle dog, which tiiey kindly gave me. Now, for a man 
 of my courses, not even to have coveted is a sign of great 
 amendment. Pray pardon all this nonsense, and don't 
 ' snub me when I 'm in spirits.' 
 
 " Ever yours, 
 
 "Bn. 
 " Here 's an impromptu for you by a ' person of quality,' 
 written last week, on being reproached for low spirits. 
 " When from the heart -where soi-row sits,* &c. 
 
 LETTER CLXXVL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 " Oct. 2, 1813. 
 
 " 'Y ou have not answered some six letters of mine. This, 
 therefore, is my penultimate. I ^^-ill write to you once more \ 
 but after that— I swear by all the saints— I am silent and 
 supercilious. I have met Curran at Holland-housef— he 
 beats every body ;— his imagination is beyond human, and 
 his humour (it is difficult to define what is vciX) perfect. 
 Then he has fifty faces, and twice as many voices, when he 
 mimics ; — I never met his equal. Now, were I a woman, 
 and eke a virgin, that is the man I should make my Sca- 
 mander. He is quite fascinating. Remember, I have met 
 him but once ; and you, who have kno^™ him long, may 
 probably deduct from my panegyric. I almost fear to meet 
 him again, lest the impression should be lowered. He talked 
 a great deal about you — a theme never tiresome to me, nor 
 any body else that I know. What a variety of expression 
 he conjm-es into that naturally not very fine countenance of 
 his ! He absolutely changes it entirely. I have done — 
 for I can't describe him, and you know him. On Sunday I 
 return to * *, where I shall not be far from you. Perhaps 
 I shall hear from you in tiie mean time. Good night. 
 
 "Saturday morn. — Your letter has cancelled all my 
 anxieties. I did not suspect you in earnest. Modest again ! 
 Because I don't do a very shabby thing, it seems, I ' don't 
 fear your competition.' If it were reduced to an alternative 
 of preference, I shxndd dread you, as much as Satan does 
 Michael. But is there not room enough in our respective 
 regions? Goon — it will soon be my turn to forgive. To- 
 day I dme with jMackintosh and Mrs. Stale — as John Bull 
 may be pleased to denominate Corinne — whom I saw last 
 night, at Covent-garden, yawning over the humour of FalstaE 
 
 " The reputation of ' gloom,' if one's friends are not in- 
 cluded in the reputants^ is of great service ; as it saves one 
 from a legion of impertinents, in the shape of commonplace 
 acquaintance. But thou Imowest I can be a right merry 
 and conceited feUow, and rarely 'larmoyant.' Murray shall 
 reinstate your line forthwith.]: I believe the blunder in the 
 motto was mine ; and yet I have, in general, a memory for 
 you, and am sure it was rightly printed at first. 
 
 " I do 'blush' very often, if I may believe Ladies H. and 
 M. — ^but luckily, at present, no one sees me. Adieu." 
 
 LETTER CLXXVn. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Nov. SO, 1813. 
 " Since I last wrote to you, much has occurred, good, bad, 
 
 ' See Poerns, p. 189. 
 
 1 See Memorandums, p. 266. 
 
 j The motto to the Giaour, wliich is taken from one of the Irish Melo- 
 dies, had been quoted by Iiim incorrectly in the first editions of the Poem. 
 He made afterward a similar mistake in the lines from Bums prefixed to 
 the Bride of Ab^dos, 
 
68 
 
 LETTERS, 1813. 
 
 and indifferent,— not to make me forget you, but to prevent 
 me from reminding you of one who, nevertlieless, has often 
 thought of you, and to whom your thoughts, in many a 
 measure, have frequently been a consolation. We were 
 once very near neighboui's this autumn ; and a good and 
 bad neighbourhood it has proved to me. Suffice it to say, 
 that your French quotation was confoundedly to the pur- 
 pose, — tliough very unexpectedly pertinent, as you may ima- 
 gine by what I said before, and my silence since. * * * 
 However, ' Richard 's himself again,' and, except all night and 
 some part of the morning, I don't think very much about 
 the matter. 
 
 " All convulsions end witli me in rh}Tne ; and to solace 
 my midnights, I have scribbled another Tm-ldsh story* — 
 not a Fragment — which you will receive soon after tliis. It 
 does not trench upon your kingdom in tlie least, and, if it did, 
 you would soon reduce me to my proper boundaries. You 
 will think, and justly, that I rim some i-isk of losing the little 
 I have gained in fame, by this furdier experiment on public 
 patience ; but I have really ceased to care on that head. I 
 have wTitten tliis, and published it, for tlie sake of the em- 
 ploymeni, — to wring m.y thoughts from reality, and take 
 refuge in 'imaginbgs,' however ' horrible ;' and, as to success ! 
 those who succeed will console me for a failure — excepting 
 yourself and one or t\vo more, whom luckily I love too well 
 to wish one leaf of their laurels a tint yellower. This is the 
 work of a week, and will be the reading of an hour to you, 
 or even less, — and so let it go * * * 
 
 "P. S. Ward and I talk of going to Holland. I want 
 to see how a Dutch canal looks, after the Bosphorus. Pray 
 respond." 
 
 ' The Bride of Abydos. To this poem he made additions, in the course 
 of printing, amounting altogether to near two hundred lines ; and the 
 opening lines, " Know ye the land," &c.— supposed to have been suggest- 
 ed to him by a song of Goethe's, — were among the number of these new 
 insertions, as were also those verses, " Who hath not proved how feebly 
 words essay," &c. Having, at first, written the line in stanza 6, 
 
 " Mind on her lip and music in her face," 
 be afterward altered it to— 
 
 " The miud of music breathing in her face.'' 
 But, this not satisfying him, the next step of correction brought the line 
 to what it is at present— 
 
 " The mind, the music breathingfrom her face." 
 The whole passage wliich follows — 
 
 " Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark," 
 was seat in successive scraps to the printer, correction following correc- 
 
 iOD. 
 
 The line, " And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray," was originally 
 an airy 
 " And tints to-morrow with a fancied ray," 
 the following note being annexed; — " IMr. Murray, — Choose which of 
 the two epithets, ' fancied,' or ' aiiy,' may be the best; or, if neither will 
 do, tell me, and I will dream another.' ' In the long passage just referred 
 to, the six lines beginning " Blest as the Muezzin's strain," &c. having 
 been despatched to the printer too late for insertion, were, by his desire, 
 added in an errata page ; the first couplet, in its original form, being as 
 follows: — 
 
 " Soft as the Mecca-Muezzin's strains invite 
 Him who hath journey'd far to join the rite." 
 
 fn a few hours after, another scrap was sent off, containing the lines 
 khus — 
 
 •' Blest as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's dome, 
 Which welcomes Ffiith to view her Prophet's tomb," 
 
 vilh the following note to Mr. Murray: — 
 
 " December 3d, 1813. 
 " Look out in tlie Encyclopedia, article Mecca, whether it is there or 
 at Medina the Prophet is entombed. If at Medina, the fii-st lines of my 
 alteration must nm — 
 
 " Blest as the call which from Medina's dome 
 Invites Devotion to her Prophet's tomb, &c." 
 If at Mecca, the lines may stand as before. Page 45, canto 2d, Bride of 
 Abydos. "Youi-s, 
 
 "B. 
 " You will find this out either by article Mecca, Medina, or Moham- 
 med. I have no book of reference by me." 
 Immediately after succeeded another note: — 
 
 " Did you look out ? Is it Medina or Mecca that contains the Holy 
 Sepulchre? Don't make me blasplieme by your negligence. I have no 
 book of reference, or I would save you the trouble. I blush as a good 
 Mussulman, to have confused the point. " Yours, 
 
 "B." 
 Notwithstanding all these various changes, the couplet in question 
 stands, at present, thus:— 
 
 " Dlest as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
 To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call." 
 
 LETTER CLXXVm. 
 
 TO LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 "4, Bennet-street, Dec. 2, 1813. 
 
 * MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 "Few things could be more welcome tlian your note; 
 and on Saturday morning I will avail myself of your per- 
 mission to thank you for it in person. My time has not 
 been passed, since we met, either profitably or agreeably. 
 A very short period after my last visit, an incident occurred, 
 with wliicli, I fear, you are not unacquainted, as report, in 
 many moudas and more than one paper, was busy with the 
 topic. That, naturally, gave me much uneasiness. Then 
 I nearly incurred a lawsuit on tlie sale of an estate ; but 
 diat is now arranged : next — but why should I go on v«th a 
 scries of selfish and silly details ? I merely wish to assure 
 you diat it was not the frivolous forgetfulness of a mind oc- 
 cupied by what is called pleasure, {not in the true sense of 
 Epicurus,) diat kept me away ; but a perception of my, 
 tlien, unfitness to share the society of those whom I value 
 and wish not to displease. I hate being larmoyant, and 
 making a serious face among diose who are cheerful. 
 
 "It is my \Aish that our acquaintance, or, if you pleas© to 
 accept it, friendsliip, may be permanent. I have been lucky 
 enough to preserve some friends from a very early period, 
 and 1 hope, as I do not (at least now) select them lighdy, I 
 shall not lose them capriciously. I have a thorough esteem 
 for that independence of spiiit which you have maintained 
 A'sith sterling talent, and at the expense of some suffering. 
 You have not, I trust, abandoned the poem you were com- 
 posing, when Moore and I partook of your hospitality in the 
 summer. 1 hope a time will come when he and I may be 
 able to repay you in kind for the latter — for the rhyme, at 
 least in quantity, you are in arrear to both. 
 
 "Believe me very truly and affecdonately yours, 
 
 "Byron" 
 
 LETTER CLXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Dec. 8, 1813. 
 "Your letter, like all the best, and even kindest, things in 
 this world, is both painful and pleasing. But, first, to what 
 sits nearest. Do you know I was actually about to dedicate 
 to you, — ^not in a formal inscription, as to one's etders, — but 
 tlirough a short prefatory letter, in which I boasted myself 
 youi- intimate, and held fordi the prospect of ycur Poem ; 
 when, lo, the recollection of your strict injunctions of secrecy 
 as to the said Poem, more than once repeated by word and 
 letter, flashed upon me, and marred my intents. I could 
 have no motive for repressing my own desire of alludino- to 
 you, (and not a day passes that I do not tliinli and talk of 
 you.) but an idea diat you might, j'ourselfj dislike it. You 
 cannot doubt mj^ sincere admiration, wai\ing personal friend- 
 sliip for the present, wiiich, by-the-by, is not less sincere and 
 deep-rooted. I have you by rote and by heart ; of which 
 ' ecce signum I' When I was at * *, on my first Aosit, I 
 have a habit, in passing my time a good deal alone, of — I 
 won't call it singing, for tliat I never attempt except to my- 
 self—but of uttering, to what I tiiink tunes, your ' Oh breathe 
 not,' 'I'Vhenthe last glimpse,' and 'When he who adores 
 thee,' with others of the same minstrel; — they are my ma- 
 tins and vespers. I assm-edly did not intend them to be 
 overheard, but, one mommg, in comes, not La Donna, but H 
 Marito, with a very grave face, sa}ing, ' Byron, T must re- 
 quest you won't sing any more, at least of tlwse songs.' I 
 stared, and said, 'Certainly, but why?' — 'To tell you the 
 truth,' quoth he, 'they make my wife cry, and so melancholy, 
 that I wish her to hear no more of diem.' 
 
 " Now, my dear Moore, the effect must have been from 
 your words, and certainly not my music. T merely mention 
 this foolish story, to show you how much I am indebted 
 to you for even your pastimes. A man may praise and 
 praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases — at 
 
LET TERS, ]S13. 
 
 69 
 
 Seasl, in composition. Though I think no one equal to you 
 in that department, or in satire, — and surely no one was ever 
 so popular in both, — T certainly am of opinion that you have 
 not yet done all you, can do, though more than enough for 
 any one else. I want, and tlie world expects, a longer work 
 from you ; and I see in you what I never saw in poet before, 
 a strange diffidence of your o^^^l powers, wliich I cannot 
 accomit for, and which must be unaccountable, when a Cos- 
 sac like me can appal a cuirassier. Your stoiy I did not, 
 covild not, know, — I thought only of a Peri. I wish you had 
 confided in me, not for your sake, but mine, and to prevent 
 the world from losing a much better poem than ray o^vn, but 
 which, I yet hope, this dashing will not even now deprive 
 them of. Mine is the work of a week, wTitten, why I have 
 partly told you, and partly I cannot tell you by letter — some 
 day I will. 
 
 ***** 
 
 * Go on — I shall really be very unhappy if I at all inter- 
 fere with you. The success of mine is yet problematical ; 
 though the public will probably purchase a certain quantity, 
 on tlie presumption of dieir owti propensity for ' the Giaour' 
 and such ' horrid mysteries.' The only advantage I have is 
 being on the spot ; and that merely amounts to saving me 
 the trouble of turning over books, wliich I had better read 
 again. Jfyour chairber was furnished in the same way, you 
 have no need to go there to describe — I mean only as to ac- 
 curcucy — because I drew it from recollection. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " This last thing of mine may have the same fate, and I 
 assure you I have great doubts about it. But, even if not, 
 its littie day wiU be over before you are ready and willing. 
 Come out — ' screw your courage to tlie sticking-place.' Ex- 
 cept the Post Bag (and surely you cannot complain of a 
 want of success there,) you have not been regularly out for 
 some years. No man stands higher, — whatever you may 
 think on a rainy day, in your provincial retreat. ' Aucun 
 homme, dans aucune langue, n'a ete, peut-etre, plus com- 
 plfetement le poete du cceur et le poete des femmes. Les 
 critiques lui reprochent de n'avoir represente le monde ni tel 
 qu'il est, ni tel qu'il doit etre ; mais les femmes ripondent qui! 
 Ca represente tel qu'elles le desirent.' — I should have thought 
 Sisraondi had written this for you instead of Metastasio. 
 
 " Write to me, and tell me dt yourself. Do you remember 
 what Rousseau said to some one — ' Have we quarrelled? 
 you have talked to me often, and never once mentioned your- 
 self.' 
 
 "P. S. The last sentence is an indirect apology for my 
 own egotism, — ^but I believe in letters it is allowed. I vnsh 
 it was mutual. I have met with an odd reflection m Grimm ; 
 it shall not — at least, the bad part, — be applied to you or me, 
 though one of us has certainly an indifferent name — but this 
 it is : ' Many people have the reputation of being wicked, with 
 whom we should be too happy to pass our lives.' I need not 
 add it is a woman's saying — a Mademoiselle de Som- 
 
 mery's." 
 
 ***** 
 
 LETTER CLXXX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Dec. 4,1813. 
 * I have redde tbj'ough your Persian Tales,* and have 
 taken the libert}- of making some remarks on the blank pages. 
 There are many beautifiiTpassages, and an interesting story ; 
 and I cannot give you a stronger proof that such is my opi- 
 nion than by the date of the hour — two o'clock^ till wliich it 
 has kept me awalie without a yawn. The conclusion is not 
 quite correct in costume : there is no jyiussulm.an suicide on 
 record, — at least for bve. But this matters not. The tale 
 must have been written by some one who has been on the 
 spot, and I wish him, and he deserves, success. Will you 
 apologize to the author for the liberties I have taken with his 
 
 MS.? Had I been less awake to, and interested in, hia 
 theme, I had been less obtrusive ; but you know / always 
 take tliis in good pait, and I hope he will. It is difficult to 
 say what will succeed, and still more to pronounce what laiU 
 not. I am at tliis moment in that uncertainty (on our own 
 score,) and it is no small proof of the author's powers to be 
 able to charm and fix a minds attention on similar subjects 
 and climates in such a predicament. That he may have 
 the same effect upon all liis readers is very sincerely the 
 wisli, and hardly the dovbt^ of yours truly, " B." 
 
 LETTER CLXXXI. 
 
 TO MR. GIFFORD. 
 
 «Nov.l2, 1813. 
 
 *MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 ■I hope you will consider when I venture on any re- 
 quest, that it is the reverse of a certain Dedication, and 
 is addressed not to 'The Editor of the Quarterly Re- 
 vie-\v,' but to Mr. Gifford. You will understand this, 
 and on that point I need trouble you no farther. 
 
 " You have been good enough to look at a thing of 
 mine in MS.* — a Turkish story, and I should feel grati- 
 fied if you w-ould do it the same favour in its probationary 
 state of printing. It was written, I camiot say for 
 amusement, nor ' obliged by hunger and request of 
 friends,' but in a state of mind, from circumstances which 
 occasionally occur to ' us youth,' that rendered it neces- 
 sary for me to apply my mind to something, any thing 
 but reality ; and under this not very brilhant inspiration 
 it was composed. Being done, and having at least 
 diverted me from myself, I thought you would not 
 perhaps be offended if IVIr. Murray forwarded it to you. 
 He has dene so, and to apologize for his doing so a 
 second time is the object of my present letter, 
 
 " I beg you will not send me any answer. I assure 
 you very sincerely I know your time to be occupied, and 
 it is enough, more than enough, if you read ; you are 
 not to be bored with the fatigue of answers. 
 
 " A word to JMr. Murray will be sufficient, and send it 
 either to the flames, or 
 
 ' A hundred hawkers' load. 
 On wings of winds to fly or fall abroad.' 
 
 It deserves no better than the first, as the work of a week, 
 and scribbled ' stans pede in uno' (by-the-by, the only 
 foot I have to stand on ;) and I promise never to trouble 
 you again under forty Cantos, and a voyage between 
 each. "Believe me ever 
 
 " Your obliged and affectionate servant, 
 "Byron." 
 
 Ilderim, &c. by J.Ir. 1 
 
 LETTER CLXXXIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Nov. 12, 1813. 
 •^Two friends of mine (Mr. Rogers and Mr. Sharpe) 
 have advised me not to risk at present any single pub- 
 lication separately, for various reasons. As they have 
 not seen the one in question, they can have no bias for 
 or against the merits (if it has any) or the faults of the 
 present subject of our conversation. You say all the 
 last of the 'Giaour' are gone— at least out of your hands. 
 Now, if you think of publishing any new edition with 
 the last additions which have not yet been before the 
 reader (I mean distinct from the two-volume publica- 
 tion,) w^e can add the ' Bride of Abydos,' which \villthus 
 steal quietly into the world: if liked, we can then throw 
 off some copies for the purchasers of former ' Giaours ;' 
 and, if not, I can omit it in any future pubhcation. 
 What think you ? I really am no judge of those things, 
 and with all my natural partiahty for one's ovvn produc- 
 
 * The Bride of Abydos. 
 
60 
 
 LETTERS, 1813. 
 
 tions, I would rather follow any one's judgment than my 
 own. 
 
 " P. S. Pray let me have the proofs I sent all to-night. 
 I have some alterations that I wish to make speedily. I 
 hope the proof will be on separate pages, and not all 
 huddled together on a mile-long ballad-singing sheet, as 
 those of the Giaour sometimes are ; for then I can't read 
 them distinctly." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Nov. 13, 1813. 
 
 "Will you forward the letter to Mr. Gilford with the 
 proof? There is an alteration I may make in Zuleika's 
 speech, in second Canto (the only one of hers in that 
 Canto.) It is now thus : — 
 
 *' And curse, if I could curse, the day. 
 
 It must be — 
 
 ■ And mourn — I dare not curse — the day 
 That saw my solitary birth, &c. &c. 
 
 " Ever yours, 
 
 «B. 
 
 "In the last MS. lines sent, instead of 'living heart,' 
 convert to ' quivering heart.' It is in the line 9th of the 
 MS. passage. 
 
 " Ever yours again, " B." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MtTRRAT. 
 
 "Alteration of a line in Canto second. 
 Instead of— 
 
 " And tints to-morrow with a fancied ray, 
 '• And lints to-morrow with prophetic ray. 
 " The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
 And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ; 
 gilds 
 " And lints the hope of morning with its ray ; 
 " And gilds to-morrow's hope with heavenly ray. 
 
 " I wish you would ask Mr. GifFord which of them is 
 best, or rather not vjorst. " Ever, &c. 
 
 " You can send the request contained in this at the 
 same time with the revise^ after I have seen the said re- 
 vise."" 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Nov. 13, 1813. 
 
 "Certainly. Do you suppose that no one but the 
 Galileans are acquainted with Adam, and Eve, and 
 Cain,"^ and JVoah ? Surely, I might have had Solomon, 
 and Abraham, and David, and even Moses. When you 
 know that Zuleika is the Persian poetical name for 
 Potiphar's wife, on whom and Joseph there is a long 
 poem, in the Persian, this will not surprise you. If you 
 want authority, look at Jones, D'Herbelot, Vathek, or 
 the notes to the Arabian Nights ; and, if you thmk it 
 necessary, model this into a note.f 
 
 " Alter, in the inscription, ' the most affectionate re- 
 spect.' to ' with every sentiment of regard and respect.' " 
 
 NOTE TO MR. IVIURRAY. 
 
 "Nov. 14, 1813. 
 "I send you a note for the ignorant,X but I really 
 wonder at finding you among them. I don't care one 
 lump of sugar for my poetry; but for my costume and my 
 correctness on those points (of which I think the funeral 
 was a prooQ I will combat lustily. 
 
 "Yours, &c.» 
 
 "Nov. 14, 1813. 
 "Let the revise wluch I sent just now (and not the 
 proof in Mr. Gilford's possession) be returned to the 
 printer, as there are several additional corrections, and 
 two new lines in it. "Yours, &c." 
 
 Some doubt had been expressed bv Mr. Murrav as to the propriety 
 of his putting the name of Cain into the mouth of a Mussulman. 
 T See note 30, to the Brido of /hvdos. 
 J See note 28, to the Bride of Ab'ydos. 
 
 LETTER CLXXXill. 
 
 TO MR, MURRAY. 
 
 "Nov. 15, 1813. 
 
 " Mr. Hodgson has looked over and stopped, or rather 
 pointed, this revise, which must be the one to print from. 
 He has also made some suggestions, with most of which 
 I have compUed, as he has always, for these ten years, 
 been a very sincere, and by no means (at times) flatter- 
 ing, intimate of mine. He likes it (you will think^a«er- 
 ingly, in this instance) better than the Giaour, but 
 doubts (and so do 1) its being so popular, but, contrary 
 to some others, advises a separate publication. On this 
 we can easily decide. I confess I like the double form 
 better. Hodgson says, it is better versified than any of 
 the others; which is odd, if true, as it has cost me less 
 time (though more hours at a time) than any attempt I 
 ever made. 
 
 "P. S. Do attend to the punctuation: I can't, for I 
 don't know a comma — at least, where to place one. 
 
 " That tory of a printer has omitted two Unes of the 
 opening, and 'perhaps more, which were in the MS. 
 Will you, pray, give him a hint of accuracy 1 I have re 
 inserted the two, but they were in the manuscript, I can 
 swear." 
 
 LETTER CLXXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Nov. 17, 1813. 
 
 " That you and I may distinctly understand each other 
 on a subject, which, like ' the dreadful reckoning when 
 men smile no more,' makes conversation not very plea- 
 sant, I think it as well to write a few lines on the topic. 
 Before I left town for Yorkshire, you said that you were 
 ready and willing to give five hundred guineas for the 
 copyright of 'The Giaour:' and my answer was, from 
 which I do not mean to recede, that we w^ould discuss 
 the point at Christmas. The new story may or may 
 not succeed ; the probability, under present circum- 
 stances, seems to be, that it may at least pay its ex- 
 penses ; but even that remains to be proved, and till it is 
 proved one way or another, we will say nothing about it. 
 Thus then be it : I will postpone all arrangement about 
 it, and the Giaour also, till Easter, 1814; and you shall 
 then, according to your own notions of fairness, make 
 your own offer for the two. At the same time, I do not 
 rate the last in my own estimation at half the Giaour ; 
 and according to your own notions of its worth and its 
 success within the time mentioned, be the addition or 
 deduction to or from whatever sum may be your pro- 
 posal for the first, which has already had its success. 
 
 " The pictures of Phillips I consider as mine, all three; 
 and the one (not the Arnaout) of the two best is much 
 a.tyour service, if you will accept it as a present. 
 
 " P. S. The expense of engraving from the miniature 
 send me in my account, as it was destroyed by my de- 
 sire ; and have the goodness to bum that detestable 
 print from it immediately. 
 
 " To make you some amends for eternally pestering 
 you with alterations, I send you Cobbett, to confiirra 
 your orthodoxy. 
 
 "One more alteration of a into the in the MS.; it 
 must be — ' The heart v:hose softness^ &c. 
 
 "Remember — and in the inscription 'to the Right 
 Honourable Lord Holland,' without the previous names, 
 Henry, &c." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Nov. 20, 1813. 
 " More work for the Row. I am doing my best to 
 beat the 'Giaour' — no difficult task lor any one but the 
 author." 
 
 k 
 
LETTERS, 1813. 
 
 61 
 
 NOTE TO MK. MURRAY. 
 
 "Nov. 22, 1813. 
 
 " 1 have no time to cross-investigate, but I believe and hope 
 all is right. I care less than you will believe about its suc- 
 cess, but I can't survive a single misprint: it chokes me to see 
 words misused by the printers. Pray look over, in case of 
 some eyesore escaping me. 
 
 «P. S. Send the earliest copies to Mr. Frere, Mr. Can- 
 ning, Mr. Heber, Mr. Gifford, Lord HoUand, Lord Mel- 
 bourne (^Vhitehall,) Lady Caroline Lamb (Brocket,) Mr. 
 Hodgson (Cambridge,) Mr.Merivale, Mr. Ward, from the 
 author." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Nov. 23, 1813. 
 
 * You wanted some reflections, and I send you per SeBu 
 (see his speech in Canto 2d, page 46,) eighteen lines in de- 
 cent couplets, of a pensive, if not an ethical tendency. One 
 more revise — positively the last, if decently done — at any rate 
 the penultimate, Mr. Cannings approbation (if he did ap- 
 prove) I need not say makes me proud. As to printbg, 
 print as you will and how you viill — ^by itself] if you like ; but 
 let me have a few copies in sheets. 
 
 "Nov. 24, 1813. 
 
 * You must pardon me once more, as it is all for your 
 good : it must be thus — 
 
 " He makes a solitude, and calls it peace. 
 ' JVfafces' is closer to the passage of Tacitus, from which the 
 line is taken, and is, besides, a stronger word than Heaves.'' 
 
 " Mark where his carnage and his conquests cease, 
 He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace." 
 
 LETTER CLXXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Nov. 27, 1813. 
 
 "If you look over this carefully by the Zos^ proof with my 
 corrections it is probably right ; this you can do as well or 
 better; — I have not now time. The copies I mentioned to 
 be sent to different friends last night, I should wish to be 
 made up with the new Giaours, if it also is ready. If not, 
 send the Giaour afterward. 
 
 " The Morning Post says / am the author of Nourjahad ! I 
 This comes of lending the drawings for dieir dresses ; but it 
 is not worth a formal ccmiradictian. Besides, the criticisms 
 on the supposition will, some of them, be quite amusing and 
 furious. The Orientalism — which I hear is very splendid — 
 of the melodrame (whosever it is, and I am sure I don't 
 know) is as good as an advertisement for your Eastern 
 Stories, by filling their heads with glitter. 
 
 " P. S. You win of course say the truth, that I am not the 
 melodramatist — if any one charges me in your presence with 
 the performance." 
 
 LETTER CLXXXVL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 higher than your present proposal, which is very handsome, 
 and more than fair.* 
 
 " I have had— but tbjs must be entre runes, — a very kind 
 note, on the subject of ' the Bride,' from Sir James Mack- 
 intosh, and an invitation to go there this evening, which it is 
 now too late to accept," 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Nov. 29, 1813. 
 " Sunday — ^Monday morning — 3 o'clock — in 
 my doublet and hose, swearing. 
 
 " I send you in time an errata page, containing an omis- 
 sion of mine which must be thus added, as it is too late for 
 insertion in the text. The passage is an imitation altogether 
 from Medea in Ovid, and is incomplete without these two 
 lines. Pray let this be done, and directly ; it is necessary, 
 will add one page to your book (making,) and can do no 
 harm, and is yet ia time for the public. Answer me, thou 
 oracle, in the affirmative. You can send the loose pages to 
 those who have copies already, if they like ; but certainly to 
 all the aitical copyholders. 
 
 " P. S. I have got out of my bed (in which, however, I 
 could not sleep, whether I had amended this or not,) and so 
 good morning. I am trying whether De L'AUemagne will 
 act as an opiate, but I doubt it." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Nov. 29, 1813. 
 
 "'Fow have looked at itP to much purpose, to allow so 
 stupid a blunder to stand ; it is not 'courage^ but ' carnage ;' 
 and if you don't want me to cut my own throat, see it altered. 
 
 " I am very sorry to hear of the fall of Dresden." 
 
 LETTER CLXXXVn. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Nov. 28, 181 3 
 " Send another copy (if not too much of a request) to Lady 
 Holland of the Journal,* in my name, when you receive 
 this ; it is for Earl Ch'ey — and I will relinquish my oion. 
 Also, to Mr. Sharpe, and Lady Holland, and Lady Caroline 
 Lamb, copies of ' The Bride,' as soon as convenient. 
 
 "P. S. Mr. Ward and myself still contmue our purpose ; 
 but I shall not trouble you on any arrangement on the score 
 of the Giaour and the Bride till our return — or, at any rate, 
 before May, 1814 — that is, six months from hence : and be- 
 fore that time you wiU be able to ascertain how far your 
 offer may be a losing one ; if so, you can deduct propor- 
 tionably ; and if not, I shall not at any rate allow you to go 
 
 "Nov. 29, 1813, Monday. 
 
 " You will act as you please upon that point ; but whether 
 I go or stay, I shall not say anodier word on the subject till 
 May — nor then, unless quite convenient to yourself. I have 
 many things I wish to leave to your care, principally papers. 
 The vases need not be now sent, as Mr. Ward is gone to 
 Scotland. You are right about the errata page ; place it at 
 the beginning. Mr. Perry is a little premature in his com- 
 pliments ; these may do harm by exciting expectation, and I 
 think we ought to be above it — though I see the next para- 
 graph is on the Journal,^; which makes me suspect you as 
 the author of both. 
 
 " Would it not have been as well to have said ' in Two 
 Cantos' m the advertisement? they will else think o? frag- 
 ments, a species of composition very well for once, like one 
 ruin m a mew ; but one would not build a town of them. The 
 Bride, such as it is, is my first entire composition of any 
 length (except the Satire, and be d — d to it,) for the Giaour 
 is but a string of passages, and Childe Harold is, and I 
 rather think always willbe, unconcluded. I return Mr. Hay's 
 note, with thanks to him and you. 
 
 " There have been some epigrams on Mr. Ward : one I 
 see to-day. The first I did not see, but heard yesterday. 
 The second seems very bad. I only hope tliat Mr. Ward 
 does not believe that I had any connexion with either. I 
 like and value him too well to allow my politics to contract 
 into spleen, or to admire any thing intended to annoy him or 
 his. You need not take the trouble to answer this, as I shall 
 see you in the course of the afternoon. 
 
 " P. S. I have said this much about the epigi-ams, because 
 I lived so much in the apposite camp, and, from my post as 
 an engineer, might be suspected as the fiinger of these hand- 
 grenadoes ; but with a v^'orthy foe, I am all for open war, and 
 not this bush-fighting, and have not had, nor will have, any 
 thintr to do with it. I do not know the author." 
 
 i^nrose's Journal, a book published by Mr. Murray at this time. 
 
 * Mr. Murray had offered him a thousand guhieas for the two Toems. 
 t Penrose's Journal. 
 
62 
 
 LETTERS, 1813. 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Nov. 30, 1813. 
 " Pi-int this at tlie end of a// that is of the ^ Bride of Abydos^ 
 as an errata page. " Bn. 
 
 " Omitted, canto 2d, page 47, after line 449, 
 
 " So that tlwse arms cling closer rouud my neck, 
 
 Read, — 
 
 " Then if my lip once murmur, it must be 
 No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee !" 
 
 NOTE TO MR. RIURRAY. 
 
 " Tuesday evening, Nov. 30, 1813. 
 " For the sake of correctness, particularly in an errata 
 page, the alteration of the couplet I have just sent (half an 
 hour ago) must take place, in spite of delay or cancel ; let 
 me see tlie proof early to-morrow. I found out murmur to 
 be a neuter verb^ and have been obliged to alter the line so 
 as to make it a substantive, tlius — 
 
 " The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 
 No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee I 
 
 Don't send the copies to tlie country till this is all right." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. aiURRAY. 
 
 "Dec. 2, 1813. 
 
 " When you can, let the couplet enclosed be inserted either 
 in the page, or in the errata page. I trust it is in time for 
 some of the copies. Tliis alteration is in the same part — 
 the page but one before the last correction sent. 
 
 "P. S. I am afi-aid,from all I hear, that people are rather 
 inordinate in their expectations, which is very unlucky, but 
 cannot now be helped. This comes of Mr. Peny and one's 
 wise friends ; but do not you yvvad your hopes of success to 
 the same pitch, for fear of accidents, and I can assure you 
 that my pliilosophy \Aill stand the test very fairly ; and I have 
 done everv fjiing to ensure you, at all events, from positive 
 loss, whicn vriSi be some satisfaction to both." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Dec. 3, 1813. 
 
 " I send you a scratch or ftt-o, tlie which heal. The Chris- 
 tian Observer is very savage, but certainly well written — and 
 quite uncomfortable at the naughtiness of book and author. 
 I rather suspect you won't much like \he present to be more 
 moral, if it is to share also tlie usual fate of your virtuous 
 volumes. 
 
 "Let me see a proof of the six before incorporation." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. SIURRAY. 
 
 "Monday evening, Dec. 6, 1813. 
 
 *It is all very well, except that the lines are not numbered 
 properly, and a diabolical mistake, page 67, which must be 
 corrected with the pen, if no other way remains ; it is tlie 
 omission of ' no( before ' dlmgreecMe^ in the note on the amber 
 rosary. This is really horrible, and nearly as bad as the 
 stumble of mine at tlie tlireshold — I mean the misnomer of 
 Bride. Pray do not let a copy go without the ' not ;' it is 
 nonsense and worse than nonsense as it now stands. I wish 
 the printer was saddled with a vampii-e. 
 
 "P. S. It is still hath instead of Jmve in page 20 ; never 
 was any one so misused as I am by your de\ils of printers. 
 
 "P. S. I hope and trust tlie 'rwi' was inserted in the first 
 edition. We must have something — any thing — to set it 
 right. It is enough to answer for one's o\mi bulls, wthout 
 other people's." 
 
 LETTER CLXXXVin. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Dec. 27, 1813. 
 "Lord Holland is laid up vnth the gout, and would feel 
 very much obliged if you could obtain, and send as soon as 
 possible, Madame D'Ai-blay's for even Miss Edgewortli's) 
 
 new work. I know they are not out; but it is perhaps pos- 
 sible for your Majesty to command what we cannot with 
 much suing purchase, as yet. I need not say that when you 
 are able or willing to confer the same favour on me, I shall 
 be obliged. I would almost fall sick myself to get at Ma- 
 dame D'Arblay's writings. 
 
 "P. S. You were talldng to-day of the American edition 
 of a certain unquenchable memorial of my younger days. 
 As it can't be helped now, I own I have some curiosity to 
 see a copy of Transatlantic typography. This you will per- 
 haps obtain, and one for yourself: but I must beg that you 
 will not import more, because, seriously, I do wish to have 
 that tiling forgotten as much as it has been forgiven. 
 
 " If you send to the Globe editor, say that I want neither 
 excuse nor contradiction, but merely a discontinuance of a 
 most ill-grounded charge. I never was consistent in any 
 thing but my politics ; and as my redemption depends on that 
 solitar}' virtue, it is murder to carry away my last anchor." 
 
 LETTER CLXXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. ASHE. 
 
 «4, Bennet-street, St. James's, Dec. 14, 1813. 
 "sir, 
 
 "Heave town for a few days to-morrow: on my return, 
 I will answer your letter more at length. Whatever may 
 be your situation, I cannot but commend your resolution to 
 abjure and abandon the publication and composition of works 
 such as tliose to wliich you have alluded. Depend upon it, 
 they amuse/m', disgi-ace both reader and uriter, and benefit 
 none. It will be my wish to assist you, as far as my limited 
 means will admit, to break such a bondage. In your an- 
 swer, inform me what sum you think would enable you to 
 extricate yourself from the hands of your employers, and to 
 regain at least temporary independence, and I shall be glad 
 to contribute my mite towards it. At present I must con- 
 clude. Your name is not unknown to me, and I regret, for 
 your own sake, that you have ever lent it to the works you 
 mention. In saying this, I merely repeat your own words 
 in your letter to me, and have no wish whatever to say a 
 single syllable that may appear to insult your misfortunes. 
 If I have, excuse me ; it is unintentional. 
 
 « Yours, &c. "Byron." 
 
 [In answer to this letter, Ashe mentioned as the sum ne- 
 cessar}' to extricate him from his difficulties, 150/. — and, some 
 short delay having occurred in the reply to tliis demand, he, 
 in renewing his suit, complained, it appears, of neglect.] 
 
 LETTER CXC. 
 
 TO MR. ASHE. 
 
 "Jan. 5, 1814. 
 "sir, 
 
 "When you accuse a stranger of neglect, you forget that 
 it is possible business or absence from London may have 
 interfered to delay his answer, as has actually occurred in 
 the present instance. But to the point. I am willing to do 
 what I can to extricate you from your situation. Your first 
 scheme I was considerbig ; but your owti impatience ap- 
 pears to have rendered it abortive, if not irretrievable. I 
 will deposite in INIr. IMiuTay's hands (with his consent) the 
 sum you mentioned, to be advanced for the time 1 1 ten 
 pounds per month. 
 
 "P. S. I write in the greatest hurr}', which may make 
 my letter a little abrupt ; but, as I said before, I have no wish 
 to distress your feelings." 
 
 * Author of a publication relating to the dueen, called " The Book:" 
 also of" Travels through America," and other notorious libels. He had 
 written to Lord Byron, alleging poverty as his excuse for the vile uses tc 
 which he had prostituted his pen, and Eoliciting the means of oblaiuing 
 some honeart ernploymeut. 
 
LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 63 
 
 LETTER CXCL 
 
 TO MR. GALT. 
 
 «Dec. 11, 1813. 
 
 "my dear GALT, 
 
 * There was no offence — there could be none.* I thought 
 it by no means impossible that we might have hit on some- 
 thing similar, particularly as you are a dramatist, and was 
 anxious to assure you of the truth, viz. that I had not wit- 
 tngly seized upon plot, sentiment, or incident ; and I am very 
 glad that I have not in any respect trenched upon your 
 subjects. Something still more singular is, that the Jirst part, 
 where you have found a coincidence in some events within 
 your observations on life, was drawn from observation of 
 mine also ; and I meant to have gone on with the story, but 
 on second tlioughts, I thought myself two centuries at least 
 too late for the subject ; wliich, though admitting of very 
 powerful feeling and description, yet is not adapted for tihis 
 age, at least this country, though the finest works of the 
 Greeks, one of Schiller's and Alfieri's, in modern times, 
 besides several of our old (and best) dramatists, have been 
 grounded on incidents of a similar cast. I therefore altered 
 it as you perceive, and, in so doing, have weakened the 
 whole by interrupting the train of thought; and, b composi- 
 tion, I do not tliink second thoughts are the best, though second 
 expressions may improve the first ideas. 
 
 " I do not know how other men feel towards those they have 
 met abroad, but to me there seems a kind of tie established 
 between all who have met together in a foreign country, as 
 if we had met in a state of pre-existence, and were talking 
 over a life that has ceased ; but I always look forward to 
 renewing my travels, and though you, I tliink, are now sta- 
 tionary, if I can at all forward your pursuits there as well as 
 here, I shall be truly glad in the opportunity. 
 
 " Ever yours very sincerely, " B. 
 
 "P. S. I believe I leave town for a day or two, on Mon- 
 day, but after that I am always at home, and happy to see 
 vou till half past two." 
 
 LETTER CXCIL 
 
 TO MR. LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 "Dec. 22, 1813. 
 
 "■MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 " I am, indeed, ' in your debt' — and what is still worse, am 
 obliged to foUow royal example, [he has just appiized Iiis 
 creditors that they must wait till the meeting,] and entreat 
 your indulgence for, I hope, a very short time. The nearest 
 relation, and almost the only friend I possess, has been in 
 London for a week, and leaves it to-morrow, with me, for 
 her own residence. I return immediately; but we meet so 
 seldom, and are so minuted when we meet at all, that I give up 
 all engagements, tiH now, without reluctance. On my retiu-n, 
 I must see you to console myself for my past disappoint- 
 ments. I should feel higlily honoured in Mr. B 's 
 
 permission to make his acquaintance, and there you are in 
 my debt, for it is a promise of last summer which I stiU hope 
 to see performed. Yesterday I had a letter from Moore ; 
 you have probably heard from him lately ; but if not, you 
 will be glad to learn that he is the same in heart, head, and 
 hft?Jth." 
 
 LETTER CXCm. 
 
 TO XyIR. merivale. 
 
 "Jan. 1814. 
 "my dear merivale, 
 " I have redde Roncesvaux with very great pleasure, and 
 (if I were so disposed) see very little room for criticism. 
 There is a choice of two lines in one of the last Cantos, — I 
 
 * " It would appear that he had written to me something which led me 
 to imagine he was offended at my obser-vations, a.nd that I had, iu conse- 
 quence, deprecated his wrath."— Gaii, 
 
 think 'Live and protect' better, because 'Oh who?' implies 
 a doubt of Roland's power or inclination. I would allow 
 the — but that point you yourself must determine on — I mean 
 the doubt as to where to place a part of the Poem, whether 
 between the actions or no. Only if you wish to have all the 
 success you deserve, never listen to friends, and — as I am 
 not the least troublesome of the number — least of all to me» 
 "I hope you will be out soon. Marcli, sir, March, is the 
 month for the trade, and they must be considered. You 
 have written a very noble Poem, and nothing but the detest- 
 able taste of the day can do you harm, — but I think you will 
 beat it. Your measure is uncommonly well chosen and 
 wielded." 
 
 LETTER CXCIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Sunday, Jan. 2, 1814. 
 
 " Excuse this dirty paper — it is the penultimate half-sheet 
 of a quire. Thanks for your book and the Ln. Chron. which 
 I return. The Corsair is copied, and now at Lord Hol- 
 land's ; but I wish Mr. Gifford to have it to-night. 
 
 " Mr. Dallas is veiy perverse ; so that I have offended both 
 liim and you, when I really meant to do good, at least to one, 
 and certainly not to annoy either.* But I shall manage 
 him, I hope. I am pretty confident of the Tale itself; but 
 one cannot be sure. If I get it from Lord Holland, it shall 
 be sent. Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CXCV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 «Jan.6,1814. 
 
 "I have got a devil of a long story in the press, entided 
 ' The Corsair,' in the regular heroic measure. It is a pirate's 
 isle, peopled Avith my own creatures, and you may easily 
 suppose diey do a world of mischief through the three cantos. 
 Now for your Dedication — if you will accept it. This is ;; 
 positively my last experiment on public literary opinion, till ■'' 
 I turn my thirtieth year, — if so be I flourish until that down-- 
 hill period. I have a confidence for you — a perplexing one' 
 to me, and, just at present, in a state of abeyance in itbelf.'. 
 
 ******* 
 
 However, we shall see. In the mean time, you may amuse 
 yourself with my suspense, and put all the justices of the- 
 peace in requisition, in case I come into your county with 
 ' hack but bent.' 
 
 "Seriously, whether I am to hear from her or him, it is a 
 pause, which I shall fill up with as few thoughts of my own 
 as I can borrow from other people. Any thing is better than 
 stagnation; and now, in the interregnum of my autumn and 
 a strange summer adventure, which I don't like to think 
 o^ (I don't mean * *'s, however, which is laughable only,) 
 the antithetical state of my lucubrations makes me alive, 
 and Macbeth can ' sleep no more :' — he was lucky in getting, 
 rid of the drowsy sensation of waking again. 
 
 "Pray write to me. I must send you a copy of the letter 
 of Dedication. When do you come out? I am sure we 
 don't clash this time, for I am aU at sea, and in action,— and 
 a wife, and a mistress, &c. &c. 
 
 " Thomas, thou art a happy fellow ; but if you wish us to 
 be so, you must come up to town, as you did last year ; and 
 we shall have a world to say, and to see, and to hear. Let 
 me hear from you. 
 
 " P. S. Of course you will keep my secret, and don't even 
 talk in your sleep of it. Happen what may, your Dedication 
 is ensured, being already written ; and I shall copy it out 
 fair to-night, in case business or amusement — A7nant alterna 
 CamcBruB^'' 
 
 * He had made a present of the copy-right of the Corsair to Mr. Dallas, 
 which occasioned some embarrassment between him and Mr. Murray. 
 
64 
 
 LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 NOTE TOini. MURRAY. 
 
 "Jan. 7, 1814. 
 "You don t lilie tlie Dedication — very well; there is an- 
 other: but you will send the other to Mr. Moore, tli at he 
 may know I Iiad written it. I send also mottos for tlie 
 cantos, i think you will allow that an elephant may be more 
 sagacious, but cannot be more docile. 
 
 "Yours, «Bn. 
 « The name is again altered to Medora.^'* 
 
 LETTER CXCVI. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Jan. 8, 1814. 
 
 "As it would not be fair to press you into a Dedication, 
 without previous notice, I send you itco, and I will tell you 
 why tivo. The first, Mr. Murray, who sometimes takes 
 upon him the critic (and I bear it from astonisJimeiU) 
 says, may do you harm — God forbid I this alone makes me 
 listen to him. The fact is, he is a damned Torj-, and has, 
 I dare swear, sometliing of self, which I cannot divine, at 
 the bottom of his objection, as it is tlie allusion to Ireland to 
 which he objects. But he be d — d, tliough a good fellow 
 enough, (your sinner would not be -^vorth a d — n.) 
 
 " Take your choice ; no one, save he and Mr. Dallas, has 
 seen either, and D. is quite on my side, and for the first.f 
 If I can but testify to you and the world how truly I admire 
 and esteem you, I shall be quite satisfied. As to prose, I 
 don't know^ Addison's from Jolmson's ; but I will try to mend 
 my cacology. Pray perpend, pronounce, and don't be of- 
 fended with either. 
 
 " My last episde would probably put you in a fidget. But 
 the De\-il, who ought to be ci\-il on such occasions, proved 
 so, and took my letter to the right place. 
 
 He * * * * * 
 
 " Is it not odd? the very fate I said she had escaped from 
 
 * *, she has now undergone from tlie worthy * *. Like 
 
 JVIr. Fitzgerald, shall I not lay claim to the character of 
 
 ' Vates ?' as he did in the Morning Herald for prophesying 
 
 It the fall of Buonaparte, who, by-the-by, I don't thiiik is yet 
 
 ^ fallen. I wish he w^ould rally and rout your legitimate 
 
 ^sovereigns, ha\ing a mortal hate to all royal entails. But 
 
 \ am scrawling a treatise. Good night. Ever, ^c." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Jan. 11, 1814. 
 "Correct this proof by Mr, GifFord's (and from the 
 MSS.) particularly as to the pointing. I have added a 
 section for Gubiare, to fill up tJhe parting, and dismiss her 
 more ceremoniously. If Mr. Gifford or you dislike, 'tis 
 but a sponge, and another midnight better employed than 
 in yawning over Miss * * ; who, by-the-by, may soon 
 return the compliment. 
 
 " Wednesday or Thursday. 
 
 "P. S. I have redde * *. It is fuU of praises of Lord 
 EUenborough ! ! ! (from which I infer near and dear rela- 
 tions at tlie bar,) and * * * * 
 
 " I do not love Madame de Stael, but depend upon it, she 
 beats all your natives hollow as an authoress, in my opinion ; 
 and I would not say this if I could help it. 
 
 "P. S. Pray report my best acknowledgments to Mr. 
 GLTord in any words tliat may best express how truly his 
 kindness obliges me. I v/on't bore him with lip thanks or 
 notes.^' 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Jan. 13,1814. 
 
 " I have but a moment to write, but all is as it should be. 
 I have said really far short of my opinion, but if you think 
 enough, I am content. Will you return the proof by the 
 post, as I leave towTi on Sunday, and have no other cor- 
 rected copy. I put ' servant,' as being less familiar before 
 the public ; because I don't like presummg upon our friend- 
 ship to infringe upon forms. As to the other itxrrd, you may 
 be sure it is one I cannot hear or repeat too often. 
 
 "I write m an agony of haste and confusion. — ^Perdonate." 
 
 * It had been at first Genevra. 
 
 t The first was the one preferred. The other was as follows: — 
 
 "Jan. 7, 1814. 
 " My dear Moore, 
 " I had written to you a long letter of dedication, which I suppress, be- 
 cause, though it contained something relating to you which every one had 
 been glad to hear, yet there was too much about politics, and poesy, and 
 all things whatsoever, ending with that topic on which most men are fluent, 
 and none very amusing— one's self. It might have been re-written — but 
 to what purpose ? My praise could add nothing to your well-earned and 
 firmly-established fame ; and with my most hearty admiration of your 
 talents, and delight in your co.nversalion, you are already acquainted. In 
 availing myself of your friendly permission to inscribe this Poem to you, 
 I can only wish the offering were as worthy your acceptance as yoiu- re- 
 gard is dear to 
 
 " Yours, most affectionately and faithfully. 
 
 "BYRON." 
 
 LETTER CXCVn. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Jan. 15, 1814. 
 "Before any proof goes to Mr. Gifford, it may be as well 
 to revise this, where there are words omitted, faults com- 
 mitted, and the devil know-s what. As to the Dedication, I 
 cut out the parentliesis of ]Mr* but not anotiier word shall 
 move unless for a better. Mr. Moore has seen, and de- 
 cidedly preferred, the part your Tory bile sickens at. If 
 every syllable were a rattlesnalie, or every letter a pesti- 
 lence, they should not be expunged. Let those who cannot 
 swallow, chew the expressions on Ireland; or should even 
 Mr. Croker array himself in all liis terrors against tiiem, I 
 care for none of you, except Gilford ; and he won't abuse me 
 except I deserve it — which will at least reconcile me to hia 
 justice. As to the poems in Hobhouse's volume.f die trans- 
 lation from die Romaic is well enough ; but the best of the 
 other volume (of mine, I mean) have been already printed. 
 But do as you please — only, as I shall be absent when you 
 come out, do, pray, let Mr. Dallas and you have a care of 
 the press. "Yours, &c." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY, 
 
 ["1814, Jan. 16.] 
 "I do believe that the Devil never created or perverted 
 such a fiend as the fool of a printer. I am obliged to enclose 
 you, luckily for me, tiiis second proo^ corrected, because there 
 is an ingenuity in his blunders peculiar to himself. Let the 
 press be guided by the present sheet. " Your.s, &c. 
 
 " Bum the other. 
 
 "Correct this also by the other in some things which I may 
 have forgotten. There is one mistake he made, which, if it 
 had stood, 1 would most certainly have broken his neck." 
 
 LETTER CXC^Tn. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Jan. 22, 1814. 
 
 "You will be glad to hear of my safe arrival here. The 
 time of my return wiU depend upon the w^eather, which is so 
 impracticable that tliis letter has to advance through more 
 snows than ever opposed the emperor's retreat. The roads 
 are impassable, and return impossible for the present ; which 
 I do not regret, as I am much at my ease, and six-and-twenty 
 complete this day — a very pretty age, if it would always last. 
 Our coals are excellent, our fire-places large, my cellar full, 
 and my head empty ; and I have not yet recovered my joy 
 at leaving London. If any une.xpected turn occurred with 
 my purchasers. I believe I should hardly quit the place at all; 
 but shut my door, and let mv beard grow. 
 
 "I forgot to mention (and I hope it is unnecessary) that 
 
 * He had, at first, after the words " Scott alone," inserted, in a parea. 
 thesis, — " He will excuse the Mr. — ' we do not say Mr Ceesar.' " 
 f See Poems, p. 185. 
 
LETTERS, 1814, 
 
 65 
 
 the lines beginning — Remember hiTn,* &c. must not appear 
 with tlie Corsair. You may slip them in with the smaller 
 pieces newly annexed to Childe Harold ; but on }w account 
 permit them to be appended to the Corsair. Have the 
 goodness to recollect tliis particularly. 
 
 " The books I have brought vath me are a great consola- 
 tion for the confinement, and I bought more as we came 
 along. In short, I never consult the thermom»eter, and shall 
 not put up prayers for a thaw, unless I thought it would 
 sweep away the rascally invaders of France. Was ever 
 such a thing as Blucher"s proclamation? 
 
 "Just before I left to\Mi, Kemble paid me the compliment 
 of desiring me to \^-rite a tragedy; I ^^-ish I could, but I find 
 my scribbling mood subsiding — not before it v.as time ; but 
 it is lucky to check it at all. If I lengthen my letter you vnH 
 think it is coming on a^ain ; so, good bye. 
 
 ^ Yours alway, " B. 
 
 'P. S. If you hear any news of battle or retreat on the 
 part of the Allies, (as they call them,) pray send it. He 
 has my best wishes to manure the fields of France vnth an 
 invading army. I hate invaders of all countries, and have 
 no patience yd\h the cowardly cr}' of exultation over him, 
 at whose name you all turned whiter than the snow to 
 ^'hich you are indebted for your triumphs. 
 
 ' I open my letter to thank you for yours just received. 
 The 'Lines to a Lady Weeping' must go \^-ith tlie Corsair. 
 I care notliing for consequence on this point. IVIy^ pohtics 
 are to me like a young mistress to an old man — the worse 
 they grow, the fonder I become of them. As JNIr. Gifford 
 hkes the 'Portuguese Translation,'! pray insert it as an ad- 
 dition to the Corsair. 
 
 " In all points of difference between Mr. Gifford and Mr. 
 Dallas, let the first keep his place ; and in all points of dif- 
 ference between Mr. Gifford ajid INIr. Anybody-else, I shall 
 abide by tlie former ; if I am wrong, I can't help it. But I 
 would rather not be right %\ith any odier person. So tliere 
 is an end of that matter. After all the trouble he has taken 
 about me and mine, I should be very ungi-ateful to feel or 
 act otherwise. Besides, in point of judgment, he is not to 
 be lowered by a comparison. In politics, he may be right 
 too ; but that with me is a. feeling, and I can't torfy my na- 
 ture." 
 
 LETTER CXCIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Feb. 4, 1814. 
 
 "I need not say that your obhging letter was very wel- 
 come, and not the less so for being unexpected. 
 
 " It doubtless gratifies me much that onr finale has pleased, 
 and that the curtain drops gracefully .t You deserve it 
 should, for your promptitude and good nature in arranging 
 mimediately with JNIr. Dallas ; and I can assure you diat I 
 esteem your entering so warmly into the subject, and writing 
 to me so soon upon it, as a personal obligation. We shall 
 now part, I hope, satisfied with each other. I was and am 
 quite in earnest in my prefatory promise not to intrude any 
 more ; and this not fi-om any affectation, but a thorough con- 
 viction that it is tlie best policy, and is at least respectful to 
 my readers, as it shows that I would not willingly run the 
 risk of forfeiting their favour in future. Besides, I have 
 other views and objects, and think that I shall keep this reso- 
 lution ; for, since I left London, though shut up, s«ai/>bound, 
 ^(aiobound, and tempted with all kinds of paper, the dirtiest 
 of ink, and the bluntest of pens, I have not even been haunted 
 
 * See Poems, p. 191. 
 
 t His translalioa of the pretiy Portuguese song, " Tu mi chamas 
 He was lempied to try another version of this ingenious thought, -which 
 is, perhaps, sull more happy, and has never, I belfeve, appeared in print 
 *' Tou call me still your life — ah! change the word — 
 Life is as transient as' tli' inconstant sigh ; 
 Say, i-ather, I 'm your soul, more just that name, 
 For, like the soul, my love can never die." — Moore. 
 % It will be recollected that he had announced the Corsair as " the last 
 production with which he should trespass on public patience for some 
 years." 
 
 9 
 
 by a wish to put them to their combined uses, except in let- 
 ters of business. Ivly rh}-ming propensity is quite gone, and 
 I feel much as I did at Patras on recovering from my fever 
 — ^weal^, but in health, and only afi-aid of a relapse. I do 
 most fervently hope I never shall. 
 
 '^I see by the INIorning Clironicle there hath been dis- 
 cussion in the Courier; and I read in the Morning Pa'^t a 
 wratliful letter about ]\Ir. Moore, in which some Protestant 
 Reader has made a sad confusion about India and Ireland. 
 
 " You are to do as you please about the smaller poems : 
 but I think removing them now from the Corsair looks like 
 fear; and if so, you must allow me not to be pleased. I 
 should also suppose that, after the fuss of these newspaper 
 esquires, they would materially assist the circulation of the 
 Corsair ; an object I should imagine at present of more im- 
 portance to yourself than Childe Harold's sevendi appear- 
 ance. Do as you hke : but don't allow the withdrawing that 
 poem to draw any imputation of dismay upon me.* 
 
 "Pray make my respects to Mr. Ward, whose praise I 
 value most highly, as you well know ; it is in the approbation 
 of such men that fame becomes worth having. To Mr. 
 Gifford I am always grateful, and surelv not less so now 
 than ever. And so good night to my authorship. 
 
 "I have been saunteiing and dozing here very quiedy, 
 and not unhappily. You \\iil be happy to hear that I have 
 completely established my tide deeds as marketable, and 
 that the purchaser has succumbed to die terms, and fUfils 
 them, or is to fulfil them foith\\ith. He is now here, and we 
 go on very amicably together — one in each uing of tlie 
 Abbey. We set off on Sunday — I for to\Mi, he for Che- 
 shire. 
 
 "Mrs. Leigh is witli me — much pleased with, the place, 
 and less so with me for parting vsith it, to which not even the 
 price can reconcile her. Your parcel has not yet arrived — 
 at least the Mags. &c. : but I have received Childe Harold 
 and the Corsair. I beheve both are very correctly printed, 
 which is a great satisfaction. 
 
 " 1 thank you for wishing me in to\^-n ; but I think one's 
 success is most felt at a distance, and I enjoy my solitary 
 self-importance in an agreeably sulky way of my ou-n, upon 
 the strength of your letter — ^for which I once more thank you, 
 and am, ver\- truly, &c. 
 
 " P. S. Don't you think Buonaparte's next publication vnVL 
 be rather expensive to the Allies? Perry's Paris letter of 
 yesterday looks very reviving. What a Hydra and Briareus 
 it is ! I wish they would pacify : tliere is no end to this 
 campaigning." 
 
 LETTER CC. 
 
 TO MR. anJRRAY. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Feb. 5, 1814. 
 
 " I quite forgot, in my ans-\ver of yesterday, to mention that 
 I have no means of ascertaining whether the Newark Pirate 
 has been doing what you say.f If so, he is a rascal, and a 
 shabby rascal too ; and if his offence is punishable by law or 
 pugUism, he shall be fined or buffeted. Do you try and dis- 
 cover, and I \%ill make some inquiry here. Perhaps some 
 other in town may have gone on printing, and used the setme 
 deception. 
 
 " The facsimile is omitted in Childe Harold, which is 
 very awkward, as there is a note expressly on tlie subject. 
 Pray replace it as usual. 
 
 " On second and third thoughts, the withdrawing the small 
 poems from the Corsair (even to add to Childe Harold) 
 looks like shrinking and shufBing, after the fuss made upon 
 one of them by the Tories. Pray replace diem in the 
 Corsair's appendix. I am sorry that Childe Harold requires 
 some and such abetments to make him move off: but, 
 if you remember, I told you his popularity would not be 
 permanent. It is very lucky for the author that he had 
 
 * He alludes to lines beginning ""Weep, daughter of a royal line.' 
 Poems, p. 192. 
 t Reprinting the " Hours of Idleness." 
 
06 
 
 LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 made up liis mind to a temporary reputation in time. The 
 truth is, I do nut tliink that any of the present day (and 
 least of all, one who has not consulted the flattering side of 
 human nature) have much to hope from posterity ; and you 
 may diink it affectation very probably, but to me, my present 
 and past success has appeared very singular, smce it was 
 in the teeth of so many prejudices. I almost tliink people 
 like to be contradicted. If Childe Harold flags, it will hardly 
 be worth while to go on with the engra\ings : but do as you 
 please ; I have done with the whole concern ; and the en- 
 closed lines written years ago, and copied from my skullcap, 
 are among the last with which you will be troubled. If you 
 like, add them to Childe Harold, if only for the sake of 
 anotlier outcry. You received so long an answer yesterday, 
 tliat I will not intrude on you farther than to repeat myself, 
 
 "Yours, &c. 
 "P. S. Of course, in reprinting (if you have occasion) 
 you ^vill take great care to be correct. The present editions 
 seem very much so, except in the last note of Childe Harold, 
 where the word respoivsible occurs twice, nearly together ; 
 correct the second into answerable.^' 
 
 KOTE TO MR. MtTRRAY. 
 
 «Newark,Feb. 6, 1814. 
 "I am thus far on my way to towTi. Master Ridge* I 
 have seen, and he owns to having reprinted some sheets, to 
 make up a few complete remaining copies ! I have now 
 given him fair warning, and if he plays such tricks again, I 
 must either get an injunction, or call for an account of profits, 
 (as I never have parted with the copyright,) or, in short, 
 any thing vexatious to repay him in his owii way. If the 
 weather does not relapse, I hope to be in town in a day or 
 two. "YourSj&c." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Feb.7,1814. 
 
 ****** 
 
 " I see all the papers in a sad commotion with those eight 
 imes ;f and the Morning Post, in particular, has found out 
 that 1 am a sort of Richard III.— deformed in mind and 
 body. The last piece of information is not very new to a 
 man who passed five years at a public school. 
 
 "I am very sorry you cut out those lines for Childe 
 Harold. Pray reinsert them in their old place in 'The 
 Corsair.'" 
 
 LETTER CCL 
 
 TO MR. HODGSON. 
 
 "Feb. 28, 1814. 
 
 " There is a youngster — and a clever one, named Rey- 
 nolds, who has just published a poem called ' Safie,' published 
 by Cavvthorne. He is in the most natural and fearful ap- 
 prehension of the Reviewers — and as you and I both know 
 by experience the effect of such things upon a young mind, 
 I wish you would take his production into dissection and do 
 it gently. I cannot, because it is inscribed to me ; but I 
 assure you this is not my motive for vvishing him to be ten- 
 derly entreated, but because I know the misery, at his time 
 of life, of untoward remarks upon fii'st appearance. 
 
 "Now for self. Pray thank your cousin — it is just as it 
 should be, to my liking, and probably more than will suit any 
 one else's. I hope and trust that you are well and well 
 doing. Peace be vA\h you. Ever yours, my dear friend." 
 
 LETTER ecu. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Feb. 10, 1814. 
 *I arrived in tovvn late yesterday evening, having been 
 absent three weeks, which I passed in Notts, quietly and 
 
 pleasantly. Yon can have no conception of the uproar the 
 eight lines on the littie Royalty's weeping in 1812 (now re- 
 published) have occasioned. The Regent, who had always 
 thought them yours, chose — God knons why — on discover- 
 ing them to be mine, to be affected 'in sorrow rather than 
 anger.' The Morning Post, Sun, Herald, Courier, have all 
 been in hysterics ever since. Murray is in a fright, and 
 wanted to shuffle — and the abuse against me in all directions 
 is vehement, unceasing, loud — some of it good, and all of it 
 hearty. I feel a little compunctious as to the Regent's re- 
 gret; — 'would he had been only angry! but 1 fear him not.' 
 " Some of these same assailments you have probably seen. 
 My person (which is excellent for 'the nonce') has been de- 
 nounced in verses, the more like the subject, inasmuch as 
 they halt exceedingly. Then, in another, I am an atheist — 
 a rebel — and, at last, the devil, {boiteux, I presume.) My 
 demonism seems to be a female's conjecture: if so, perhaps 
 I could convince her that I am but a mere mortal, — if a 
 queen of the Amazons may be believed, who says apicTov 
 XoAo? oi(pei. I quote from memory, so my Greek is pro- 
 bably deficient ; but the passage is meant to mean * * 
 * * * *^ 
 
 " Seriously, I am in, what the learned call, a dilemma, anc 
 the vulgar, a scrape ; and my friends desire me not to be in>* 
 a passion, and like Sir Fretful, I assure them that I am 
 'quite cabn,' — ^but I am nevertheless in a fury. 
 
 "Smce I wrote thus far, a friend has come in, and we have 
 been talking and buffooning, till I have quite lost the thread 
 of my thoughts; and, as I won't send them unstrung to you, 
 good morning, and " Believe me ever, &c. 
 
 "P. S. Murray, during my absence, omitted the Tears in 
 several of the copies. I have made him replace them, and 
 am very wroth with his qualms ; — ' as the wine is poured 
 out, let it be drmik to the dregs.' " 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Feb. 10,1814. 
 
 " I am much better, and indeed quhe well this morn- 
 ing. I have received tico, but I presume there are more 
 of the Ana, subsequently, and also something previous, 
 to which the Morning Chronicle replied. You also 
 mentioned a parody on the Skull. I wish to see them 
 all, because there may be things that require notice 
 either by pen or person. 
 
 " Yours, &c. 
 
 " You need not trouble yourself to answer tliis ; but 
 send me the things when you get them." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Feb. 12, 1814. 
 
 "If you have copies of the 'Intercepted Letters,'* Lady 
 Holland would be glad of a volume, and when you have 
 served others, have the goodness to think of your hum- 
 ble servant. 
 
 " You have played the devil by that injudicious sup- 
 pression, which you did totally without my consent. 
 Some of the papers have exactly said what might be 
 expected. Now I do not, and will not be supposed to 
 shrink, although myself and every thing belongmg to me 
 were to perish >vilh my memory. 
 
 ''Yours, &c. «Bn. 
 
 " P. S. Pray attend to what I stated yesterday on 
 technical topics." 
 
 Ihe printer at Newark. 
 
 Lr\i1y Weeping." 
 
 LETTER CCin. 
 
 TO MR HUNT. 
 
 "Feb. 9, 1814. 
 
 " MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 "I have been snow-bound and thaw -swamped (two 
 compound epithets for you) in the ' valley of the shadow 
 
 • B>- Mr. Mooie. 
 
LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 67 
 
 of Newstead Abbey for nearly a month, and have not 
 been four hours returned to London. Nearly the first use 
 I make of my benumbed fingers, is to thank you for your 
 very handsome note in the volume* you have just put 
 forth, only, 1 trust, to be followed by others on subjects 
 more worthy your notice than the works of contempo- 
 raries. Of myselfj you speak only too highly, and you 
 must think me strangely spoiled, or perversely peevish, 
 even to suspect that any remarks of yours, in the spirit of 
 candid criticism, could possibly prove unpalatable. Had 
 they been harsh, instead of being written as they are in the 
 indelible ink and friendly admonition, had they been the 
 harshest — as I knew and know that you are above any 
 personal bias, at least, agahist your fellow-bards, believe 
 me they would not have caused a remonstrance, nor a mo- 
 ment of rankling on my part. Your poem I read long 
 ago in the ' Reflector,' and it is not much to say it is the 
 best ' Session' we have, and with a more difficult subject, 
 for we are neither so good nor so bad (taking the best and 
 worst) as the wits of the olden time. 
 
 " To your smaller pieces I have not yet had time to do 
 justice by perusal, and I have a quantity of unanswered, 
 and I hope unanswerable letters to wade through before I 
 sleep, but to-morrow will see me through your volume. 1 
 am glad to see you have tracked Gray among the Italians. 
 You will perhaps find a friend or two of yours there also, 
 though not to the same extent ; but I have always thought 
 the Italians the most poetical moderns ; our Mihon and 
 Spenser, and Shakspeare, (the last through translations of 
 their Tales,) are very Tuscan, and surely it is far superior 
 to the French school. You are hardly fair enough to 
 Rogers. Why teal you might sui-ely have given him sup-; 
 per, if only a sandwich. Murray has, I hope, sent you 
 my last bantling, ' The Corsair.' I have been regaled at 
 every inn on the road by lampoons and other merry con- 
 ceits on myself in the ministerial gazettes, occasioned by 
 the republication of two stanzas, inserted in 1812, in 
 Perry's paper. The hysterics of the Morning Post are quite 
 interesting ; and I hear (but have not seen) of something 
 terrific in a last week's Courier : all which I take with the 
 'calm indifference' of Sir Fretful Plagiary. The Morning 
 Post has one copy of devices upon my deformity, which 
 certainly will admit of no ' historic doubts' hlie ' Dickon 
 my master's,' another upon my atheism, which is not quite 
 so clear, and another very downrighdy says, ' I am the 
 devil^ {boiieujc, they might have added,) and a rebel, and 
 what not: possibly, my accuser of diabolism may be Rosa 
 Matilda ; and if so, it would not be difficult to convince 
 her that I am a mere man. I shall break in upon you in 
 a day or two, distance has hitherto detained me ; and I 
 hope to find you well, and myself welcome. 
 
 " Ever your obhged and sincere 
 
 " Byron. 
 
 "P. S. Since this letter was written, I have been at 
 your text, which has much good humour in every sense of 
 the word. Your notes are of a very high order indeed, 
 particularly on WordswortL" 
 
 LETTER CCIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Monday,Feb. 14, 1814. 
 "Before I left town yesterday, I wrote you a note, which 
 I presume you received. I have heard so many different 
 accounts oiyour proceedings, or rather of those of others 
 towards you^ m consequence of the publication of these 
 everlasting lines, that I am anxious to hear from your- 
 self the real state of the case. Whatever responsibility, 
 obloquy, or effect is to arise from the publication, should 
 surely not fall upon you in any degree ; and I can have 
 no objection to your stating, as distinctly and publicly as 
 you please, your unwillingness to publish them, and my 
 
 own obstinacy upon the subject. Take any course you 
 please to vindicate yourself, but leave me to fight my 
 own way, and, as 1 before said, do not compromise me by 
 any thing which may look like shrinking on my part ; as 
 for your own, make the best of it. 
 
 "Yours, «Bw." 
 
 LETTER CCV. 
 
 TO MR. ROGERS. 
 
 "Feb. 16, 1814. 
 
 "my dear ROGERS, 
 
 " I wrote to Lord Holland briefly, but I hope distinctly, 
 on the subject which has lately occupied much of my 
 conversation with him and you.* As things now stand, 
 upon that topic my determination must be unalterable. 
 
 " I declare to you most sincerely that there is no hu- 
 man being on whose regard and esteem I set a higher 
 value than on Lord Holland's ; and, as far as concerns 
 himselfj I would concede even to humiliation v^ithout 
 any view to the future, and solely from my sense of his 
 conduct as to the past. For the rest, I conceive that I 
 have already done all in my power by the suppression.! 
 If that is not enough, they must act as they please ; but 
 1 will not 'teach my tongue a most inherent baseness, 
 come what may. You will probably be at the Marquis 
 Lansdowne's to-night. I am asked, but I am not sure 
 that 1 shall be able to go. Hobhouse will be there. I 
 think, if you knew him well, you would like him. 
 
 " Believe me always yours very aflfectionately, 
 
 LETTER CCVL 
 
 TO MR. ROGERS. 
 
 The Feast cf tbe Poets. 
 
 « Feb. 16, 1814. 
 
 " If Lord Holland is satisfied, as far as regards him- 
 self and Lady Hd. and as this letter expresses him to 
 be, it is enough. 
 
 " As for any impression the public may receive from 
 the revival of the lines on Lord Carlisle, let them keep 
 it,— the more favourable for him, and the worse for me 
 — better for all. 
 
 '•AH the sayings and doings in the world shall not 
 make me utter another word of conciliation to any thing 
 that breathes. I shall bear what I can, and what I 
 cannot, I shall resist. The worst they could do would 
 be to exclude me from society. I have never courted 
 it, nor, I may add, in the general sense of the word, en- 
 joyed it — and ' there j-s a world elsewhere!' 
 
 "Any thing remarkably injurious, I have the same 
 means of repaying as other men, with such interest as 
 circumstances may annex to it. 
 
 " Nothing but the necessity of adhering to regimen 
 prevents me from dining with you to-morrow. 
 
 " I am yours most truly, 
 
 "Bn." 
 
 LETTER CCVIL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Feb. 16, 1814. 
 " You may be assured that the only prickles that sting 
 from the Royal hedgehog are those which possess a 
 torpedo property, and may benumb some of my friends. 
 / am quite silent, and ' hush'd in grim repose.' The 
 frequency of the assaults has weakened their effects, — if 
 ever they had any ; — and, if they had had much I should 
 hardly have held my tongue, or withheld my fingers. It 
 is something quite new to attack a man for abandoning 
 
 * Relative to a proposed reconciliation between Lord Carlisle audhijni 
 elf. 
 T Of Uie Satire. 
 
68 
 
 LETTERS, 1S14. 
 
 nis resentments. 1 have heard that previous praise and 
 subsequent vituperation v--eie rather ungrateful, but I did 
 not know that it was wrong to endeavour to do justice to 
 those who did not wait till I had made some amends 
 for former and boyish prejudices, but received me into 
 their friendship, when I might still have been their 
 enemv. 
 
 " You perceive justly that I must intentionally have 
 made my fortune, Hke Sir Francis Wronghead. It 
 were better if there were more merit in my independence, 
 but it really is something nowadays to be independent at 
 all, and the less temptation to be otherwise, the more un- 
 com.mon the case, in these times of paradoxical servility. 
 I believe that most of our hates and likings have been 
 hitherto nearly the same; but from henceforth, they 
 must, of necessity, be one and indivisible, — and now for 
 it ! I am for any weapon, — the pen, till one can find 
 something sharper, will do for a beginning. 
 
 "You can have no conception of Uie ludicrous solem^ 
 uity with which these two stanzas have been treated 
 The ^Morning Post gave notice of an intended motion in 
 the House of my brethren on the subject, and God knows 
 what proceedings besides ; — and all this, as Bedridden in 
 the ' Nights' says, ' for making a cream tart without pep 
 per.' Tliis last piece of intelligence is, I presume, too 
 laughable to be true ; and the destruction of the Custoni 
 house appears to have, in some degree, interfered with 
 mine; — added to which, the last battle of Buonaparte 
 has usurped the column hitherto devoted to my bulletin. 
 
 " I send you from this day's Morning Post the best 
 which have hitherto appeared on this 'impudent dog' 
 gerel,' as the Courier calls it. There was another about 
 ray diet, when a boy — not at all bad — some time ago ; 
 but the rest are but indifferent. 
 
 "I shall think about your oratorical hint;* — but I 
 have never set much upon ' that cast,' and am grown as 
 tired as Solomon of every thing, and of myself more than 
 any thing. This is being what the learned call philo- 
 sophical, and the vulgar, lack-a-daisical. I am, however, 
 alsvays glad of a blessing ;f pray repeat yours soon, — at 
 least, your letter, and I shall think the benediction in- 
 cluded. 
 
 «Ever,&c." 
 
 that nov.-, as always, you will think that I wish to take no 
 unfair advantage of the accidental opportunity which cir- 
 cumstances permitted me of being of use to you. 
 
 "Even&c." 
 
 LETTER CCVIIL 
 
 TO MR. DALLAS. 
 
 "Feb. 17, 1814. 
 
 " The Courier of this evening accuses me of having 
 'received and pocketed' large sums for my works. I 
 have never yet received, nor wish to receive, a farthing 
 for any. Mr. Murray offered a thousand for the Giaour 
 and Bride of Abydos, which I said was too much, and 
 that if he could afford it at the end of six months, I would 
 then direct how it might be disposed of; but neither 
 then, nor at any other period, have I ever availed myself 
 of the profits on my own account. For the repubUcation 
 of the Satire, I refused four hundred guineas ; and for the 
 previous editions 1 never asked nor received a sous, nor 
 for any writing whatever. I do not wish you to do any 
 thing disagreeable to yourself; there never was nor shall 
 be any conditions nor stipulations with regard to any ac- 
 commodation that I could afford you ; and, on your part, 
 I can see nothing derogatory in receiving the copyright. 
 It was only assistance afforded to a worthy man, by one 
 not quite so worthy. 
 
 "Mr. Murray is going to contradict this ;t but your 
 name will not be mentioned : for your own part, vou are 
 a free agent, and are to do as you please. I only hope 
 
 Mr. MoOTe bad endeavoured to persuade him to take a part in par- 
 Uamenlary affairs, and to exercise liis talent for oratory more frequently 
 
 1 Iji concluding his letier, Mr. Moore having said "God bless you''' 
 addctl— " that js, if you have no objectioa." 
 
 J T'm sutemeut of the Courier, &c 
 
 In consequence of this letter, Mr. Dallas addressed an 
 explanation to one of the newspapers, of which the fol 
 lowing is a part : — J 
 
 TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORXIXG POST. 
 
 '■' I have seen the paragraph in an evening paper, in 
 which Lord Byron is accused of ' receiving and pocketing" 
 large sums for his works. I believe no one who knows 
 him has the slightest suspicion of this kind ; but tlie as- 
 sertion being public, I think it a justice I owe to Lord 
 Byron to contradict it pubUcly. + * * 
 
 "I take upon me to affirm that Lord Byron never re- 
 ceived a shilling for any of his works. To my certain 
 know^ledge, the profits of the Satire were left entirely to 
 the pubhsher of it. The gift of the copyright of Childe 
 Harold's Pilgrimage, I have already publicly acknow- 
 ledged in the dedication of the new edition of mv novels: 
 and I now add my acknowledgment for that of the Cor- 
 sair, not only for the profitable part of it, but for the deli- 
 cate cuid delightful manner of bestowing it while yet un- 
 published. With respect to his two other poems, the 
 Giaour and the Bride of Abydos, Mr. Murray, the pub- 
 lisher of them, can truly attest that no part of the sale of 
 them has ever touched his hands, or been disposed of for 
 his use." 
 
 LETTER CCIX. 
 
 TO * + * *. 
 
 "sir, « Feb. 20, 1814. 
 
 "My absence from London tiU withm these last few 
 days, and business since, have hitherto prevented my ac- 
 knowledgment of the volume I have lately received, and 
 the inscription which it contains, for both of which I beg 
 leave to return you my thanks, and best wishes for the 
 success of tlie book and its author. The poem itself as 
 the work of a young man, is creditable to your talents, and 
 promises better for future efforts than any which I can now 
 recollect. Whether you intend to pursue your poetical 
 career, I do not know, and can have no right to inquire — 
 but, in whatever channel your abilities are directed, I think 
 it will be your own fault if they do not eventually lead to 
 distinction. Happiness must of course depend upon con- 
 duct — and even fame itself would be but a poor compen- 
 sation for self-reproach. You will excuse me for talking 
 to a man perhaps not many years my junior, with these 
 grave airs of seniority ; but though I cannot claim much 
 advantage in that respect, it was my lot to be throwTi very J 
 early upon the world — to mix a good deal in it in more cli- fj 
 mates than one — and to purchase experience which would * 
 probably have been of greater service to any one than 
 myself. But my business with you is in your capacity 
 of author, and to that I will confine myself. 
 
 " The first thing a young writer must expect, and yet 
 
 can least of all suffer, is criticism. I did not bear it a 
 
 few years, and many changes have since passed over my 
 head, and my reflections on that subject are attended with 
 regret. I find, on dispassionate comparison, my own re- 
 venge more than the provocation warranted. It is true, I 
 was very yoimg— that might be an excuse to those I at- 
 tacked—but to me it is none : the best reply to all objec- 
 tions is to write better — and if your enemies will not then 
 do you justice, the world will. On the other hand, you 
 should not be discouraged— to be opposed, is not to be 
 vanquished, though a timid mind is apt to mistake every 
 scratch for a mortal wound. There is a saying of Dr. 
 Johnson's, which it is as well to remember, tliat °no man 
 was ever written down except by himself.' I sincerely 
 hope that you will meet with as few obstacles as vourself 
 
LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 69 
 
 can desire — ^but if you should, you will find that they are is the only answer to the things you mention ; nor should 
 
 to be stepped over ; to Uck them do^^^l is the first resolve 
 of a young and fiery spirit — a pleasant tiling enough at 
 the time — but not so after^vards : on this point, I speak of 
 a man's oum, reflections — what others think or say, is a 
 secondary consideration — at least, it has been so with me, 
 but will not answer as a general maxim : he who would 
 make his way in the world, must let the world believe that 
 it was made for him, and accommodate himself to the 
 minutest observance of its regulations. I beg once more 
 to thank you for your pleasing present, 
 
 " And have the honour to be 
 "Your obliged and very obedient servant, 
 "Byron." 
 
 LETTER CCX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Feb. 26, 1814. 
 " Dallas had, perhaps, have better kept silence ; — but 
 that was his concern, and, as his facts are correct, and his 
 motive not dishonourable to himself, I wished him well 
 through it. As for his interpretations of the lines, he and 
 any one else may interpret them as they please. I have 
 and shall adhere to my taciturnity, unless sometliing very 
 particular occurs to render this impossible. Do not you 
 say a word. If any one is to speak, it is the person prin- 
 cipally concerned. The most amusing thing is, that every 
 one (to me) attributes iJie abuse to the man they person- 
 ally most dislike! — some say Croker, some C * * e, 
 others Fitzgerald, &c. &c. &c. I do not know, and have 
 no clue but conjecture. If discovered, and he turns out a 
 hireling, he must be left to his wages ; if a cavalier, he 
 must ' winl:, and hold out his iron.' 
 
 " I had some thoughts of putting the question to Croker, 
 but Hobhouse, who, I am sure, would not dissuade me, if 
 it were right, advised me by all means not ; — ' that I had 
 no right to take it upon suspicion,' &c. &c. Whether 
 Hobhouse is correct, I am not aware, but he believes him- 
 self so, and says there can be but one opinion on diat sub- 
 ject. This I am, at least, sure of, that he v.ould never 
 prevent me from doing what he deemed the duty of a 
 preux chevalier. In such cases — at least, in tliis country 
 — we must act according to usages. In considering this 
 instance, I dismiss my o^^•n personal feelings. Any man 
 will and must fight, when necessary, — even without a mo- 
 tive. Here, I should take it up really without much re- 
 sentment ; for unless a woman one hkes is in the way, it 
 is some years since I felt a long anger. But, undoubt- 
 edly, could I, or may I, trace it to a man of station, I 
 should and shall do what is proper. 
 
 " * * was angerly, but tried to conceal it. You are not 
 called upon to avow the ' Twopenny,' and would only 
 gratify them by so doing. Do you not see the great ob- 
 ject of all these fooleries is to set him, and you, and me, 
 and all persons whatsoever, by the ears ? — more especially 
 those who are on good terms — and nearly succeeded. 
 Tjord H. wished me to concede to Lord Carlisle — concede 
 to the devil ! — to a man who used me ill ? I told him, in 
 ans'-ver, that I would neidier concede, nor recede on the 
 subject, but be silent altogether ; unless any thing more 
 CGuld be said about Lady H. and himself who had been 
 since my very good friends ; — and there it ended. This 
 was no time for concessions to Lord C. 
 
 '' I have been interrupted, but shall write again soon. 
 Believe me ever, my dear Pvloore, &c." 
 
 I regard that man as my friend who said a word more on 
 the subject. I care little for attacks, but I will not submit 
 to defences ; and I do hope and trust that you have never 
 entertained a serious thought of engaging in so foolish a 
 controversy. Dallas's letter was, to his credit, merely as 
 to the facts which he had a right to state ; I neither have 
 nor shall take the least public notice, nor permit any one 
 else to do so. If I discover the writer, then I may act in 
 a different manner ; but it will not be in writing. 
 
 " An expression in your letter has induced me to write 
 this to you, to entreat you not to interfere in any way in 
 such a business, — it is now nearly over, and depend upon 
 it they are much more chagrined by my silence than they 
 could be by the best defence in the world. I do not know 
 any thing that would vex me more than any further reply 
 to these things. 
 
 "Ever yours, in haste, "B." 
 
 LETTER CCXI 
 
 ESQ. 
 
 TO W 
 
 * + 
 
 * * 
 
 "Feb. 28, 1814. 
 "my dear w 
 I have but a few moments to write to vou. Silence 
 
 * A geiulercan who volunteered to defend him in relation to the ' 
 Stasias." 
 
 LETTER CCXIL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "March 3, 1814. 
 "my dear frieh^d, 
 "I have a great mind to tell you that 1 am 'uncomfort- 
 able,' if only to make you come to town ; where no one 
 ever more delighted in seeing you, nor is there any one 
 to whom I would sooner turn for consolation in my most 
 vapourish moments. The truth is, I have ' no lack of 
 argument' to ponder upon of the most gloomy description, 
 but this arises from other causes. Some day or other, 
 when we are veterans, 1 may tell you a tale of present and 
 past times ; and it is not from want of confidence that I do 
 not know, — but — but — always a but to the end of the 
 chapter. 
 
 " There is nothing, however, upon the spot either to 
 love or hate ; — but I certainly have subjects for both at 
 no very great distance, and am besides embarrassed be- 
 tween three whom I know, and one (whose name at least) 
 I do not know. All this would be very well, if I had no 
 heart ; but, unluckily, I have found that there is such a 
 thing still about me, though in no very good repair, and, 
 also, that it has a habit of attaching itself to one, whether 
 I will or no. ' Divide et impera,' 1 begin to think, will 
 only do for politics. 
 
 If I discover the 'toad,' as you call him, I shall 'tread,' — 
 and put spikes in my shoes to do it more effectually. The 
 effect of all these fine things, I do not inquire much nor 
 perceive. I believe * * felt them more than either of us. 
 People are civil enough, and I have had no dearth of invita- 
 tions, — none of wliich, however, I have accepted. 1 went 
 out very litde last year, and mean to go about still less. I 
 have no passion for cL-cles, and have long regretted thaX I 
 ever gave way to what is called a town life ; — which, of all 
 the lives I ever saw (and they are nearly as many as Plu- 
 tarch's) seems to me to leave die least for the past and 
 future. 
 
 " How proceeds the Poem? Do not neglect it, and I have 
 no fears. I need not say to you tliat your fame is dear to 
 me, — I really might say dearer than my o\mi ; for I have 
 lately begim to think my things have been strangely over- 
 rated ; and, at any rate, whether or not, I have done with 
 them for ever. I may say to you, what I would not say to 
 every body, that the last two were \%Titten, the Bride in four, 
 and the Corsair in ten days, — which I take to be a most 
 humiliating confession, as it proves my own want of judg- 
 ment in publishing, and the public's in reading things, wliich 
 cannot have stamina for permanent attendon. ' So much 
 for Buckingham.' 
 
 " I have no dread of your being too hasty, and I have still 
 less of your failing. But I think a year a very fair allotment 
 of time to a composition which is not to be Epic ; and even 
 Horace's ' Nonum prematur' must have been intended for 
 die jNIillermium, or some longer-lived generation tlian ours. 
 
70 
 
 LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 I wonder how much we should have had of /utti, had he 
 observed his own doctrines to the letter. Peace be with 
 you ! Remember tliat I am always and most truly yours, &c. 
 "P. S. I never heard the 'report' you mention, nor, I 
 dare say, many others. But, in course, you, as well as 
 others, have 'damned good-natured friends,' who do their 
 duty in the usual way. One thing will make you laugh 
 
 LETTER CCXin. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "March 12, 1814. 
 
 " Guess darkly, and you ^^ill seldom err. At present, I 
 shall say no more, and, perhaps — ^but no matter. I hope we 
 shall some day meet, and whatever years may precede or 
 succeed it, I shall mark it wi\h the 'white stone' in my 
 calendar. I am not sure that I shall not soon be in your 
 neighbourhood again. If so, and I am alone, (as will pro- 
 bably be the case,) I shall invade and carry you off, and 
 endeavour to atone for sorry fare by a sincere welcome. I 
 don't know the person absent (barring 'the sect') I should 
 be so glad to see again. 
 
 " I have nothing of tlie sort you mention but the lines, (the 
 Weepers,) if you Uke to have them in the Bag. I wish to 
 give them all possible circulation. The Vault reflection is 
 downright actionable, and to print it would be peril to the 
 pubhsher; but 1 think the Tears have a natural right to be 
 bagged, and the editor (whoever he maybe) might supply 
 a facetious note or not, as he pleased. 
 
 "I cannot conceive how the Vauli* has got about, — but 
 so it is. It is too farouche; but, truth to say, my satires 
 are not very playful. 1 have the plan of an epistle in my 
 head, at hini and to hun ; and, if they are not a little quieter, 
 I shall imbody it. I should say little or noticing of myself. 
 As to mirth and ridicule, that is out of my way : but I have 
 a tolerable fund of sternness and contempt, and, with Juvenal 
 before me, I shall perhaps read liim a lecture he has not 
 lately heard in the Court. From partictolar cii-cumstances, 
 which came to my knowledge almost by accident, I could 
 'tell him what he is — I know him well.' 
 
 " I meant, my dear JM. to write to you a long letter, but I 
 am hurried, an i time clips my inclination do\\Ti to yours, &.c. 
 
 "P. S. Think againheiote yon shelf yomVoem. There 
 is a youngster, (older than me, by-the-by, but a younger 
 poet,") Mr. G. Knight, ^\-ith a vol. of Eastern Tales, written 
 since liis return, for he has been in the countries. He sent 
 to me last summer, and I ad\ised him to write one m each 
 measure, without any intention, at that time, of doing the 
 same thing. Smce diat, from a habit of w-riting in a fever, 
 I have anticipated him in the variety of measures, but quite 
 unintentionally. Of die stories, I know nothing, not having 
 seen them ; but lie has some lady m a sack, too, lilce the 
 Giaour : — he told me at the time. 
 
 " The best way to make the pubUc 'forget' me is to remind 
 them of yourself. You cannot suppose that / would ask 
 you or advise you to publish, if I thought you would/f"/. I 
 really have no literary envy ; and I do not believe a friend's 
 success ever sat nearer another than yours do to my best 
 wishes. It is for elderly gentlemen to 'bear no brother near,' 
 and cannot become our disease for more years than we may 
 perhaps number. I wish you to be out before Eastern sub- 
 jects are again before the public." 
 
 LETTER CCXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "March 12, 1814 
 "I have not time to read the whole MS.j but what I 
 have seen seems very well written, (both prose and verse,) 
 
 * The lines on the opening of the vault that contained the remains of 
 HenryVIII. anil Charles I. 
 
 ■^ The manuscript of a long gi-ave satire, entitled " Anti-Byron," which 
 bad lifc«n sent to Mr. Murray, and by him forwarded to Lord Byrou, with 
 a request— not meant, I believe, seriously — that he would give his opinion 
 Es 10 the propritty of publishing \l.—Moo;£. 
 
 and, though I am and can be no judge, (at least a fair > 
 one on this subject,) containing nothing which you oughi 
 to hesitate publishing upon my account. If the author 
 is not Dr. Busby himsclfj I think it a pity, on his own 
 account, that he should dedicate it to his subscribers ; 
 nor can I perceive what Dr. Busby has to do with the 
 matter, except as a translator of Lucretius, for whose 
 doctrines he is surely not responsible. I tell you openly, 
 and really most sincerely, that, if published at all, there J 
 is no earthly reason why you should not; on the contrary a 
 I should receive it as the greatest compliment you could 
 pay to your good opinion of my candour, to print and 
 circulate that, or any other work, attacking me in a manly 
 manner, and without any malicious intention, from which, 
 as far as I have seen, I must exonerate this writer. 
 
 "He is wrong in one thing, — / am no atheist; but if he 
 thinks I have pubhshed principles tending to such opi- 
 nions, he has a perfect right to controvert them. Pray 
 publish it ; I shall never forgive myself if I think that I 
 have prevented you. 
 
 " Make my compliments to the author, and tell him I 
 wish him success; his verse is very deserving of it; and 
 I shall be the last person to suspect his motives. Yours, 
 &c. 
 
 "P. S. I{ you do not publish it, some one else will. 
 You cannot suppose me so narrow-minded as to shrink 
 from discussion. I repeat once for all, that I thinlc it a 
 good Poem, (as far as 1 have redde ;) and that is the only 
 point you should consider. How odd that eight lines 
 should have given birtJi, I really think, to eight thousand, 
 including aU that has been said, and will be, on the 
 subject 1" 
 
 LETTER CCXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "April 9,1814. 
 
 "All these news are very fine ; but nevertheless I want 
 my books, if you can find, or cause them to be found for 
 me, — if only to lend them to Napoleon Ln 'the island of 
 Elba,' during his retirement. I also (if convenient, and 
 you have no party with you) should be glad to speak with 
 you for a few mmutes this evening, as 1 have had a letter 
 from Mr. Moore, and wish to ask you, as the best judge, 
 of the best time for him to publish the work he has com- 
 posed. I need not sa.y, that I have his success much at 
 heart ; not only because he is my friend, but something 
 much better — a man of great talent, of which he is less 
 sensible than I beheve any even of his enemies. If you 
 can so far obhge me as to step down, do so ; and if you 
 are otherwise occupied, say nothing about it. I shall find 
 you at home in the course of next week. 
 
 "P. S. I see Sotheby's Tragedies advertised. The 
 Death of Darnley is a famous subject — one of die best, I 
 should think, for the drama. Pray let me have a copy, 
 when ready. ■ 
 
 "Mrs. Leigh was very much pleased with her book^ fl 
 and desired me to thank you; she means, I bej'eve. tt> ^ 
 write to you her acknowledgments." 
 
 LETTER CCXVI. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "2, Albany, April 9, 1814. 
 
 '' Viscount Althorp is about to be married, and I have 
 gotten his spacious bachelor apartments in Albany, to 
 which you will, I hope, address a speedy answer to this 
 mine epistle. 
 
 " I am but just returned to town, from which you may 
 infer that I have been out of it ; and I have been boxing, 
 for exercise, with Jackson for this last month daily. I 
 have alsobeen drinking, — and, on one occasion, with three 
 otlier friends at the Cocoa Tree, from six till four^ yea, 
 
LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 71 
 
 unto five in the matin. We clareted and charnpaigned 
 till two — then supped, and finished with a kind of regency 
 punch composed of madeira, brandy, and green tea, no real 
 water bemg admitted therein. There was a night for 
 you ! — without once quitting the table, except to ambulate 
 home, which I did alone, and in utter contempt of a hack- 
 ney-coach and my own m, both of which were deemed 
 necessary for our conveyance. And so, — I am very well, 
 and they say it will hurt my constitution. 
 
 "I have also, more or less, been breaking a few of the 
 favourite commandments; but I mean to pull up and 
 marry, — if any one will have me. In the mean time, the 
 other day I nearly killed myself with a collar of brawn, 
 which I swallowed for supper, and mdigested for 1 don't 
 know how long; — but that is by-the-by. All this gor- 
 mandize was in honour of Lent; for I am forbidden meat 
 all the rest of the year, — but it is strictly enjoined me 
 during your solemn fast. I have been, and am, in very 
 tolerable love ; — but of that hereafter, as it may be. 
 
 " My dear Moore, say what you will in your preface : 
 and quiz any thing, or any body, — me, if you like it. Oons ! 
 dost thou think me of the old^ or rather elderly^ school ? If 
 one can't jest with one's friends, with whom can we be 
 facetious ? You have nothing to fear from * *, whom I 
 have not seen, being out of town when he called. He will 
 be very correct, smooth, and all that, but I doubt whether 
 there will be any ' grace beyond the reach of art ;' — and 
 whether there is or not, how long will you be so d — d 
 modest? As for Jeffrey, it is a very handsome thing of 
 him to speak well of an old antagonist, — and what a mean 
 mind dared not do. Any one will revoke praise ; but — 
 were it not partly my own case — I should say that very 
 few have strength of mind to unsay their censure, or follow 
 it up with praise of other things. 
 
 "What think you of the review ofluevis? It beats the 
 Bag and my hand-grenade hollow, as an invective, and 
 hath throvra the Court into hysterics, as I hear from very 
 good authority. Have you heard from + * * *, 
 
 "No more rhyme for — or rather, /totti — me. I have 
 taken my leave of that stage, and henceforth will mounte- 
 bank it no longer. I have had my day, and there 's an end. 
 The utmost I expect, or even wish, is to have it said in 
 the Biographia Britannica, that I might perhaps have been 
 a poet, had I gone on and amended. My great comfort 
 is that the temporary celebrity I have wrung from the 
 world has been in the very teeth of all opinions and preju- 
 dices. I have flattered no ruhng powers ; I have never 
 concealed a single thought that tempted me. They can't 
 Bay I have truckled to the times, nor to popular topics, (as 
 Johnson, or somebody, said of Cleveland,) and whatever I 
 have gained has been at the expenditure of as much per- 
 sonal favour as possible ; for I do believe never was a bard 
 more unpopular, quoad homo, than myself And now I 
 have done; — 'ludite nunc alios.' — Every body may be 
 d — d, as they seem fond of it, and resolved to stickle lustily 
 for endless brimstone. 
 
 "Oh — by-the-by, I had nearly forgot. There is a long 
 Poem, an ' Anti- Byron,' coming out, to prove that I have 
 formed a conspiracy to overthrow, by rhyme, all religion 
 and government, and have already made great progress ! 
 It is not very scurrilous, but serious and ethereal. I never 
 felt myself important, till I saw and heard of my being such 
 a littie Voltaire as to induce such a production. Murray 
 would not publish it, for which he was a fool, and so I told 
 him ; but some one else will, doubtless. ' Something too 
 much of this,' 
 
 "Your French scheme is good, but let it be Itcdian ; all 
 the Angles will be at Paris. Let it be Rome, Milan. 
 Naples, Florence, Turin, Venice, or Switzerland, and 
 ' egad !' (as Bayes saith,) I will connubiate and join you ; 
 and we will write a new ' Inferno' in our Paradise. Pray, 
 tliink of this — and I will really buy a wife and a ring, and 
 say the ceremony, and settle near you in a summer-house 
 upon the Arno, or the Po, or the Adriatic. 
 
 " Ah ! my poor little paged, Napoleon, has wallied off his 
 pedestal. He has abdicated, they say. This would draw 
 molten bi'ass from the eyes of Zatanai. What ! 'kiss the 
 ground before young Malcolm's feet, and then be baited by 
 the rabble's curse !' I cannot bear such a crouching cata- 
 strophe. I must stick to Sylla, for my modern favourites 
 don't do, — their resignations are of a different kind. All 
 health and prosperity, my dear Moore. Excuse this 
 lengthy letter. Ever, &c. 
 
 "P. S. The duarterly quotes you frequently in an ar- 
 ticle on America ; and every body I know asks perpetually 
 after you and yours. When will you answer them in 
 person ?" 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURKAV. 
 
 *" April 10, 1814. 
 
 "I have written an Ode on the fall of Napoleon, which, 
 if you like, I will copy out, and make you a present of. 
 Mr. Merivale has seen part of it, and likes it. You may 
 show it to Mr. GifTord, and print it, or not, as you please — 
 it is of no consequence. It contains nothing in his favour, 
 and no allusion whatever to our own government or the 
 Bourbons. Yours, &c. 
 
 " P. S. It is in the measure of my stanzas at the end of 
 Childe Harold, which were much liked, beginning, ' And 
 thou art dead,' &c. There are ten stanzas of it — ninety 
 lines in all." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " April 11, 1814. 
 
 "I enclose you a lettered from Mrs. Leigh. 
 
 " It will be best not to put my name to our Ode ; but you 
 may say as openly as you like that it is mine, and I can 
 inscribe it to Mr. Hobhouse from the author, which will 
 mark it sufficiently. After the resolution of not publishing, 
 though it is a thing of httle length and less consequence, it 
 will be better altogether that it is anonymous ; but we will 
 incorporate it in the first tome of ours that you find time or 
 the wish to publish. " Yours alway, " B. 
 
 "P. S. I hope you got a note of alterations, sent this 
 matin ? 
 
 " P. S. Oh my books ! my books ! will you never find 
 my books ? 
 
 " Alter 'potent spell' to ' quickening spell ;' the first (as 
 Polonius says) ' is a vile phrase,' and means nothing, be- 
 sides being commonplace and Rosa-Maiildaish^' 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "April 12, 1814. 
 I send you a few notes and trifling alterations, and an 
 additional motto from Gibbon, which you will find iringw- 
 larly appropriate. A ' Good-natured Friend' tells me there 
 a most scurrilous attack on us in the Antijacobin Re- 
 view, which you have not sent. Send it, as I am in that 
 state of languor which will derive benefit from getting into 
 a passion. Ever, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCXVIl. 
 
 TO MR, MOORE. 
 
 "Albany, April 20, 1814. 
 
 I am very glad to hear that you are to be transient from 
 Mayfield so very soon, and was taken in by the first part 
 of your letter.f Indeed, for aught 1 know, you may be 
 
 * See Poems, p. 178. . „ ^^ ., 
 
 1 1 had begun my letter in the following manner:—" Have you seen the 
 Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte.?'—! suspect it to.be either Fitzgerald ■ 
 or Rosa Matilda's. Those rapid and masterly portraits of all the tyrants 
 that preceded Napoleon have a vigour in them which would incline me to 
 say that Rosa Matilda is the person— but then, on the other hand, that 
 powerful grasp of history," &c. &c. After a little more of tins tnock 
 parallel, the letter went on thus:—" I should like to know what y«u thuiK 
 f the matter > Some friends of mine here wM insist that it is the work 
 of the author of Childe ilarold,— but then they are not so well read in 
 Fitzgerald and Rosa Matilda as I am; and, besides, t.hey seem to forget 
 that you promised, about a month or two ago, not to write any more tor 
 years. Seriously," &c. &c. 
 
72 
 
 LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 treating me, as Slipslop says, with 'ironing' e\*en now. I 
 shall say nothing of the shock, which had nothing ofhumeur 
 in it ; as I am apt to take even a critic, and still more a 
 friend, at his word, and never to doubt tliat I have been 
 writing cursed nonsense if they say so. There was a men- 
 tal reservation in my pact with the public, in behalf of 
 anonymes ; and, even had there not, the provocation was 
 such as to make it physically impossible to pass over tliis 
 damnable epoch of triumphant tameness. 'Tis a cursed 
 business; and, after all, I shall think higher of rhyme and 
 reason, and very hiunbly of your heroic people, till — Elba 
 becomes a volcano, and sends him out again. I can't thbk 
 it all over yet. 
 
 "My departure for the Continent depends, in some mea- 
 sure, on the incontinent. I have two country invitations 
 at home, and don't know what to say or do. In the mean 
 time, I have bought a macaw and a parrot, and have got 
 up my books ; and I box and fence daily, and go out very 
 Uttle. 
 
 "At this present writing, Louis the Gouty is wheeling in 
 triumph into Piccadilly, in all the pomp and rabblement of 
 royalty. I had an offer of seats to see them pass ; but, as 
 I have seen a sultan going to mosque, and been at Ms 
 reception of an ambassador, the most Christian King 'hath 
 no attractions for me :' — though in some coming year of 
 the Hegira, I should not dislilte to see the place where he 
 had reigned, shortly after the second revolution, and a 
 happy sovereignty of two months, the Icist six weeks being 
 civil war. 
 
 " Pray write, and deem me ever, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCXVHL 
 
 TO MR. MtJE.RAY. 
 
 "April 21, 1814. 
 
 "Many thanks v\ith the letters which I return. You 
 know I am a jacobin, and could not wear white, nor see the 
 installation of Louis the Gouty. 
 
 " This is sad news, and very hard upon the sufferers at 
 any, but more at such a time — I mean tlie Bayonne sortie. 
 
 " You should urge Moore to come out. 
 
 " P. S. I want Moreri to purchase for good and all. I 
 have a Bayle, but want INIoreri too. 
 
 " P. S. Perry hath a piece of compliment to-day ; but I 
 think the name might have been as well omitted. No 
 matter ; they can but throw the old story of inconsistency 
 In my teeth — let them, — I mean as to not publisliing. How- 
 ever, now I wUi keep my word. Nothing but the occasion, 
 which was p7i(/«ca% irresistible, made me swerve; and I 
 thought an amnyme witliin my pad with tlie public. It Ls 
 the only thing I have or shall set about." 
 
 LETTER CCXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "April 25, 1814. 
 
 " Let Mr. Gifford have the letter and return it at Iiis lei- 
 sure. I would have offered it, haxi 1 thought that he liked 
 things of the kind. 
 
 " Do you want the last page immediately 7 I have doubt 
 the lines being worth printing ; at any rate, I must see them 
 again, and alter some passages, before they go forth in any 
 shape into the ocean of circulation ; — a very conceited 
 phrase, by-the-by : well then — channel of publication will do. 
 
 "' I am not i' the vein,' or I could knock off a stanza or 
 tliree for the Ode, that might answer the purpose better. 
 At idi events, I must see the lines again first, as there be 
 two I have altered in my mind's manuscript already. Has 
 ar.y one seen and judged of them ? that is the criterion by 
 wiiich I will abide — only give me a fair report, and ' nothing 
 extenuate,' as I will m that case do something else. 
 
 "Ever, &c. 
 
 ** I want jS'Lyreri and an Athencnus^^ 
 
 LETTER CCXX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRA.V. 
 
 "April 26, 1814. 
 
 " I have been thinking that it might be as well to publish 
 no more of the Ode separately, but incorporate it with any 
 of the other things, and include the smaller Poem too (in 
 that case) — which I must previously correct, neveillieless. 
 I can't, for the head of me, add a line worth scribbling ; my 
 'vein' is quite gone, and my present occupations are of the 
 gymnastic order — boxing and fencing — and my principal 
 conversation is with my macaw and Bayle. I want my 
 Moreri, and I want Athenaeus. 
 
 " P. S. I hope you sent back that poetical packet to the 
 address which I forwarded to you on Sunday : if not, pray 
 do ; or I shall have the author screaming after liis Epic." 
 
 LETTER CCXXL 
 
 TO MR. anjRRAY. 
 
 "April 26, 1814. 
 
 " I have no guess at your author, — but it is a noble Poem,* 
 and worth a thousand Odes of any body's. I suppose I may 
 keep this copy; — after reading it, I really regret having 
 written my own. I say this very sincerely, albeit unused to 
 think humbly of myself. 
 
 " I don't lite the additional stanzas at all, and they liad 
 better be left out. The fact is, I can't do any thing I aivi 
 asked to do, however gladly I would ; and at the end of a 
 week my interest in a composition goes off. This will 
 account to you for my doing no better for your 'Stanfip 
 Duty' Postscript. 
 
 "The S. R. is very civil — but what do they mean by 
 Childe Harold resembling INIarmion? and the next t\vo, 
 Giaour and Bride, ruit resembling Scott ? I certainly never 
 intended to copy him; but, if there be any copjnsm, it must 
 be in the two Poems, where the same versification is 
 adopted. However, they exempt the Corsair from al] 
 resemblance to any thing, — though I rather wonder at his 
 escape. 
 
 " If ever I did any thing original, it was in Childe Harold, 
 which / prefer to the other thbgs always, after the first 
 week. Yesterday I re-read English Bards ; — bating the 
 malice, it is the best. " Ever, Sec." 
 
 LETTER CCXXIL 
 
 TO MR. arURRAY. 
 
 "2, Albany, April 29, 1814. 
 
 " DEAR SIR, 
 
 "I enclose a draft for the money; when paid, seed the 
 copyright. I release you from the thousand pounds agj'eed 
 on for the Giaour and Bride, and there 's an end. 
 
 " If any accident occurs to me, you may do then as you 
 please ; but, with the exception of two copies of each for 
 yourself only, I expect and request that the advertisements 
 be withdrawn, and the remaining copies of all destroyed ; 
 and any expense so incurred, I will be glad to defray.f ■ 
 
 " For aU this, it might be as well to assign some reason. 
 I have none to give, except my own caprice, and I do not 
 consider the circumstance of consequence enough to require 
 explanation. 
 
 " In course, I need hardly assure you that they never 
 shall be pubHshed with my consent, directly or indirectly, by 
 any other person whatsoever, — that I am perfectly satisfied, 
 and have every reason so to be. widi your conduct in all 
 transactions between us as pubhsher and author. 
 
 " It wiU give me great pleasure to preserve your acquaint- 
 
 • " Buonaparte," by Mr. Stratford Canning. 
 
 t He had, at this time, formecla resolution of purchasing bacV the whole 
 of his past copyrights, and suppressing every page and line he had evei 
 
LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 73 
 
 ance, and to consider you as my friend. Believe me very 
 truly, and for much attention, 
 
 " Your obliged and very obedient servant, 
 
 "Byron. 
 "P. S. 1 do not think that I have overdravvn at Ham- 
 mersley's ; but \Uhat be the case, I can draw for the superflux 
 on Hoares'. The draft is 51. short, but that I will make up. 
 On payment — not before — ^i-eturn the copyright papers." 
 
 LETTER CCXXIII. 
 
 TO MK. MURRAY. 
 
 "May 1, 1814. 
 
 * DEAR SIR, 
 
 " If your present note is serious, and it really would be 
 inconvenient, there is an end of the matter : tear ray draft, 
 and go on as usual: in that case, we will recur to our former 
 basis. That / was perfecdy serious^ in wishing to suppress 
 all future publication, is true ; but certainly not to interfere 
 with the convenience of others, and more particularly your 
 own. Some day, I will tell you the reason of this apparently 
 strange resolution. At present, it may be enough to say 
 that I recall it at your suggestion: and as it appears to have 
 annoyed you, I lose no time in saying so. 
 
 "Yours, truly, «B." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "May 4, 1814. 
 
 •'Last night we supp'd at R fe's board, &c. 
 
 * + ** + + 
 
 " I wish people would not shirk their dinners — ought it not 
 to have been a dinner ? — and that d — d anchovy sandv^'ich ! 
 
 " That plaguy voice of yours made me sentimental, and 
 almost fall in love with a girl who w&s recommending her- 
 seF, during your song, by hating music. But the song is 
 past, and my passion can wait, till the pucelle is more har- 
 monious. 
 
 " Do you go to Lady Jersey's to-night ? It is a large 
 party, and you won't be bored into ' softening rocks,' and all 
 that. Othello is to-morrow and Saturday too. Which day 
 shall we go ? When shall I see you ? If you call, let it be 
 after three and as near four as you please. Ever, &c. 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 «May 4, 1814. 
 
 " DEAR TOM, 
 
 "Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose you an 
 experiment, which has cost me something more than trouble, 
 and is, therefore, less Ukely to be worth your taking any in 
 your proposed setting.* Now, if it be so, throw it into the 
 fire without j»/irase. 
 
 "Ever yours, "Byron." 
 
 1. 
 
 " I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, &c." 
 NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 " WiU you and Rogers come to my box at Covent, then ? 
 I shall be there, and none else — or I won't be there, if you 
 twain would like to go without me. You will not get so 
 good a place hustling among the pubUcan boxers, with 
 damnable apprentices (six feet high) on a back row. Will 
 you both oblige me and come — or one — or neither — or, what 
 you will? 
 
 " P. S. An' you will, I will call for you at half past six, or 
 any time of your own dial." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "I have gotten a box for Othello to-night, and send the 
 ticket for your friends the R — fe's. I seriously recommend 
 
 * See Poems, p. 
 
 10 
 
 to you to recommend to them to go for half an hour, if only 
 to see the third act — they will not easily have another op- 
 portunity. We — at least, I — cannot be there, so there will 
 be no one in the way. Will you give or send it to them ? 
 it will come with a better grace from you than me. 
 
 "I am in no good plight, but will dine at * *'s with you, 
 if I can. There is music and Covent-g. — Will you go, at 
 all events, to my box there afterward, to see a debut of a 
 young 16,* in the 'Child of Nature?'" 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Sunday matin. 
 
 " Was not lago peifection ? particularly the last look. I 
 was close to him (in tire orchestra,) and never saw an Eng- 
 lish countenance half so expressive. I am acquainted with 
 no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting ; and, 
 as it is fitting there should be good plays, now and then, 
 besides Shakspeare's, I wish you or Campbell would write 
 one : the rest of ' us youth' have not heart enough. 
 
 "You were cut up in the Champion — is it not so? this 
 day, so am I — even to shocking the editor. The critic 
 writes well ; and as, at present, poesy is not my passion 
 predominant, and my snake of Aaron has swallowed up all 
 the other serpents, I don't feel fractious. 1 send jou the 
 paper, wMch I mean to take in for the future. We go to 
 M.'s together. Perhaps I shall see you before, but don't let 
 me bore you, now, nor ever. 
 
 " Ever, as now, truly and affectionately, &c." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "May 5, 1814. 
 
 " Do you go to Lady Cahir's this even ? If you do— and 
 whenever we are bound to the same foUies — ^let us embark 
 in the same ' Shippe of Fooles.' I have been up till five, and 
 up at nine ; and feel heavy with only winking for the last 
 three or four nights. 
 
 " I lost my party and place at supper, trying to keep out 
 of the way of * * * *. I would have gone away altogether, 
 but that would have appeared a worse affectation than 
 t' other. You are of course engaged to dinner, or we may 
 go quietly together to my box at Covent-garden, and after- 
 ward to this assemblage. Why did you go away so soon ? 
 
 " Ever, &c. 
 
 " P. S. Ougftt not R * * * fe's supper to have been a 
 dinner? Jackson is here, and I must fatigue myself into 
 spirits." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "May 18, 1814. ' 
 " Thanks — and punctuality. M^hat has passed at * * * * 
 House? I suppose that / am to know, and ' pars fui' of the 
 conference. I regret that your * * * *s will detain you so 
 late, but I suppose you will be at Lady Jersey's. I am 
 going earlier with Hobhouse. You recollect that to-morrow 
 vfe sup and see Kean. 
 
 "P. S. Two to-morrow is the hour of pugilism." 
 
 LETTER CCXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 l»j.ci,j *.j, iGi-x. 
 
 "I must send you the Java government gazette of July 3, 
 1813, just sent to me by Murray. Only think of our (for it 
 is you and I) setting paper warriors in array in the Indian 
 seas. Does not this sound like fame — something almost 
 like posterity 7 It is something to have scribblers squabbling 
 about us 5000 miles off, while we are agreeing so well at 
 home. Bring it with you in your pocket \ it will make you 
 laugh, as it hath me. 
 
 " Ever yours, " B. 
 
 «P,S. Oh, the anecdote! * * * *." 
 
 Miss Fuote's first < 
 
74 
 
 LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 LETTER CCXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "May 31, 1814. 
 
 "As I shall probably not see you here to-day, I write to 
 request that if not inconvenient to yourself, you will stay 
 in town till Sunday ; if not to gratify me, yet to please a 
 great many others, who wiU be very sorry to lose you. As 
 for myself, I can only repeat that I wish you would either 
 remain a long time with us, or not come at all ; for these 
 snatches of society make the subsequent separations bitterer 
 than ever. 
 
 " I believe you think that I havo not been quite fair with 
 that Alpha and Omega of beauty, &c. mth whom you would 
 willingly have united me. But if you consider what her 
 sister said on the subject, you will less wonder that my pride 
 should have taken tlie alarm ; particularly as notliing but 
 llie every-day flirtation of every-day people ever occurred 
 between your herome and myself. Had Lady * + appeared 
 to wish it, or even not to oppose it, I would have gone on, 
 and very possibly married (that is, if the other had been 
 equally accordant) with the same indifference which has 
 frozen over the 'Black Sea' of almost all my passions. It is 
 tliat very indifference which makes me so uncertain and 
 apparently capricious. It is not eagerness of new pursuits, 
 but that nothing impresses me sufficiently to^a? ,- neither do 
 I feel disgusted, but simply indifferent to almost all excite- 
 ments. The proof of tliis is, that obstacles, the slightest 
 even, stop me. This can hardly be timidity^ for I have done 
 some impudent things too, in my time ; and in almost all 
 cases, opposition is a stimulus. Li mine, it is not ; if a straw 
 were in my way, I could not stoop to pick it up. 
 
 " I have sent this long tirade, because I would not have 
 you suppose that I have been trifling designedly ^vitli you 
 or others. If you think so, in the name of St. Hubert (the 
 patron of antlers and hunters) letmebe married out of hand 
 — I don't care to whom, so that it amuses any body else, 
 and don't interfere with me much in the daytime. 
 
 «Ever,&c." 
 
 LETTER CCXXVI. 
 
 TO aiR. MOORE. 
 
 "June 14,1814. 
 
 " I couU be very sentimental now, but I won't. The truth 
 is, that I have been all my life trjong to harden my heart, 
 and have not yet quite succeeded — though there are great 
 hopes — and you do not know how it sunk with your depar- 
 ture. "VYhat adds to my regi-et is having seen so little of 
 you during your stay in tliis crowded desert where one 
 ought to be able to bear thirst lilce a camel,— the springs are 
 so few, and most of tliem so muddy. 
 
 "The newspapers will tell you all that is to be told of 
 emperors, &c. They have dined, and supped, and shown 
 their flat faces in all thoroughfares, and several saloons. 
 Their uniforms are very becoming, but rather short in the 
 skirts ; and their conversation is a catechism, for which and 
 the answers I refer you to those who have heard it. 
 
 "I think of lea\Tng to^vn for Newstead soon. If so, I shall 
 not be remote from your recess, and (unless Mrs. M. detains 
 you at home over the caudle-cup and a new cradle,) we \%-ill 
 
 meet. You shall come to me, or I to you, as you like it ; 
 
 but meet we will. An in%atation from Aston has reached 
 me, but I do not think I shall go. I have also heard of 
 * * * — ^I should like to see her agab, for I have not met 
 her for years; and tliough 'the light that ne'er can shine 
 again' is set, I do not know that ' one dear smile like those 
 of old' might not make me for a moment forget the 'dulness' 
 of life's stream.' 
 
 "* I am going to R * *'s to-night— to one of those suppers 
 which 'oughd to be dinners.' I have hardly seen her, and 
 never ^itm, since you set out. I told you, you were the last 
 link of that chain. As for * * we have not svUabled one 
 
 another's names since. The post will not permit me to 
 
 continue my scrawl. More anon. 
 
 " Ever, dear Moore, &c. 
 "P. S. Keep the Journal, I care not wliat becomes of 
 it, and if it has amused you, I am glatl that I kept it. ' Lara' 
 is finished, and I am cop}-ing liim for ray third vol. now 
 collecting ; but no separate publication." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "June 14, 1814. 
 " I return your packet of tliis morning. Have you heard 
 that Bertrand has returned to Paris with the account of 
 Napoleon's having lost his senses? It is a report; but, if 
 true, I must, Uke Mr. Fitzgerald and Jeremiah, (of lament- 
 able memory,) lay clahn to prophecy ; that is to say, of saying 
 diat he mglit to go out of his senses, in tlie penultimate 
 stanza of a certain Ode, — tlie which, having been pronounced 
 nonsense by several profound critics, has a still further pre- 
 tension, by its unintelligibility, to inspiration. 
 
 "Ever, fee." 
 
 LETTER CCXXVII. 
 
 TO MR. ROGERS. 
 
 "June 19, 1814. 
 
 "I am always obliged to trouble you with my awkward- 
 nesses, and now I have a fresh one. Mr. W.* called on me 
 several times, and I have missed the honour of making his 
 acquaintance, which I regret, but which yoii, who know my 
 desultory and uncertain habits, will not wonder at, and wiil, 
 I am sure, attribute to any thing but a wish to offend a 
 person who has sho^vn me much kindness, and possesses 
 character and talents entitled to general respect. IVIy 
 mornings are late, and passed in fencing and boxing, and a 
 variety of most unpoetical exercises, very wholesome, &c.; 
 but would be very disagreeable to my friends, whom I am 
 obliged to exclude during their operation. I never go out g 
 till the evening, and I have not been fortunate enough to I 
 meet Mr. W. at Lord Lansdo^^•ne's or Lord Jersey's, where | 
 I had hoped to pay him my respects. 
 
 " I would have written to him, but a few words from you 
 ^^all go further than all tlie apologetical sesquipedalities I 
 could muster on tlie occasion. It is only to say that, \\ithout 
 intending it, I contrive to behave very iU to ever}' body, and 
 am very sorry for it. 
 
 "Ever, dearR.&c." 
 
 The follo\ving undated notes to Mr. Rogers were written ■ 
 about this time. " 
 
 " Sunday. 
 
 "Your non-attendance at Corinne's is \ery apropos, as I 
 v.'as on the eve of sending you an excuse. I do not feel 
 v>-ell enough to go there this evening, and have been obliged 
 to despatch an apology. I believe I need not add one for not 
 accepting Mr. Sheridan's in^-itation on Wednesday, which M 
 I fancy both you and I understood in the same sense : — .^ 
 with him the saying of Mirabeau, tliat 'words are things,^ is 
 not to be taken literally. "Ever, &;c. 
 
 "I vnR call for you at a quarter before seven, if that ^ill 
 suit you. I return you Sir Proteus,f and shall merely add 
 in return, as Johnson said of, and to, somebody or otlier 
 'Are we alive after all this censure?' 
 
 "Believe me, &c." 
 
 «ou -J "Tuesday, 
 
 fehendan was yesterday, at first, too sober to remembe» 
 your invitation, but in the dregs of the third botde he fished 
 up his memory. The Stael out-talked "SMiitbread, wa» 
 iro?ied by Sheridan, confounded Sir Humphrev, and utterU 
 perplexed your slave. The rest (great naiies in the red 
 
 * Mr. Wrangharn. 
 
 t A satirical pamphlet, iu which all the writers of the day vt .« attacked. 
 
LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 75 
 
 book, nevertheless) were mere segments of the cuxle. 
 Ma'mselle danced a Russ saraband with great vigour 
 grace, and expression. " Ever, &c." 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "June 21, 1814. 
 " I suppose ' Lara' is gone to the devil, — which is no great 
 matter, only let me know, that I may be saved the trouble 
 of copying the rest, and put the first part into the fire. I 
 really have no anxiety about it, and shall not be sorry to 
 be saved the copying, which goes on very slowly, and may 
 prove to you that you may speak out— or I should be less 
 sluggish. * Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCXXVni. 
 
 TO MR. ROGERS. 
 
 «June27,1814. 
 
 * You could not have made me a more acceptable pre- 
 sent than Jacqueline, — she is all grace, and softness, and 
 poetry ; there is so much of the last, that we do not feel the 
 want of story, wliich is simple, yet enough. I wonder tliat 
 you do not oftener unbend to more of the same kind. I 
 have some sympathy with the softer affections, though veiy 
 little in my way, and no one can depict them so truly and 
 successfully as yourself. I have half a mind to pay you in 
 kind, or rather unkind, for I have just ' supped full of hon-or' 
 in two Cantos of darkness and dismay. 
 
 "Do you go to Lord Essex's to-night ? if so, will you let 
 me call for you at your oami hour ? I dined wth Holland- 
 house yesterday at Lord Cowper's ; ray lady vei-y gi-acious, 
 which she can be more tlian any one when she lilces. I 
 was not sorry to see them again, for I can't forget that tliey 
 have been very kind to me. 
 
 " Ever yours most truly, " Bjj'. 
 
 " P. S. Is there any chance or possibility of making it 
 up with Lord Carlisle, as I feel disposed to do any thing 
 reasonable or unreasonable to effect it ? I would before, 
 but for the ' Courier,' and the possible misconstructions at 
 such a time. Perpend, pronounce." 
 
 or kept you in humeur. Never mind — it is hardly worth 
 while. , 
 
 " This day have I received information from my man of 
 law of the non — and never likely to be — performance of 
 purchase* by Mr.Claughton, of impecuniary memory. He 
 don't know what to do, or when to pay ; and so all my hopes 
 and worldly projects and prospects are gone to the devil. 
 He (the purchaser, and the devil too, for aught I care) and 
 I, and my legal advisers, are to meet to-morrow, — the said 
 purchaser having first taken special care to inquire ' whe- 
 ther I would meet him with temper ?' — Certainly. The 
 question is this — I shall either have the estate back, which 
 is as good as ruin, or I shall go on with him dawdling, 
 which is rather worse. I have brought my pigs to a Mus- 
 sulman market. If I had but a wife now, and children, 
 of whose paternity I entertained doubts, I should be hap- 
 py, or rather fortunate, as Candide or Scarmentado. In 
 the mean time, if you don't come and see me, I shall think 
 that Sam's bank is broke too ; and that you, having assets 
 there, are despairing of more than a piastre in the pound 
 for your dividend. " Ever, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "July 8, 1814. 
 
 *I returned to town last night, and had some hopes of 
 seeing you to-day, and would have called, — but I have been 
 (though in exceeding distempered good health) a little head- 
 achy with free hving, as it is called, and am now at the 
 freezing point of returning soberness. Of course, I should 
 be sorry that our parallel lines did not deviate into inter- 
 section before you return to the country, — after that same 
 nonsuit whereof the papers have told us,— but, as you must 
 be much occupied, I won't be affronted, should your time 
 and business militate against our meeting. 
 
 " Rogers and I have almost coalesced into a joint invasion 
 of the public. Whether it will take place or not, I do not 
 yet know, and I am afraid Jacqueline (which is very beau- 
 tiful) will be in bad company.* But, in tliis case, the lady 
 will not be the sufferer. 
 
 "I am going to the sea, and then to Scotland; and I have 
 been doing nothing, — that is, no good, — and am very truly, 
 &c." 
 
 LETTER CCXXX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 " I suppose, by your non-appearance, that the philasophy 
 of my note, and the previous silence of the writer, have put 
 
 NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "July 11, 1814 
 " You shall have one of the pictures. I wsh you to send 
 tlie proof of 'Lara' to Mr. Moore, 33, Bury-street, to-nightf 
 as he leaves town to-morrow, and wishes to see it before he 
 goes ; and I am also willbg to have the benefit of his re- 
 marks. "Yours, &c." 
 
 NOTE TO 3\IR. MURRAY. 
 
 ■'July 18, 1814. 
 
 " I tliinlv you will be satisfied even to repletion with our 
 northern friends,! and I won't deprive you longer of what I 
 think win give you pleasure : for my own part, my modesty 
 or my vanity must lie silent. 
 
 "P. S. If you could spare it for an hour in tlie evening, I 
 wish you to send it up to Mrs. Leigh, youi* neighbour, at the 
 London Hotel, Albemarle-street.'* 
 
 LETTER CCXXXL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "July 23, 1814. 
 
 " I am sorry to say that the printj is by no means ap- 
 proved of by those who have seen it, who are pretty con- 
 versant %vith tlie original, as well as the picture from whence 
 it is taken. I rather suspect that it is from the copy and not 
 the exhibited portrait, and in this dUerama would recommend 
 a suspension, if not an abandonment of the prejixion to tlxe 
 volumes which you purpose inflicting upon the public. 
 
 " Vv^itli regard to iMra don't be in any hurry. I have not 
 yet made up my mind on tlie subject, nor know what to think 
 or do till I liear from you ; and I\Ir. Moore appeared to me 
 in a siinilar state of indetermination. I do not know that it 
 may not be better to reserve it for the ailire publication you 
 pro;;'jsed, and not adventure in hardy singleness, or even 
 baclred by the fairy Jacqueline. I have been seized with 
 all kinds of doubts, &c. &.c. since I left London. 
 
 "Pray let me hear from you, and believe me, &c." 
 
 * Lara and Jacqueline, the latlei- by Mr. Rogers, both appeared in the 
 Barae volume. 
 
 LETTER CCXXXn. 
 
 TO MR, MURRAY. 
 
 "July 24, 1814. 
 "The minority must, in this case, carry it, so pray let it be 
 so, for I don't care sixpence for any of the opinions you 
 mention, on such a subject ; and Phillips must be a dunce to 
 
 * Purchase of Nevrstead Abbey. See Letter 141. 
 t He here refers to an article in the number of the Edinburgh Review 
 just then published, (No. 45.) nn the Corsair and Bride of Abydoa. 
 X An engraving by Agar from Phillips's portrait of him. 
 
76 
 
 LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 agree with them. For my owii part, I have no objection at 
 all; but Mrs. Leigh and my cousin must be better judges 
 of the hkeness than others ; and they hate it ; and so I won't 
 have it at all. 
 
 "Mr. Hobhouse is right as for his conclusion; but I deny 
 the premises. The name only is Spanish ;* the country is 
 not Spain, but the Morea, 
 
 "Waverley is the best and most bteresting novel I have 
 redde since— I don't know when. I like it as much as I 
 hate * *, and * *, and * *, and all the feminine trash of tlie 
 last four months. Besides, it is all easy to me, I have been 
 in Scotland so much, (tliough then young enough too,) and 
 feel at home ^^^th the people, Lowland and Gael. 
 
 « A note will con-ect wliat Mv. Hobhouse thinks an error, 
 (about the feudal system in Spain ;) it is not Spain. If he 
 puts a few words of prose any where, it will set all light. 
 
 "I have been ordered to to^^■n to vote. I shall disobey. 
 There is no good in so much prating, since ' certain issues 
 strokes should aibitrate.' If you have any tiling to say, let 
 me hear from you. " Youj-s, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCXXXm. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Aug. 3, 1814. 
 
 «Itis certainly a little extraordinary that you have not 
 sent the Edinburgh Review, as I requested, and hoped it 
 would not require a note a day to remind you. I see adver- 
 tisements of Lara and Jacqueline ; pray, why ? when I re- 
 quested you to postpone publication till my return to town. 
 
 "I have a most amusing epistle from the Ettrick bard — 
 HoCTO'; in which, speaking of his bookseller, whom he deno- 
 min'ates the 'shabbiest' of the trade for not 'lifting his bills,' 
 he adds, in so many words, ' G — d d — n him and them both.' 
 This is a prett}' prelude to asking you to adopt him (tlie said 
 Hogg ;) but this he mshes ; and if you please, you and I will 
 talk it over. He has a poem ready for the press, (and your 
 bills too, if ' Zi/iable,') and bestows some benedictions on 
 Mr. Moore for his abduction of Lara from the forthcoming 
 Miscellany. 
 
 "P. S. Sincerely, I think Mr. Hogg would suit you very 
 well; and surely he is a man of great powers, and desernng 
 of encouragement. I must knock out a tale for him, and 
 you should at all events consider before you reject his suit. 
 Scott is gone to the Orkneys in a gale of uind, and Hogg 
 says that, during the said gale, 'he is sure that Scott is not 
 quite at his ease, to say the best of it.' Ah 1 I v»ish these 
 home-keeping bards could taste a INIediterranean white 
 squall, or the Gut in a gale of wind, or even the Bay of 
 Biscay with no wind at all." 
 
 LETTER CCXXXIV. 
 
 XO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Hastings, Aug. 3, 1814. 
 "By the time this reaches your dwelling, I shall (God 
 wot) be in town again probably. 1 have here been re- 
 newing my acquaintance with my old friend Ocean ; and I 
 find his bosom as pleasant a pillow for an hour in the morn- 
 incf as his daughters of Paphos could be in the twilight. 
 I have been swimming and eating turbot, and smuggling 
 neat brandies and silk handkerchiefs, — and Ustening to 
 my friend Hodgson's raptures about a pretty wife-elect 
 of his, — and walking on chfFs, and tumbling down hills, 
 and making the most of the ' dolce farniente' for the last 
 fortnight. I met a son of Lord Erskine's, who says he 
 has been married a year, and is the 'happiest of men ;' and 
 I have met the aforesaid H. who is also the ' happiest of 
 men;' so, it is worth while being here, if only to witness 
 the superlative felicity of these foxes, who have cut off 
 their tails, and would persuade the rest to part with 
 their brushes to keep them in countenance. 
 
 ' Alluding to Lai-a. 
 
 "It rejoiceth me that you like 'Lara.' Jeffrey is out 
 with his forty-fifth number, which I suppose you have 
 got. He is only too kind to me, in my share of it, and I 
 begin to fancy myself a golden pheasant, upon the strength 
 of the plumE^e wherewith he hath bedecked me. But 
 then, ' surgit amari,' &c. — the gentlemen of the Champion, m 
 and Perry, have got hold (I know not how) of the condo- ■ 
 latory address to Lady J. on the picture-abduction by oui M 
 Regent, and have published them — with ray name, too, 
 smack — without even asking leave, or inquiring whether 
 or no ! D — n their impudence, and d — n every thing. It 
 has put me out of patience, and so I shall say no more 
 about it.* 
 
 " You shall have Lara and Jacque (both with some 
 additions) when out; but I am still demurring and de- 
 laying, and in a fuss, and so is Rogers in his way. 
 
 "Newstead is to be mine again. Claughton forfeits 
 twenty-five thousand pounds ; but that don't prevent me 
 from being very prettily ruined. I mean to bury myself 
 there — and let my beard grow — and hate you all. 
 
 " Oh ! I have had the most amusing letter from Hogg, 
 the Ettrick minstrel and shepherd. He wants me to 
 recommend him to JMurray, and, speaking of his present 
 bookseller, whose ' bills' are never ' lifted,' he adds, totidem 
 verbis, 'G — d d — n him and them both.' I laughed, and so 
 would you too, at the way in which this extrication was 
 introduced. The said Hogg is a strange being, but of 
 great, though uncouth, powers. I think very highly of him 
 as a poet ; but he, and half of these Scotch and Lake 
 troubadours, are spoiled by living in httle circles and petty 
 societies. London and the world is the only place to take 
 the conceit out of a man — in the milling phrase. Scott, 
 he said, is gone to the Orkneys in a gale of wind ; — during 
 wliich wind, he affirms, the said Scott, ' he is sure is not at 
 his ease, — to say the best of it.' Lord, Lord, if these home- 
 keeping minstrels had crossed your Atlantic or my Medi- 
 terranean, and tasted a little open boating in a white 
 squall — or a gale in 'the Gut' — or the 'Bay of Biscay, 
 with no gale at all — how it would enliven and introduce 
 them to a few of the sensations ! — to say nothing of an J 
 illicit amour or two upon shore, in the way of essay upon 1 
 the Passions, beginning widi simple adultery, and com- 
 pounding it as they went along. 
 
 "I have forwarded your letter to Murray, — by the way, 
 you had addressed it to Miller. Pray write to me, and say 
 what art thou doing ? ' Not finished ! — Oons I how is this ? 
 — these ' flaws and starts' must be ' authorized by your J 
 grandam,' and are becoming of any other author. I was I 
 sorry to hear of your discrepancy with * *s, or rather, ^ 
 your abjuration of agreement. I don't want to be imper- 
 tinent, or buffoon on a serious subject, and am therefore at 
 a loss what to say. 
 
 " I hope nothing will induce you to abate from the proper 
 price of your poem, as long as there is a prospect of getting 
 it. For my own part, I have seriously and not whiningly, 
 (for th.at is not my way — at least, it used not to be,) neither 
 hopes, nor prospects, and scarcely even wishes. I am, in 
 some respects happy, but not in a manner that can or ought 
 to last, — but enough of tliat. The worst of it is, I feel quite 
 enervated and indifferent. I really do not know, if Jupiter 
 were to offer me my choice of the contents of his benevolent 
 cask, what I would pick out of it. If I was bom as the 
 nurses say with a 'silver spoon in my mouth,' it has stuck 
 in my tliroat, and spoiled my palate so that nothing put into 
 it is swallowed with much relish, — unless it be cayenne. 
 However, I have grievances enough to occupy me that way 
 too ; but for fear of adding to yours by this pestilent lono 
 diatribe, I postpone the reading them, si?ie die. Ever, dear 
 M. yours, &c. . m 
 
 " P. S. Don't forget my godson. You could not have ^ 
 fixed on a fitter porter for his sins than me, being used to 
 carry double without inconvenience." * * * 
 
 See Poems, p. 481. 
 
LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 77 
 
 LETTER CCXXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Aug. 4, 1814. 
 
 "Not having received the slightest answer to my last 
 three letters, nor the book (the last nixmber of the Edin- 
 burgh Review) which they requested, I presume that j'ou 
 were the unfortunate person* who perished in the pagoda 
 on Monday last, and address this rather to your executors 
 than yourself regretting that you should have had the ill- 
 luck to be the sole victim on that joyous occasion. 
 
 " I beg leave then to inform these gentlemen (whoever 
 tliey may be) that I am a little surprised at the previous 
 neglect of the deceased, and also at observing an advertise- 
 ment of an approacliing pubhcation on Saturday next, 
 against the which I protested, and do protest, for the 
 present. 
 
 "Yours, (or theirs,) &c. « B." 
 
 LETTER CCXXXVL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Aug. 5, 1814. 
 
 " The Edinburgh Review is arrived — thanks. 1 enclose 
 Mr. Hobhouse's letter, from which you wiU perceive the 
 work you have made. However, I have done : you must 
 send my rhymes to the devil your own way. It seems 
 also that the 'faithful and spirited likeness' is another of 
 your publications. I wish you joy of it ; but it is no like- 
 ness — that is tlie point. Seriously, if] have delayed your 
 journey to Scotland. I am sorry that you carried your com- 
 plaisance so far: particularly as upon trifles you have a 
 more summary method; — witness the grammar of Hob- 
 house's ' bit of prose,' which has put him and me into a fever. 
 
 "Hogg must translate his owii words: Hifting' is a 
 quotation from his letter, together with 'G — dd — n/ &c. 
 which I suppose requires no translation. 
 
 * I was unaware of the contents of Mr. Moore's letter ; 
 I thinlc your offer very handsome, but of that you and he 
 must judge. If he can get more, you won't wonder that he 
 should accept it. 
 
 "Out with Lara since it must be. The tome looks 
 pretty enough — on the outside. I shall be in town next 
 weel^ and in the mean time wish you a pleasant journey. 
 
 "Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCXXXVIL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Aug. 12,1814. 
 * I was not alone, nor will be while I can help it. New- 
 stead is not yet decided. Claughton is to make a grand 
 effort by Saturday week to complete, — if not, he must give 
 up twenty-five thousand pounds, and the estate, with ex- 
 penses, &c. &c. If I resume the Abbacy, you shall have 
 due notice, and a cell set apart for your reception, with a 
 pious welcome. Rogers I have not seen, but Larry and 
 Jacky came out a few days ago. Of their effect, I know 
 nothing. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "There is something very amusing in your being an 
 Edinburgh Reviewer. You know, I suppose, that Thurlow 
 is none of the placidest, and may possibly enact some 
 tragedy on being told that he is only a fool. If, now, Jeffrey 
 were to be slain on account of an article of yours, there 
 would be a fine conclusion. For my part, as Mrs. Winifred 
 Jenkins says, ' he has done the handsome thing by me,' 
 particularly in his last number; so, he is the best of men 
 and the ablest of critics, and I won't have him killed, — 
 though I dare say many wish he were, for bebg so good- 
 humoured. 
 
 " Before I left Hastings, I got in a passion \vith an ink- 
 
 See note to the Hints from Horace, p. 438. 
 
 bottle, which I flung out of the window one night with a 
 vengeance; — and what then? why, next morning I was 
 horrified by seeing that it had struck, and split upon, the 
 petticoat of Euterpe's graven image in the garden, and 
 grimed her as if it were on purpose.* Only think of my 
 distress, and — the epigrams that might be engendered on 
 the Muse and her misadventure. 
 
 " I had an adventure, almost as ridiculous, at some private 
 theatricals near Cambridge — tho'igh of a different descrip- 
 tion — since I saw you last. I quarrelled with a man in the 
 dark for asking me who I w^as, (insolendy enough, to be 
 sure,) and followed him into the green-room (a stable) in a 
 rage, among a set of people 1 never saw before. He turned 
 out to be a low comedian, engaged to act with tlie amateurs, 
 and to be a civil-spoken man enough, when he found out 
 that nothing very pleasant was to be got by rudeness. But 
 you would have been amused with the row, and the dialogue, 
 and the dress — or rather the undress — of the party, where 
 I had introduced myself in a devil of a hurry, and the asto- 
 nishment that ensued. I had gone out of the theatre, for 
 coolness, into the garden ; there I had tumbled over some 
 dogs, and, coming a\vay from them in very ill-humour, en- 
 countered the man in a worse, wliich produced all this 
 confusion. 
 
 " Well — and why don't you 'launch ?' — Now is your time 
 The people are tolerably tired with me, and not very much 
 enamoured of Wordsworth, who has just spawned a quarto 
 of metaphysical blank verse, which is nevertheless only a 
 part of a poem . 
 
 jVlurray talks of divorcing Larry and Jacky — a bad sign 
 for the authors, who, I suppose, will be divorced too, and 
 throw the blame upon one another. Seriously, I don't care 
 
 cigar about it, and I don't see why Sam should. 
 
 "Let me hear from and of you and my godson. If a 
 daughter, the name will do quite as well. * * * 
 
 «Ever,&c." 
 
 LETTER CCXXXVIIL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Aug. 13, 1814. 
 
 "I wrote yesterday to Mayfield, and have just now en- 
 franked your letter to mamma. My stay in town is so un- 
 certain (not later than next week) that your packets for the 
 north may not reach me; and as I know not exactly where 
 I am going — however, Neivstead is my most probable des- 
 tination, and if you send your despatches before Tuesday, 
 I can forward tliem to our new ally. But, after that day, 
 you had better not trust to their arrival in time. 
 
 « * * has been exiled from Paris, on dit, for saying the 
 Bourbons were old women. The Bourbons might have 
 been content, I tliink, with returning the compliment. * 
 * * * 
 
 "I told you all about Jacky and Larry yesterday ; — they 
 are to be separated, — at least, so says the grand Murray, 
 and I know no more of the matter. Jeffrey has done me 
 more than 'justice;' but as to tragedy — uni! — I have no 
 time for fiction at present. A man cannot paint a storm 
 with the vessel under bare poles, on a lee shore. When I 
 get to land, I will try \vhat is to be done, and, if I founder, 
 there be plenty of mine elders and betters to console Mel- 
 pomene. 
 
 " When at Newstead, you must come over, if only for a 
 day — should Mrs. M. be exigeante of your presence. The 
 place is worth seeing, as a ruin, and I can assure you there 
 was some fun there, even in my time ; but that is past. The 
 phosts, however, and the gothics, and the waters, and the 
 desolation, make it very lively still. 
 
 "Ever, dear Tom, yours, &c.'* 
 
 * His servant had brought him up a large jar of ink, into which, not sup- 
 posing it to be full, be had thrust his pen down to the very bottom. En- 
 raged, on finding it come out all smeared with ink, he flung the bottle out 
 of the window into the garden, where it lighted, as here described, upon 
 one of eight leaden Muses, that had been imported, some time before, from 
 HoUaudj— the uiuth haTing been, by some accident, left behind.— Moore. 
 
78 
 
 LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 LETTER CCXXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Sept. 2, 1814. 
 
 "I am obliged by what you have sent, but %vould rather 
 not see any thing of the kind ;* we have had enough of 
 these things already, good and bad, and next month you 
 need not trouble yourself to collect even the higlier gene- 
 •■ation — on my account. It gives me much pleasure to hear 
 of Mr. Hobhouse's and Mr. Merivale's good entreatment 
 by the journals you mention. 
 
 "I sdll think Mr. Hogg and yourself might make out an 
 alliance. Dodsley^s was, I believe, the last decent thing of 
 the kbd, and his had great success in its day, and lasted 
 several years ; but then he had the double advantage of 
 editing and publishing. The Spleen, and several of Gray's 
 odes, much of Shcnsione, and many others of good repute, 
 made their first appearance in his collection. Now, with 
 the support of Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, &c. I see little 
 reason why you should not do as well ; and if once fairly 
 established, you would have assistance from the youngsters, 
 I dare say. Stratford Canning (whose 'Buonaparte' is 
 excellent,) and many others, and Moore, and Hobhouse, 
 and I, would try a fall now and then (if permitted,) and you 
 might coax Campbell, too, into it. By-the-by, he has an 
 unpublished (though printed) poem on a scene in Germany 
 (Bavaria, I think,) which 1 saw last year, tliat is perfectly 
 magnificent, and equal to himself. I wonder he don't pub- 
 lish it. 
 
 * Oh ! — do you recollect S * *, the engraver's, mad letter 
 about not engraving Phillips's picture of Lord Foley? (as 
 he blundered it ;) well, I have traced it, I think. It seems, 
 by the papers, a preacher of Johanna Southcote's is named 
 Foley; and I can noway account for the said S * *'s con- 
 fusion of words and ideas, but by that of his head's running 
 on Johanna and her apostles. It was a mercy he did not 
 say Lord Tozer. You know, of course, that S * * is a 
 believer in this new (old) virgin of spiritual impregnation. 
 
 " I long to know what she will produce : her being with 
 child at skty-five is indeed a miracle, but her gettmg any 
 one to beget it, a greater. 
 
 " If you were not going to Paris or Scotland, I could send 
 you some game : if you remain, let me know. 
 
 "P. S. A word or two of 'Lara,' which your enclosure 
 brmgs before me. It is of no great promise separately ; 
 but, as connected v.ith the other tales, it will do very well 
 for the volumes you mean to publish. I would recommend 
 this arrangement — Childe Harold, the smaller Poems, 
 Giaour, Bride, Corsair, Lara; the last completes the series, 
 and its very likeness renders it necessary to the others. 
 Cawthorne writes that they are publishing English Bards 
 in Ireland: pray inquire into this; because it must be 
 stopped." 
 
 " Pray, who corrects the press of your volumes ? I hope 
 ' The Corsair' is printed from the copy I corrected with the 
 additional lines in tlie first Canto, and some notes from Sis- 
 mondi and Lavater, which I gave you to add thereto. The 
 arrangement is very well. 
 
 "My cursed people have not sent my papers since Sun- 
 day, and I have lost Johanna's divorce from Jupiter. Who 
 hath gotten her with prophet? IsitSharpe? and how? 
 * * + + * + 
 
 I should like to buy one of her seals: if salvation can be 
 had at half a guinea a head, the landlord of the Crown and 
 Anchor should be ashamed of himself for charging double 
 for tickets to a mere terrestrial banquet. I am afraid, se- 
 riously, that these matters will lend a sad handle to your 
 profane scoffers, and give a loose to much darrmable laugh- 
 ter. 
 
 "I have not seen Hunt's Sonnets nor Descent of Liberty: 
 he has chosen a pretty place wherein to compose the last. 
 Let me hear from you before you embark. Ever, fee." 
 
 LETTER CCXLL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 LETTER CCXL. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Sept. 7, 1814, 
 *'I should think Mr. Hogg, for his own sake as well as 
 yours, would be ' critical' as lago himself in his editorial 
 capacity ; and that such a publication would answer liis 
 purpose, and yours too, mth tolerable management. You 
 should, however, have a good number to start with — 1 
 mean, good in quality ; in these days, there can be little fear 
 of not coming up to the mark in quantity. There must be 
 many ' fine things'' in Wordsworth ; but I should think it 
 difficult to make six quartos (the amount of the whole) all 
 fine, particularly the pedler's portion of the poem; but there 
 can be no doubt of his powers to do almost any thing. 
 
 " 1 am ' very idle.' I have read the few books I had with 
 me, and been forced to fish, for lack of argument. I have 
 caught a great many perch, and some carp, which is a 
 comfort, as one would not lose one's labour willingly. 
 
 The Reriews and Magazines of the month. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Sept. 15, 1814. 
 
 " This is the fourth letter I have begun to you within the 
 month. Whether I shall finish or not, or burn it hke the 
 rest, I Imow not. When we meet, 1 shall explain why I 
 have not written — why I have not asked you here, as I 
 wished — witli a great many other whys and wherefores, 
 which will keep cold. In short, you must excuse all my 
 seeming omissions and commissions, and grant me more 
 remission than St. Athanasius \^^ll to yourself] if you lop 
 off a single shred of mystei-y from his pious puzzle. It is 
 my creed (and it may be St. Athanasius's too) that your 
 article on T * * wiU get somebody killed, and that, on the 
 Saints, get him d — d afterward, which will be quite enow 
 for one number. Oons, Tom! you must not meddle just 
 now with the incomprehensible ; for if Johanna Southcote 
 turns out to be* * * * * * * 
 
 "Now for a little egotism. My affairs stand thus. To- 
 morrow I shall know whether a circumstance of irhportance 
 enough to change many of my plans will occur or not. If 
 it does not, I am off for Italy next month, and London, in 
 the mean time, next week. I have got back Newstead and 
 twenty-five thousand pounds (out of twenty-eight paid 
 already,) — as a ' sacrifice,' the late purchaser calls it, and 
 he may choose his own name. I have paid some of my 
 debts, and contracted others; but I have a few thousand 
 pounds, which I can't spend after my own heart in tiiis 
 climate, and so, I shall go back to the south. Hobhouse, I 
 think and hope, will go with me ; but, whether he will or 
 not, I shall. I want to see Venice, and the Alps, and Par- 
 mesan cheeses, and look at the coast of Greece, or rather 
 Epirus, from Italy, as I once did — or fancied I did — that of 
 Italy, when off Coifu. All this, however, depends upon an 
 event, w^hich may, or may not, happen. Whether it will, 
 I shall know probably to-morrow, and if it does, I cant well 
 go abroad at present. 
 
 " Pray pardon this parenthetical scrawl. You shall hear 
 from me again soon ; — I don't call this an answer. 
 
 "Ever most affectionately, fcc." 
 
 The "circumstance of importance," to which he alludes 
 in tills letter, v»as liis second proposal for Miss Milbanke, 
 of which he was now vvaiting the result. 
 
 LETTER CCXLIL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Nd. Sept. 15, 1814. 
 "I have written to you one letter to-night, but must send 
 you this much more, as I have not franked my number, to 
 say that I rejoice in my goddaughter, and will send her a 
 
LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 79 
 
 coral and bells, which I hope she will accept, the moment I 
 get back to London. 
 
 "My head is at this moment in a state cf confusion. from 
 various causes, which T can neither describe nor explain — 
 but let that pass. My employments have been very rural 
 — fishing, shooting, bathing, and boating. Books I have 
 but few here, and those I have read ten times over, till sick 
 of them. So, I have taken to breaking soda water bottles 
 with my pistols, and jumping into the water, and rowing 
 over it, and firing at the fowls of the air. But why should 
 I ' monster my notliings' to you who are well employed, and 
 happily too, I should hope. For my part, I am happy too, 
 in my way — ^but, as usual, have contrived to get into three 
 or four perplexities, which I do not see my way through. 
 But a few days, perhaps a day, wiU determine one of them. 
 
 "You do not say a word to me of your Poem. I wish I 
 could see or hear it. I neither could, nor would, do it or its 
 author any harm. I believe I told you of Larry and Jacquy. 
 A friend of mine was reading — at least a friend of his was 
 reading — said Larry and Jacquy in a Brighton coach. A 
 passenger took up tlie book and queried as to the author. 
 The proprietor said ' there were twd — to wliich the answer 
 of the unlmown was, 'Ay, ay — a joint concern, I suppose, 
 summot like Sternhold and Hopkins.' 
 
 "Is not this excellent? I would not have missed the 
 'vile comparison' to have scaped being one of the 'Arcades 
 ambo et cantare pares.' Good night. Again yours." 
 
 LETTER CCXLIII. 
 
 TO MR. MOOP.E. 
 
 "Newstead Abbey, Sept. 20, 1814. 
 
 " Here's to her who long 
 
 Hath waked the poet's sigh ! 
 The girl who gave to song 
 What gold could never buy. 
 
 "My dear Moore, I am going to be married — that is, I 
 am accepted, and one usually hopes the rest will follow. 
 My mother of the Gracchi (that are to be) you think too 
 strait-laced for me, altliough the paragon of only children, 
 and invested with 'golden opinions of all sorts of men,' and 
 full of'most blessed conditions' as Desdemona herself. Miss 
 Milbanke is the lady, and I have her father's invitation to 
 proceed there in my elect capacity, — which, however, I can- 
 not do till 1 have settled some business in London, and got 
 a blue coat. 
 
 " She is said to be an heiress, but of that I really know 
 nothing certainly, and shall not inquire. But I do know, tliat 
 she has talents and excellent qualities, and you will no' deny 
 her judgment, after having refused six suitors and taken me. 
 "Now, if you have any thing to say against this, pray do : 
 my mind's made up, positively fixed, determined, and there- 
 fore I will listen to reason, because now it can do no harm. 
 Things may occur to break it off, but I wiU hope not. In 
 the mean time, I tell you (a secret^ by-the-by, — at least, till 
 I know she wishes it to be pubUc) that I have proposed 
 and am accepted. You need not be in a hurry to wish 
 me joy, for one may n't be married for montlis. I am going 
 to town to-morrow •, but expect to be here, on my way there, 
 within a fortnight. 
 
 " If this had not happened I should have gone to Italy. 
 In my way down, perhaps, you will meet me at Notting- 
 ham, and come over wth me here. I need not say that 
 nothing will give me greater pleasure. I must, of course, 
 reform thoroughly ; and, seriously, if I can contribute to her 
 happiness, I shall secure my own. She is so good a person, 
 that — that — in short, I wish I was a better. 
 
 "Ever,&c." 
 
 but I am going to be 'married, and can't come.' My in- 
 tended is two hundred miles off', and the moment my busi- 
 ness here is arranged, I must set out in a great hurry to be 
 happy. Miss Milbanke is the good-natured person who 
 has undertaken me, and, of course, I am very much in love, 
 and as silly as all single gentlemen must be in that senti- 
 mental situation. I have been accepted these three weeks ; 
 but when the event will take place, I don't exactly know. 
 It depends partly upon lawyers, who are never in a hurry. 
 One can be sure of nothing; but, at present, there appears 
 no other interruption to this intention, which seems as mu- 
 tual as possible, and now no secret, though I did not tell 
 first, — and all our relatives are congratulating away to right 
 and left in the most fatiguing manner. 
 
 "You perhaps know the lady. She is niece to Lady 
 Melbourne, and cousin to Lady Cowper, and others of your 
 acquaintance, and has no fault, except being a great deal 
 too good for me, and that / must pardon, if nobody else 
 should. It might have been two years ago, and, if it had, 
 would have saved me a world of trouble. She has em- 
 ployed the interval in refusing about half a dozen of my par- 
 ticular friends (as she did me once, by the way,) and has 
 talven me at last, for which I am very much obliged to her. 
 I wish it was well over, for I do hate bustle, and there is no 
 marrying without some ; — and then I must not marry in a 
 black coat, they tell me, and I can't wear a blue one. 
 
 "Pray forgive me for scribbling all this nonsense. You 
 know I must be serious all the rest of my life, and this is 
 a parting piece of buffoonery, which I write with tears in 
 my eyes, expecting to be agitated. Believe me most se- 
 iously and sincerely your obliged servant, "Byron. 
 
 "P. S. My best rems. to Lord * * on his return." 
 
 LETTER CCXLIV. 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS OF * * *. 
 
 "Albany, Oct. 5,1814. 
 
 "JDEAR LADY * *, 
 
 "Your recdlection and invitation dome great honour; 
 
 LETTER CCXLV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Oct. 7, 1S14. 
 
 "Notwithstanding the contradictory paragraph in the 
 Morning Chronicle, which must have been sent by * *, or 
 perhaps — I know not why I should suspect Claughton of 
 such a thing, and yet I partly do, because it might interrupt 
 his renewal of purchase, if so disposed; in short, it mattei-s 
 not, but we are all in the road to matrimony — lawyers set- 
 tling, relations congratulating, my intended as kind as heart 
 could wish, and every one, whose opinion I value, very 
 glad of it. All her relatives, and all mine too, seem equally 
 pleased. 
 
 "Perry was very sorry, and has re^contradicted, as you 
 will perceive by this day's paper. It was, to be sure, a 
 devil of an insertion, since the first paragraph came from 
 Sir Ralph's own County Journal, and diis in the teeth of 
 it would appear to him and his as my denial. But I have 
 written to do away that, enclosing Perry's letter, which was 
 very polite and Idnd. 
 
 " Nobody hates busde so much as I do ; but there seems 
 a fatality over every scene of my drama, always a row of 
 some sort or other. No matter — Fortune is my best friend, 
 and as I acknowledge my obligations to her, I hope she 
 will treat me better than she treated the Athenian, who 
 took some merit to himself on some occasion, but (after 
 that) took no more towns. In fact, she, that exquisite god- 
 dess, has hitherto carried me through every thing, and 
 will, I hope, now ; since I own it will be all her doing. 
 
 « Well, now for thee. Your article on * * is perfection 
 itself. You must not leave off reviewing. By Jove, I be- 
 lieve you can do any thing. There is wit, and taste, and 
 learning, and good-humour (though not a whit less severe 
 for that) ill every line of that critique. 
 
 * * * * + * 
 
 "Next to your being an E. Reviewer, my being of the 
 same kidney, and Jeffrey's being such a friend to both, are 
 among the events which I conceive were not calculated 
 upon m Mx.— what's his name ?'s—' Essay on Probabili- 
 ties.' 
 
80 
 
 LETTERS, 1814. 
 
 "But, Tom, I say — OonsI Scott menaces the 'Lord of 
 the Isles.' Do you mean lo compete? or lay by, till this 
 wave has broke upon the shelves (of booksellers, not rocks 
 — a broken metaphor, by the way.) You ought to be afraid 
 of nobody ; but your modesty is really as provoking and 
 unnecessary as a * *'s. I am very merry, and have just 
 been writing some elegiac stanzas on the death of Sir P. 
 Parker.* He was my first cousin, but never met since 
 boyhood. Our relations desired me, and I have scribbled 
 and given it to Perry, who will chronicle it to-morrow. I 
 am as sorry for him as one could be for one I never saw 
 since I was a child ; but should not have wept melodiously, 
 except 'at the request of friends.' 
 
 "I hope to get out of town and be married, but I shall 
 take Newstead in my way, and you must meet me at 
 Nottingham and accompany me to mine Abbey. I will 
 tell you the day when I know it. "Ever, &c. 
 
 "P. S. By the way, my wife-elect is perfection ; and I 
 hear of nothing but her merits and her wonders, and that 
 she is 'very pretty.' Her expectations, I am told, are 
 great ; but what, I have not asked. I have not seen her 
 these ten months." 
 
 LETTER CCXLVL 
 
 TO MR. HUNT. 
 
 "Oct. 15, 1814. 
 
 "my dear HUJfT, 
 
 "I send you some game, of which I beg your accept- 
 ance. I specify the quantity as a security against the 
 porter; a hare, a pheasant, and two brace of partridges, 
 which, I hope, are fresh. My stay in tov^-n has not been 
 Ions, and I am in all the agonies of quitting it again next 
 week on business, preparatory to ' a change of condition/ 
 as it is called by the talkers on such matters. I am about 
 to be married ; and am, of course, in all the misery of a man 
 in pursuit of happiness. My intended is two hundred miles 
 off, and the efforts I am making mth la\%yers, &c. &c. to 
 join mv future connexions, are, for a personage of my sin- 
 gle and inveterate habits, to say nothing of indolence, quite 
 prodigious ! I sincerely hope you are better than your 
 paper intimated lately, and that your approaching freedom 
 will find you in full health to enjoy it. Yours ever, 
 
 " Byron." 
 
 her virtues, &c. &c. you will hear enough of them (for she 
 is a kind o^ pattern in the north,) without my running into 
 a display on the subject. It is well that one of us is of such 
 fame, since there is a sad deficit in the morale of diat article 
 upon my part, — all owing to my 'bitch of a star,' as Captain 
 Tranchemont says of his planet. 
 
 " Don't think you have not said enough of me in your 
 article on T * *, what more could or need be said? 
 *** + ** 
 
 "Your long delayed and expected work — I suppose you 
 will take fright at ' The Lord of the Isles' and Scott now. 
 You must do as you lilie, — I have said my say. You ought 
 to fear comparison with none, and any one would stare 
 who heard you were so tremulous, — though, after all, I be- 
 lieve it is the surest sign of taient. Good morning. I hope 
 we shall meet soon, but I \A-ill write again, and perhaps you 
 wiU meet me at Nottingham. Pray say so. 
 
 " P. S. If this xmion is productive, you shall name the 
 first fruits." 
 
 LETTER CCXLVIL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Oct. 15, 1814. 
 "An' there were any thing in mamage that would make 
 a difference between friends and me, particularly in your 
 case, I would 'none on't.' My agent sets off for Durham 
 next week, and I shall follow him, taking Newstead and 
 you in my way. I certainly did not address Miss Mil- 
 banke with these views, but it is likely she may prove a 
 considerable parti. All her father can give, or leave her, 
 he will ; and from her childless uncle, Lord Wentworth, 
 whose barony, it is supposed, will devolve onLy .Milbanke 
 (his sister.) she has expectations. But these will depend 
 upon his ouTi disposition, which seems very partial towards 
 her. She is an only child, and Sir Ralph's estates, though 
 dipped by electioneering, are considerable. Part of them 
 are settled on her ; but whether that will be dowered now, 
 I do not know, — though, from what has been intimated to 
 me, it probably will. The lawyers are to settle this among 
 them, and I am getting my property into matrimonial array, 
 and myself ready for the journey to Seaham, which I must 
 make in a week or ten days. 
 
 "I certainly did not dream that she was attached to me, 
 which it seems she has been for some time. I also thouo-ht 
 her of a very cold disposition, in which I was also mistaken 
 — it is a long story, and I won't trouble you with it. As to 
 
 Poems, p. 192, 
 
 LETTER CCXLVIIL 
 
 TO MR. HENRY DRURY. 
 
 "Oct. 18,1814. 
 "my DEAR DRURY, 
 
 " Many thanks for your hitherto unacknowledged 'Anec- 
 dotes.' Now for one of mine — I am going to be married, 
 and have been engaged this month. It is a long story, and 
 therefore I won't teU it, — an old and (though I did not 
 know it till lately) a mutual attachment. The very sad 
 life I have led since I was your pupil must pardy accoimt 
 for the ofTs and ons in this now to be arranged business. 
 We are only waiting for the lawyers and settlements, &c. 
 and next week, or the week after, I shall go down to Sea- 
 ham in the new character of a regular suitor for a wife of 
 mine own. 
 
 + + + + * * 
 
 " I hope Hodgson is in a fail- way on the same voyage^. 
 I saw him and his idol at Hastings. I wish he w^ould be 
 married at the same time. I should like to make a party, 
 — like people electrified in a row, by (or rather through) 
 the same chain, holding one anothe?s hands, and all feel- 
 ing the shock at once. I have not yet apprized him of this. 
 j He makes such a serious matter of all tliese things, and is 
 so 'melancholy and gentlemanlike,' that it is quite over- 
 coming to us choice spirits. 
 
 * + ** + * 
 
 " They say one shouldn't be married in a black coat. I 
 won't have a blue one, — that's flat. I hate it. 
 
 « Yours, &C.'' 
 
 LETTER CCXLIX. 
 
 TO MR. COWELI,. 
 
 "Oct. 22,1814 
 
 * my dear cowell, 
 
 "Many and sincere thanks for your kind letter — the bet, 
 or rather forfeit, was one hundred to Hawke, and fifty to 
 Hay (nodiing to Kelly,) for a guinea received from each of 
 die two former.* I shall feel much obliged by your setting 
 me right ifl am incorrect in this statement in any way, and 
 have reasons for wishing you to recollect as much as pos- 
 sible of what passed, and state it to Hodgson. My reason 
 is this : some time ago Mr. * * * required a bet of me 
 which I never made, and of course refused to pay, and have 
 heard no more of it ; to prevent similar mistakes is my ob- 
 ject in wishing you to remember well what peissed, and to 
 put Hodgson in possession of your memory on the subject. 
 
 " I hope to see you soon in my way through Cambridge. 
 Remember me to H. and believe me ever and truly, &c.'' 
 
 * He had agreed to forfeit these sums to the persons mentioned, should 
 he ever marry. 
 
LETTERS, 1815. 
 
 81 
 
 LETTER CCL. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 «Dec. 14, 1814. 
 
 "my dearest TOM, 
 
 "I will send the pattern to-morrow, and since you don't 
 go to our friend (' of the heeping part of the town') tliis 
 evening, I shall e'en sulk at home over a solitary potation, 
 My self-opinion rises much by your eulogy of my social 
 qualities. As ray friend Scrope is pleased to say, I beUeve 
 I am very well for a ' holyday drinker.' Where the devil 
 are you? with Woolridge, I conjecture — for which you de- 
 serve another abscess. Hoping that the American war 
 will last for many years, and that all tlie prizes may be 
 registered at Bermoothes, believe me, &c. 
 
 "P. S. I have just been composing an epistle to the 
 archbishop for an especial license. Oons ! it looks serious. 
 Murray is impatient to see you, and would call, if you vnH 
 give him audience. Your new coat ! — I wonder you like 
 the colour, and don't go about, like Dives, in purple." 
 
 LETTER CCLL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Dec. 31, 1814. 
 
 "A thousand thanks for Gibbon: all the additions are very 
 great unprovements. 
 
 " At last, I must be most peremptory with you about the 
 print from Phillips's picture : it is pronounced on all hands 
 the most stupid and disagreeable possible; so do, pray, have 
 a new engraving, and let me see it first ; tliere really must 
 be no more from the same plate. I don't much care, my- 
 self; but every one I honour torments me to death about it, 
 and abuses it to a degree beyond repeating. Now, don't 
 answer with excuses ; but, for my sake, have it destroyed : 
 I never shall have peace tiU it is. I write in the greatest 
 haste. 
 
 "P. S. I have written this most illegibly; but it is to beg 
 you to destroy the print, and have another ' by particular 
 desire.' It must be d — d bad, to be sure, since every body 
 says so but the original ; and he don't know what to say. 
 But do do it: that is, burn the plate, and employ a new etcher 
 from the other picture. This is stupid and sulky." 
 
 LETTER CCLH. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Kirkby, Jan. 6, 1815. 
 
 " The marriage took place on the 2d instant ; so pray 
 make haste and congratulate away. 
 
 " Thanks for the Edinburgh Review and the aboUtion of 
 the print. Let the next be from the other of PhiUips — I 
 mean {not the Albanian, but) the original one in the exhi- 
 bition ; the last was from the copy. I should wish my sister 
 and Lady Byron to decide upon the next, as they found 
 fault with the last. / have no opinion of my own upon the 
 subject. 
 
 "Mr. Kinnaird will, I dare say, have the goodness to 
 furnish copies of the Melodies,* if you state my wish upon 
 the subject. You may have them, if you think them worth 
 inserting. The volumes in their collected state must be 
 inscribed to Mr. Hobhouse, but I have not yet mustered 
 the expressions of my inscription ; but will supply them in 
 time. 
 
 " With many thanks for your good vpishes, which have all 
 been realized, I remain very truly, " Yours, 
 
 " Byron." 
 
 • The Hebrew Melodies which he had employed himself in writing 
 during his recent stay in London. 
 
 11 
 
 LETTER CCLIII. 
 
 TO MR. NATHAN. 
 
 "Jan. 7,1815. 
 
 "dear NATHAN, 
 
 "Murray, being about to publish a complete edition of 
 my poetical effusions^ has a wish to include the stanzas of 
 the Hebrew Melodies. Will you allow him that privilege 
 without considering it an infringement on your copyright ? 
 I certainly wish to oblige the gentleman, but you know, 
 Nathan, it is against all good fashion to give and take back. 
 I therefore cannot grant what is not at my disposal. Lej 
 me hear from you on the subject. Dear Nathan, 
 
 "Yours truly, 
 "Byron." 
 
 LETTER CCLIV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Halnaby, Darlington, Jan. 10, 1815. 
 
 "I was married this day week. The parson has pro- 
 nounced it — Perry has announced it — and the Morning 
 Post, also, under the head of ' Lord Byron's marriage' — as 
 if it were a fabrication, or the puff-direct of a new stay- 
 maker. 
 
 "Now for thme affairs. I have redde thee upon the 
 Fathers, and it is excellent v.-ell. Positively, you must not 
 leave off reviewing. You shine in it — you kill in it ; and 
 this article has been taken for Sydney Smith's (as I heard 
 in town,) which proves not only your proficiency m parson- 
 ology, but that you have all the airs of a veteran critic at 
 your first onset. So, prithee, go on and prosper. 
 
 " Scott's ' Lord of the Isles' is out — ' the mail-coach copy 
 I have, by special license of Murray. 
 
 + ***** 
 
 "Now is your time ;— you will come upon them newly 
 and freshly. It is impossible to read what you have lately 
 done (verse or prose) without seeing that you have trained 
 on tenfold. * * has floundered ; * * has foundered. / 
 have tired the rascals (i. e. the public) with my Harrys and 
 Larrys, Pilgrims and Pirates. Nobody but Southey has 
 done any thing worth a slice of bookseller's pudding ; and 
 he has not luck enough to be found out in doing a good thing. 
 Now, Tom, is thy time — 'Oh joyful day ! — I would not take 
 a knighthood for thy fortune.' Let me hear from you soon, 
 and believe me ever, &c. 
 
 " P. S. Lady Byron is vastly well. How are Mrs. Moore 
 and Joe Atkinson's ' Graces ?' We must present our wo- 
 men to one another." 
 
 LETTER CCLV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Jan. 19, 1815. 
 "Egad ! I don't think he is 'do>vn ;' and my prophecy — 
 like most auguries, sacred and profane — is not annulled, 
 but inverted. 
 
 * * * * + * 
 
 • To your question about the 'dog'* — Umph ! — my 'mo- 
 ther I won't say any thing against — that is, about her ; but 
 how long a ' mistress' or friend may recollect paramours or 
 competitors (lust and thirst being the two great and only 
 bonds between the amatory or the amicable,) I can't say, — 
 or, rather, you know as well as I could tell you. But as for 
 canine recollections, as far as I could judge by a cur of 
 mine own (always bating Boatswain, the dearest, and, alas ! 
 the maddest of dogs,) I had one (half a wdfhy the she side) 
 that doted on me at ten years old, and very nearly ate me 
 
 * Mr. Moore had just been reading Mr. Southey's poem of " Rode- 
 rick," and with reference to an incident in it, had put the following ques- 
 tion to Lord Byron — " I should like to know from you, who are one of the 
 Philocynic sect, whether it is at all probable, that any dog (out of a melo- 
 drame) could recognise a master, whom neither his own mother or mis- 
 tress was able to find out. I don't care about Ulysses's dog, &c. — all I 
 want is to know from you (who are reuown'd as ' friend of the dog, com- 
 panion of the bear,') whether such a thing is probable." 
 
82 
 
 LETTERS, 1815. 
 
 at twenty. When I thought he was going to enact Argus, 
 he bit away tlie backside of my breeches, and never would 
 consent to any kind of recognition, in despite of all kinds of 
 bones which I offered him. So, let Southey blush, and 
 Homer too, as far as I can decide upon quadruped memo- 
 ries.* 
 
 "I humbly take it, the mother knows the son that pays 
 her jointure — a mistress her mate, till he * * and refuses 
 salary — a friend his fellow, till he loses cash and character, 
 and a dog his master, till he changes him. 
 
 " So, you want to know about INIilady and me ? But let 
 me not, as Roderick Random says, 'profane the chaste 
 mysteries of Hymen'f — damn the word, I had nearly spelled 
 it with a small h. I like Bell as well as you do (or did, you 
 villain !) Bessy — and that is (or was) sapng a great deal. 
 
 "Address your next to Seaham, Stockton-on-Tees, 
 
 where we are going on Saturday (a bore, by-the-way) to 
 
 see father-in-law. Sir Jacob, and my lady's lady-mother. 
 
 Write — and write more at length — both to tlie public and 
 
 "Yours ever most affectionately, "B." 
 
 LETTER CCLVII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Seaham, Stockton-upon-Tees, Feb. 2, 1815. 
 "You will oblige me very much by making an occasional 
 inquiry at Albany, at my chambers, whetlier my books, &c. 
 are kept in tolerable order, and how far my old woman* 
 continues in health and industry as keeper of my old den. 
 Your parcels have been duly received and perused ; but I 
 had hoped to receive 'Guy Mannering* before tliLs time. 
 I won't intrude further for the present on your avocations 
 professional or pleasurable, but am, as usual, 
 
 "Very truly, &c» 
 
 LETTER CCLVIII. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 LETTER CCLVL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Seaham, Stockton-on-Tees, Feb. 2, 1815. 
 
 "I have heard from London that you have left Chats- 
 worth and all the women fuU of ' entusymusy'| about you, 
 personally and poetically ; and, in particular, that ' When 
 first I met thee' has been quite overwhelming in its effect. 
 I told you it was one of the best things you ever wrote, 
 Aough that dog Power wanted you to omit part of it. They 
 are all regretting your absence at Chatsworth, according to 
 my informant — ' all the ladies quite, &c. &c. &c.' Stap my 
 vitals ! 
 
 •^WeD, now you have got home again — which I dare 
 say is as agreeable as a ' draught of cool small beer to 
 the scorched palate of a waking sot' — now you have got 
 home again, I say, probably I shall hear from you. Since 
 I WTOte last, I have been transferred to my father-in-law's, 
 with my lady and lady's maid, &c. &c. &c. and the treacle- 
 moon is over, and I am awake, and find myseF married. 
 My spouse and I agree to— and in — admiration. Swift 
 says ' no vdse man ever married ;' but, for a fool, I tliink it 
 the most ambrosial of all possible fliture states. I still think 
 one ought to marry upon lease ; but am very sui-e I should 
 renew mine at the expiration, though next term were for 
 ninety and nine years. 
 
 *I vpish you would respond, for I am here 'oblitusque 
 meorum obliviscendus et illis.' Pray tell me what is gomg 
 
 on in the way of intriguery, and how the w s and rogues 
 
 of the upper Beggar's Opera go on — or rather gooff — in or 
 after marriage ; or who are going to break any particular 
 commandment. Upon this dreary coast, we have nothing 
 but county meetings and shipwrecks ; and I have this day 
 dined upon fish, which probably dined upon the crews of 
 several colliers lost in the late gales. But I saw the sea 
 once more in all the glories of surf and foam, — almost equal 
 to the Bay of Biscay, and the interesting white squalls and 
 short seas of Archipelago memory. 
 
 "My papa, Sir Ralpho, hath recently made a speech at 
 a Durham tax-meeting; and not only at Durham, but here, 
 several times since, after dinner. He is now, I believe, 
 speaking it to himself (I lefl him in the middle) over various 
 decanters, which can neither interrupt him nor fall asleep, 
 — as might possibly have been the case with some of his 
 audience. "Ever thine, «B." 
 
 " I must go to tea — damn tea. I wish it was Kiimaird's 
 brandy, and with you to lecture rae about it." 
 
 "Feb. 4, 1815. 
 
 "I enclose you half a letter from * * which will explain 
 itself — at least the latter part — the former refers to private 
 business of mine own. If Jeffrey will take such an article, 
 and you wiU undertake tlie revision, or, indeed, any portion 
 of the article itself (for unless you do, by Phoebus, I will 
 have nothing to do with it,) we can cook up, between us 
 three, as pretty a dish of sour-crout as ever tipped over the 
 tongue of^a book-maker. * * * * 
 
 "You can, at any rate, try Jeffrey's inclination. Your 
 late proposal from him made me hint this to * *, who is a 
 much better proser and scholar than I am, and a very 
 superior man indeed. Excuse haste — answer tliis. 
 
 " Ever yours most, "B." 
 
 "P. S. All is well at home. I wrote to you yesterday." 
 
 LETTER CCLIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Feb. 10, 1815. 
 "my dear thom, 
 
 "Jeffrey has been so very kind about me and my damn- 
 able works, that I would not be indirect or equivocal with 
 him, even for a friend. So, it may be as well to tell him 
 that it is not mine ; but that, if I did not firmly and truly 
 believe it to be much better than I could offer, I would 
 never have troubled him or you about it. You can judge 
 between you how far it is admissible, and reject it, if not 
 of the right sort. For my o^vn part, I have no interest in 
 the article one way or the other, further than to obhge * *, 
 and should the composition be a good one, it can hurt 
 neither party, — nor, mdeed, any one, saving and excepting 
 Mr. * * * *. 
 
 ****** 
 
 " Curse catch me if 1 know what H * * means wr 
 meaned about the demonstrative pronoun,f but I admire 
 your fear of being inoculated with the same. Have you 
 never found out that you have a particular style of your 
 own, which is as distinct from all other people, as Hafiz of 
 Sbiraz from Hafiz of the Morning Post? 
 
 " So you allowed B * * and such like to hum and haw 
 you, or, rather. Lady Jersey out of her compliment, and me 
 out of mine.J Sunburn me but this was pitiful hearted. 
 However, I will tell her all about it when I see her. 
 
 " Bell desires me to say all kinds of civilities, and assure 
 you of her recognition and high consideration. I will tell 
 you of our movements south, which may be in about three 
 weeks from this present wTiting. By-the-way, don't en- 
 gage yourself in any travelling expedition, as I have a plan 
 of travel into Italy, which we will discuss. And then, think 
 of the poesy wherewithal we should overflow, from Venice 
 
 * Don Juan, canto 3, stanza 23, letter 92. 
 1 The letter H is blotted in the MS. 
 
 } It was thus that, according to his account, Mr. Bi-aham, the celebrated 
 dngwand actor usad frequently to pronounce the word " euthusiasm." 
 
 * Mrs. Mule, his housekeeper. 
 
 t Some remark which had been made with respect to the frequent use of 
 the deraoostrative pronoun boih by himself and by Sir \V. Scott. 
 
 X Verses to Lady Jersey (containing an allusion to Lord Byron,) which 
 Mr. Moore had written, while at Chatsworth, but afterwards destroyed. 
 
LETTERS, 1815. 
 
 to Vesuvius, to say nothing of Greece, through all which 
 God willing — we might perambulate in one twelvemonth. 
 If I take my wife, you can take yours ; and if I leave mine, 
 you may do the same. 'Mind you stand by me, in either 
 ca.se, Brother Bruin,' 
 
 "And believe me inveterately yours, " B.' 
 
 LETTER CCLX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Feb. 22, 1815. 
 
 *Tfesterday, I sent offthe packet and letter to Edinburgh. 
 It consisted of forty-one pages, so that I have not added a 
 line ; but in my letter, I mentioned what passed between 
 you and me in autumn, as my inducement for presuming 
 to trouble him either with my own or * *'s lucubrations. 
 T am any thing but sure that it will do ; but I have told 
 Jeflfrey that if there is any decent raw material in it, he 
 may cut it into what shape he pleases, and warp it to his 
 liking. 
 
 " So you woTt't go abroad, then, with me, — but alone. I 
 fully purpose starting much about the time you mention, 
 and adone, too. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "I hope Jeffrey won't think me very impudent hi sending 
 
 * * only; there was not room for a syllable. I have avowed 
 
 * * as the author, and said that you thought or said, when 
 I met you last, that he (J.) would not be angry at the coali- 
 fion (though, alas! we have not coalesced,) and so, if I have 
 got into a scrape, I must get out of it — Heaven knows how. 
 
 "Your Anacreon* is come, and with it I sealed (its first 
 impression) the packet and episde to our patron. 
 
 "Curse the Melodies, and the Tribes to boot. Braham 
 is to assist — or hath assisted — but wiU do no more good than 
 a second physician. I merely interfered to oblige a w^him 
 of Kinnaird's, and all I have got by it was 'a speech' and a 
 receipt for stewed oysters. 
 
 " ' Not meet' — pray don't say so. We must meet some- 
 where or somehow. Newstead is out of the question, bebg 
 nearly sold again, or, if not, it is uninhabitable for my spouse. 
 Pray write again. I will soon. 
 
 "P. S. Pray when do you come out? ever, or never? 
 I hope I have made no blunder ; but I certainly think you 
 said to me (aifter Wordsworth, whom I first pondered upon, 
 was given up) that * * and I might attempt * * *. His 
 length alone prevented me from trying my part, though I 
 should have been less severe upon the Reviewee. 
 
 *' Your seal is the best and prettiest of my set, and I thank 
 you very much therefor. I have just been — or, rather, 
 ought to be — very much shocked by the death of the Duke 
 of Dorset. We were at school togetlier, and there I was 
 passionately attached to him. Since, we have never met 
 — but once, 1 think, since 1805 — and it would be a paltry 
 affectation to pretend that I had any feeling for him worth 
 the name. But there was a time in my life when this event 
 would have broken my heart ; and all I can say for it now 
 is, that — it is not worth breaidng. 
 
 " Adieu — it is all a farce." 
 
 '^I feel merry enough to send you a sad song.* You 
 once asked me for some words which you would set. Now 
 you may set or not, as you like, — but there they are, in a 
 legible hand,f and not in mine, but of m.y own scribbling; 
 so you may say of them what you please. Why don't you 
 write to me? I shall make you *a speech'J if you don't 
 respond quickly. 
 
 " I am in such a state of sameness and stagnation, and 
 so totally occupied in consumbg the fi-uits — and sauntering 
 — and playing dull games at cards — and yawning — and 
 trying to read old Annual Registers and the daily papers — 
 and gathering shells on the shore — and watcliing the growth 
 of stunted gooseberry bushes in the garden — that I have 
 neither time nor sense to say more than 
 
 "Yours ever, "B. 
 
 "P. S. I open my letter agam to put a question to you. 
 What would Lady Cork, or any other fashionable Pidcock 
 give, to collect you and Jeffrey and me to one party? I 
 have been answering his letter, which suggested this dainty 
 query. I can't help laughing at the thoughts of your face 
 and mine ; and our anxiety to keep the Aristarch in gooo 
 humour during the early part of a compotation, till we got 
 drunk enough to make him ' a speech.' I think the critic 
 would have much the best of us — of one, at least — for I 
 don't tliink diffidence (I mean social) is a disease of yours,** 
 
 LETTER CCLXL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "March 2, 1815. 
 
 **MY DEAR THOM, 
 
 "Jeffrey has sent me the most friendly of all possible let- 
 ters, and has accepted * *'s article. He says he has long 
 liked not only, &c. &c. but my ' character.' This must be 
 your doing, yon dog — ar'n't you ashamed of yourselfj know- 
 ing me so well ? This is what one gets for having you for 
 a father confessor. 
 
 • A seal, with the head of Anacre 
 *6ea Hours of Jd'.etiess. 
 
 which Mr. Moore had given him 
 
 LETTER CCLXn. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "March 8, 1815. 
 
 "An event— the death of poor Dorset — and the recol- 
 lection of what I once felt, and ought to have felt now, but 
 could not — set me pondering, and finally into the train of 
 thought which you have in your hands, I am very glad 
 you like them, for I flatter myself they will pass as an imi- 
 tation of your style. If I could imitate it well, I should 
 have no great ambition of originality — I wish 1 could make 
 you exclaim with Dennis, ' That's my thunder, by G— d !' 
 I WTote them with a view to your setting them, and as a 
 present to Power, if he would accept the words, and you did 
 not think yourself degraded, for once in a way, by marrying 
 them to music. 
 
 "Sunburn Nathan ! why do you always t\A-it tne with his 
 vile Ebrew nasalities ? Have I not told you it was all K.'s 
 doing, and my own exquisite facility of temper ? But tliou 
 wilt be a wag, Thomas ; and see what you get for it. Now 
 for my revenge. 
 
 "Depend — and perpend — upon it that your opinion of 
 * *'s Poem will travel through one or other of the quintuple 
 correspondents, till it reaches the ear and the fiver of the 
 author. § Your adventure, however, is truly laughable ; biit 
 how could you be such a potato ? You, ' a brother' (of the 
 quill) too, 'near the throne,' to confide to a man's oim pub- 
 lisher (who has 'bought,' or ratlier sold, 'golden opinions' 
 about him) such a damnatory parenthesis ! 'Between you 
 and me,' quotha, it reminds me of a passage in the Heir at 
 Law — ' Tete-a-tete with Lady Duberly, I suppose' — ^ No- 
 tete-a-tete with Jive hundred people f and your confidential 
 communication will doubtless be in circulation to that 
 amount, in a short time, with several additions, and in several 
 letters, all signed L. H. R. O. B. &c. &c. &c. 
 
 * The verses enclosed were those melancholy ones, now printed in his 
 works, " There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.'' 
 Poems, p. 194. 
 
 t The MS. was in the handwriting of Lady Byron. 
 
 i These allu.'jions to "a speech" are connected with a little incident, 
 not worth mentioning, which liad amiised us both when I was in town. 
 He was rather fond (and had been always so, as may be seen in his early 
 letters) of thus harping on some conventional phrase or joke. — AJoore. 
 
 § He here alludes to a circumstance which I luid comniunicated to him 
 in a preceding letter. In writing to one of the numerous piirlners of a 
 well-known publishing estabUshment, (with wiiich I iiave since been lucky 
 enougli to form a more intimate coiiuexion.) 1 hatlsaid coufideulially, (as 
 I thought,) in reference to a Poem tluu liad just appeared,—'- between 
 you and me, I do not much admire Mr. * "s Poem." 'i'he letter bein 
 chiefly upon business, was answered through the regular btjsiness channe" 
 and, to my dismay, concluded with the following words : — We are ver 
 sorry that you do not approve of Mr. * *'s new Poem, and are yo^ 
 obedient, &c. &c. L. H. K. 0.\c. {.c."— Moore, 
 
S4 
 
 LETTERS, 
 
 181i 
 
 "We leave this place to-morrow, and shall stop on our 
 way to to\\'n (in the interval of taking a house there) at Col. 
 Leigh's, near Newmarket, where any epistle of yours will 
 find its welcome way. 
 
 " I have been very comfortable here, listening to that d— d 
 monologue, which elderly gentlemen call conversation, and 
 in which my pious father-in-law repeats himself every eve- 
 ning, save one, when he played upon the fiddle. However, 
 tl^.ey have been very kind and hospitable, and I like them 
 and the place vastly, and I hope they will live many happy 
 months. Bell is in health, and unvaried good-humour and 
 behaviour. But we are all in the agonies of packing and 
 parting ; and I suppose by this time to-morrow I shall be 
 stuck in the chariot widi my chin upon a bandbox. I have 
 prepared, however, another carriage for the abigail, and all 
 the trumpery which our wives drag along with them. 
 
 " Ever thme, most affectionately, "B." 
 
 LETTER CCLXm. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "March 27, 1815 
 « I meant to write to you before on the subject of your 
 loss;* but the recollection of the uselessness and worthless- 
 ness of any observations on such events prevented me. 
 shall only now add, that I rejoice to see you bear it so well, 
 and that I trust time will enable Mrs. M. to sustain it better. 
 Every thing should be done to divert and occupy her wth 
 other thoughts and cares, and I am sure all that can be done 
 wiU. 
 
 "Now to your letter. Napoleon — ^but the papers wiU 
 have told you all. I quite think with you upon the subject, 
 and for my red thoughts this time last year, I would refer 
 you to the last pages of the Journal I gave you. I can 
 forgive the rogue for utterly falsifying every line of mine 
 Ode — which I take to be the last and uttermost stretch of 
 human magnanimity. Do you remember the story of a 
 certain abbe, who wrote a Treatise on the Swedish Con- 
 stitution, and proved it indissoluble and eternal ? Just as 
 he had corrected the last sheet, news came that Gustavus 
 III. had destroyed this immortal government : ' Sir,' quoth 
 the abbe, ' the king of Sweden may overthrow the consti- 
 tution^ but not my book ! ." I think of the abbe, but not ivith 
 him. 
 
 "Making every allowance for talent and most consum- 
 mate daring, there is, afler all, a good deal m luck or destiny. 
 He might have been stopped by our frigates — or wrecked 
 in the gulf of Lyons, which is particularly tempestuous— or 
 —a thousand things. But he is certainly Fortune's fa- 
 vourite, and 
 
 Once fairly set out on his party of pleasure, 
 Taking towns at his lilcing and crowns at his leisure, 
 From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes, 
 Making balls for the ladies, and 602^.9 to his foes. 
 
 You must have seen the account of his driving into the 
 middle of the royal army, and the immediate effect of his 
 pretty speeches. And now, if he don't drub the allies, there 
 is 'no purchase in money.' If he can take France by him- 
 self, the devil's in't if he don't repulse the invaders, when 
 backed by those celebrated sworders — those boys of the 
 blade, the Imperial Guard, and the old and new array. It 
 is impossible not to be dazzled and overwhelmed by his 
 character and career. Nothing ever so disappointed me 
 as his abdication, and nothing could have reconciled me to 
 him but some such revival as his recent exploit ; though no 
 one could anticipate such a complete and brilliant reno- 
 vation. 
 
 "To your question, I can only answer that there have 
 been some symptoms which look a little gestatory. It is a 
 subject upon which I am not particularly anxious, except 
 that 1 think it would please her uncle, Lord Wentworth, 
 and her father and mother. The former (Lord W.) is now 
 in town, and in very indifferent health. You perhaps know 
 
 * The death of bis infant goddaughter, Olivia Byron Moore. 
 
 that his property, amounting to seven or eight thousand a 
 year, will eventually devolve upon Bell. But the old gen- 
 tleman has been so very kind to her and me, that I hardly 
 know how to wish him in heaven, if he can be comfortable 
 on earth. Her father is still in the country. 
 
 " We mean to metropohze to-morrow, and you will ad- 
 dress your next to Piccadilly. We have got the Dutchess 
 of Devon's house there, she being in France. 
 
 "I don't care what Power says to secure the property of 
 the Song, so that it is not complimentary to me, nor any 
 thing about 'condescending' or ^ noble author' — both 'vile 
 phrases,' as Polonius says. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Pray, let me hear fl-om you, and when you mean to be 
 in town. Your continental scheme is impracticable for the 
 present. I have to thank you for a longer letter than usual, 
 which I hope will induce you to tax my gratitude still far- 
 ther in the same way. 
 
 "You never told me about 'Longman' and 'next wintei, 
 and I am noi a ' milestone.' "* 
 
 LETTER CCLXIV. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 "PiccadiUy, March 31^ 1815. 
 
 " DEAR SIR, 
 
 " It \vill give me great pleasure to comply with your re- 
 quest, though I hope there is still taste enough left among 
 us to render it almost unnecessary, sordid and interested 
 as, it must be admitted, many of 'the trade' are, where 
 circumstances give them an advantage. I trust you do not 
 permit yourself to be depressed by the temporary partiality 
 of what is called ' the public' for the favourites of the mo- 
 ment ; all experience is against the permanency of such 
 impressions. You must have lived to see many of these 
 pass away, and will survive many more — 1 mean person- 
 ally, for poetically, I would not insult you by a comparison. 
 
 " If I may be permitted, I would suggest that there never 
 was such an opening for tragedy. In Kean, there is an 
 actor worthy of expressing the thoughts of the characters 
 which you have every power of imbodying ; and I cannot 
 but regret that the part of Ordonio was disposed of before 
 his appearance at Drury-lane. We have nothing to be 
 mentioned in the same breath with 'Remorse' for very 
 many years ; and I should think that the reception of that 
 play was sufficient to encourage the highest hopes of author 
 and audience. It is to be hoped that you are proceeding 
 in a career which could not but be successful. With my 
 best respects to Mr. Bowles, I have the honour to be, 
 "Your obliged and very obedient servant, 
 
 "BVRON." 
 
 "P. S. You mention my 'Satire,' lampoon, or whatever 
 you or others please to call it. I can only say, that it was 
 written when I was very young and very angry, and has 
 been a tliorn in my side ever since ; more particularly as 
 almost all the persons animadverted upon became subse- 
 quently my acquaintances, and some of then) my friends, 
 which is 'heaping fire upon an enemy's head,' and forgiving 
 me too readily to permit me to forgive myself. The part 
 applied to you is pert, and petulant, and shallow enough ; 
 but, although I have long done every thing in my power to 
 suppress the circulation of the whole thing. I shall always 
 regret the wantonness or generality of many of its attempt- 
 ed attacks." 
 
 LETTER CCLXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Thanks for the books. 
 
 "April 9, 1815. 
 I have great objection to your 
 
 * I had accused him of having entirely forgot that, in a preceding letter, 
 T had informed him of my intentijin to publish with the Messrs. Longman 
 in the ensuing winter, and added that, in giving him this information, I 
 found I had been,— to use an elegant Irish metaphor,—" whistling jigs to 
 a milestone."— Afoore. 
 
LETTERS, 1815. 
 
 85 
 
 proposition about inscribing the vase,* which is, that it 
 would appear osterdatums on my part ; and of course I must 
 send it as it is, without any alteration. "Yours, &c. 
 
 LETTER CCLXVL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "April 23, 1815. 
 " Lord Wentworth died last week. The bulk of his pro- 
 perty (from seven to eight thousand per ann.) is entailed 
 on Lady Milbanke and Lady Byron. The first is gone 
 to take possession in Leicestershire, and attend the funeral, 
 &c. this day. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " I have mentioned the facts of the settlement of Lord 
 W.'s property, because the newspapers, with their usual 
 accuracy, have been making all kinds of blunders in their 
 statement. His will is just as expected — the principal 
 part settled on Lady Milbanke (now Noel) and Bell, and 
 a separate estate left for sale to pay debts (which are not 
 great,) and legacies to his natural son and daughter. 
 
 "Mrs. + *'s tragedy was last night damned. They may 
 bring it on again, and probably will ; but damned it was, — 
 not a word of the last act audible. I went (malgre that I 
 ought to have staid at home in sackcloth for unc, but I 
 could not resist the 7?rsZ night of any thing) to a private and 
 quiet nook of my private box, and witnessed the whole 
 process. The first three acts, with transient gushes of 
 applause, oozed patiently but heavily on. I must say it 
 was badly acted, particularly by * *, who was groaned 
 upon in the third act, — something about ' horror — such a 
 horror' was the cause. Well, the fourth act became as 
 muddy and turbid as need be ; but the fifth — what Garrick 
 used to call (like a fool) the concoction of a play — the fifth 
 act stuck fast at the King's prayer. You know he says, 
 'he never went to bed without saying them, and did not 
 like to omit them now.' But he was no sooner upon his 
 knees, than the audience got upon their legs — the damn- 
 able pit — and roared, and groaned, and hissed, and whis- 
 tled. Well, that was choked a little ; but the ruffian scene 
 — the penitent peasantry — and killing the Bishop and the 
 Princess — oh, it was all over. The curtain fell upon un- 
 heard actors, and the announcement attempted by Kean 
 for Monday was equally ineffectual. Mrs. Bartley was 
 so frightened, that, though the people were tolerably quiet, 
 the Epilogue was quite inaudible to half the house. In 
 short, — you know all. I clapped till my hands were skin- 
 less, and so did Sir James Mackintosh, who was with me 
 in the box. All the world were in the house, from the 
 Jerseys, Greys, &c. &c. downwards. But it would not 
 do. It is, after all, not an acting play ; good language, but 
 no power. * ** + + * + 
 
 Women (saving Joanna Baillie) cannot write tragedy ; they 
 have not seen enough nor felt enough of life for it. I think 
 Semiramis or Catherine II. might have written (could they 
 have been unqueened) a rare play. 
 
 + + ***** 
 
 " It is, however, a good warning not to risk or write tra- 
 gedies. I never had much bent that way ; but, if I had, this 
 would have cured me. "Ever, carissime Thom. 
 
 « Thine, B." 
 
 LETTER CCLXVn. 
 
 TO MR. MITRRAY. 
 
 "May 21, 1815. 
 ' You must have thought it very odd, not to say ungrate- 
 
 * A large sepulchral vase of silver, presented by Lord Byron, through 
 Mr. Murray, to Sir VPaker Scott. It was full of dead men's bones, and 
 had inscriptions on two sides of the base. One ran thus — ' The bones 
 contained in this urn were found in certain ancient sepulchres within the 
 land walls of Athens in the mouth of February, 1811," The other face 
 bears the lines of Ju veual : 
 
 " Expende — quot libras in duce summo invenies. 
 —Mors sola fatctur quautula horaiiiuns corpuscula.' ' — Juv. x 
 
 ful, that I made no mention of the drawings,* &c. when I 
 had the pleasure of seeing you this morning. The fact is, 
 that tin this moment I had not seen them, nor heard of their 
 arrival : they were carried up into the library, where I have 
 not been till just now, and no intimation given me of their 
 coming. The present is so very magnificent, that — in short, 
 I leave Lady Byron to thank you for it herseF, and merely 
 send this to apologize for a piece of apparent and uninten- 
 tional neglect on my own part. "Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCLXVm. 
 
 TO MR. HUNT. 
 
 " 13 Piccadilly Terrace, May— June 1, 1816. 
 
 •my dear HUNT, 
 
 " I am as glad to hear from as I shall be to see you. We 
 came to town what is called late in the season ; and since 
 that time, the death of Lady Byron's uncle (in the first 
 place) and her own delicate state of health, have prevented 
 either of us from going out much; however, she is now bet- 
 ter, and in a fair way of going creditably through the whole 
 process of beginning a family. 
 
 "I have the alternate weeks of a private box at Drury- 
 lane Theatre; this is my week, and I send you an ad- 
 mission to it for Kean's nights, Friday and Saturday next, 
 in case you should like to see him quietly : it is close to the 
 stage, the entrance by the private-box door, and you can go 
 v\ithout the bore of crowding, jostling, or dressing. I also 
 enclose you a parcel of recent letters from Paris ; perhaps 
 you may find some extracts ihat may amuse yourself or 
 your readers. I have only to beg you wUl prevent your 
 copyist, or printer, from mixing up any of the English name% 
 or private matter contained therein, which might lead to a 
 discovery of the writer ; and as the Examiner is sure to 
 travel back to Paris, might get him into a scrape, to say 
 nothing of his correspondent at home. At any rate I hope 
 and think the perusal will amuse you. Whenever you 
 come this way, I shall be happy to make you acquainted 
 with Lady Byron, whom you will find any thing but a fine 
 lady, a species of animal whom you probably do not affect 
 more than myself. Thanks for the ' Mask ;' there is not 
 only poetry and thousht in the body, but much research 
 and good old reading in your prefatory matter. I hope 
 you have not given up your narrative poem, of which I 
 heard you speak as in progress. — Jt rejoices me to hear 
 of the well-doing and regeneration of the 'Feast,' setting 
 aside my own selfish reasons for wishing it success. I fear 
 you stand almost single in your liking of 'Lara,' it is na- 
 tural that I should, as being my last and most unpopular 
 effervescence: passbg by its other sins, it is too Utile nar- 
 rative, and too metaphysical to please the greater number 
 of readers. I have, however, much consolation in the 
 exception with which you furnish me. From Moore I have 
 not heard very lately; I fear he is a httle humorous, be- 
 cause I am a lazy correspondent ; but that shall be mended. 
 " E ver your obliged 
 
 and very sincere friend, 
 
 "Byron. 
 
 "P. S. 'Politics!' The barking of the war-dogs for their 
 carrion has sickened me of them for the present." 
 
 LETTER CCLXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "13, Piccadilly Terrace, June 12, 1815. 
 "I have nothing to offer in behalf of my late silence, ex- 
 cept the most inveterate and ineffable laziness ; but 1 am 
 too supine to invent a he, or I certainly should, being 
 ashamed of the truth. ICinnaird, 1 hope, has appeased 
 your magnanimous indignation at his bhmders. I wished 
 
 * Mr. Murray had presented Lady Byron with twelve drawings, by 
 Stothard, from Lord Byron's Poems. 
 
LETTERS, 1815. 
 
 and wish you were in Committee, with all my heart.* It 
 seems so hopeless a business, tliat the company of a friend 
 would be quite consoling, — but more of this when we meet. 
 fn the mean time, you are entreated to prevail upon Mrs. 
 Esterre to engage herself. I beUeve she has been written 
 to, but your influence, in person, or proxy, would probably 
 go farther than our proposals. What they are, I know 
 not; all my new function consists in listening to the despair 
 of Cavendish Bradshaw, the hopes of I&inaird, the wishes 
 of Lord Essex, the complauits of Whitbread, and the cal- 
 culations of Peter Moore, — all of which, and whom, seem 
 totally at variance. C. Bradshaw wants to light the 
 theatre with 5 as, which may, perhaps, (if the vulgar be 
 believed,) poison half the audience, and all the Dramatis 
 PersoruB. Essex has endeavoured to persuade Kean not 
 to get drunk, the consequence of which is, tliat he has never 
 been sober since. Kinnaird, with equal success, would 
 have convinced Raymond that he, the said Raymond, had 
 too much salary. Whitbread wants us to assess the pit 
 another SL\pence,^a d — d insidious proposition, — which 
 will end in an O. P. combustion. To crown all, Robins, 
 the auctioneer, has the impudence to be displeased, be- 
 cause he has no dividend. The \Tillain is a proprietor of 
 shares, and a long-lunged orator in the meetings. I hear 
 he has prophesied our incapacity, — ' a foregone conclusion,' 
 whereof I hope to give him signal proofs before we are 
 done. 
 
 " Will you give lis an Opera? no, I 'II be sworn, but I wish 
 you would. + * * * * * 
 
 " To go on with the poetical world, Walter Scott has 
 gone back to Scodand. Murray, the bookseller, has been 
 cruelly cudgelled of misbegotten knaves, 'in Kendal green,' 
 at Newington Butts, in his way home from a pui-lieu dinner 
 — and robbed, — would you believe it? — of three or four 
 bonds of forty pounds apiece, and a seal-ring of his grand- 
 father's worth a million I This is his version, — but others 
 opine that D''lsraeli, with whom he dined, knocked IJm 
 down with his last publication, ' the duarrels of Authors,' 
 — in a dispute about copyright. Be that as it may, the 
 newspapers have teemed with his 'injuria formae,' and he 
 has been embrocated and invisible to all but the apothecary 
 ever since. 
 
 "Lady B. is better than three months advanced in her 
 progress towards maternity, and, we hope, likely to go well 
 through with it. We have been very litde out this season, 
 as I wish to keep her quiet in her present situation. Her 
 father and mother have changed their names to Noel, in 
 compliance with Lord Wentworth's will, and in complai- 
 sance to the property bequeathed by him. 
 
 "I hear that you have been gloriously received by the 
 Irish, — and so you ought. But do n't let them kill you with 
 claret and kindness at the national dinner in your honour, 
 which, I hear and hope, is in contemplation, if you will 
 tell me the day, I 'II get drunk myself on this side of the 
 water, and waft you an applauding hiccup over the 
 Channel. 
 
 "Of politics, we have nothing but the yell for war; and 
 Casttereagh is preparing his head for the pike, on which 
 we shall see it carried before he has done. The loan has 
 made every body sulky. I hear often from Paris, but in 
 direct contradiction to the home statements of our hirelings. 
 Of domestic doings, there has been nothing since Lady 
 D * *. Not a divorce stirring, — but a good many m 
 embryo, in the shape of marriages. 
 
 " I enclose you an epistle received this morning from I 
 know not whom ; but I think it will amuse you. The 
 writer must be a rare fellow. 
 
 "p. S. A gendeman named D'Alton (not your Dalton) 
 has sent me a National Poem called 'Dermid.' The same 
 cause which prevented my writing to you operated against 
 my wish to write to him an episde of thanks. If vou see 
 him, will you make all kinds of fine speeches for me, and 
 
 tell him that I am the laziest and most ungrateful of 
 mortals ? 
 
 "A word more; — don't let Sir John Stevenson (as an 
 evidence on trials for copyright, &c.) talk about the price 
 of your next Poem, or they will come upon you for the 
 Property Tax for it. I am serious, and have jusi heard a 
 long story of the rascally tax-men maldng Scott pay for 
 his. So, take care. Three hundred is a devil of a de- 
 duction out of three thousand. 
 
 ' The CommJitee of Managers of Drury-kne Theatre. 
 
 LETTER CCLXX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "July 7, 1815. 
 "'Grata superveniet,' &c. &c. I had written to you 
 again, but burnt the letter, because I began to think you 
 seriously hurt at my indolence, and did not know how the 
 buffoonery it contained might be taken. In the mean time 
 I have yours, and all is well. 
 
 "I had given over all hopes of yours. By-the-by, my, 
 'grata superveniet' should be in the present tense; for ] 
 perceive it looks now as if it applied to this present scrawl 
 reaching you, whereas it is to the receipt of thy Kilkenny 
 episde that I have tacked that venerable sentiment. 
 
 "Poor Whitbread died yesterday morning, — a sudden and 
 severe loss. His health had been wavering, but so fatal an 
 attack was not apprehended. He dropped down, and, I 
 believe, never spoke afterward. I perceive Peny attribute.s 
 his death to Drury-lane, — a consolatory encouragement to 
 the new Committee. I have no doubt that * *, who is of 
 a plethoric habit, will be bled immediately; and as I have, 
 since my marriage, lost much of my paleness, and, — ' hor- 
 resco referens' (for I hate even moderate fat) — that happy 
 slendei-ness, to which, when I first knew you, I had attained, 
 I by no means sit easy under tliis dispensation of the Morn- 
 ing Chronicle. Every one must regi-et the loss of Whit- 
 bread ; he was surely a great and very good man. 
 
 " Paris is taken for the second time. I presume it, for the 
 future, will have an anniversary capture. In the late battles, 
 like all the world, I have lost a connexion, — poor Frederick 
 Howard,* the best of his race. I had httle intercourse, of 
 late years, with his family, but I never saw or heard but 
 good of him. Hobhouse's brother is killed. In short, the 
 havoc has not left a family out of its tender mercies. 
 
 "Every hope of a republic is over, and we must go on 
 under the old system. But I am sick at heart of politics 
 and slaughters ; and the luck which Providence is pleased 
 to lavish on Lord * *, is only a proof of the little value the 
 gods set upon prosperity, when they permit such * * *s as 
 he and that drunken corporal, old Blucher, to bully their 
 betters. From this, however, Wellington should be ex- 
 cepted. He is a man, — and tlie Scipio of our Hannibal. 
 However, he may thank the Russian frosts, which destroyed 
 the real elite of die French army, for the successes of Wa- 
 terloo. 
 
 "La! Moore — how you blasphemes about 'Parnassus' 
 and 'Moses !' I am ashamed for you. Won't you do any 
 thing for the drama ? We beseech an Opera. Kinnaird's 
 blunder was partly mine. I wanted you of all things in the 
 Committee, and so did he. But we are now glad you were 
 wiser ; for it is, I doubt, a bitter business. 
 
 " When shall we sec you in England ? Sir Ralph Noel 
 {late Milbanke — he don't promise to be late Noel in a hurry) 
 finding that one man can't inhabit two houses, has given his 
 place in the north to me for a habitation ; and diere Lady 
 B. threatens to be brought to bed in November. Sir R. 
 and my Lady Mother are to quarter at Kirby — Lord 
 ■Wenhvorth's that was. Perhaps you and Mrs. Moore 
 will pay us a visit at Seaham in the course of the autumn. 
 If so, you and I {without our wives) will take a lark to Edin- 
 burgh and embrace Jeffrey. It is not much above one 
 hundred miles from us. But all this, and other high mat- 
 
 See Childe Harold; Canto III— stanza 29. 
 
LETTERS, !815. 
 
 87 
 
 ters, we will discuss at meeting, which I hope will be on 
 your return. We do n't leave town till August. 
 
 "Everj&c." 
 
 LETTER CCLXXL 
 
 TO MR. SOTHEEY. 
 
 « Sept. 15, 1815. Piccadilly TeiTacs. 
 
 "DEAR SIR, 
 
 "'Ivan'* is accepted, and will be put in progress on 
 Kean's arrival. 
 
 " The theatrical gentlemen have a confident hope of it 
 success. I know not that any alterations for the stage will 
 be necessary : if any, they will be trifling, and you shall be 
 duly apprized. I would suggest that you should not attend 
 any except the latter rehearsals — the managers have re- 
 quested me to state this to you. You can see them, viz. 
 Dibdin and Rae, whenever you please, and I will do any 
 thing you wish to be done, on your suggestion, in the mean 
 time. 
 
 " Mrs. Mardyn is not yet out, and nothing can be deter- 
 mined till she has made her appearance — I mean as to her 
 capacity for the part you mention, which I take it for 
 granted is not in Ivan — as I think Ivan may be performed 
 very well without her. But of that hereafter. 
 
 "Ever yours, very truly, "Byron. 
 
 "P. S. You \vill be glad to hear that the season has 
 begun uncommonly well — great and constant houses — the 
 performers in much harmony with the Committee and one 
 another, and as much good-humour as can be preserved in 
 such complicated and extensive interests as the Drury-lane 
 proprietary." 
 
 LETTER CCLXXn. 
 
 TO MR. SOTHEBY. 
 
 "Sept. 25, 1815. 
 ''dear sir, 
 
 " I think it would be adviseable for you to see the acting 
 managers when convenient, as these must be points on 
 which you will want to confer ; the objection I stated was 
 merely on the part of the performers, and is general and 
 not particular lo this instance. I thought it as well to 
 mention it at once — and some of the rehearsals you will 
 doubtless see. notwithstanding. 
 
 " Rae, I rather think, has his eye on Naritzen for him- 
 self. He is a more popular performer than Bartley, and 
 certainly the cast will be stronger with him in it ; besides, 
 he is one of the managers, and will feel doubly interested 
 if he can act in both capacities. Mrs. Bartley will be 
 Petrowna ; — as to the Empress, I know not what to say or 
 think. The truth is, we are not amply furnished with 
 tragic women i but make the best of those we have, you can 
 take your choice of them. We have all great hopes of the 
 success — on which, setting aside other considerations, we 
 are particularly anxious, as being the first tragedy to be 
 brought out since the old Committee. 
 
 " By-the-way — I have a charge against you. As the 
 great Mr. Dennis roared out on a similar occasion — 'By 
 G — d, that is my thunder !' so do I exclaim ' This is my 
 lightning !' I allude to a speech of Ivan's, in the scene with 
 Petrowna and the Empress, where the thought and almost 
 expression are similar to Conrad's m the 3d Canto of the 
 'Corsair.' I, however, do not say this to accuse you, but 
 to exempt myself from suspicion, as there is a priority of six 
 months' publication, on my part, between the appearance 
 of that composition and of your tragedies. 
 
 "George Lambe meant to have written to you. If you 
 do n't like to confer with the managers at present, I will 
 attend to your wishes — so state them. 
 
 "Yours very truly, "Byroit." 
 
 ' A Tragedy, by Mr. Sotheby. 
 
 LETTER CCLXXIIL 
 
 TO MR. TAYLOR. 
 
 « 13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Sept. 25, 1815. 
 "dear sir, 
 
 "I am sorry you should feel uneasy at what has by no 
 means troubled me.* If your Editor, his correspondents, 
 and readers, are amused, I have no objection to be the 
 theme of all the ballads he can find room for, — provided his 
 lucubrations are confined to me only. 
 
 "It is a long time since things of this kind have ceased 
 to 'fright me from my propriety ;' nor do I know any similar 
 attack which would induce me to turn again, — unless it 
 involved those connected with me, whose qualities, I hope, 
 are such as to exempt them in the eyes of those who bear 
 no good-will to myself. In such a case, supposing it to 
 occur — to reverse the saying of Dr. Johnson, — 'what the 
 law could not do for me, I would do for myselfj' be the 
 consequences what they might. 
 
 "I return you, with many thanks, Colnian and the letters. 
 The Poems, I hope, you intended me to keep ; — at least, I 
 shall do so, till I hear the contrary. 
 
 " Very truly yours." 
 
 LETTER CCLXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Sept. 25, 1815. 
 " Will you publish the Drury-lane 'Magpye ?' or, what is 
 more, will you give fifty, or even forty, pounds for the copy- 
 right of the said ? I have undertaken to ask you this ques- 
 tion on behalf of the translator, and wish you would. We 
 can't get so much for him by ten pounds from any body 
 else, and I, knowing your magnificence, would be glad of an 
 answer. "Ever, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCLXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Sept. 27, 1815. 
 
 " That 's right, and splendid, and becoming a publisher of 
 high degree. Mr. Concanen (the translator) will be de- 
 lighted, and pay his washerwoman ; and in reward for your 
 bountiful behaviour in this instance, I won't ask you to 
 publish any more for Drury-lane, or any lane whatever 
 again. You will have no tragedy or any thing else from 
 me, I assure you, and may think yourself lucky in having 
 got rid of me, for good and all, without more damage. But 
 I 'U tell you what we will do for you, — act Sotheby's Ivan, 
 which will succeed ; and then your present and next im- 
 pression of the dramas of that dramatic gentleman will be 
 expedited to your heart's content ; and if there is any thing 
 very good, you shall have the refusal; but you sha'n't have 
 any more requests. 
 
 " Sotheby has got a thought, and almost the v;ords, from 
 the third Canto of the Corsair, which, you know, was pub- 
 lished six months before his tragedy. It is from the storm 
 in Conrad's cell. I have written to Mr. Sotheby to claim 
 it ; and, as Dennis roared out of the pit, 'By G — d, that^s my 
 thunder !' so do I, and will I, exclaim, 'By G — d, that's my 
 lightning P that electrical fluid being, in fact, the subject of 
 the said passage. 
 
 " You will have a print of Fanny Kelly, in the Maid, to 
 prefix, which is honestly worth twice the money you have 
 given for the MS. Pray what did you do with the note I 
 gave you about Mungo Park? "Ever, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCLXXVL 
 
 TO MR. HUNT. 
 
 "13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Oct. 7. 1815. 
 "my dear hunt, 
 "I had written a long answer to your last, which I p^t 
 
 * An attack on Lord and Lady Byron, in the Sun newspaper, of whidi 
 LIr. Taylor was proprietor. 
 
LETTERS, 1815. 
 
 into the fire, partly, because it was a repetition of what I 
 have already said, and next, because I considered what 
 my opinions are worth, before I made you pay double 
 postage, as your proximity lays you within the jaws of 
 the tremendous ' Twopenny,' and beyond the verge of 
 franking, the only parliamentary privilege, (saving one 
 other,) of much avail in these ' costermonger' days. 
 
 " Pray don't make me an exception to the 'Long live King 
 Richard' of your bards in the ' Feast.' I do allow him* to 
 be ' the prince of the bards of his time,' upon the judgment 
 of those who must judge more impartially than I probably 
 do. I aclcnowledge him as I acknowledge the Houses of 
 Hanover and Bourbon, the — not the 'one-eyed monarch of 
 the blind,' — but the blind monarch of the one-eyed. I merely 
 take the liberty of a free subject to vituperate certain of 
 bis edicts, and that only in private. I shall be very glad to 
 see you, or your remaining canto ; if both together, so 
 much the better. — I am interrupted." * * * + 
 
 LETTER CCLXXVIL 
 
 TO MR. HT7NT. 
 
 "Oct. 15,1815. 
 "dear hunt, 
 
 "I send you a thing whose greatest value is its present 
 rarity;"!" the present copy contains some manuscript cor- 
 rections previous to an edition which was printed, but not 
 published, and, in short, all that is in the suppressed edition, 
 the fifth, except twenty hues in addition, for which there 
 was not room in the copy before me. There are in it many 
 opinions I have altered and some which I retain ; upon the 
 whole, I \vish that it had never been written, though my 
 sending you this copy (the only one in my possession, unless 
 one of Lady B.'s be excepted) may seem at variance with 
 this statement : but my reason for this is very different ; it 
 is, however, the only gift I have made of the kind tliis many 
 a day. 
 
 "P. S. You probably know that it is not in print for sale, 
 nor ever \\t11 be (if I can help it) again." 
 
 sion, which shan't be longer than I can make it. My mo- 
 tive for writing that poem was, I fear, not so fair as you are 
 willing to believe it; I was angry, and determined to be 
 witty, and, fighting in a crowd, dealt about my blows against 
 all aJike, without distinction or discernment. When I came 
 home from the East, among other new acquaintances and 
 friends, politics and the state of the Nottingham rioters, (of 
 which county I am a landholder, and Lord Holland Re- 
 corder of the town,) led me by the good offices of Mr. 
 Rogers, into the society of Lord Holland, who, with Lady 
 Holland, was particularly lund to me; about March, 1812, 
 this introduction took place, when 1 made my first speech 
 on the Frame Bill, in the same debate in which Lord Hol- 
 land spoke. Soon after this, I was correcting the fifth 
 edition of ' E. B.' for the press, when Rogers represented to 
 me that he knew Lord and Lady Holland would not be 
 sorry if I suppressed any farther publication of that Poem; 
 and I immediately acquiesced, and with great pleasure, for 
 I had attacked them upon a fancied and false provocation, 
 with many others ; and neither w els, nor am sorry, to have 
 done what I could to stifle that ferocious rhapsody. This 
 was subsequent to my acquaintance with Lord Holland, 
 and was neither expressed nor understood, as a condition 
 of that acquaintance. Rogers told me he thought I ought 
 to suppress it ; I thought so too, and did as far as I could, 
 and that's all. I sent you my copy, because I consider your 
 having it much the same as having it myself. Lady Byron 
 has one ; I desire not to have any other, and sent it only as 
 a curiosity and a memento." 
 
 LETTER CCLXXVm. 
 
 TO MR. HUNT. 
 
 "Oct. 22,1815. 
 " MY DEAR HUNT, 
 
 "You have excelled yourself if not all your contempo- 
 raries, in the canto which I have just finished. I think it 
 above the former books ; but that is as it should be ; it rises 
 with the subject, the conception appears to me perfect, and 
 the execution perhaps as nearly so as verse will admit. 
 There is more originality than I recollect to have seen else- 
 where within the same compass, and frequent and great 
 happiness of expression. In short, I must turn to the faults, 
 or what appear to be such to me : these are not many, nor 
 such as may not be easily altered, being almost all verbal ; 
 and of the same kind as 1 pretended to point out in the 
 former cantos, viz. occasional quaintness and obscurity, and 
 a kind of harsh and yet colloquial compounding of epithets, 
 as if to avoid saying common things in the common way ; 
 difficile est proprie communia dicere,' seems at times to 
 have met with in you a literal translator. I have made a 
 few, and but a few pencil marks on the MS. which you can 
 follow, or not, as you please. 
 
 " The Poem, as a whole, will give you a very high station ; 
 but where is the conclusion ? Do n't let it cool in the com- 
 position 1 You can always delay as long as you like re- 
 vising, though I am not sure, in the very face of Horace, 
 that the ' nonum,' &c. is attended with advantage, unless 
 we read 'months' for 'years.' I am glad the book sentf 
 reached you. I forgot to tell you the story of its suppres- 
 
 • Wordsworth. 
 
 t A copy of Uie English Cards and Scotch Reviewers. 
 
 LETTER CCLXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 « 13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Oct. 28, 1815. 
 "You are, it seems, in England again, as I am to hear 
 from every body but yourself; and I suppose you punctilious 
 because I did not answer your last Irish letter. When did 
 you leave the ' swate country ?' Never mind, I forgive you ; 
 — a strong proof of— I know not what — to give the lie to — 
 
 ' He never pardons who hath done the wrong.' 
 
 "You have written to * *. You have also written to 
 Perry, who intimates hope of an Opera from you. Cole- 
 ridge has pron-iised a Tragedy. Now, if you keep Perry's 
 word, and Coleridge keeps his own, Drury-lane will be set 
 up; — and, sooth to say, it is in grievous want of such a lift. 
 We began at speed, and are blown already. When I say 
 ' we,' I mean Kannaird, who is the 'all in all sufficient,' and 
 can count, which none of the rest of the Committee CEin. 
 
 " It is really very good fun, as far as the daily and nightly 
 stir of these strutters and fretters go; and, if the concern 
 could be brought to pay a shilling in the pound, would do 
 much credit to tlie management. Mr. has an ac- 
 cepted tragedy, *****, whose first scene is in his sleep, 
 (I do n't mean the author's.) It was forw arded to us as a 
 prodigious favourite of Kean's ; but the said Kean, upon 
 interrogation, denies his eulogy, and protests against his 
 part. How it will end, I know not. 
 
 " I say so much about the theatre, because there is no- 
 thing else alive in London at this season. All the world 
 are out of it, except us, who remain to lie in, — in December, 
 j or perhaps earlier. Lady B. is very ponderous and pros- 
 I perous, apparently, and I wish it well over. 
 I " There is a play before me from a personage who signs 
 I himself 'Hibernicus.' The hero is Malachi, the Irishmjui 
 I and king; and the villain and usurper, Turgesius the Dane. 
 I The conclusion is fine. Turgesius is chained by the leg 
 I (vide stage direction) to a pillar on the stage ; and King 
 Malachi makes him a speech, not unlike Lord Castle- 
 reagh's about the balance of power and the lavi-fulness of 
 legitimacy, which puts Turgesius into a phrensy — as Cas- 
 tlereagh's would, if his audience was chained by the leg. 
 : He draws a dagger and rushes at the orator; but, finding 
 himself at the end of his tether, he sticks it into his own 
 I carcass, and dies, saying, he has fulfilled a prophecy. 
 
LETTERS, 1815. 
 
 89 
 
 "Now, this is seriouSy downright matter of fact, and the 
 gravest part of a tragedy which is not intended for bur- 
 lesque. I tell it you for the honour of Ireland. The writer 
 hopes it will be represented : — but what is Hope ? nothing 
 but the paint on the face of Existence ; the least touch of 
 Truth rubs it offj and then we see what a hollow-cheeked 
 harlot we have got hold of. I am not sure that I have not 
 said this last superfine reflection before. But never mind ; 
 — it will do for the tragedy of Turgesius, to which I can 
 append it. 
 
 "Well, but how dost thou do? thou bard, not of a thou 
 sand, but three thousand ! I wish your friend. Sir John 
 Piano-forte, had kept that to himself^ and not made it pub- 
 lic at the trial of the song-seller in Dublin. I tell you why ; 
 it is a liberal thing for Longman to do, and honourable for 
 you to obtain ; but it will set all the ' hungry and dinnerless 
 lank-jawed judges' upon the fortunate author. But they 
 be d — d ! — the ' Jeffrey and the Moore together are confi- 
 dent against the world in ink !' By-the-way, if poor Cole- 
 ridge — who is a man of wonderful talent, and in distress, 
 and about to publish two vols, of Poesy and Biography, 
 and who has been worse used by the critics than ever we 
 were — will you, if he comes out, promise me to review him 
 favourably in the E. R.? Praise him, I think you must, 
 but you will also praise him well, — of all things the most 
 difficult. It will be the making of him. 
 
 " This must be a secret between you and me, as Jeffrey 
 might not like such a project — nor, indeed, might Coleridge 
 himself like it. But I do think he only wants a pioneer, 
 and a sparkle or two to explode most gloriously. 
 
 "Ever yours most affectionately, " B." 
 
 LETTER CCLXXX. 
 
 TO MR. HUNT. 
 
 « 13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Sept.— Oct. 30, 1815. 
 "my dear hunt, 
 " Many thanks for your books, of which you already 
 know my opinion : their external splendour should not dis- 
 turb you as inappropriate — they have stiR more within than 
 without. I take leave to differ from you on Wordsworth, 
 as freely as I once agreed with you ; at that time I gave 
 him credit for a promise, which is unfulfilled. I still think 
 his capacity warrants all you say of it only, but that his 
 performances since ' Lyrical Ballads' are miserably inade- 
 quate to tlie ability which lurks v^dthin him: there is un- 
 doubtedly much natural talent spilt over the ' Excursion,' 
 but it is rain upon rocks, where it stands and stagnates, or 
 rain upon sands, where it falls TOthout fertilizing. Who 
 can understand him? Let those who do, make him intel- 
 Ugible. Jacob Behmen, Swedenborg, and Joanna South- 
 cote, are mere types of this arch-apostle of mystery a,nd 
 mysticism. But I have done, — no, I have not done, for I 
 have two petty, and perhaps unworthy objections in small 
 matters to make to him, which, ■with his pretensions to 
 accurate observations, and fury against Pope's false trans- 
 lation of ' the moonlight scene in Homer,' I wonder he 
 should have fallen into : these be they : — He says of Greece 
 in the body of his book, that it is a land of 
 
 ' Rivers, fertile plains, and sounding shores, 
 Under a cope oi variegated sky.' 
 
 The rivers are dry half the year, the plains are barren, and 
 the shores stiU and tideless as the Mediterranean can make 
 them ; the sky is any thing but variegated, being for months 
 and months but 'darkly, deeply, beautifully blue.' — The 
 next is in his notes, where he talks of our 'Monuments 
 crowded together in the busy, &c. of a large town,' as com- 
 pared with the ' still seclusion of a Turkish cemetery in 
 some remote place.' This is pure stuff; for one monument 
 in our churchyards there are ten in the Turkish, and so 
 crowded that you cannot walk between them ; that is, 
 divided merely by a path or road ; and as to ^retnote places" 
 men never take the trouble, in a barbarous country, to 
 
 12 
 
 carry their dead very far; they must have lived near to 
 where they were buried. There are no cemeteries in 
 'remote places,' except such as have the cypress and the 
 tombstone still left, where the olive and the habitation of 
 
 the living have perished These things I was struck 
 
 with, as coming peculiarly in my own way ; and in both of 
 these he is wrong : yet I should have noticed neither, but 
 for his attack on Pope for a like blunder, and a peevish 
 affectation about him of despising a popularity which he 
 will never obtain. I write in great haste, and, I doubt, not 
 much to the purpose, but you have it hot and hot, just as it 
 comes, and so let it go. By-the-way, both he and you go 
 too far against Pope's 'So when the moon,' &c. ; it is no 
 translation, I know ; but it is not such false description as 
 asserted. I have read it on the spot ; there is a burst, and 
 a lightness, and a glow about the night in the Troad, which 
 makes the 'planets vivid,' and the ' pole glaring.' The moon 
 is, at least the sky is, clearness itself; and I know no more 
 appropriate expression for the expansion of such a heaven 
 — o'er the scene — the plain — the sea — the sky — Ida — the 
 Hellespont — Simois — Scamander — and the Isles — than 
 that of a ' flood of glory.' I am getting horribly lengthy, 
 and must stop : to the whole of your letter I sav ' ditto to 
 Mr. Burke,' as the Bristol candidate cried by way of 
 electioneering harangue. You need not speak of morbid 
 feelings and vexations to me ; I have plenty ; but I must 
 blame partly the times, and chiefly myself: but let us forget 
 them. / shall be very apt to do so when I see you next. 
 Will you come to the theatre and see our new manage- 
 ment ? You shall cut it up to your heart's content, root 
 and branch, afterwards, if you like, but come and see it ! 
 If not, I must come and see you. "Ever yours, 
 
 "Very truly and affectionately, 
 " Byron. 
 '*P. S. Not a word from Moore for these two months. 
 Pray let me have the rest of Rimini. You have two ex- 
 cellent points in tliat Poem, originality and Italianism. 1 
 will back you as a Bard against half the fellows on whom 
 you have thrown away much good criticism and eulogy ; 
 but do n't let your bookseller publish in quarto, it is the 
 worst size possible for circulation, I say this on biblio- 
 polical authority. "Again, yours ever, "B." 
 
 LETTER CCLXXXL 
 
 to MR. MOORE. 
 
 " Terrace, Piccadilly, Oct. 31, 1815. 
 
 "I have not been able to ascertain precisely the time of 
 duration of the stock market ; but I believe it is a good time 
 for selling out, and I hope so. First, because I shall see 
 you;' and, next, because I shall receive certain moneys on 
 behalf of Lady B. the which will materially conduce to my 
 comfort, — I wanting (as the duns say) 'to make up a sum.' 
 
 "Yesterday, I dined out with a largeish party, where 
 were Sheridan and Colman, Harry Harris of C. G. and his 
 brother. Sir Gilbert Heathcote, Ds. Ennaird, and others 
 of note and notoriety. Like other parties of the kind, it 
 was first silent, then talky, then argumentative, then dis- 
 putatious, then unintelligible, then altogethery, then inar- 
 ticulate, and then drunk. When we had reached the last 
 step of this glorious ladder, it was difficult to get down again 
 without stumbling ; — and, to crowTi all, Kinnaird and I had 
 to conduct Sheridan down a d — d corkscrew staircase, 
 which had certainly been constructed before the discovery 
 of fermented hquors, and to which no legs, however crooked, 
 could possibly accommodate themselves. We deposited 
 him safe at home, where his man, evidently used to the 
 business, waited to receive him in the hall. 
 
 " Both he and Colman were, as usual, very good ; but I 
 carried away much wine, and the wine had previously 
 carried away my mem.ory; so that all was hiccup and 
 happiness for the last hour or so, and I am not impregnated 
 I with any of the conversation. Perhaps you heard of a late 
 
90 
 
 LETTERS, 1815. 
 
 answer of Sheridan to the watchman who found him bereft 
 of tliat 'divine particle of air,' called reason, — * 
 *** + *. He, the watchman, found 
 
 Sherry in the street, fuddled and bewildered, and almost 
 insensible. 'Who axe you, sir?' — no answer. 'What's 
 your name ?' — a hiccup. ' What 's your name ?' — Answer, 
 in a slow, deliberate, and impassive tone, — 'Wilber- 
 force!!!' Is not that Sherry all over? — and to my mind 
 excellent. Poor fellow, his very dregs are better than the 
 ' first sprightly runnings' of others. 
 
 " My paper is full, and I have a grievous headach. 
 
 *'P. S. Lady B. is in full progress. Next montlTwill 
 bring to light (with the aid of ' Juno Lucina, fer opern^ or 
 rather opes, for the last are most wanted) the tenth wonder 
 of the world ; Gil Bias being the eighth, and he (my son's 
 father) the ninth.." 
 
 LETTER CCLXXXII. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 " Nov. 4, 1815. 
 
 "Had you not be\vildered ray head with the 'stocks,' 
 your letter would have been answered directly. Had n't I 
 to go to the city? and had n't I to remember what to ask 
 when I got there ? and had n't I forgotten it ? 
 
 "I should be undoubtedly delighted to see you ; but I don't 
 like to urge against your reasons my own inclinations. 
 Come you must soon, for stay you v:o7it. I know^ you of 
 old : — you have been too much leavened with London to 
 keep long out of it. 
 
 "Lewis is going to Jamaica to suck his sugar-canes. 
 He sails m two days ; I enclose you his farewell note. I 
 saw him last night at D. L. T. for the last time previous 
 to his voyage. Poor fellov/ 1 he is really a good man ; an 
 excellent man ; he left me his walking-stick and a pot of 
 preserved ginger. I shall never eat the last without tears 
 in my eyes, it is so hot. We have had a de\il of a row 
 among our ballarinas : Miss Smith has been wTonged about 
 a hornpipe. The Committee have interfered ; but Byrne, 
 the d — d ballet-master, won't budge a step. / am furious, 
 so is George Lambe. liinnaird is very glad, because — he 
 do n't know why ; and I am very sorry, for the same reason. 
 To-day I dine with Kd. — we are to have Sheridan and 
 Colman again ; and to-morrow, once more, at Sir Gilbert 
 Heatlicote's. 
 
 ****** 
 
 ' licigh Hunt has written a real good and very original 
 Poet\i, wliich 1 think will be a gi-eat hit. You can have no 
 notion how very well it is mitten, nor should I, had I not 
 redde it. As to us, Tom — eh, when art thou out? If you 
 think the verses worth it, I would rather they were em- 
 balmed in the Irish Melodies, than scattered abroad in a 
 separate song; much rather. But when are thy great 
 things out? I mean the Po of Pos; thy Shah Nameh. 
 It is very kind in Jeffrey to like the Hebrew Melodies. 
 Some of the fellows here preferred Sternhold and Hopkins, 
 and said so; — 'the fiend receive their souls therefor 1' 
 
 " J must go and dress for dinner. Poor, dear Murat, 
 wha: an end ! You know, I suppose, that his white plume 
 used to be a rallying point in battle,* lilce Henry tlie 
 Fourth's. He refused a confessor and a bandage ; so 
 would neither suffer his soul or body to be bandaged. You 
 shall have more to-morrow or next day. " Ever. &.c." 
 
 LETTER CCLXXXin. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Nov. 4, 1815. 
 " When you have been enabled to form an opinion on 
 Mr. Coleridge's MS. you will oblige me by returning it, as, 
 in fact, I have no authority to let it out of my hands. I 
 
 Poems, p. 198. 
 
 tliinli most highly of it, and feel anxious that you should be 
 the publisher ; but if you are not, I do not despair of finding 
 those who will. 
 
 " I have v^Titten to Mr. Leigh Hunt, stating your willing- 
 ness to treat with liim, which, when I saw you, I understood 
 you to be. Terms and time I leave to his pleasure and 
 your discernment ; but this I wiU say, that 1 think it the 
 safe&t thing you ever engaged in. I speak to you as a man 
 of business: were I to talk to you as a reader or a critic, I 
 should say, it was a very wonderful and beautiful perform- 
 ance, with just enough of fault to make its beauties more 
 remarked and remarkable. 
 
 "And now to the last ; my own, w^hich I feel ashamed of 
 afier the others: — pubhsh or not as you like, I don't care 
 one damn. If you do n't, no one else shall, and I never 
 thought or dreamed of it, except as one in the collection. 
 If it is worth being in the fourth volume, put it there and 
 nowhere else ; and if not, put it in the fire. "Yours, 
 
 «N.» 
 
 LETTER CCLXXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Nov. 14, 1815. 
 
 "I return you your bills not accepted, but certainly not 
 unhonoured. Your present offer is a favour which I would 
 accept from you, if I accepted such from any man. Had 
 such been my intention, I can assure you I would have 
 asked you fairly, and as freely as you would give ; and I 
 cannot say more of my confidence or your conduct. 
 
 " The circumstances wliich induce me to part with my 
 books,* though sufficiently, are not immediately, pressing. 
 I have made tip my mind to them, and there 's an end. 
 
 "Had I been disposed to trespass on your kindness in 
 this w'ay, it would have been before now ; but I am not 
 sorry to have an opportunity of decUning it, as it sets my 
 opinion of you, and indeed of human nature, in a difTerent 
 light from that in which I have been accustomed to con- 
 sider it. * Believe me very truly, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCLXXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Dec. 25, 1815. 
 "I send some lines, written some fime ago, and intended 
 as an opening to the ' Siege of Corinth.' 1 had forgotten 
 them, and am not sure that they had not better be left out 
 now : on that, you and your Synod can determine.! 
 
 "Yours, fee." 
 
 FRAGMENTS OF LETTERS WRITTEN ABOUT THIS TIME 
 TO MR. HUNT. 
 
 With regard to the English Bards and Scotch Re- 
 \iewers, I have no concealments, nor desire to have any, 
 from you or yours; the suppression occurred (I am assure 
 as I can be of any thing) in the manner stated : I have 
 never regretted that, but very often the composition, that is, 
 the humeur of a great deal in it. As to the quotation you 
 allude to, I have no right, nor indeed desire, to prevent it ; 
 but, on the contrary, in common with all other writers, I do 
 and ought to take it as a compliment. 
 
 The paper on the Methodists I redde, and agree vvith 
 the writer on one point, in which you and he perhaps differ ; 
 
 Tn consequence of his pecuniary embarrassments at this time, he had 
 expressed an intention of parting with his books. On hearing this, Mr. 
 Murray instantly forwarded him 1500^. with an assurance that another 
 sum of the same amount should be at his service in a few weeks, and that 
 f such assistance should not be sufficient, Mr. Murray was meet ready to 
 dispose of the copyrights of all his past works for his use. 
 t Sea Poems, p. 131. 
 
LETTERS, 1816. 
 
 91 
 
 Ihat an addiction to poetry is very generally the result of 
 'an uneasy mind in an uneasy body ;' disease or deformity 
 have been the attendants of many of our best. Collins mad 
 — Chatterton, /thinlc, mad — Cowper mad — Pope crooked 
 — ^Milton blind— Gray (I have heard that the last was 
 afflicted by an incurable and very grievous distemper, 
 though not generally known) and others — I have some- 
 where read, however, tliat poets rarely go mad. T suppose 
 the writer means that their insanity effervesces and evapo- 
 rates in verse — may be so. 
 
 "I have not had time to attack your sy^em, which ought 
 to be done, were it only because it is a system. So, by and 
 by, have at you. "Yours, ever, 
 
 "Byeon." 
 
 " Of ' Rimini,' Sir Henry Englefield, a mighty man in the 
 blue circles, and a very clever man any where, sent to 
 Murray, in terms of the highest eulogy; and with regard to 
 the common reader, my sister and cousin (who are now all 
 my family, and the last since gone away to be married) 
 were in fixed perusal and delight with it, and they are ■* not 
 critical,' but fair, natural, unaffected, and understanding 
 persons. Frere, and all the arch-Uterati, I hear, are also 
 unanimous in a high opinion of the Poem." 
 
 LETTER CCLXXXVL 
 
 TO aiE. MOORE. 
 
 "Jan. 5,1816. 
 *I hope Mrs. M. is quite re-established. The little girl 
 was born on the lOdi of December last: her name is Au- 
 gusta Ada, (the second a very antique family name, — I 
 believe not used since the reign of ffing John.) She was, 
 and is, very flourishing and fat, and reckoned very large 
 for her days — squalls and suclcs incessantly. Are you 
 answered? Her mother is doing very well, and up again. 
 "1 have now been married a year on the second of this 
 month — heigh-ho ! I have seen nobody lately much worth 
 noting, except S * * and another general of the Gauls, once 
 or twice at dinners out of doors. S * * is a fine, foreign, 
 villainous-looking, mtelligent, and very agreeable man; his 
 compatriot is more of the petitrmaitre, and younger, but I 
 should think not at all of the same intellectual calibre with 
 the Corsican — which S * *, you loiow, is, and a cousin of 
 Napoleon's. 
 
 " Are you n-ever to be expected in town again? To be 
 Bure, there is no one here of tlie 1500 fillers of hot rooms, 
 called the fashionable world. My approacliing papa-ship 
 detained us for advice, &c. &c. — though I would as soon 
 be here as any where else on this side of the straits of 
 Gibraltar. 
 
 "I would gladly — or, rather, sorrowfully — comply with 
 your request of a dirge for the poor girl you mention.* But 
 how can I write on one I have never seen or known ? 
 Besides, you w^ill do it much better yourself. I could not 
 write upon any thing, ^vithout some personal experience 
 and foundation ; far less on a theme so peculiar. Now, you 
 have both in this case ; and, if you had neither, you have 
 more imagination, and would never fail. 
 
 " This is but a dull scrawl, and I am but a dull fellow 
 Just at present, I am absorbed in 500 contradictory con- 
 templations, though widi but one object in view — wliich will 
 probably end in notliing, as most tilings we wish do. But 
 nevermind — as somebody says, 'for the blue sky bends 
 over all.' I only could be glad, if it bent over me where it 
 is ahtde bluer; like the 'skyish top of blue Olympus,' which, 
 by-tlie-way, looked very white when I last saw it. 
 
 "Even&c." 
 
 LETTER CCLXXXVIL 
 
 TO MR. HUNT. 
 
 "Jan. 29, 1816. 
 
 ■^DEAR HUNT, 
 
 " I return your extract with thanks for the perusal, and 
 hope you are by this time on the verge of publication. My 
 pencil-marks on the margin of your former manuscripts I 
 never thought worth the trouble of deciphering, but I had 
 no such meaning as you imagine for their being withheld 
 from Murray, from whom I differ entirely as to the terms 
 of your agi-eement ; nor do I think you asked a piastre too 
 much for the Poem. However, I doubt not he will deal 
 fairly by you on the whole ; he is really a very good fellow, 
 and liis faults are merely the leaven of his 'trade' — 'the 
 trade !' the slave-trade of many an unlucky writer. 
 
 *' The said Mui-ray and I are just at present in no good 
 hmnour with each other; but he is not the worse for that ; I 
 feel sure tliat he will give your work as fair or a fairer 
 chance in every wa}' than your late pubhshers; and what 
 he can't do for it, it will do for itself. 
 
 "Continual business and occasional indisposition have 
 been the causes of my negligence (for I deny neglect) in 
 not writing to you immediately. These are excuses; I 
 wish they may be more satisfactory to you than they are 
 to me. I opened my eyes yesterday morning on your 
 compliment of Sunday. If you knew what a hopeless and 
 lethargic den of dulness and drawling our hospital is during 
 a debate : and what a mass of corruption in its patients, you 
 
 ould wonder, not that I very seldom speak, but that I ever 
 attempted it, fueling, as I trust 1 do, independently. How- 
 ever, wiien a proper spirit is manifested ' \nthout doors,' I 
 will endeavour not to be idle within. Do you think such a 
 time is coming? Methmks there are gleams of it. My 
 forefathers were of the other side of the question in Charles' 
 days, and the fruit of it was a title- and the loss of an enor- 
 mous property. 
 
 "If the old struggle comes on, I may lose the one, and 
 shall never regain the other, but no matter ; there .are 
 things, even in tiiis world, better than either. 
 
 " Very truly, ever yours, " B." 
 
 LETTER CCLXXXVIIL 
 
 TO MR. ROGERS. 
 
 "Feb. 8, 1816. 
 
 "Do not mistake me — I really returned your book for 
 the reason assigned, and no other. It is too good for so 
 careless a fellow. I have parted with all my own books, 
 and positively won't deprive you of so valuable * a drop cf 
 that immortal man.' 
 
 "I shall be very glad to see you, if you like to call, though 
 I am at present contending with ' the slings and arrows of 
 outrageous fortune,' some of which have struck at me from 
 a quarter whence I did not indeed expect them. But no 
 matter, ' there is a world elsev/here,' and I will cut my way 
 through this as I can. 
 
 " If you write to Moore, w iU you tell him that I shall 
 answer his letter the moment I can muster time and 
 spirits? "Ever yours, "Bn." 
 
 * I had menlionad to him, as a subject -n'orthy of his best powers of 
 pathos, a melancholy event which had just occurred in Riy neighbourhood, 
 and to which [ have myself n\ade allusion in one of the Sacred Melodies— 
 •" Weep net for her.". — Moore. 
 
 LETTER CCLXXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Feb. 29, 1816. 
 
 " I have not answered your letter for a time ; and, at 
 present, the reply to part of it might extend to such a length, 
 that I shall delay it till it can be made in person, and then 
 I will shorten it as much as I can. 
 
 " In the mean time, I am at w^ar ' with all the world and 
 his wife ;' or rather, ' all the world and my wife' are at war 
 with me, and have not yet crushed me, whatever they may 
 do. I don't know that in the course of a hairbreadtli 
 
92 
 
 LETTERS, 18J6. 
 
 existence I was ever, at home or abroad, in a situation so 
 completely uprooting of present pleasure, or rational hope 
 for the future, as this same. I say this, because I thinli so, 
 and feel it. But I shall not sink under it the more for that 
 mode of considering die question. I have made up my 
 mind. 
 
 "By-the-way, however, you must not believe all you 
 hear on die subject ; and do n't attempt to defend me. If 
 you succeeded in that, it would be a mortal, or an immortal 
 offence — who can bear refutation? I have but a very short 
 answer for those whom it concerns ; and all the activity of 
 myself and some \'igorous friends have not yet fixed on any 
 tangible ground or personage, on which or with whom I can 
 discuss matters, in a summary way, with a fair pretext ; 
 though I nearly had nailed one yesterday, but he evaded by 
 — what was judged by others — a satisfactory explanation. 
 I speak of circulators — against whom I have no enmit}', 
 though I must act according to the common code of usage, 
 when I hit upon those of the serious order. 
 
 " Now for other matters — Poesy, for instance. Leigh 
 Hunt's poem is a devilish good one-^<]uaint, here and there, 
 but with the substratum of originality, and with poetry 
 about it that will stand the test. 1 do not say this because 
 he has inscribed it to me, which I am sorry for, as I should 
 otherwise have begged you to review it in the Edinburgh. 
 It is really deserving of much . praise, and a favourable 
 critique in the E. R. would but do it justice, and set it up 
 before the public eye where it ought to be. 
 
 "How are you? and where? I have not the most distant 
 idea what I am going to do myself, or with myself— or 
 where — or what. I had, a few weeks ago, some things to 
 say, that would have made you laugh; but they tell me 
 now that I must not laugh, and so I have been very serious 
 —and am. 
 
 " I have not been very well — with a liver complaint — but 
 am much better within the last fortnight, though still under 
 latrical advice. I have latterly seen a little of * * 
 
 " I must go and dress to dine. My little girl is in the 
 country, and, they tell me, is a very fine child, and now 
 nearly three months old. Lady Noel (my mother-in-law, 
 or rather, at law) is at present overlooking it. Her daughter 
 (Miss Milbanke that was) is, I believe, m London with 
 *er father. A Mrs. Charlmont,* (now a kind of house- 
 keeper and spy of Lady N.'s) who, in her better days, was 
 a washerwoman, is supposed to be — by the learned— very 
 much the occult cause of our late domestic discrepancies. 
 
 "In all this business, I am the sorriest for Sir Ralph. 
 He and I are equally punished, though magis pares quern 
 similes in our affliction. Yet it is hard for both to suffer 
 for the fault of one, and so it is— I shall be separated from 
 my wife ; he will retain his. « Ever, &c." 
 
 in the mean time I shall merely request, a suspension of 
 opinion. Your prefatory letter to 'Rimini' I accepted as 
 it was meant, as a public compliment and a private kind- 
 ness. I am only sorry that it may perhaps operate against 
 you as an inducement, and, with some, a pretext for attack 
 on the part of the political and personal enemies of both ; 
 not that this can be of much consequence, for in the end 
 the work must be judged by its merits, and, in that respect, 
 you are well armed. Murray tells me it is going on weU, 
 and, you may depend upon it, there is a substratum of 
 poetry, which is a foundation for solid and durable fame. 
 The objections (if there be objections, for this is a pre- 
 sumption, and not an assumption) will be merely as to the 
 mechanical part, and such, as I stated before, the usual 
 consequences of either novelty or revival. I desired Mur- 
 ray to forward to you a pamphlet with two things of mine 
 in it, the most part of both of them, and of one in particular, 
 loritten before others of my composing, which have preceded 
 them in publication; they are neitlier of them of much 
 pretension, nor intended for it. You will perhaps wonder 
 at my dwelling so much and so frequently on former sub- 
 jects and scenes ; but the fact is, that I found them fading 
 fast from my memory ; and I was, at the same time, so 
 partial to their place, (and events connected with it,) that 
 I have stamped them while I could, in such colours as I 
 could trust to now, but might have confused and misapplied 
 hereafter, had I longer delayed the attempted delineation." 
 
 LETTER CCXCL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 LETTER CCXC. 
 
 TO MR. HT7NT. 
 
 "Feb. 26, 1816. 
 "dear hunt, 
 
 "Your letter would have been answered before, had I 
 not thought it probable that, as you were in town for a day 
 or so, I should have seen you ;— 1 do n't mean this as a hint 
 at reproach for not calling, but merely that of course I 
 should have been very glad" if you had called in your way 
 home or abroad, as I always would have been, and always 
 shall be. With regard to the circumstances to which you 
 allude, tliere is no reason why you should not speak openly 
 to me on a subject already sufficiently rife in the mouths 
 and minds of what is called 'the world.' Of the 'fifty re- 
 ports,' it foUows that forty-nine must have more or less 
 error and exaggeration; but 1 am sorry to say, diat on the 
 mam and essential point of an intended, and, it may be, an 
 inevitable separation, I can contradict none. At present I 
 shall say no more, but this is not from want of confidence ; 
 
 • Mrs. Charlmont. See Poems, p. 195 
 
 "March 8, 1816. 
 "I rejoice in your promotion as Chairman and Chari- 
 table Steward, &c. &c. These be dignities which await 
 only the virtuous. But then, recollect, you are «a;-and- 
 thirty, (I speak this enviously — not of your age, but the 
 ' honour — love — obedience — troops of friends,' which ac- 
 company it,) and I have eight years good to run before I 
 arrive at such hoary perfection; by which time, — if I am at 
 all,— it will probably be in a state of grace or progressin<T 
 merits. 
 
 "I must set you right in one point, however. The fault 
 was not — no, nor even the misfortune, — in my 'choice' 
 (unless in choosing at all)— (or 1 do not believe, and I must 
 say it, in the very dregs of all this bitter business, that there 
 ever was a better, or even a brighter, a kinder, or a more 
 amiable and agreeable being than Lady B. I never had, 
 nor can have, any reproach to malvc her, while with me. 
 Where there is blame, it belongs to myself; and, if I cannot 
 redeem, I must bear it. 
 
 "Her nearest relatives are a * * * * — my circumstances 
 have been and are in a state of great confusion — my health 
 has been a good deal disordered, and my mind ill at ease 
 for a considerable period. Such are the causes (I do not 
 name them as excuses) which have frequently driven me 
 into excess, and disqualified my temper for comfort. Some- 
 thing also may be attributed to the strange and desultory 
 habits which, becoming m.y owti master at an early age, 
 and scrambling about, over and through the world, may 
 have induced. I still, however, diink That, if I had had a 
 fair chance, by being placed in even a tolerable situation, I 
 might have gone on fairly. But that seems hopeless, and 
 there is nothing more to be said. At present— except my 
 health, which is better (it is odd, but agitation or contest of 
 any kind gives a rebound to my spirits and sets me up for 
 the time)— I have to battle with all kinds of unpleasant- 
 nesses, including private and pecuniary difficulties, &c. &c. 
 "I believe I may have said this before to you,— but f 
 risk repeating it. It is nothing to bear the privations of 
 adversity, or, more properly, ill fortune; but my pride recoils 
 from Its indignities. However, I have no quarrel with that 
 same pride, which will, I think, buckler me through every 
 thing. If my heart could have been broken, it would have 
 been so years ago, and by events more afflicting than these 
 
LETTERS, 18J6. 
 
 93 
 
 "I agree with you (to turn from this topic to our shop) 
 that I have written too much. The last things were, how- 
 ever, published very reluctantly by me, and for reasons I 
 will explain when we meet. I know not why I have dwelt 
 so much on the same scenes, except that I find them fading, 
 or confusing (if such a word may be) in my memory, in 
 the midst of present turbulence and pressure, and I felt 
 anxious to stamp before the die was worn out. I now 
 break it. With those countries, and events connected with 
 them, all my really poetical feelings begin and end. Were 
 I to try, I could make nothing of any other subject, and 
 that I have apparently exhausted. 'Wo to him,' says 
 Voltaire, 'who says all he could say on any subject.' 
 There are some on which, perhaps, I could have said still 
 more : but I leave them all, and not too soon. 
 
 "Do you remember the hues I sent you early last year, 
 which you still have ? I do n't wish (hke Mr. Fitzgerald, 
 in the Morning Post) to claim tlie character of ' Vates' in 
 ail its translations ; but were they not a little prophetic ? I 
 mean those beginning ' There's not a joy the world can,'* 
 &c. &c. on which I rather pique myself as being the truest, 
 though the most melancholy, I ever wrote. 
 
 " What a scrawl have I sent you ! You say nothing of 
 yourself except that you are a Lancasterian churchwarden, 
 and an encourager of mendicants. When are you out? 
 and how is your family? My child is very well and 
 flourishing, I hear \ but I must see also. I feel no disposi- 
 tion to resign it to the contagion of its grandmother's society, 
 though I am unwilling to take it from the mother. It is 
 weaned, however, and something about it must be decided. 
 
 "Ever, &c." 
 
 [The letter that foEows was in answer to one received 
 from Mr. Murray, in which he had enclosed him a draft 
 for a thousand guineas for the copyright of his two Poems, 
 the Siege of Corinth and Parisina.] 
 
 LETTER CCXCIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Jan. 2, 1816. 
 
 "Your offer is liberal in the extreme, (you see I use the 
 word to you and ofyou, though I would not consent to your 
 using it of yourself to Mr. + + * +j) and much more than 
 the two poems can possibly be worth ; but I cannot accept 
 it, nor will not. You are most welcome to them as addi- 
 tions to the collected volumes, without any demand or 
 expectation on my part whatever. But I cannot consent 
 to their separate pubUcation. I do not like to risk any 
 fame (whether merited or not) which I have been favoured 
 with, upon compositions which I do not feel to be at all 
 equal to my own notions of what they should be, (and as 
 I flatter myself some have been, here and there,) though 
 they may do very well as things without pretension, to add 
 to the pubhcation with the lighter pieces. 
 
 "I am very glad that the handwriting was a favourable 
 omen of the morale of the piece: but you must not trust to 
 that, for my copyist would write out any thing I desired in 
 all the ignorance of innocence — I hope, however, in this 
 instance, with no great peril to either. 
 
 " P. S. I have enclosed your draft torn^ for fear of acci- 
 dents by the way — I wish you would not throw temptation 
 in mine. It is not from a disdain of the universal idol, not 
 from a present superfluity of his treasures, I can assure 
 you, that I refuse to worship him ; but what is right is right, 
 and must not yield to circumstances." 
 
 that I was glad to do as Mackintosh and you suggested 
 about Mr. * *. It occurs to me now, that as I have never 
 seen Mr. * * but once, and consequently have no claim to 
 his acquaintance, tliat you or Sir J. had better arrange it 
 with him in such a manner as may be least offensive to his 
 feelings, and so as not to have the appearance of officious- 
 ness nor obtrusion on my part. I hope you wiU be able to 
 do this, as I should be very sorry to do any thing by him 
 that may be deemed indelicate. The sum Murray offered 
 and offers was and is one thousand and fifty pounds : this 
 I refused before, because I thought it more than the two 
 things were worth to Murray, and from other objections, 
 which are of no consequence. I have, however, closed 
 with M. in consequence of Sir J.'s and your suggestion, 
 and propose the sum of six hundred pounds to be trans- 
 ferred to Mr. * * in such manner as may seem best to 
 your friend, — the remainder I think of for other purposes. 
 "As Murray has otTered the money down for the copy- 
 rights, it may be done directly. I am ready to sign and 
 seal immediately, and perhaps it had better not be delayed. 
 I shall feel very glad if it can be of any use to * * ; only 
 do n't let him be plagued, nor think himself obhged and aU 
 that, which makes people hate one another, &c. 
 
 "Yours, very truly, " B." 
 
 LETTER CCXCIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Feb. 22, 1816. 
 
 "When the sum offered by you, and even pressed by 
 you, was declined, it was with reference to a separate 
 publication, as you know and I know. That it was large, 
 I admitted and admit ; and tJiat made part of my conside- 
 ration in refusing it, till I knew better what you were likely 
 to make of it. With regard to what is past, or is to pass, 
 about Mr. * *, the case is in no respect different from the 
 transfer of former copyrights to Mr. Dallas. Had I taken 
 you at your word, that is, taken your money, I might have 
 used it as I pleased ; and it could be in no respect different 
 to you whether I paid it to a w — , or a hospital, or assisted 
 a man of talent in distress. The truth of the matter 
 seems this: you offered more than the poems are worth. 
 I said so, and I think so ; but you know, or at least ought to 
 know, your own business best; and when you recollect 
 what passed between you and me upon pecuniary subjects 
 before this occurred, you will acquit me of any wish to take 
 advantage of your imprudence. 
 
 " The things in question shall not be published at all, and 
 there is an end of the matter. "Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCXCV. 
 
 TO MR. aiURRAY. 
 
 "March 6, 1816. 
 
 LETTER CCXCIII. 
 
 TO MR. ROGERS. 
 
 "Feb. 20, 1816. 
 *I wrote to you hastily this morning by Murray, to say 
 
 'S&i Poems, p. IW. 
 
 "I sent to you to-day for this reason — the books you 
 purchased are again seized, and, as matters stand, had much 
 better be sold at once by public auction. I wish to see 
 you, to return your bill for them; which, thank God, is 
 neither due nor paid. That part, as far as you are con- 
 cerned, being settled, (which it can be, and shall be, when 
 I see you to-morrow,) I have no further delicacy about the 
 matter. This is about the tenth execution in as many 
 months ; so I am pretty well hardened ; but it is fit I should 
 pay the forfeit of my forefatlier's extravagance and my 
 own ; and whatever my faults may be, I suppose they will 
 be pretty well expiated in time — or eternity. 
 
 " Ever, &c. 
 
 " P. S. I need hardly say that I knew nothing till this 
 day of the new seizure. I had released them from former 
 ones, and thought, when you took them, that they were 
 yours. 
 
 "You shafl have your bill again to-morrow." 
 
94 
 
 LETTERS, 181( 
 
 LETTER CCXCVL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Feb. 3, 1816. 
 
 ''I sent for ' Marmion,' which I re turn, because it occurred 
 to me, there might be a resemblance between part of 'Pa- 
 risina' and a similar scene in Canto 2 of ' Marmion.' I fear 
 there is, though I never tliought of it before, and could hardly 
 wish to imitate that which is inimitable. I \\\sh you would 
 ask Mr. Giftbrd whether I ought to say any tlimg upon it ; 
 — 1 had completed the story on tlie passage from Gibbon, 
 which indeed leads to a like scene naturally, wthout a 
 thought of the kind : but it comes upon me not very com- 
 fortably. 
 
 " There are a few words and phrases I want to alter in 
 the MS. and should like to do it before you print, and will 
 return it in an hour. " Youis ever." 
 
 LETTER CCXCVn. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Feb. 20, 1816. 
 ***** 
 
 •'To return to our business — yom- episdes are vastly 
 agreeable. With regard to tlie obsers'ationa on careless- 
 ness, &c. I think, \vi\li all humility, that tlie gentle reader 
 has considered a rather uncommon, and designedly irregu- 
 lar, versification for haste and negligence. The measure 
 is not that of any of the oilier poems, wliich (I believe) 
 were allowed to be tolerably correct, according to Bysshe 
 and the fingers — or ears — by wliich bards write, and readers 
 reckon. Great part of the ' Siege' is in (I think) what the 
 learned called Anapests, (diough 1 am not sure, being 
 heinously forgetful of my metres and my ' Gradus',) and 
 many of the lines intentionally longer or shorter than its 
 rhyming companion ; and rhyme also occui-iing at greater 
 or less intervals of caprice or convenience. 
 
 " I mean not to say that this is right or good, but merely 
 that I could liave been smoother, had it appeared to me of 
 advantage ; and that I was not otherwise without being 
 aware of the denation, though I now feel sorry for it, as I 
 would undoubtedly rather please than not. JNIy wish has 
 been to try at something different from my former efforts ; 
 as I endeavoured to make them differ from each other. 
 The versification of the 'Corsair' is not diat of 'Lara;' nor 
 the 'Giaour' that of tlie 'Bride:' 'Childe Harold' is again 
 varied from these ; and I strove to vary the last somewhat 
 from all of the others. 
 
 ^ Excuse all this d — d nonsense and egotism. The fact 
 is, that I am rather trying to think on tl:e subject of this 
 note, than really thinking on it. — I did not know you had 
 called : you are always admitted and welcome when you 
 choose. "Yours, &c. &c. 
 
 "P. S. You need not be in any apprehension or grief on 
 my account: were I to be beaten down by the world and 
 its inheritors, I should have succumbed to many things 
 years ago. You must not mistake my not bullying for 
 dejection ; nor imagine that because I feel, I am to faint: — 
 but enough for the present. 
 
 "I am sorry for Sotheby's row. "V^Tiat the de^il is it 
 about? I thought it all settled ; and if I can do any thing 
 about him or Ivan still, I am ready and willing. I do not 
 tliink it proper for me just now to be much behind the 
 scenes, but I will see the committee and move upon it, if 
 Sotheby likes. 
 
 •" If you see Mr. Sotheby, will you tell him that I wTOte 
 to Mr. Coleridge, on getting Mr. Sotheby's note, and have, 
 I hope, done what Mr. S. wished on that subject?" 
 
 LETTER CCXCVm. 
 
 TO MR. ROGERS. 
 
 "March 25, 1816. 
 'You are one c^the few persons v.ith whom I liave lived 
 
 in what is called intimac}', and have heard me at times 
 conversing on the untoward topic of my recent family 
 disquietudes. Will you have the goodness to say to me at 
 once, whether you ever heard me speak of her with dis- 
 respect, with unkdndness, or defending myself at Acr expense 
 by any serious imputation of any description against her? 
 Did you never hear me say, ' tliat when there \\ as a right 
 or a wrong, she had the right ?^ — The reason I put these 
 questions to you or others of my friends is, because I am 
 said, by her and hers, to have resorted to such means of 
 exculpation. "Ever very truly yours, "B." 
 
 LETTER CCXCIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Ouchy, near Lausanne, June 27, 1816. 
 "I am thus far (kept by stress of weather) on my way 
 back to Diodati, (near Geneva,) from a voyage in my boat 
 round the lake; and I enclose you a sprig of Gibbon's 
 acacia and some rose leaves from his garden, which, with 
 part of his house, 1 have just seen. You will find honour- 
 able mention, in his Life, made of this ' acacia,' when he 
 wallced out on the night of concluding his history. The 
 garden and summer house, where he composed, are ne- 
 glected, and the last utterly decayed ; but they stiU show it 
 as his 'cabinet,' and seem perfectly aware of his memory. 
 "My route, through Flanders, and by tlie Rliine,to Swit- 
 zerland, was all I expected and more. 
 
 " 1 have traversed all Rousseau's ground, with the Heloise 
 before me, and am struck to a degi-ee that I cannot ex-press 
 with the force and accuracy of his descriptions, and the 
 beauty of their reality. Meillerie, Clarens, and Vevay, and 
 the Chateau de Chillon, are places of which I shall say 
 little, because all I could say must fall short of the impres- 
 sions they stamp.* 
 
 " Three days ago, we were nearly wrecked in a squall 
 off Meillerie, and driven to shore. I ran no risk, being 
 so near the rocks, and a good swimmer ; but our party 
 were wet, and incommoded a good deal. The wind was 
 strong enough to blow down some trees, as we found at 
 landing ; however, all is righted and right, and we are thus 
 far on our return. 
 
 "Dr. Polidori is not here, but at Diodati, left behind in 
 the hospital with a sprained ankle, which he acquired in 
 tumbling from a wall — ^he can't jump. 
 
 "I shall be glad to hear you are well, and have received 
 for me certain helms and swords, sent from Waterloo, 
 which I rode over with pain and pleasure. 
 
 "I have finished a third Canto of Childe Harold, (con- 
 sisting of one hundred and seventeen stanzas,) longer than 
 either of the t\To fonner, and in some parts, it may be, 
 better ; but of course on that I cannot determine. I shall 
 send it by the first safe-looking opportimity. 
 
 "Ever, Sec." 
 
 LETTER CCC. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Diodati, near Geneva, July 22, 1816. 
 "I wrote to you a few weeks ago, and Dr. PoUdori 
 received your letter; but the packet has not made its 
 appearance, nor the epistle, of which you gave notice 
 therein. I enclose you an advertisement,! which w-as 
 copied by Dr. Pohdori, and which appears to be about the 
 most impudent imposition tliat ever issued from Grub- 
 street. I need hardly say that I know nodiing of all this 
 
 ♦ See notes to 3d Canto of Childe Harold. 
 
 t The following was the adveitisement enclosed : 
 
 " Neatly printed and hot-pressed, 2s. 6d. 
 
 " Lord Byron's Farewell to England, with three other poems — Ode to 
 
 St. Helena, to My Daughter on her Birthday, and to the Lily of Frauce. 
 
 '• Primed by J. Johnston, Cheapside, S35 ; Oxford! 9- 
 
 " The above beautiful Poems will be read with the most lively interest, 
 
 as it is probable they will be the last of the author's that will api«ar iii 
 
 England." — (They were written by a Mr. Johtt Agg.) 
 
 i 
 
LETTERS, 1916. 
 
 95 
 
 trash, nor whence it may spring, — ^ Odes to St. Helena.' — 
 ' Farewells to England,' &.c. &c. — and if it can be dis- 
 avowed, or is worth disavowing, you have full authority to 
 do so. 1 never wTOte, nor conceived, a line on any thing 
 of the kind, any more than of two other tilings with which 
 I was saddled — something about ' Gaul,' and another about 
 'Mrs. La Valette;' and as to the 'Lily of France,' I should 
 as soon think of celebrating a turnip. 'On the morning of 
 my daughter's birth,' I had other things to think of than 
 verses; and should never have dreamed of such an inven- 
 tion, till Mr. Johnston and liis pamplilet's advertisement 
 broke in upon me with a nevv' light on the crafts and subtle- 
 ties of die demon of printing, — or rather publisliing. 
 
 "I did hope that some succeeding lie would have super- 
 seded the thousand and one wdiich were accumulated 
 during last winter. I can forgive whatever may be said of 
 or against me, but not what they make me say or sing for 
 myseE It is enough to answer for what I have written ; 
 but it were too much for Job himself to bear what one has 
 not. I suspect that when the Ai-ab patriarch wished that 
 his ' enemy had WTitten a book,' he did not anticipate his 
 own name on the tide-page. I feel quite as much bored 
 •with this foolery as it deserves, and more than I should be 
 if I had not a headach. 
 
 '•' Of Gienarvon,* Madame de Stael told me (ten days 
 ago, at Copet) marvellous and grievous things; but I have 
 seen nothing of it but the motto, which promises amiably 
 'for us and for our tragedy.' If such be the posy, what 
 should the ring be ? — ^ a name to all succeeding,'f &c. The 
 generous moment selected for the pubhcation is probably 
 its kindest accompaniment, and — truth to say — the time 
 was well chosen. I have not even a guess at the contents, 
 except from die very vague accounts I have heard. _ 
 * * * * * * " 
 
 ****** 
 
 "I ought to be ashamed of the egotism of this letter. It 
 is not my fault altogether, and I shall be but too happy to 
 drop the subject, when others will allow me. 
 
 " I am in tolerable plight, and in my la^t letter told you 
 what 1 had done in the way of all rhyme. I trust tiiat you 
 prosper, and that your authors are in good condition. I 
 should suppose your stud has received some increase by 
 what I hear. BertramJ must be a good horse ; does he 
 run next meeting? I hope you will beat the Row. 
 
 "Yours alway, &c." 
 
 navigated the Lake, and go to Chamouni with the first fair 
 weather ; but really we have had lately such stupid mists, 
 fogs, and perpetual density, that one would think Casde- 
 reagh had the Foreign Affairs of die kingdom of Heaven 
 also on his hands. I need say nothing to you of these 
 parts, you having traversed them already. I do not think 
 of Italy before September. I have read Glenarvon, and 
 have also seen Ben. Constant's Adolphe, and his preface, 
 denying the real people. It is a work which leaves an 
 unpleasant impression, but very consistent with the conse- 
 quences of not being in love, which is perhaps as disagree- 
 able as any thing, except being so. I doubt, however, 
 whether aU such liens (as he calls them) terminate so 
 wretchedly as his hero and heroine's. 
 
 "There is a third Canto (a longer than either of the 
 former) of Childe Harold finished, and some smaller things, 
 — among them a story on the Chateau de Chillon; I only 
 wait a good opportunity to transmit them to the grand 
 Murray, who, I hope, flourishes. "Where is Moore ? Why 
 is he not out ? My love to him, and my perfect conside- 
 ration and remembrances to all, particularly to Lord and 
 Lady Holland, and to your Dutchess of Somerset. 
 
 " Ever, &c. 
 
 "P. S. I send you a/ac simile, a note of Bonstetten's^ 
 thinking you might like to see the hand of Gray's corre- 
 spondent," 
 
 LETTER CCCL 
 
 TO MK. ROGERS. 
 
 "Diodati, near Geneva, July 29, 1816. 
 " Do you recollect a book, Mathieson's Letters, which 
 you lent me, which I have still, and yet hope to return to 
 your Ubrary? "Well, I have encountered at Copet and 
 elsewhere Gray's correspondent, tliat same Bonstetten, to 
 whom I lent die translation of his correspondent's epistles 
 for a few days ; but all he could remember of Gray amounts 
 to htde, except diat he was the most 'melancholy and 
 gendemanhke' of all possible poets. Bonstetten himself is 
 a fine and very lively old man, and much esteemed by his 
 compatriots; "he is also a litiirateur of good repute, and all 
 his friends have a mania of addressing to him volumes of 
 letters — Mathieson, Muller the historian, &c. &c. He is 
 a good deal at Copet, where I have met him a few times. 
 All there are well, except Rocca, who, I am sorry to say, 
 looks in a very bad state of health. Schlegel is in high 
 force, and Madame as brilliant as ever. 
 
 " I came here by the Netherlands and the Rhine route, 
 and Basle, Berne, Morat, and Lausanne. I have circum- 
 
 * A Novel, by Lady Caroline Lamb : Lord Byron, under another name, 
 was one of its principal characters. 
 t The motto is — 
 
 " He left a name to all succeeding times, 
 Link'd with one virtue and a thousand crimes." 
 Maturm's Tra»edv 
 
 LETTER CCCII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Diodati, Sept. 29, 1816. 
 "I am very much flattered by Mr. Gifford's good opinion 
 of the MSS.* and shall be still more so, if it answers youi 
 expectations and justifies his kindness. 1 liked it myself, 
 but that must go for nothing. The feelings with which 
 most of it w^as \ratten need not be envied me. "With 
 regard to the price, / fixed none, but left it to Mr. IQnnaird, 
 Mr. Shelley, and yourself, to arrange. Of course, they 
 would do their best ; and as to yourselij I knew you wouH 
 make no difficulties. But I agree with Mr. Kinnaird 
 perfectly, that the concluding Jive hundred should be only 
 conditional ; and for my own sake, I wish it to be added, 
 only in case of your selling a certain number, that number 
 to be fixed by yourself. I hope this is fair. In every thing 
 of this kind there mu.st be risk; and till that be past, in one 
 way or the other, I would not willingly add to it, particularly 
 in times like the present. And pray always recollect that 
 nodiing could mortify me more — no failure on my own part 
 — than ha\ing made you lose by any purchase from me. 
 
 " The Monodvf was written by request of Mr. Kinnaird 
 I for the theatre. I did as well as I could ; but where I have 
 not my choice, 1 pretend to answer for nothing. Mr. 
 Hobhouse and myself are just returned from a journey of 
 lakes and mountains. We have been to the Grindelwald, 
 and the Jungfrau, and stood on the summit of the Wengen 
 Alp ; and seen torrents of nine hundred feet in fall, and 
 glaciers of all dimensions ; we have heard shepherd's pipes, 
 and avalanches, and looked on the clouds foaming up from 
 the valleys below us, like the spray of the ocean of hell.J 
 Chamouni, and that which it inherits, we saw a month 
 ago ; but, though INiont Blanc is higher, it is not equal in 
 Avildness to the Jungfi-au, the Eighers, the Shreckhom, and 
 the Rose Glaciers. 
 
 " We set off for Italy next week. The road is withm 
 tliis month infested with bandits, but we must take our 
 chance and such precautions as are requisite. 
 
 "Ever, &c. 
 "P. S. My best remembrances to Mr. Gilford. Pray 
 say aU that can be said fiom me to him. 
 
 "I am sorry that Mr. ISIaturin did not like Phillips 
 picture. I diought it was reckoned a good one. If he had 
 
 * ChiWo Harold, 3d Canto. 
 
 t On the death of Sheridan, Poems, p. 180. 
 
 J See Journal in Switzerland, Sept. ^, 
 
96 
 
 LETTERS, 1816. 
 
 made tlie speech on the original, perhaps he would have 
 been more readily forgiven by the proprietor and the 
 pakiler of the portrait." * * * 
 
 LETTER CCCIIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Diodati; Sept. 30,1816. 
 ''I answered your obliging letters yesterday: to-day the 
 Monody"'' arrived with its <ii/e-page, which is, I presume, 
 a separate publication, 'The request of a friend:' — 
 
 ' Obliged by hunger and request of friends.' 
 
 I will request you to expunge that same, unless you please 
 to add, ' by a person of quality,' or ' of wit and honour about 
 tovAm.' Merely say, 'written to be spoken at Drury-lane.' 
 To-morrow I dine at Copet. Saturday I strike tents for 
 Italy. This evening, on the lake in my boat with Mr. 
 Hobhouse, the pole which sustains the mainsail slipped in 
 tacking, and struck me so violently on one of my legs, (the 
 worst, luckily,) as to make me do a foolish thing, viz. to 
 ycdjit — a downright swoon; the thing must have jarred 
 some nerve or other, for the bone is not injured, and hardly 
 painful, (it is sis hours since,) and cost Mr, Hobhouse 
 some apprehension and much sprinkling of water to re- 
 cover me. The sensation was a very odd one : I never 
 had but two such before, once from a cut on the head from 
 a stone, several years ago, and once (long ago also) in 
 falling into a great wreath of snow ; — a sort of gray giddi- 
 ness first, then nothingness and a total loss of memory on 
 beginning to recover. The last part is not disagreeable, 
 if one did not find it again. 
 
 " You want the original MSS. Mr. Davies has the first 
 fair copy in my owti hand, and I have the rough composition 
 here, and will send or save it for you, since you wish it. 
 
 "With regard to your new literary project, if any thing 
 falls in the way which will, to the best of my judgment, suit 
 you, I will send you what I can. At present I must lay 
 by a little, having pretty well exhausted myself in what I 
 have sent you. Italy or Dalmatia and another summer 
 may, or may not, set me off again. I have no plans, and 
 am nearly as indifferent what may come as where I go. I 
 shall take Felicia Hemans' Restoration, &c. with me ; it 
 is a good poem — very. 
 
 " Pray repeat my best thanks and remembrances to Mr. 
 Gifford for all his trouble and good-nature towards me. 
 
 " Do not fancy me laid up, from the beginning of this 
 scrawl. I tell you the accident for want of better to say ; 
 but it is over, and I am only wondering what the deuce 
 was the matter with me. 
 
 "I have lately been over all the Bernese Alps and their 
 lakes. I think many of the scenes (some of which were 
 not those usually frequented by the English) finer than 
 Chamouni, which I visited some time before. I have been 
 to Clarens again, and crossed the mountains behind it: of 
 this tour I kept a short joumalf for my sister, which I sent 
 yesterday in three letters. It is not all for perusal ; but if 
 you like to hear about the romantic part, she will, I dare 
 say, show you what touches upon the rocks, &c. 
 
 "Christabel — I won't have any one sneer at Christabel: 
 it is a fine wild poem. 
 
 ***** 
 
 "Madame de Stael wishes to see the Antiquary, and I 
 am going to talce it to her to-morrow. She has made 
 Copet as agreeable as society and talent can make any 
 place on earth. "Yours ever, «N." 
 
 LETTER CCCIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "DiodatijOct.S, 1816. 
 ****** 
 
 "Save me a copy of 'Buck's Richard III.' republished 
 
 On the death of Sheridan. See Letter 299. f See Journal, p. 244. 
 
 by Longman ; but do not send out more books — I have too 
 many. 
 
 " The 'Monody' is in too many paragraphs, which makes 
 it unintelligible to me ; if any one else understands it in the 
 present form, they are wiser; however, as it cannot be 
 rectified till my return, and has been abeady published, 
 even publish it on in tlie collection — it will fill up the place 
 of the omitted epistle. 
 
 " Strike out ' by request of a friend,' which is sad trash, 
 and must have been done to make it ridiculous. 
 
 "Be careful in the printing the stanzas beguining, 
 
 ' Though the day of my destiny 's,' &c.* 
 
 which I think well of as a composition. 
 
 "'The Antiquary' is not the best of the three, but much 
 above all the last twenty years, saving its elder brothers. 
 Holcroft's Memoirs are valuable, as showing the strength 
 of endurance in the man, which is w orth more than all the 
 talent in the world. 
 
 "And so you have been publishing 'Margaret of Anjou' 
 and an Assyrian tale, and refusing W. W.'s Waterloo, and 
 the 'Hue and Cry.' I know not which most to admire, 
 your rejections or acceptances. I believe that prose is, 
 cifter aU, the most reputable ; for certes, if one could foresee 
 — but I won't go on — that is, with this sentence ; but poetry 
 is, I fear, incurable. God help me ! if I proceed in this 
 scribbling, I shall have frittered away my mind before I am 
 thirty ; but it is at times a real relief to me. For the pre- 
 sent — good evening." 
 
 LETTER CCCV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Martigny, Oct. 9, 1816. 
 
 " Thus far on my way to Italy. We have just passed 
 the 'Pisse Vache' (one of the first torrents in Switzerland) 
 in time to view the iris which the sun flings along it before 
 noon. 
 
 "I have written to you twice lately. Mr. Davies, I 
 hear, is arrived. He brings the original IMS. which you 
 wished to see. Recollect that the printing is to be from 
 that which Mr. Shelley brought ; and recollect also, that 
 the concluding stanzas of Childe Harold (those to my 
 daughter) which I had not made up my mind whether to 
 publish or not when they were first written, (as you will see 
 marked on the margin of the first copy,) I had (and have) 
 fully determined to publish with the rest of the Canto, as 
 in the copy which you received by Mr. Shelley, before I 
 sent it to England. 
 
 " Our weather is very fine, which is more than the sum- 
 mer has been. — At Milan I shall expect to hear from you. 
 Address either to Milan, poste restante, or by way of Ge- 
 neva, to the care of Monsr. Hentsch, Banquier. I write 
 these few lines in case my other letter should not reach 
 you ; I trust one of them will. 
 
 "P. S. My best respects and regards to Mr. Gifford. J 
 Will you tell him, it may perhaps be as well to put a short J 
 note to that part relating to Clarens, merely to say, that of • 
 course the description does not refer to that particular spot 
 so much as to the command of scenery round it ? I do 
 not know that this is necessary, and leave it to Mr. G.'s 
 choice, as my editor, — if he will allow me to call him so at 
 this distance." 
 
 LETTER CCCVL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 ''Milan,0ct. 15, 1816. 
 
 "I hear that Mr. Davies has arrived in England,— but 
 
 that of some letters, &c. committed to his care by Mr. 
 
 Hobhouse, only halfhzye been delivered. This intelligence 
 
 naturally makes me feel a little anxious for mine, and 
 
 See Poems, p. 
 
LETTE RS, 1816. 
 
 97 
 
 among them for the MS. which I wished to have compared 
 with the one sent by me through the hands of Mr. Shelley. 
 I trust that it has arrived safely, — and mdeed not less so, 
 that some Utde crystals, &c. from Ivlont Blanc, for my 
 daughter and my nieces, have reached their address. Pray 
 have the goodness to ascertain from Mr. Davies tliat no 
 accident (by custom-house or loss) has befallen tliem, and 
 satisfy me on this point at your earhest convenience. 
 
 "If I recollect rightly, you told me that Mr. Gifford had 
 kindly undertaken to correct the press (at my request) 
 during my absence — at least 1 hope so. It will add to my 
 many obligations to that gentleman. 
 
 " I wTote to you, on my way here, a short note, dated 
 Martigny. Mr. Hobhouse and myself arrived here a few 
 days ago, by the Simplon and Lago Maggiore route. Of 
 course we \'isited the Borromean Islands, which are fine, 
 but too artificial. The Simplon is magnificent in its na- 
 ture and its art, — both God and man have done wonders, 
 — to say nothing of the Devil, who must certainly have 
 had a hand (or a hoof) in some of the rocks and ravines 
 through and over which the works are carried. 
 
 "Milan is striking — the cathedral superb. The city 
 altogether reminds me of Seville, but a little inferior. We 
 had heard divers bruits, and took precautions on the road, 
 near the frontier, against some 'many worthy fellows (i. e. 
 felons) that were out,' and had ransacked some pre- 
 ceding travellers, a few weeks ago, near Sesto, — or Cesto, 
 I forget which, — of cash and raiment, besides putting them 
 in bodily fear, and lodging about twenty slugs in the re^ 
 treating part of a courier belonging to INIr. Hope. But 
 we were not molested, and, I do not thinlc, in any danger, 
 except of maldng mistakes in tlie way of cocking and 
 priming whenever we saw an old house, or an ill-looking 
 thicket, and now and then suspecting the 'true men,' who 
 have very much the appearance of the thieves of other 
 countries. What the tliieves may look like, I know not, 
 nor desire to know, for it seems they come upon you in 
 bodies of thirty ('in buckram and Kendal green') at a time, 
 so tliat voyagers have no great chance. It is something 
 hke poor dear Turkey in that respect, but not so good, for 
 there you can have as great a body of rogues to match the 
 regular banditti ; but here the gens-d'armes are said to be 
 no great things, and as for one's own people, one can't carry 
 them about, like Robinson Crusoe, v.ith a gun on each 
 shoulder. 
 
 "I have been to the Ambrosian library — it is a fine 
 collection — full of MSS. edited and unedited. I enclose 
 you a list of the former recently published: these are mat- 
 ters for your hterati. For me, in my simple v.ay, I have 
 been most delighted mth a con-espondence of letters, all 
 original and amatory, between Lucretia Borgia and Car- 
 dinal Bembo, preserved there. I have pored over them and 
 a lock of her hair, the prettiest and fairest imaginable — I 
 never saw fairer — and shall go repeatedly to read the 
 epistles over and over ; and if I can obtain some of the hair 
 by fair means, I shall try. I have already persuaded the 
 librarian to promise me copies of the letters, and I hope he 
 will not disappoint me. They are short, but very simple, 
 sweet, and to the purpose; there are some copies of verses 
 in Spanish also by her; the tress of her hair is long, and as 
 I said before, beautiful. The Brera gallery of paintings 
 has some fine pictures, but notliing of a collection. Of 
 painting I know nothing ; but I like a Guercino — a picture 
 of Abraham putting away Hagar and Ishmael — which 
 seems to me natural and goodly. The Flemish school, 
 such as I saw it in Flanders, I utterly detested, despised, 
 and abhon-ed ; it might be painting, but it was not nature ; 
 the Italian is pleasing, and their ideal very noble. 
 
 " The ItaUans I have encountered here are very intelli- 
 gent and agreeable. In a few days I am to meet Monti. 
 By-the-way, I have just heard an anecdote of Beccaria, 
 who published such admirable things against the punish- 
 ment of death. As soon as his book was out, his servant 
 (having read it, I presume,) stole his watch; and his master, 
 
 13 
 
 whUe correcting the press of a second edition, did all he 
 could to have him hanged by way of advertisement. 
 
 "I forgot to mention tlie triumphal arch begun by Na- 
 poleon, as a gate to this city. It is unfinished, but the part 
 completed worthy of another age and the same country. 
 The society here is very oddly carried on, — at the theatre, 
 and the theatre only, — which ans\^•ers to our opera. People 
 meet there as at a rout, but m very small circles. From 
 Milan I shall go to Venice. If you %\Tite, write to Geneva, 
 as before — the letter will be forwarded. "Yours ever." 
 
 LETTER CCCVII. 
 
 TO MR. KXTRRAY. 
 
 "Milan, Nov. 1, 1816. 
 I have recently written to you rather frequently, but 
 without any late answer. Mr. Hobhouse and myself set 
 out for Venice in a few days ; but you had better still ad- 
 dress to me at Mr. Hentsch's, Banquier, Geneva; he will 
 for^vard your letters. 
 
 " I do not know whedier T mentioned to you, some time 
 ago. that I had parted vidth the Dr. Polidori a few weeks 
 previous to my Iea%nng Diodati. I know no great harm of 
 liim ; but he had an alacrity of getting into scrapes, and was 
 too young and heedless ; and having enough to attend to in 
 my own concei-ns, and witliout time to become his tutor, I 
 thouglit it much better to give him his conge. He arrived 
 at Milan some weeks before Mr. Hobhouse and myself. 
 About a week ago, in consequence of a quarrel at the 
 theatre with an Austrian officer, in which he was exceed- 
 ingly in the A\Tong, he has contrived to get sent out of the 
 territory, and is gone to Florence. I was not present, the 
 pit having been the scene of altercation ; but on being sent 
 for from the Cavalier Breme's box, where I was quietly 
 staring at the ballet, I found the man of medicine begirt 
 vith grenadiers, arrested by the guard, conveyed into the 
 giiard-room, where there was much swearing in several 
 languages. They were going to keep him there for the 
 night ; but on my giving my name, and answering for his 
 apparition next morning, he was permitted egress. Next 
 day he had an order from the government to be gone in 
 twenty-four hours, and accordingly gone he is, some days 
 ago. Vie did what we could for him, but to no purpose ; 
 and indeed he brought it upon himself, as far as I could 
 learn, for I v.as not present at the squabble itself I beUeve 
 this is the real state of liis case ; and I tell it you because I 
 believe things sometimes reach you ui England m a false 
 or exaggerated fonn. We found Milan very polite and 
 hospitable, and have tlie same hopes of Verona and Venice. 
 I have filled my paper. "Ever yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCVm. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 " Verona, Nov. 6, 1816. 
 
 " MY DEAR MOORE, 
 
 "Your letter, written before my departure from England, 
 and addressed to me in London, only reached me recently. 
 Since that period, I have been over a portion of that part 
 of Europe which I had not already seen. About a month 
 since, I crossed the Alps from S^^■itzer]and to Milan, 
 which I left a few days ago, and am thus far on my way to 
 Venice, where I shaU probably winter. Yesterday I was 
 on tlie shores of die Benacus, with hhjluctibus etfremiiu. 
 Catullus's Sirmium has still its name and site, and is re- 
 membered for liis sake ; but the very heavy autumnal rains 
 and mists prevented our quitting our route (that is, Hob- 
 house and myself, who are at present voyaging together,) 
 as it was better not to see it at all than to a great disad- 
 vantage. 
 
 " I found on the Benacus the same tradition of a city 
 still viiible in calm weather below the waters, which you 
 have preserved of Lough Neagli, ' When the clear, cold 
 
98 
 
 LETTERS, I81G. 
 
 eve 's declining.' I do not know that it is authorized by 
 records ; but they tell you such a story, and say that tlie 
 city was swallowed up by an earthquake. We moved 
 to-day over the frontier to Verona, by a road suspected 
 of thieves — ' the wise convey it call,' — but without molesta- 
 tion. I shall remain here a day or two to gape at the 
 usual marvels — amphitheatre, paintings, and all that time- 
 tax of travel — though Catullus, Claudian, and Shakspeare 
 have done more for Verona than it ever did for itself. 
 They still pretend to show, 1 believe, the ' tomb of all the 
 Capulets' — we shall see. 
 
 "Among many things at Milan, one pleased me par- 
 ticularlv, viz. the con-espondence (in the prettiest love- 
 letters "in the world) of Lucretia Borgia with Cardinal 
 Bembo, (who, you say, made a very good cardinal,) and a 
 lock of her hair, and some Spanish verses of hers, — the 
 lock very fair and beautiful. I took one single hair of it 
 as a relic, and wished sorely to get a copy of one or two 
 of the letters ; but it is prohibited: il/ia^ I do n't mind ; but 
 it was impracticable ; and so I only got some of them by 
 heart. They are kept in the Ambrosian Library, which 
 I often visited to look them over — to the scandal of the 
 librarian, who wanted to enlighten me \\ith sundry valuable 
 MSS. classical, philosophical, and pious. But I stick to 
 the Pope's daughter, and wish myself a cardinal. 
 
 " I have seen the finest parts of Switzerland, the Rhine, 
 the Rhone, and the S\"\iss and Italian lakes ; for the beau- 
 ties of which I refer you to the Guide-book. The north of 
 Italy is tolerably free from the English; but the south 
 swarms with them, I am told. Madame de Stael I saw 
 frequently at Copet, wliich she renders remarkably plea- 
 sant. She has been particularly kind to me. I was for 
 some months her neighbour, in a country-house called 
 Diodati, which I had on the Lake of Geneva. My plans 
 are very uncertain ; but it is probable tliat you will see me 
 in England in the spring. I have some business there. 
 If you write to me, will you address to the care of Mons. 
 Hentsch, Banquier, Geneva, who receives and forwards my 
 letters. Remember me to Rogers, who wrote to me lately, 
 with a short account of your poem, which, I trust, is near 
 the light. He speaks of it most highly. 
 
 "My health is very endurable, except that I am subject 
 to casual giddiness and faintnesses, which is so Uke a fine 
 lady, that I am rather ashamed of the disorder. When I 
 sailed, I had a physician with me, whom, after some months 
 of patience, I found it expedient to part with, before I left 
 Geneva some time. On amving at INlilan, I found this 
 gentleman in very good society, where he prospered for 
 some weeks ; but, at length, at the theatre he quarrelled 
 with an Austrian officer, and was sent out by the govern- 
 ment in twenty-four hours. I was not present at his 
 squabble ; but on hearing that he was put under arrest, I 
 went and got him out of his confinement, but could not 
 prevent his being sent offj wMch, indeed, he partly deserved, 
 being quite in the %vrong, and ha\'ing begun a row for row's 
 sake. I had preceded the Austrian government some 
 weeks myselfj in giving him his conge from Geneva. He 
 is not a bad fellow, but very young and hotheaded, and 
 more Ukely to incur diseases than to cure them. Hobhouse 
 and myself found it useless to intercede for him. This 
 happened some time before we left Milan. He is gone to 
 Florence. 
 
 " At Milan I saw, and was visited by, Monti, the most 
 celebrated of the living Italian poets. He seems near 
 sixty; in face he is like the late Cooke the actor. His 
 frequent changes in politics have made him very unpopular 
 as a man. I saw many more of their literati; but none 
 whose names are well kno^\'n in England, except Acerbi. 
 I Uved much with the Italians, particularly with the Mar- 
 quis of Breme's family, who are very able and intelligent 
 men, especially the Abate. There was a famous impro- 
 visatorc who held forth while I was there. His fluency 
 astonished me; but although I understand Italian, and 
 ppeak it, (with more readiness than accuracy,) 1 could only 
 
 carry off a few very commonplace mythological images, 
 and one line about Artemisia, and another about Algiers, 
 with SLxty words of an entire tragedy about Etiocles and 
 Polynices. Some of the Italians liked him — otliers called 
 his performance ' seccatura' (a devilish good word, by-the- 
 ^vay) — and all Milan was in controversy about him. 
 
 " The state of morals in these parts is in some sort lax. 
 A mother and son were pointed out at the theatre, as being 
 pronounced by the Milanese world to be of the Theban 
 djmasty — but this was all. The narrator (one of the first 
 men in Milan) seemed to be not sufficiently scandalized by 
 the taste or the tie. All society in Milan is carried on at 
 the opera: they have private boxes, where diey play at 
 cards, or talk, or any thing else ; but (except at the Cas- 
 sino) there are no open houses, or balls, &c. &c. * * 
 *** + + ** + *♦ 
 *** + +. 
 
 "The peasant girls have all very fine dark eyes, and 
 many of them are beautiful. There are also two dead 
 bodies in fine preservation — one Saint Carlo Boromeo, at 
 IXIilan ; the other not a saint, but a chiefj named Visccwiti, 
 at Monza — ^both of which appeared very agreeable. In 
 one of the Boromean isles, (the Isola bella,) there is a large 
 laurel — the largest known — on which Buonaparte, staying 
 there just before the battle of Marengo, carved with his : 
 knife the word 'Battaglia.' I saw the letters, now half 
 worn out and partly erased. 
 
 " Excuse this tedious letter. To be tiresome is the pri- 
 vilege of old age and absence : I avail myself of the latter, 
 and the former I have anticipated. If I do not speak to 
 you of my o\vn affairs, it is not from want of confidence, 
 but to spare you and myself. My day is over — what then'' 
 — I have had it. To be sure, I have shortened it;* and if 
 I had done as much by this letter, it would have been as 
 well. But you will forgive that, if not the other faults of 
 "Yours, ever and most affectionately, "B. 
 «P. S. Nov. 7, 1816. 
 
 " I have been over Verona. The amphitheatre is won- 
 derful — beats even Greece. Of the truth of JuUet's story, 
 they seem tenacious to a degree, insisting on the fact — 
 giving a date, (1303,) and showing a tomb. It is a plain, 
 open, and partly decayed sarcophagus, with wthered leaves 
 in it, in a wild and desolate conventual garden, once a 
 cemetery, nov*' ruined to the very graves. The situation 
 struck me as very appropriate to the legend, being blighted 
 as their love. I have brought away a few pieces of the 
 granite, to give to my daughter and my nieces. Of the 
 other marvels of this city, paintings, antiquities, &c. except- 
 ing tlie tombs of the Scaliger princes, I have no pretensions 
 to judge. The G othic monuments of the ScaUgers pleased 
 me, but ' a poor virtuoso am 1,' and "Ever yours." 
 
 LETTER CCCIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Venice, Nov. 17, 1816. 
 " I wrote to you from Verona the other day in my pro- 
 gress hither, which letter I hope you will receive. Some 
 three years ago, or it may be more, I recollect your telling 
 me that you had received a letter from our friend Sam, 
 dated 'On board his gondola.' My gondola is, at this 
 present, waiting for me on the canal ; but I prefer writing 
 to you in the house, it being autumn — and rather an 
 English autumn than otherwise. It is my intention to 
 remain at Venice during the winter, probably, as it has 
 always been (next to the East) the greenest island of my 
 imagination. It has not disappointed me ; though its evi- 
 dent decay would, perhaps, have that effect upon others. 
 But I have been familiar vAth. ruins too long to dislike 
 desolation. Besides, I have fallen in love, which, next to 
 falling into tlie canal, (which would be of no use, as I can 
 
 ' See Don Juan, Canto I. stanza 213, &c 
 
LETTERS, 
 
 1816. 
 
 99 
 
 swim,) is the best or the worst thing I could do. I have 
 got some extremely good apartments in the house of a 
 'Merchant of Venice,' who is a good deal occupied with 
 business, and has a wife m her twenty-second year. Ma- 
 rianna (that is her name) is in her appearance altogether 
 like an antelope- She has the large, black, oriental eyes 
 with that peculiar expression in them which is seen rarely 
 among Europeans— Gy en the Italians — and which many 
 of the Turkish women give themselves by tinging the eye^ 
 lid, — an art not known out of that country, I believe. This 
 expression she has naturally^ — and somediing more than 
 this. In short, I carmot describe the effect of this kind of 
 eye, — at least upon me. Her features are regular, and 
 rather aquiline — mouth small — skin clear and soft, rath a 
 kind of hectic colour — forehead remarkably good: her hair 
 is of the dark gloss, curl, and colour of Lady Jersey's : her 
 figure is light and pretty, and she is a famous songstress — 
 scientifically so: her natural voice (in conversation, I 
 mean) is very sweet ; and the naivete of the Venetian dia- 
 lect is always pleasing in the mouth of a woman. 
 
 «Nov. 23. 
 "You will perceive that my description, which was pro- 
 ceeding with the minuteness of a passport, has been inter- 
 rupted for several days. In the mean time, * * 
 ****** 
 
 "Dec. 5. 
 " Since my former dates, I do not know that I have much 
 to add on the subject, and, luckily, nothing to take away; 
 for I am more pleasexi than ever with my Venetian, and 
 begin to feel very serious on that point — so much so, that I 
 shall be silent. 
 
 ***** 
 
 "By way of divertisement, I am studying daily, at an 
 Armenian monastery, the Armenian language. I found 
 that my mind wanted something craggy to break upon ; and 
 this — as the most difficult thuig I could discover here for 
 an amusement — I have chosen, to torture me into atten- 
 tion. It is a rich language, however, and would amply 
 repay any one the trouble of learning it. I try, and shall 
 go on ; but I answer for nothing, least of all for my intentions 
 or my success. There are some very curious MSS. in 
 the monastery, as well as books ; translations also from 
 Greek originals, now lost, and from Persian and Syriac, 
 &c.; besides works of their outi people. Four years ago 
 the French instituted an Armenian professorship. Twenty 
 pupils presented themselves on JNlonday morning, full ci" 
 noble ardour, ingenuous youth, and impregnable industrj'. 
 They persevered, with a courage Viorthy of the nation and 
 of universal conquest, till Thursday : when fifteen of the 
 IweMy succumbed to the sLx- and- twentieth letter of the 
 alphabet. It is, to be sure, a Waterloo of an alphabet — 
 tliat must be said for them. But it is so lil^e these fellows, 
 to do by it as they did by their sovereigns — abandon both ; 
 to parody tlie old rhymes, ^Take a thing and give a thing' 
 — 'Take a I^ng and give a King.' They are the worst 
 of animals, except their conquerors. 
 
 " I hear tliat Hodgson is your neighbour, having a li^-i^g 
 in Derbyshire. You wiU find him an exceUent-hearted 
 fellow, as well as one of the cleverest; a little, perhaps, too 
 m.uch japanned by preferment in the church and the tuition 
 of youth, as well as inoculated rath the disease ci" domestic 
 felicity, besides being overrun with fine feelings about 
 woman and comtancy, (that small change of Love, wliich 
 people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and 
 repay in baser metal;) but, other^vise, a very worthy man, 
 who has lately got a pretty wife, and (I suppose) a child 
 by this time. Pray remember me to him, and say tliat I 
 know not which to envy most — ^his neighbourhood, him, or 
 you. 
 
 "Of Venice I shall say littie. You must have seen 
 many descriptions; and they are most of them like. It is 
 a poetical place ; and classicalj to us, from Shakspeare and 
 
 Otway.* I have not yet sinned against it in verse, nor do 
 I know that I shall do so, having been tuneless since I 
 crossed the Alps, and feeling, as yet, no renewal of the 
 ' estro.' By-the-way, I suppose you have seen 'Glenarvon.' 
 Madame de Stael lent it me to read from Copet last 
 autumn. It seems to me, that if the authoress had ratten 
 the tilth, and nothing but the truth — the whole ti-udi — the 
 romance would not only have been more romantic, but more 
 entertainbg. As for the Hkeness, the picture can't be good 
 — I did not sit long enough. When you have leisure, let 
 me hear from and of you, belie\Tng me ever and truly your^ 
 most affectionately, "B. 
 
 °P. S. Oh! your Poem — is it out? I hope Longman 
 has paid his thousands : but do n't you do as Horace Twiss' 
 father did, who, having made money by a quarto tour, 
 became a \inegar merchant ; when, lo ! his vinegar turned 
 sweet (and be d — d to it) and ruined him. My last letter 
 to you (from Verona) was enclosed to Murray — have you 
 got it ? Direct to me here, paste restante. There are no 
 EngUsh here at present. There were several in Switzer- 
 land — some women ; but, except Lady Dalr}Tnple Hamil- 
 ton, most of them as ugly as virtue — at least, those that I 
 saw." 
 
 LETTER CCCX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Venice, Dec. 24, 1816. 
 
 " I have taken a fit of writing to you, which portends 
 postage — once from Verona — once from Venice, and attain 
 from Venice — thrice that is. For this you may thank 
 yourself] for I heard that you complained of my silence — 
 so, here goes for garrulity. 
 
 "I trust that you received my other t%vain of letters. My 
 
 ay of life' (or ' May of hfe,' which is it, according to the 
 commentators?) — my 'way of life' is fallen into great 
 regularity. In the mornings I go over in my gondola to 
 hobble Armenian with the friars of the convent of St. 
 Lazarus, and to help one of them in correcting the English 
 of an English and Armenian grammar which he is publish- 
 ing. In the evenings I do one of many nothings — either 
 at tlie theatres, or some of the conversaziones, which are 
 Kke our routs, or ratlier worse, for the women sit in a semi- 
 circle by the lady of the mansion, and die men stand about 
 the room. To be sure, there is one improvement upon ours 
 — instead of lemonade with tiieirices. tliey hand about stiff 
 rum-pvnch — punch, by my palate; and this they thinlj: 
 English. I would not disabuse diem of so agreeable aa 
 error, — ^no, not for Venice.' 
 
 Last night I was at the Count Gw^ernor's, which, of 
 course, comprises the best society, and is very much like 
 otlier gregarious meetings in eveiy country, — as in ou)-s, — 
 except that, instead of the bishop of Winchester, you have 
 the patriarch of Venice ; and a modey crew of Austrians. 
 Germans, noble Venetians, foreigners, and, if you see a 
 quiz, you may be sure he is a consul. Oh, by-the-way, I 
 forcrot, when I ^vrote from Verona, to tell you that at Milan 
 I met rath a countryman of yours — a Colonel * * * *, a 
 very excellent, good-natured fellow, who knows and shows 
 all about iNlilan, and is, as it were, a native there. He is 
 particularly ci\Tl to strangers, and tiiis is his history, — at 
 least, an episode of it. 
 
 " Six-and-twent)' years ago Col. * * * *, then an ensign, 
 being in Italy, fell in love rath the Marchesa * * * *, and 
 slie widi him. The lady must be, at least, twenty years 
 his senior. The war broke out ; he returned to England^ 
 to serve — not his country, for that's Ireland — but England, 
 \Ahich is a different thing ; and she — heaven knows what 
 she did. In the year 1814, the first annunciation of the 
 definitive treaty of peace (and t}Tanny) was developed to 
 tlie astonished Milanese by the arrival of Col. * * * * 
 who, flinging himself full length at the feet of Madame 
 
 ■ SeeChiide Harold, Canto lY. stanza 4 and 18, 
 
 1t^ 
 
100 
 
 LETTERS, 13]( 
 
 * * * *, murmured forth, in half-forgotten Irish Italian, 
 eternal vows of indelible constancy. The lady screamed 
 and exclaimed, 'Who are you?' The Colonel cried, 
 •What, do n't you know me ? I am so and so,' &c. &c. &c.; 
 till, at length, the Marchesa, mounting from reminiscence 
 to reminiscence, through the lovers of the intermediate 
 twenty-five years, arrived at last at tlie recollection of her 
 ^overo sub-lieutenant. She then said, 'Was there ever 
 such i-irtue?' (that was her very word,) and, being now a 
 widow, gave him apartments in her palace, reinstated him 
 in all the rights of wrong, and held him up to the admiring 
 world as a miracle of incontinent fidelity, and the unshaken 
 Abdiel of absence. 
 
 "Methinks this is as pretty a moral tale as any of Mar- 
 montel's. Here is another. The same lady, several years 
 ago, made an escapade with a Swede, Count Fersen, (the 
 same whom the Stockholm mob quartered and lapidated 
 not very long since,) and they arrived at an osteria on the 
 road to Rome or thereabouts. It was a summer evening, 
 and, while tliey were at supper, they were suddenly regaled 
 by a svmphony of fiddles in an adjacent apartment, so 
 prettily" played, tliat, wishing to hear tliem more distinctly, 
 the Count rose, and going into the musical society, said, 
 ♦Gentlemen, I am sure that, as a company of gallant cava- 
 liers, you will be delighted to show your skill to a lady, who 
 feels anxious,' &c. &c. The men of harmony were all 
 acquiescence — every instrument was tuned and toned, and, 
 strikinc up one of their most ambrosial airs, the whole 
 band followed the Count to the lady's apartment. At their 
 head was the first fiddler, who, bowing and fiddling at the 
 same moment, headed his troop and advanced up the room. 
 Death and discord I — it was the Marquis himself, who was 
 on a serenading party in the country, while his spouse had 
 run away from town. The rest may be imagined — but, 
 first of all, the lady tried to persuade him that she was there 
 on purpose to meet him, and had chosen this method for 
 an harmonic surprise. So much for this gossip, which 
 amused me when I heard it, and I send it to you, in the 
 hope it may have the like effect. Now we 'U retui-n to 
 Venice. 
 
 " The day after to-morrow (to-morrow being Christmas- 
 day) the Carnival begins. I dine with the Countess 
 Albrizzi and a party, and go to the opera.* On that day 
 che Phenix (not the Insurance Office but the theatre of 
 that name) opens: I have got me a box there for the 
 season, for two reasons, one of which is, that the music is 
 remarkably good. The Contessa Albrizzi, of whom I 
 have made mention, is the De Stael of Venice, not young, 
 but a very learned, unaffected, good-natured woman, very 
 polite to strangers, and, I believe, not at all dissolute, as 
 most of the women are. She has written very v.ell on the 
 works of Canova, and also a volume of Characters, besides 
 other printed matter. She is of Corfu, but married a dead 
 Venetian — that is, dead since he married. 
 
 "My flame (my 'Donna' whom I spoke of in my former 
 epistle, my Marianna) is still my Marianna, and I her — 
 what she pleases. She is by far the prettiest woman I 
 have seen here, and the most loveable I have met with any 
 where — as well as one of the most singular. I beUeve I 
 told you the rise and progress of our liaison in my former 
 letter. Lest that should not have reached you, I will 
 merely repeat that she is a Venetian, two-and-twenty 
 years old, married to a merchant well to do in the world, 
 and that she has great black oriental eyes, and all the 
 qualities which her eyes promise. Whether being in love 
 with her has steeled me or not, I do not know ; but I have 
 not seen many other women who seem pretty. The no- 
 bility, in particular, are a sad-looking race — the gentry 
 rather better. And now, what art thou doing ? 
 
 " What are you doing now, 
 
 Oh, Thomas Moore? 
 
 What are you doing now, 
 
 Oh, Thomas Moore? 
 
 Sighing or suing now, 
 Rhyming or wooing now. 
 Billing or cooing now, 
 Which, Thomas Moore? 
 
 Are you not near tlie Luddites ? By the Lord ! if there 's 
 a row, but I '11 be among ye ! How go on the weavers — 
 the breakers of frames— the Lutherans of politics— the 
 reformers? 
 
 1. 
 «' ^s the liberty lads o'er the sea 
 Bought llieir tVeedom, and cheaply, with blood, 
 So we, l)oys, we 
 Will die fighting, or live free. 
 And down with all kings but king Ludd I 
 
 •' When the web that we weave is complete, 
 And the shuttle exchanged for the sword, 
 
 We will fling the winding-sheet 
 
 O 'er the despot at our feet, 
 And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd. 
 
 " Though black as his heart its hue, 
 Since his veins are corrupted to mud. 
 
 Yet this is the dew 
 ■^'S'hich the tree shall renew 
 Of liberty, planted by Ludd I 
 
 There 's an amiable chanson for you — all impromptu. I 
 have written it principally to shock your neighbour Hodg- 
 son, who is all clergy and loyalty — mirth and innocence — ■ 
 millc and water. 
 
 " But the Carnival 's coming. 
 
 Oh, Thomas Moore, 
 The Carnival 's coming. 
 
 Oh, Thomas Moore, , 
 
 Masking and humming, 
 Fifing and drumming, 
 Guitarring and strumming, 
 
 Oh, Thomas Moore. 
 
 The other night I saw a new play, — and the author. The 
 subject was the sacrifice of Isaac. The play succeeded, 
 and they called for the author — according to continental 
 custom — and he presented himself, a noble Venetian, 
 Mali, or Malapiero, by name. Mala was his name, and 
 pessima his production, — at least, I tliought so, and I ought 
 to know, having read more or less of five hundred Drury- 
 lane offerings, during my coadjutorship with the sub-and- 
 super Committee. 
 
 " When does your Poem of Poems come out ? I hear 
 that the Edinburgh Review has cut up Coleridge's Chris- 
 tabel, and declared against me for praising it.* I praised 
 it, firstly, because I thought well of it ; secondly, because 
 Coleridge was in great distress, and, after doing what little 
 I could for him in essentials, I thought that the public 
 avowal of my good opinion might help him farther, at least 
 with the booksellers. I am very sorry tliat Jeffrey has 
 attacked him, because, poor fellow, it will hurt him in mind 
 and pocket. As for me, he 's w^elcome — I shall never think 
 less of Jeffrey for any thing he may say against me or mine 
 in future.f 
 
 " I suppose Murray has sent you, or will send (for I do 
 not know whetlier they are out or no,) the poem, or poesies 
 of mine, of last summer. By the mass ! they 're subhme — 
 'Ganion Coheriza' — gainsay who dares! Pray, let me 
 hear from you, and of you, and, at least, let me know that 
 you have received these three letters. Direct, right here, 
 paste rcstante. « Ever and ever, &c. 
 
 "P. S. I heard the other day of a pretty trick of a book- 
 seller, who has published some d — d nonsense, swearinc 
 the bastards to me, and saying he gave me five hundred 
 guineas for them. He lies — I never wrote such stuff; never 
 saw the poems, nor the publisher of them, in my fife, nor 
 had any communication, directly or indirectlj', with the 
 fellow. Pray say as much for me, if need be. I have 
 written to Murray, to make liim contradict the impostor. 
 
 See Letter 127. 
 
 I 
 
 • See Note 6 to the ' Siese of Corinth.' 
 t See Don Juan, Canto 10, stanza 16. 
 
 I 
 
LETTERS, 1816. 
 
 101 
 
 LETTER CCCXL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Venice,Nov. 25, 1816. 
 
 "It is some months since I have heard from or of you — 
 I think, not since I left Diodati. From Milan I wrote 
 once or twice ; but have been here some little time, arid 
 intend to pass the winter without removing. I was much 
 pleased with the Lago di Garda, and with Verona, par- 
 ticularly the amphitheatre, and a sarcophagus in a convent 
 garden, which they show as Juliet's : they insist on the truth 
 of her history. Since my arrival at Venice, the lady of 
 the Austrian governor told me that between Verona and 
 Vicenza there are still ruins of the castle of the Montecchi, 
 and a chapel once appertaining to the Capulets. Romeo 
 seems to have been of Vicenza, by the tradition ; but I was 
 a good deal surprised to find so firm a faith in Bandello's 
 novel, which seems really to have been founded on a fact. 
 
 "Venice pleases me as much as I expected, and 1 
 expected much. It is one of those places which I know 
 before I see them, and has always haunted me the most 
 after the East. I like the gloomy gayety of their gondolas, 
 and the silence of their canals. I do not even dislike the 
 evident decay of the city, though I regret the singularity of 
 its vanished costume: however, there is much left still; the 
 Carnival, uoo, is coming. 
 
 "St. Mark's, and indeed Venice, is most alive at night. 
 The theatres are not open till nine, and the society is pro- 
 portionably late. All this is to my taste, but most of your 
 countrymen miss and regret the rattle of hackney coaches, 
 without which they can 't sleep. 
 
 "I have got remarkably good apartments in a private 
 house ; I see something of the inhabitants, (having had a 
 good many letters to some of them ;) I have got my gon- 
 dola; I read a Uttle, and luckily could speak Itahan (more 
 fluently than correctly) long ago. I am studying, out of 
 curiosity, the Venetian dialect, which is very naVve, and 
 soft, and peculiar, though not at all classical; I go out fre- 
 quently, and am in very good contentment. 
 
 " The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house 
 of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi, whom I know,) is, 
 without exception, to my niind, the most perfectly beautiful 
 of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human 
 execution. 
 
 ' In this beloved marble view,' &c.* 
 
 Talldng of the 'heart' reminds me that I have fallen in love, 
 which, except falling into tlie canal, (and that would be 
 useless, as I swim,) is the best (or worst) thing I could do. 
 I am therefore in love — fathomless love; but lest you 
 should make some splendid mistake, and envy me the 
 possession of some of those princesses or countesses with 
 whose affections your English voyagers are apt to invest 
 themselves, I beg leave to tell you that my goddess is only 
 the wife of a ' Merchant of Venice ;' but then she is pretty 
 as an antelope, Is but two-and-twenty years old, has the 
 large, black, oriental eyes, with the Italian countenance, 
 and dark glossy hair, of the curl and colour of Lady Jer- 
 sey's. Then she has the voice of a lute, and the song of a 
 seraph, (though not quite so sacred,) besides a long post- 
 script of graces, virtues, and accompUshments, enough to 
 furnish out a new chapter for Solomon's Song. But her 
 great merit is finding out mine — there is nothing so amiable 
 as discernment. Our little arrangement is completed, the 
 usual oaths having been taken, and every thing fulfilled 
 according to the 'understood relations' of such liaisons. 
 
 "The general race of women appear to be handsome; 
 but in Italy, as on almost all the continent, the highest 
 orders are by no means a well-looking generation, and 
 indeed reckoned by their countrymen very much otherwise. 
 Some are exceptions, but most of them as ugly as Virtue 
 herself. 
 
 " If you write, address to me here, paste restante, as I 
 shall probably stay the winter over. I never see a news- 
 paper, and know nothing of England, except in a letter 
 now and then from my sister. Of the MS. sent you, I 
 know nothing, except that you have received it, and are to 
 publish it, &c. &c.; but when, where, and how, you leave 
 me to guess ; but it do n't much matter. 
 
 "I suppose you have a world of works passing through 
 your process for next year ? When does Moore's Poem 
 appear ? I sent a letter for him, addressed to your care, 
 the other day." 
 
 LETTER CCCXIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, Dec. 4, 1816. 
 
 "I have written to you so frequently of late, that you 
 will think me a bore ; as I think you a very impolite person 
 for not answering my letters from Switzerland, Milan, 
 Verona, and Venice. There are some things I wanted, 
 and want to know ; viz. whether Mr. Davies, of inaccurate 
 memory, had or had not delivered the MS. as delivered to 
 him ; because, if he has not, you will find that he will boun- 
 tifully bestow transcriptions on all the curious of his ac- 
 quaintance, in which case you may probably find your 
 publication anticipated by the 'Cambridge,' or other 
 Chronicles. In the next place — I forget what was next; 
 but, in the third place, I want to hear whether you have 
 yet published, or when you mean to do so, or why you have 
 not done so, because in your last (Sept. 20, — ^you may be 
 ashamed of the date,) you talked of this bemg done imme- 
 diately. 
 
 "From England I hear nothing, and know nothing of 
 any thing or any body. I have but one correspondent, 
 (except Mr. Kinnaird on business now and then,) and her 
 a female ; so that I know no more of your island, or city, 
 than the Italian version of the French papers chooses to 
 tell me, or the advertisements of Mr. Colburn tagged to 
 the end of your Q-uarterly Review for the year ago. I 
 wrote to you at some length last week, and have little to 
 add, except that I have begun, and am proceeding in, a 
 study of the Armenian language, which I acquire, as well 
 as I can, at the Armenian convent, where I go every day 
 to take lessons of a learned friar, and have gained some 
 singular and not useless information with regard to the 
 literature and customs of that oriental people. They have 
 an establishment here — a church and convent of ninety 
 monks, very learned and accomplished men, some of them. 
 They have also a press, and make great efforts for the 
 enhghtening of their nation. I find the language (which 
 is twin, the literal and the vulgar) difficult, but not in- 
 vincible (at least, I hope not.) I shall go on. I found it 
 necessary to twist my mind round some severe study, and 
 this, as being the hardest I could devise here, will be a file 
 for the serpent. 
 
 "I mean to remain here till the spring, so address to me 
 directly to Venice, posie restante. — Mr. Hobhouse, for the 
 present, is gone to Rome, with his biother. brother's wife, 
 and sister, who overtook him here; he returns in two 
 months. I should have gone too, but I fell in love, and 
 must stay that over. I should think that and the Armenian 
 alphabet will last the winter. The lady has, luckily for me, 
 been less obdurate than the language, or, between the two, 
 I should have lost my remains of sanity. By-the-way, 
 she is not an Armenian but a Venetian, as I believe I told 
 you in my last. As for Italian, I am fluent enough, even 
 in its Venetian modification, which is something like the 
 Somersetshire version of English; and as for the more 
 classical dialects, I had not forgot my former practice much 
 during my voyaging- "Yours, ever and truly. 
 
 ' See Poems, p. 484. 
 
 'B, 
 
 'P. S. Remember me to Mr. GifFord.' 
 
102 
 
 LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 LETTER CCCXIIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Venice,Dec. 9, 1816. 
 
 "In a letter from England, I am informed that a man 
 named Johnson has taken upon himself to publish some 
 poems called a ' Pilgrimage to Jerusalem, a Tempest, and 
 an Address to my Daughter,' &c. and to attribute them to 
 me, adding that he had paid five hundred gviineas for them. 
 The answer to this is short: / Tiever wrote such poems, never 
 received the sum he mentions, nor any other in the same 
 quarter, nor (as far as moral or mortal certainty can be 
 sure,) ever had, directly or indirectly, tlie slightest communi- 
 cation vnih Johnson in my life; not being aware that the 
 person existed till this intelligence gave me to understand 
 that there were such people. Nothing surprises me, or 
 tlus perhaps rwuld, and most things amuse me, or this 
 probably would not. With regard to myself, the man has 
 merely /led; that 's natural — liis betters have set him the 
 example : but with regard to you, his assertion may per- 
 haps injure you in your publications ; and I desire that it 
 may receive the most public and unqualified contradiction. 
 I do not know that there is any punishment for a thing of 
 this kind, and if there were, I should not feel disposed to 
 pursue this ingenious mountebank farther than w^as ne- 
 cessary for his confutation ; but thus far it may be neces- 
 sary to proceed. 
 
 " You will make what use you please of this letter ; and 
 Mr. Kinnaird, who has power to act for me in my absence, 
 will, I am sure, readily join you in any steps which it may 
 be proper to take with regard to the absurd falsehood of 
 this poor creature. As you will have recently received 
 several letters from me on my way to Venice, as well as 
 two written since my arrival, I ■will not at present trouble 
 you farther. " Ever, &c. 
 
 "P. S. Pray let me hear that you have received this 
 letter. Address to Venice, poste restante. 
 
 "To prevent the recurrence of similar fabrications, you 
 may state, that I consider myself responsible for no pub- 
 lication from the year 1812 up to the present date, which 
 is not from your press. I speak of course from that period, 
 because, previously, Cawthom and Ridge had both printed 
 compositions of miiae. ' A Pilgrimage to Jenasalem I' how^ 
 the devil should I write about Jeiiisalem, never having yet 
 been there? As for 'A Tem.pest,' it was not a tempest 
 when I left England, but a very fresh breeze: and as to an 
 'Address to little Ada,' (who, by-the-way, is a year old to- 
 morrow,) I never wrote a line about her, except in ' Fare- 
 well,' and the third Canto of Childe Harold." 
 
 LETTER CCCXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, Dec. 27, 1816. 
 
 "As the demon of silence seems to have possessed you, 
 I am determined to have my revenge in postage : this is 
 my sixth or seventh letter since summer and Switzerland. 
 My last was an injunction to contradict and consign to 
 confusion that Cheapside impostor, who (I heard by a 
 letter from your island) had thought proper to append my 
 name to his spurious poesy, of which I know nothing, nor 
 of his pretended purchase or copyright. I hope you have, 
 at least, received that letter. 
 
 " As the news of Venice must be very interesting to you, 
 I will regale you with it. 
 
 " Yesterda}', being the feast of St. Stephen, every mouth 
 was put in motion. There was nothing but fiddling and 
 playing on the virginals, and all kinds of conceits and diver- 
 tisements, on every canal of this aquatic city. I dined with 
 the Countess Albrizza and a Paduan and Venetian party, 
 and afterward went to the opera, at the Fenice theatre 
 (which opens for the Carnival on that day,) — the finest, 
 by-the-way, I have ever seen : it beats our theatres hollow 
 in beauty and scenery, and those of Milan and Brescia 
 
 bow before it. The opera and its sirens were much like 
 other operas and women, but the subject of the said opera 
 was sometliing edifying ; it turned — the plot and conduct 
 thereof— upon a fact narrated by Livy of a hundred and 
 fifty married ladies having poisoned a hundred and fifty 
 husbands in good old times. The bachelors of Rome be- 
 lieved this extraordinary mortality to be merely the com- 
 mon effect of matrimony or a pestilence ; but the surviving 
 Benedicts, being all seized with the colic, examined into 
 the matter, and found that ' their possets had been drugged ;' 
 the consequence of which was, much scandal and several 
 suits at law. This is really and truly the subject of the 
 musical piece at the Fenice ; and you can't conceive what 
 pretty th'mgs are sung and recitativoed about the horrenda 
 strage. The conclusion was a lady's head about to be 
 chopped off by a lictor, but (I am sorry to say) he left it 
 on, and she got up and sung a trio with the two Consuls, 
 the Senate in the back ground being chorus. The ballet 
 w-as distincaushed by nothing remarkable, except that the 
 principal she-dancer went into convulsions because she 
 was not applauded on her first appearance ; and the mana- 
 ger came fonvard to ask if there was ' ever a physician in 
 the theatre.' There was a Greek one in my box, whom I 
 wished very much to volunteer his services, being sure that 
 in this case these would have been the last convulsions 
 which would have troubled the ballarina ; but he would 
 not. The crowd was enormous, emd in coming out, having 
 a lady under my arm, I was obliged, in making way, aknost 
 to ' beat a Venetian, and traduce the state,' being com- 
 pelled to regale a person with an English punch in the 
 guts, which sent him as far back as the squeeze and the 
 passage would admit. He did not ask for another, but, 
 with great signs of disapprobation and dismay, appealed 
 to his compatriots, who laughed at him. 
 
 " I am going on with my Annenian studies in a morning 
 and assisting and stimulating in the English portion of an 
 English and Armenian grammar, now publishing at tlie 
 convent of St. Lazarus. 
 
 " The superior of the friars is a bishop, and a fine old 
 fellow, with the beard of a meteor. Father Paschal is 
 also a learned and pious soul. He was two years in 
 England. 
 
 "I am still dreadfully in love with the Adriatic lady 
 whom I spake of in a former letter (and 7iot in this — I add, 
 for fear of mistakes, for the only one mentioned in the first 
 part of this epistle is elderly and bookish, two things which 
 I have ceased to admire,) and love in this part of the 
 world is no sinecure. This is also the season when every 
 body make up their intrigues for the ensuing year, and cut 
 for partners for the next deal. 
 
 " And now, if you do 'nt write, I do 'nt know what I won't 
 say or do, nor what I will. Send me some news— good 
 news. 
 
 "Yours, very truly, &c. &c. &c. " B. 
 
 " P. S. Remember me to Mr. GiiTord, with all duty. 
 
 "I hear that the Edinburgh Review has cut up Cole- 
 ridge's Christabel, and me for praising it, which omen, I 
 think, bodes no great good to your forthcome or coming 
 Canto and Castle (of Chillon.) My run of luck within the 
 last year seems to have taken a turn every way ; but never 
 mind, I will bring myself through in the end — if not, I can 
 be but where I began. In the mean time, I am not dis- 
 pleased to be where I am — I mean at Venice. My Adri- 
 atic nymph is this moment here, and I must therefore re- 
 pose from this letter." 
 
 LETTER CCCXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, Jan. 2,1817. 
 " Your letter has arrived. Pray, in publishing the Third 
 Canto, have you omitted any passages? I hope not; and 
 indeed wrote to you on my way over the Alps to prevent 
 such an incident. Say in your next whether or not the 
 whole of the Canto (as sent to you) has been published. I 
 
LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 103 
 
 wrote to you again the other day (toi'ce, I think,) and shall 
 be glad to hear of the reception of those letters. 
 
 " To-day is the 2d of January. On this day three years 
 ago the Corsair's publication is dated, I think, in my letter 
 to Moore. On this day two years I married (' Whom the 
 Lord loveth he chasteneth,' — I sha'n't forget the day in a 
 hurry,) and it is odd enough that I tlais day received a 
 letter from you announcing the publication of Childe Harold, 
 &c. &c. on the day of the date of the ' Corsair ;' and I also 
 received one from my sister, written on the 10th of Decem- 
 ber, my daughter's birth-day (and relative chiefly to my 
 daughter,) and arriving on the day of the date of my mar- 
 riage, this present 2d of January, tlie month of my birth 
 and various other astrologous matters, which I have no 
 time to enumerate. 
 
 " By-the-way, you might as well write to Hentsch, my 
 Geneva beuiker, and inquire whether the two pacJcets con- 
 signed to his care were or were not delivered to Mr. St. 
 Aubyn, or if they are still in his keeping. One contains 
 papers, letters, and all the original MS.* of your Third 
 Canto, as first conceived; and the other some bones from 
 tlie field of Morat. Many thanks for your news, and the 
 good spirits in which your letter is written. 
 
 "Venice and I agree very well ; but I do not know that 
 I have any thing new- to say except of the last new opera, 
 which I sent in my late letter. The Carnival is commenc- 
 ing, and there is a good deal of fun here and there — 
 besides business ; for all the world are making up their 
 intrigues for the season, changing, or going on upon a re- 
 newed lease. I am very well off with Marianna, who is 
 not at all a person to tire me ; firstly, because I do not 
 tire of a woman personally, but because they are generally 
 bores in their disposition ; and, secondly, because she is 
 amiable, and has a tact which is not always the portion of 
 the fair creation; and, thirdly, she is very pretty; and, 
 fourthly, — but there is no occasion for farther specification. 
 * * * So far we have gone on very well; 
 as to the future, I never anticipate, — carpe diem — the past 
 at least is one's own, which is one reason for meiking sure 
 of the present. So much for my proper liaison. 
 
 "The general state of morals here is much the same as 
 in the Doges' time : a woman is virtuous (according to 
 the code) who limits herself to her husband and one lover; 
 those who have two, three, or more, are a little wild ; but 
 it is only those who are indiscriminately diffuse, and form 
 a low connexion, such as the Princess of Wales with her 
 courier (who, by-the-way, is made a Imight of Malta,) 
 who are considered as overstepping the modesty of mar- 
 riage. In Venice, the nobility have a trick of marrying with 
 dancers and singers; and, truth to say, the women of 
 their own order are by no means handsome ; but the gene- 
 ral race, the women of the second and other orders, the 
 wives of the merchants, and proprietors, and untitled gen- 
 try, are mostly bel' sangue, and it is wuth these that the 
 more amatory connexions are usually formed. There are 
 also instances of stupendous constancy. I knew a woman 
 of fifty who never had but one lover, who dying early, she 
 became devout, renouncing all but her husband. She 
 piques herself, as may be presumed, upon this miraculous 
 fidehty, talking of it occasionally with a species of mis- 
 placed morality, which is rather amusing. There is no 
 convincing a woman here that she is in the smallest degree 
 deviatjng from the rule of right or the fitness of thmgs in 
 having an amoroso. The great sin seems to lie in concealing 
 it, or having more than one, that is, unless such an exten- 
 sion of the prerogative is understood and approved of by 
 the prior claimant. In my case, I do not know that I had 
 any predecessor, and am pretty sure that there is no par- 
 ticipator ; and am inclined to think, from the youth of the 
 party, and from the frank, undisguised way in which every 
 body avows every tiling in this part of the world, when 
 there is any thing to avow, as well as from some other 
 
 See Childe Harold, Caato Third, Stanza 63, and note. 
 
 circumstances, such as the marriage being recent, &c. &c, 
 &c., that this is the premier pas. It does not much signify. 
 " In another sheet, I send you some sheets of a grammar, 
 Enghsh and Armenian, for the use of tlie Armenians, of 
 which I promoted, and indeed induced, the publication. 
 (It cost me but a thousand francs — French livres.) I still 
 pursue my lessons in the language without any rapid pro- 
 gress, but advancing a little daily. Padre Paschal, with 
 some little help from me, as translator of liis Italian into 
 English, is also proceeding in a MS. Grammar for the 
 English acquisition of Armenian, which will be printed also, 
 when finished. 
 
 " We want to know if there are any Armenian types 
 and letter-press in England, at Oxford, Cambridge, or else- 
 where ? You know, I suppose, that, many years ago, the 
 two Whistons published in England an original text of a 
 history of Armenia, with their own Latin translation? Do 
 those types still exist ? and where ? Pray inquire among 
 your learned acquaintance. 
 
 " When this Grammar (I mean the one now printing) 
 is done, will you have any objection to take forty or fifty 
 copies, which will not cost in all above five or ten guineas, 
 and try the curiosity of the learned with a sale of them ? 
 Say yes or no, as you like. I can assure you that they 
 have some very curious books and MSS., chiefly transla- 
 tions from Greek originals now lost. They are, besides, 
 a much-respected and learned community, and the study 
 of rheir language was taken up with great ardour by some 
 literary Frenchmen in Buonaparte's time. 
 
 I have not done a stitch of poetry since I left Switzer- 
 land, and have not at present the esiro upon me. The 
 truth is, that you are afraid of having a Fourth Canto be- 
 fore September, and of another copyright, but I have at 
 present no thoughts of resuming that poem, nor of begin- 
 ning any other. If I write, I think of trying prose, but I 
 dread introducing living people, or applications which might 
 be made to li\ing people. Perhaps one day or other I may 
 attempt some work of fancy in prose descriptive of Italian 
 manners and of human passions; but at present I am pre- 
 occupied. As for poesy, mine is the dream of the sleeping 
 passions; when they are awake, I cannot speak their lan- 
 guage, only in their somnambulism, and just now they are 
 not dormant. 
 
 "IfJMr. Gifford wants carte blanche as to the Siege of 
 Corinth, he has it, and may do as he likes with it. 
 
 "I sent you a letter contradictory of the Cheapside man 
 (who invented the story you speak of) the other day. My 
 best respects to Mr. Gifford, and such of my friends as 
 you may see at your house. I wish you all prosperity 
 and new year s gratulation, and am, 
 
 « Yours, &c» 
 
 LETTER CCCXVL 
 
 TO MR, MOORE. 
 
 "Venice, Jan. 28, 1817. 
 Your letter of the 8th is before me. The remedy for 
 your plethora is simple — abstinence. I was obliged to have 
 recourse to the like some years ago. I mean in point ofdiet, 
 and, with the exception of some convivial weeks and days 
 (it might be months now and then,) have kept to Pytha- 
 goras ever since. For all this, let me hear that you are 
 better. You must not indulge in ' filthy beer,' nor m porter, 
 nor eat suppers — the last are the devil to those who sw^al- 
 low dinner. 
 
 ***** 
 
 I am truly sorry to hear of your father's misfortune — 
 cruel at any time, but doubly cruelin advanced life. However, 
 you will, at least, have the satisfaction of doing your part 
 by him, and, depend upon it, it will not be in vain. Fortune, 
 to be sure, is a female, but not such a b— h as the rest 
 (always excepting your wife and my sister from such 
 sweeping terms;) for she generally has some justice in the 
 long run. I have no spite against her though, between 
 
104 
 
 LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 her and Nemesis, I have had some sore gauntlets to run — 
 but then I have done my best to deserve no better. But 
 to youi she is a good deal in arrear, and she will come 
 round — mind if she do n't: you have the vigour of life, of 
 independence, of talent, spirit, and character, all with you. 
 What you can do for yoiu-self] you have done and \\ ill do ; 
 and surely tliere are some others in the world v,'ho would 
 not be sorry to be of use, if you would allow them to be 
 useful, or at least attempt it. 
 
 "I think of being in England in the spring. If there is 
 a row, by the sceptre of King Ludd, but I '11 be one ; and 
 if there is none, and only a continuance of ' this meek, 
 piping time of peace,' I will take a cottage a hundred yards 
 to the south of your abode, and become your neighbour ; 
 and we will compose such canticles, and hold such dia- 
 logues, as shall be tlie terror of the limes, (including the 
 newspaper of that name,) and the wonder, and honour, and 
 praise of the Morning Chronicle and posterity. 
 
 " I rejoice to hear of your forthcoming in February — 
 though i tremble for the magnificence which you attribute 
 to the new Childe Harold. I am glad you like it; it is a 
 fine, indistinct piece of poetical desolation, and my favour- 
 ite. I was half mad during the time of its composition, 
 between metaphysics, mountains, lakes, love unextinguish- 
 able, thoughts unutterable, and the nightmare of my own 
 delinquencies. I should, many a good day, have blown my 
 brains out, but for the recollection that it would have given 
 pleasure to my mother-in-law ; and, even then, if I could 
 have been certain to haunt her, and fling the shattered 
 scalp of my sinciput and occiput in her frightful face — but 
 I won't dwell upon tliese trifling family matters. 
 
 * Venice is in the estro of her Carnival, and I have been 
 up these last two nights at the ridotto and the opera, and 
 all that Idnd of tiling. Now for an adventure. A few- 
 days ago a gondolier brought me a billet without a sub- 
 scription, intimating a wish on the par-t of the writer to 
 meet me either in gondola, or at the island of San Lazaro, 
 or. at a third rendezvous indicated in the note. 'I know 
 the country's disposition well,' — in Venice 'they do let 
 heaven see those tricks they dare not show,' &c. &c. ; so, 
 for all response, I said that neither of the three places 
 suited me ; but that I would either be at home at ten at 
 night alone, or be at the ridotto at midnight, where tiie 
 writer might meet me masked. At ten o'clock I was at 
 home and alone, (Marianna was gone with her husband to 
 a conversazione,) when the door of my apartment opened, 
 and in walked a well-looking and (for an Italian) bionda 
 girl of about nineteen, who informed me that she was mar- 
 ried to the brother of my amorosa, and wished to have some 
 conversation with me. I made a decent reply, and w^e 
 had some talk in Italian and Romaic, (her mother being a 
 Greek of Corfu;) v/hen, lo! m a very few minutes in 
 marches, to my very great astonishment, Marianna S * *, 
 in propria persona, and, after making a most polite curtsey 
 to her sister-in-law and tome, without a single word, seizes 
 her said sister-in-law by the hair, and bestows upon her 
 some sixteen slaps, which would have made your ear ache 
 only to hear their echo. I need not describe the screaming 
 which ensued. The luckless visiter took flight. I seized 
 Marianna, who, after several vain efforts to get away in 
 pursuit of the enemy, fairly went into fits in my arms ; and, 
 in spite of reasoning, eau de Cologne, vinegar, half a pint 
 of water, and God knows what other water besides, con- 
 tinued so till past midnight. 
 
 " After damning my servants for letting people in without 
 apprizing me, I found that Marianna in the morning had 
 seen her sister-in-law's gondoHer on the stairs ; and, sus- 
 pecting that his apparition boded her no good, had either 
 returned of her own accord, or been followed by her maids 
 or some other spy of her people to the conversazione, from 
 whence she returned to perpetrate this piece of pugilism. 
 I had seen fits before, and also some small scenery of the 
 same genus in and out of our island ; but this was not all. 
 After about an hour, in comes — who ? why, Signor S * *, 
 
 her lord and husband, and finds me witli his wife fainting 
 upon a sofa, and all the apparatus of confusion, dishevelled 
 hair, hats, liandkercliiefs, salts, smelling bottles — and the 
 lady as pale as ashes, vvithout sense or motion. His first 
 question was, ' What is all this ?' The lady could not reply 
 — so I did. I told him the explanation was the easiest 
 thing in the world ; but in die mean lime, it would be as 
 well to recover his wife— at least her senses. This came 
 about in due time of suspiration and respiration. 
 
 "You need not be alarmed— jealousy is not the order of 
 the day in Venice, and daggers are out of fashion, while 
 duels, on love matters, are unknown — at least, with the 
 husbands. But, for all this, it was an awkward affair ; and 
 though he must have known that I made love to Marianna, 
 yet I believe he was not, till that evening, aware of the 
 extent to which it had gone. It is very well known that 
 almost all the married women have a lover ; but it is usual 
 to keep up the forms, as in other nations. I did not, there- 
 fore, know what the devil to say. I could not out with the 
 truth, out of regard to her, and I did not choose to lie for 
 my sake ; — besides, the tiling told itself I thought the best 
 way would be to let her explain it as she chose, (a woman 
 being never at a loss — the Devil always sticks by them) — 
 only determining to protect and carry her offj in case of 
 any ferocity on the part of the Signor. 1 saw that he was 
 quite calm. She went to bed, and next day — how they 
 settled it, I Imow not, but settle it they did. Well — then 
 I had to explain to Marianna about this never to be suffi- 
 ciently confounded sister-in-law ; which I did by swearing 
 innocence, eternal constancy, &c. &c. + * * 
 ** + *** + *♦ 
 
 But the sister-in-IaWj very much discomposed with being 
 treated in such wise, has (not having her own shame 
 before her eyes,) told the affair to half Venice, and the 
 servants (who were summoned by tlie fight and the faint- 
 ing,) to the odier haE But here, nobody minds such trifles, 
 except to be amused by them. I do n't know whether you 
 will be so, but I have scrawled a long letter out of these 
 follies. "Believe me ever, &C.'' 
 
 LETTER CCCXVIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, Jan. 24, 1817. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "I have been requested by the Countess Albrizzi hero 
 to present her with ' the Works :' and wish you therefore 
 to send me a copy, that I may comply v.dth her requisition. 
 You may include the last published, of w hich I have seen 
 and know nothing, but from your letter of the 13th 6[ 
 December. 
 
 "Mrs. Leigh tells me that most of her friends prefer the 
 first two Cantos. I do not know whether this be the 
 general opinion or not, (it is not hers ;) but it is natural it 
 should be so. I, however, think differently, which is na- 
 tural also; but who is right, or who is wrong, is of very 
 little consequence. 
 
 "Dr. Polidori, as I hear from him by letter from Pisa, is 
 about to return to England, to go to the Brazils on a 
 medical speculation with the Danish consul. As you are 
 in the favour of the powers that be, could you not get hira 
 some letters of recommendation from some of your go- 
 vernment fiiends to some of the Portuguese settlers ? he 
 understands his profession well, and has no want of general 
 talents; his faults are the faults of a pardonable vanity and 
 youth. His remaining with me was out of the question : I 
 have enough to do to manage my own scrapes ; and as 
 precepts without example are not the most gracious homi- 
 lies, I thought it better to give him his conge : but I know 
 no great hann of him, and some good. He is clever and 
 accomplished ; knows his profession, by all accounts, well ; 
 and is honourable in his dealings, and not at all malevolent. 
 I think, with luck, he will turn out a useful member of 
 
LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 105 
 
 society, (from which he will lop the diseased members,) and 
 the College of Physicians. If you can be of any use to 
 him, or know any one who caoj pray be so, as he has his 
 fortune to make. He has kept a medical journal under the 
 eye of Vacccu, (the first surgeon on the continent) at Pisa; 
 Vacca has corrected it, and it must contain some valuable 
 hints or information on the practice of this country. If you 
 can aid him in publishing this also, by your influence with 
 your brethren, do; I do not ask you to publish it yourself, 
 because that sort of request is too personal and embarrass- 
 ing. He has also a tragedy, of which, having seen nothing, 
 I say nothing: but the very circumstance of his having 
 made these efforts (if they are only efforts,) at one-and- 
 twenty, is in his favour, and proves him to have good 
 dispositions for his own improvement. So if, in the way 
 of commendation or recommendation, you can aid his 
 objects with your government friends, I wish you would. 
 I should think some of your Admiralty Board nught be 
 likely to have it in their power." 
 
 LETTER CCC XVIII. 
 
 TO Ma. JVltTRRAY. 
 
 "Venice, Feb. 15, 1817. 
 
 " I have received your two letters, but not the parcel you 
 mention. As the Waterloo spoils are arrived, I will make 
 you a present of them, if you choose to accept of them \ 
 pray do. 
 
 "1 do not exactly understand from your letter what has 
 been omitted, or what not, in the publication ; but I shall 
 see probably some day or other. I could not attribute any 
 but a good motive to Mr. Gifibrd or yourself in such omis- 
 sion ; but as our politics are so very opposite, we should 
 probably differ as to the passages. However, if it is only 
 a rwte or notes, or a line or so, it cannot signify. You say 
 ^ Si poem;'' what poem? You can tell me in your next. 
 
 " Of Mr. Hobhouse's quarrel with the duarterly Review, 
 I know very Uttle except * *'s article itself, which was 
 certainly harsh enough: but I quite agree that it would 
 have been better not to answer — particularly after Mr. 
 W. W. who never more will trouble you, trouble you. I 
 have been uneasy, because Mr. H. told me that his letter 
 or preface was to be addressed to me. Now, he and I are 
 friends of many years ; I have many obligations to him, and 
 he none to me, which have not been cancelled and more 
 than repaid: but Mr. Gilford and I are friends also, and 
 he has moreover been Uterally so, through thick and thin, 
 in despite of difference of years, morals, habits, and even 
 politics ; and therefore T feel in a very awkward situation 
 between the two, Mr. Gifford and my friend Hobhouse, and 
 can only wish that they had no difference, or that such as 
 they have were accommodated. The Answer 1 have not 
 seen, for — it is odd enough for people so intimate — but Mr. 
 Hobhouse and I are very sparing of our literary confi- 
 dences. For example, the other day he wished to have a 
 MS. of the Third Canto to read over to his brother, &c. 
 which was refused ; — and I have never seen his journals, 
 nor he mine — (I only kept the short one of the mountains 
 for my sister) — nor do I think that hardly ever he or I saw 
 any of the other's productions previous to their publication. 
 
 "The article in the Edinburgh Review on Coleridge I 
 have not seen ; but whether I am attacked in it or not, or 
 in any other of the same journal, I shall never think ill of 
 Mr. Jeffrey on that account, nor forget that his conduct 
 towards me has been certainly most handsome during the 
 last four or more years. 
 
 " I forgot to mention to you that a kind of poem in dia- 
 logue* (in blank verse) or drama, from which 'The In- 
 cantation' is an extract, begun last summer in Switzerland, 
 is finished; it is in three acts; but of a very wild, meta- 
 physical, and inexplicable kind. Almost all the persons — 
 
 Manfred. 
 
 14 
 
 but two or three — are Spirits of the earth and air, or the 
 waters ; the scene is in the Alps ; the hero a kind of ma- 
 gician, vho is tormented by a species of remorse, the cause 
 of which is left half unexplained. He wanders about 
 invoking these Spirits, which appear to him, and are of no 
 use ; he at last goes to the very abode of the Evil Principle, 
 in propria persona, to evocate a ghost, which appears, and 
 gives him an ambiguous and disagreeable answer; and in 
 the third act he is found by his attendants dying in a tower 
 where he had studied his art. You may perceive by this 
 oudine that I have no great opinion of this piece of phan- 
 tasy ; but I have at least rendered it quite impossible for the 
 stage, for which my intercourse with Drury-lane has given 
 me the greatest contempt. 
 
 " I have not even copied it off, and feel too lazy at present 
 to attempt the whole ; but when 1 have, I will send it you, 
 and you may either throw it into the fire or not." 
 
 LETTER CCCXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAV. 
 
 "Venice, Feb. 25, 1817. 
 
 " I wrote to you the other day in answer to your letter; 
 at present, I would trouble you with a commission, if you 
 would be kind enough to undertake it. 
 
 "You perhaps know Mr. Love, the jeweller, of Old 
 Bond-street. — In 1813, when in the intention of returning 
 to Turkey, I purchased of him, and paid {ai-gent comptant) 
 about a dozen snuff-boxes, of more or less value, as presents 
 for some of my Mussulman acquaintance. These I have 
 now with me. The other day, having occasion to make 
 an alteration in the lid of one (to place a portrait in it,) it 
 has turned out to be silver-gilt instead of gold, for which 
 last it was sold and paid for. This was discovered by the 
 workman in trying it, before taking of!' the hinges and work- 
 ing upon the Ud. I have of course recalled and preserved 
 the box in statu quo. AVhat I wish you to do is, to see the 
 said Mr. Love, and inform him of this circumstance, add- 
 ing, from me, that I will take care he shall not have done 
 this with impunity. 
 
 " If there is no remedy in law, there is at least the equit- 
 able one of making known his guilt, — that is, his silver giltj 
 and be d — d to him. 
 
 " I shall carefully preserve all the purchases I made of 
 him on that occasion for my return, as the plague in Tur- 
 key is a barrier to travelling there at present, or rather the 
 endless quarantine which would be the consequence before 
 one could land in coming back. Pray state the matter to 
 him with due ferocity. 
 
 "I sent you the other day some extracts from a kmd of 
 Drama which I had begun in Switzerland and finished 
 here ; you will tell me if they are received. They were 
 only in a letter. I have not yet had energy to copy it out, 
 or I would send you the whole in different covers. 
 
 " The carnival closed this day last week. 
 
 "Mr. Hobhouse is still at Rome, I believe. I am at 
 present a little unweU ; — sitting up too late and some sub- 
 sidiary dissipations have lowered my blood a good deal ; 
 but I have at present the quiet and temperance of Lent 
 before me. " Believe me, &c." 
 
 " P. S. Remember me to Mr. Gifford. — I have not re- 
 ceived your parcel or parcels. — Look into ' Moore's (Dr. 
 Moore's) View of Italy' for me ; in one of the volumes you 
 will find an account of the Doge Valiere (it ought to be 
 Falieri) and his conspiracy, or the motives of it. Get it 
 transcribed for me, and send it in a letter to me soon. ] 
 want it, and cannot find so good an account of that business 
 here ; though the veiled patriot, and the place where he was 
 crowned, and afterward decapitated, still exist, and are 
 shown. I have searched all their histories ; but the policy 
 of the old aristocracy made their writers silent on his mo- 
 tives, which were a private grievance against one of the 
 patricians. 
 
106 
 
 LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 « 1 mean to write a tragedy on the subject, which ap- 
 pears to me very dramatic: an old man, jealous, and con- 
 spiring against the state, of ^Yhich he was the actually 
 reigning chief. The last circumstance makes it the most 
 remarkable and only fact of the kind in all history of all 
 nations." 
 
 LETTER CCCXX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 «Vemce,Feb. 28, 1817. 
 
 "Yon will, perhaps, complain as much of the frequency 
 of my letters now, as you were wont to do of their larity. 
 I think (liis is the fourth within as many moons. I feel 
 anxious to hear from you, even more than usual, because 
 your last indicated that you were unwell. At present, I 
 am on the invalid regimen myself. The Carnival— that is;, 
 the latter part of it — and sitting up late o' nights, had knocked 
 me up a little. But it is over, — and it is now Lent, with 
 all its abstinence and sacred music. 
 
 " The mumming closed vatli a masked ball at the Fenice, 
 where I went, as also to most of the ridottas, &c. &c. ; and, 
 though I did not dissipate mvich upon the whole, yet I find 
 ' the sword wearing out the scabbard,' though I have but 
 just turned the corner of twenty-nine. 
 
 " So we 'U go no more a roving 
 
 So late into the night, 
 Though the heart be still as loving, 
 
 Aiid the moon be still as bright. 
 For the sword outwears its sheath, 
 
 And the soul wears out the breast, 
 Ad<X the heart must pause to breathe, 
 
 And love itself hare rest. 
 Though the night was made for loving. 
 
 And the day returns too soon, 
 Yet we '11 go no more a roving 
 
 By the light of the moon. 
 
 I have lately had some news of litteratoor, as I heard the 
 editor of the IVIonthly pronounce it once upon a time. I 
 heard that W. W. has been publishing and responding to 
 the attacks of the duarterly, in the learned Perry's Chro- 
 nicle. 1 read his poesies last autumn, and, among tliem, 
 found an epitaph on his bull-dog, and another on myself. 
 But I beg leave to assure him (like the astrologer Partridge) 
 that I am not only alive now, but was alive also at the time 
 he wrote it, ' * * * * 
 
 ***** 
 Hobhouse has (I hear, also) expectorated a letter against 
 the (Quarterly, addressed to me. I feel avrkwardly situated 
 between him and GifTord, both being my friends. 
 
 "And this is your month of going to press — ^by the body 
 of Diana! (a Venetian oath,) I feel as anxious — but not 
 fearful for you — as if it were myself coming out in a work 
 of humour, which would, you know, be the antipodes of all 
 my previous pubUcations. I do n't think you have any rhing 
 to dread but your own reputation. You must keep up to 
 that. As you never showed me a line of your work, I do 
 not even know your measure ; but you must send me a 
 copy by Murray forthmth, and then you shall hear what 
 I think. I dare say you are in a pucker. Of all authors, 
 you are the only really modest one I ever met with, which 
 would sound oddly enough to those who recollect your 
 morals when you were young — that is, when you were 
 extremely young — I do n't mean to stigmatize you either 
 with years or morality. 
 
 " 1 believe I told you that the Edinburgh Review had 
 attacked me, in an article on Coleridge (I have not seen 
 It) — 'Et tu, Jeffrey T — ^^ there is nothing but roguery in vil- 
 lanous man.' — But 1 absolve him of all attacks, present and 
 future; for I think he had already pushed his clemency in 
 my behoof to the utmost, and I shall always think well of 
 him. I only wonder he did not begin before, as my domestic 
 destruction was a fine opening for all the world, of which 
 all, who could, did well to avail themselves. 
 
 "If I live ten years longer, you will see, however, that it 
 is not over with me — I do n't mean in literature, for that is 
 nodiing ; and it may seem odd enough to say, I do not 
 think it my vocation. But you wiU see that I shall do 
 something or other — the tunes and fortune permitting — 
 that 'like the cosmogony, or creation of the world, ^^^ll puz- 
 zle the philosophers of all ages.' But I doubt whether my 
 constitution will hold out. I have, at intervals, exorcised it 
 most devilishly. 
 
 I have not yet fixed a time of return, but I think of the 
 spring. 1 shall have been away a year in April next. You 
 never mention Rogers, nor Hodgson, your clerical neigh- 
 bour, who has lately got a living near you. Has he also 
 fot a child yet? — his desideratum v.hen I saw him last. 
 
 ° =1: * * * + * 
 
 " Pray let me hear from you, at your time and leisure, 
 believing me ever and truly and affectionately, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCXXL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Venice, March 3, 1817. 
 
 "In acknowledging the arrival of the article from the 
 ' Quarterly,'* which I received two days ago, I cannot ex- 
 press myself better than in the words of my sister Augusta, 
 who (speaking of it) says, that it is written in a spirit ' of 
 tlie most feeling and kind nature.' It is. however, some- 
 thing more : it seems to me (as far as die subject of it may 
 be permitted to judge) to be -very well written as a compo- 
 sition, and I think will do the journal no discredit, because 
 even those who condemn its partiality must praise its 
 generosity. The temptations to take another and a less 
 favourable view of the question have been so great and 
 numerous, that, what wih public opinion, politics, &c. he 
 must be a eallant as well as a good man, who has ventured 
 in that place, and at this time, to write such an article even 
 anonymously. Such things are, however, their own reward, 
 and I even flatter myself that the writer, whoever he may 
 be, (and I have no guess,) will not regret that the perusal 
 of this has given me as much gratification as any compo- 
 sition of that nature could give, and more than any other 
 iias given, — and I have had a good many in my time of 
 one kind or the other. It is not the mere praise, but there 
 is a tact and a delicacy throughout, not only with regard to 
 m.e, but to others, which, as it had not been observed else- 
 where, I had till now doubted whether it could be observed 
 any where. 
 
 " Perhaps some day or other you will know or tell me 
 the writer's name. Be assured, had the article been a 
 harsh one, I should not have asked it. 
 
 " I have lately written to you frequently, with extracts, 
 &c. which I hope you have received, or will receive, with 
 or before this letter. — Ever since the conclusion of the 
 Carnival I have been unwell, (do not mention this, on any 
 account, to Mrs. Leigh: for if I grow worse, she will know 
 it too soon, and if I get better, there is no occasion that 
 she should know it at all,) and have hardly stirred out of 
 the house. However, I do n't want a physician, and if I 
 did, very luckily those of Italy are the worst in the world, 
 so that I should still have a chance. They have, I believe, 
 one famous surgeon, Vacca, who lives at Pisa, who might 
 be useful in case of dissection : — but he is some hundred 
 miles off. My malady is a sort of louish fever, originating 
 from what my ' pastor and master,' Jackson, would call 
 'taking too much out of one's self.' However, I ambettci 
 within this day or two. 
 
 " I missed seeing the new Patriarch's procession to St- 
 Mark's the other day, (owing to my indisposition.) with 
 six hundred and fifty priests in his rear — a ' goodly army. 
 The admirable government of Vienna, in its edict from 
 
 * An article in number 31 of this Review, written, as Lord By^-on after 
 ward discovered, by Sir Walter Scott. 
 
LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 107 
 
 Aence, authorizing his installation, prescribed, as part of 
 the pageant, ' a coach and four horses.' To show how very 
 ' German to the matter' tliis was, you have only to suppose 
 our parliament commanding the Archbishop of Canterburv 
 to proceed from Hyde Park Comer to St. Pauls Cathe- 
 dral in the Lord Mayor's barge, or the Margate hoy. 
 There is but St. Mark's Place in all Venice broad enough 
 for a carnage to move, and it is paved with large smooth 
 flag stones, so that the chariot and horses of Elijah himself 
 VFOuld be puzzled to manoeuvre upon it. Those of Pharaoh 
 might do better; for the canals, — and particularly the 
 Grand Canal, are sufficiently capacious and extensive for 
 his whole host. Of course, no coach could be attempted ; 
 but the Venelians who are very naive as well as arcli, were 
 much amused with the ordinance. 
 
 " The Armenian Grammar is published ; but my Arme- 
 nian studies are suspended for the present till my head 
 aches a little less. I sent you the other day, in two covers, 
 the First Act of ' Manfred,' a drama as mad as Nat. Lee's 
 Bedlam tragedy, which was in 25 acts and some odd 
 scenes : — mine is but in Three Acts. 
 
 " 1 find 1 have begun this letter at the wrong end : never 
 mind ; I must end it, tlien, at the right. 
 
 * Yours ever very truly 
 
 " and obligcdly, &C.'' 
 
 LETTER CCCXXIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, March 9, 1817. 
 
 " In remitting the Third Act* of the sort of dramatic 
 poem of which you will by this time have received the first 
 two, (at least I hope so,) wliich were sent within the last 
 three weeks, I have little to observe, except that you must 
 not publish it (if it ever is published) without giving me pre- 
 vious notice, t have really and truly no notion whetiier it 
 is good or bad ; and as this was not the case with the prin- 
 cipal of my former publications, I am, therefore, inclined to 
 rank it very humbly. You will submit it to Mr. Giftbrd, 
 and to whomsoever you please besides. With regard to 
 the question of copjTight, (if it ever comes to publication,) 
 I do not know whether you would thbk three hundred 
 guineas an over-estimate; if you do, you may diminish it: 
 I do not think it worth more ; so you may see I make some 
 difference between it and the others. 
 
 "I have received your two Reviews, (but not the 'Tales 
 of My Landlord ;') the (Quarterly I acknowledged particu- 
 larly to you, on its arrival, ten days ago. What you tell 
 me of Perry petrifies me ; it is a rank imposition. In or 
 about February or March, 1816, 1 was given to understand 
 that Mr. Croker was not only a coadjutor in the attacks 
 of the Courier in 1814, but the author of some hues tole- 
 rably ferocious, then recently published in a morning paper. 
 Upon this I wrote a reprisal. The whole of the lines I 
 have forgotten, and even the purport of them I scarcely 
 remember; for on your assuring me that he was not, &c. 
 &c. I put them into the Jire before your face, and there 
 never toas but that one rough copy. Mr. Davies, the only 
 person who ever heard them read, wanted a copy, which I 
 refused. If, however, by some impossibility, which I cannot 
 divine, the ghost of these rhymes should walk into the 
 world, I never will deny what I have really written, but 
 hold myself personally responsible for satisfaction, though I 
 reserve to myself the right of disavowing all or any fabri- 
 cations. To the previous facts you are a witness, and best 
 know how far my recapitulation is correct ; and I request 
 that you will inform Mr. Perry from me, that I wonder he 
 should permit such an abuse of my name m his paper ; I 
 say an abuse, because my absence, at least, demands some 
 respect, and my presence and positive sanction could alone 
 justify him in such a proceeding, even were the lines mine ; 
 
 ' See Poems, p. 470. 
 
 and if false, there are no words for him. I repeat to you 
 that the original was burnt before you on your assurance, 
 and there never was a copy, nor even a verbal repetition, — 
 very much to the discomfort of some zealous AVhigs, who 
 bored me for them (having heard it bruited by Mr. Davies 
 that there were such matters) to no purpose; for, having 
 written them solely with the notion that Mr. Croker was 
 the aggressor, and for my otcn and not party reprisals, I 
 would not lend me to the zeal of any sect when I was made 
 a^\are that he was not the writer of the offensive passages. 
 You know, if there was such a thing, I would not deny it. 
 I mentioned it openly at the time to you, and you "will 
 remember why and where I destroyed it ; and no power 
 nor wheedling on earth should have made, or could make 
 me, (if] recollected them,) give a copy after that, unless I 
 was well assured that Mr. Croker was really the author of 
 that which you assured me he was not. 
 
 "I intend for England diis spring, where I have some 
 affairs to adjust ; but tlie post hurries me. For this month 
 past I have bc^n unv.-ell, but am getting better, and thinking 
 of mo\-ing homewards towards May, without going to 
 Rome, as the unheahhy season comes on soon, and 1 can 
 return when I have settled the business I go upon, v.hich 
 need not be long. * * * * x should have thought the Assy- 
 rian tales very succeed able. 
 
 "I saw, in Mr. W. W.'s poetry, that he had written my 
 epitaph ; I would raiiier have written his. 
 
 " The thing I have sent you, you will see at a glimpse, 
 could never be attempted or thought of for the stage ; I 
 much doubt it for publication even. It is too much in my 
 old style ; but I composed it actually with a horror of the 
 stage, and with a view to render the thought of it imprac- 
 ticable, knowing the zeal of my friends that I should try 
 that for which I have an invincible repugnance, viz. a re- 
 presentation. 
 
 "I certainly am a devil of a mannerist, and must leave 
 off; but what could I do? Without exertion of some kind, 
 I should have sunk under my imagination and reality. My 
 best respects to Mr. Gifford, to Walter Scott, ajid to all 
 friends. "Yours ever." 
 
 LETTER CCCXXm. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Venice, Ma-ch 10, 1817. 
 
 " I wrote again to you lately, but I hope you won't be 
 sorry to have another epistle. I have been unwell this last 
 month, with a kind of slow and low fever, which fixes upon 
 me at night, and goes off in the morning ; but, however, I 
 am now better. In spring it is probable we may meet; at 
 least I intend for England, where I have business, and 
 hope to meet you in your restored health and additional 
 laurels. 
 
 "Murray has sent me the duarterly and the Edinburgh. 
 When I tell you that Walter Scott is the author of the 
 article in the former, you will agree with me that such an 
 article is still more honourable to him than to myself. I 
 am perfectly pleased with Jeffrey's also, which I wish you 
 to tell him, with my remembrances — not that I suppose it 
 is of any consequence to him, or ever could have been, 
 whether I am pleased or not, — but simply in my private 
 relation to him, as his well-wisher, and it may be one day 
 as his acquaintance. I vv'ish you would also add, — what 
 you know, — that I was not, and, indeed, am not even now, 
 the misanthropical and gloomy gentleman he takes me for, 
 but a facetious companion, well to do with those with 
 whom I am intimate, and as loquacious and laughing as if 
 I were a much cleverer fellow. 
 
 " I suppose now I shall never be able to shake off my 
 sables in public imagination, more particularly since my 
 moral * * clove do\^■n my fame. However, nor that, nor 
 more than that, has yet extinguished my spirit, which 
 always rises with the rebound. 
 
108 
 
 LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 " At Venice we are in Lent, and I have not lately moved 
 out of doors,— my feverishness requiring quiet, and— by 
 way of being more quiet— here is the Signora Marianna 
 just come in and seated at my elbow. 
 
 "Have you seen * * *'s book of poesy? and, if you have 
 seen it, are you not delighted with it? And have you— I 
 really cannot go on. There is a pair of great black eyes 
 looking over my shoulder, Uke the angel leaning over St. 
 Matthew's, in the old frontispieces to the Evangelists,— so 
 that I must turn and answer them instead of you. 
 
 "Ever fee." 
 
 LETTER CCCXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Venice, IMarch 25, 1817. 
 
 « I have at last learned, in default of your own writing, 
 (or not WTiting— which should it be ? for I am not very 
 clear as to the application of the word default.) from INIur- 
 ray, two particulars of (are belonging to) you ; one, that 
 vou are removing to Hornsey, which is, I presume, to be 
 nearer London; and die otlier, that your Poem is an- 
 nounced by the name of Lalla Rookh. I am glad of it,— 
 first, that we are to have it at last, and next, I like a tough 
 title' my self— witness the Giaour and Childe Harold, which 
 choked half the Blues at starting. Besides, it is the tail of 
 Alcibiades's dog, — not that T suppose you want either dog 
 or tail. Talkirig of tail, I wish you had not called it a 
 'Persian Tale^ Say a 'Poem' or 'Romance,' but not 'Tale.' 
 I am very sorry that I called some of my own things 
 'Tales,' because I think that they are something better. 
 Besides, we have had Arabian, and Hindoo, and Turkish, 
 and Assyrian Tales. But after all, this is frivolous in me ; 
 you won't, however, mind my nonsense. 
 
 "Really and truly, I want you to make a great hit, if 
 only out of self-love, because we happen to be old cronies; 
 and I have no doubt you will— I am sure you can. But 
 you are, I '11 be sworn, in a devil of a pucker ; and Isiamt 
 at your elbow, and Rogers is. I envy him ; which is not 
 fair, because he does not env)' any body. Mind you send 
 to me— that is, make Murray send— the moment you are 
 forth. 
 
 « J have been very ill with, a slow fever, which at last 
 took to flying, and became as quick as need be. But, at 
 length, after'a week of half-delirium, burning skin, thirst, 
 hot headacli, horrible pulsation, and no sleep, by the blessing 
 erf" barley water, and refusing to see any physician, I reco- 
 vered. It is an epidemic of the place, which is annual and 
 visits strangers. Here follow some versicles, which I made 
 one sleepless night. 
 
 " I read the ' Christal«el ;' 
 
 Very well : 
 I read the ' Missiooary ;' 
 
 Pretty — very : 
 I tried at ' IKlerira ;' 
 
 Ahem ! 
 I read a sheet of ' Marg'ret ot Anjou;^ 
 
 Can you ? 
 I lurn'd a page of ' * "s Waterloo ;' 
 
 Pooh ! Pooh ! 
 I looked at Wordsworth's attillrwhlte « Bylstone Doe ;' 
 
 Hillo! 
 I read ' Glenanron' too, by * * * *, 
 
 God d— n !" 
 
 ****** 
 ****** 
 
 "I have not the least idea where I am going, nor what 1 
 am to do. I wished to have gone to Rome ; but at present 
 it is pestilent with English,— a parcel of staring boobies, 
 who go about gaping and wishing to be at once cheap and 
 magmficent. A man is a fool who travels now in France 
 or Italv, till tliis tribe of wretches is swept home again. 
 In two or three years the first rush will be over, and the 
 Continent will be roomy and agreeable. 
 
 "I staved at Venice chiefly because it is not one of their 
 
 'dens of thieves;' and here they but pause and pass. In 
 Switzerland it was really noxious. Luckily, I was early, 
 and had got the prettiest place on aU the Lake before they 
 were quickened into motion with the rest of reptiles. But 
 they crossed me every where. I met a family of children 
 and old women half way up the Wengen Alp (by the 
 Jungfrau) upon mules, some of them too old and others too 
 young to be the least aware of what they saw. 
 
 "By-the-way, I think the Jungfrau, and all that region 
 of Alps, which I traversed in September — going to the 
 very top of the Wengen, which is not the highest, (the 
 Jungfrau itself is inaccessible,) but the best pointof view— • 
 much finer than Mont Blanc and Chamouni, or the Sim- 
 plon. I kept a journal of die whole for my sister Augusta, 
 part of wMch she copied and let Murray see. 
 
 "1 wrote a sort of mad Drama, for the sake of intro- 
 ducing the Alpine scenery in description ; and this I sent 
 lately to Murray. Almost all the dram. pas. are spirits, 
 ghosts, or magicians, and the scene is in the Alps and the 
 other world ; so you may suppose what a bedlam tragedy 
 it must be: make him show it you. I sent him all three 
 acts piecemeal, by the post, and suppose they have arrived. 
 
 " I have now written to you at least six letters, or letter- 
 ets, and all I have received in return is a note about the 
 length you used to wTite from Bury-street to St. James's- 
 street, when we used to dine with Rogers, and talk laxly 
 and go to parties, and hear poor Sheridan now and then. 
 Do you remember one night he was so tipsy that I was 
 forced to put his cocked hat on for him, — for he could not, 
 — and I let him down at Brookes's, much as he must since 
 have been let down into his grave. Heigh ho ! I wish I 
 was drunk — but I have nothing but this d— d barley water 
 before me. 
 
 "I am still in love, — which is a dreadful drawback in 
 quitting a place, and I can't stay at Venice much longer. 
 What I shall do on this pobt I do n't know. The girl 
 means to go with me, but I do not like this for her ovrn 
 sake. I have had so many conflicts in my own mind on 
 tliis subject, that I am not at all sure they did not help me 
 to the fever I mentioned above. I am certainly very much 
 attached to her, and I have cause to be so, if you knew alL 
 But she has a child ; and though, like all the ' children of 
 the sun,' she consults nothing but passion, it is necessary 1 
 should think for both; and it is only the virtuous, like 
 * * * *, who can afford to give up husband and child, and 
 hve happy ever after. 
 
 " The itahan ethics are the most singular ever met with. 
 The perversion, not only of action, but of reasoning, is sin- 
 gular in tlie women. It is not that they do not consider 
 the thing itself as wrong, and very wrong, but Unx (the 
 sentiment of love) is not merely an excuse for it, but mjikes 
 it an actual virtue, provided it is disinterested, and not a 
 caprice, and is confined to one object. They have awful 
 notions of constancy ; for I have seen some ancient figures 
 of eighty pointed out as amorosi of forty, fifty, and sixty 
 years' standing. I can't say I have ever seen a husband 
 and wife so coupled. " Ever, &c. 
 
 "P. S. Marianna, to whom I have just translated what 
 I have wTitten on our subject to you, says — ' If you loved 
 me thoroughly, you would not make so many fine reflections, 
 which are only good forbirsi i scarpi,^ — that is, ' to clean 
 shoes withal,' — a Venetian proverb of appreciation, which 
 is applicable to reasoning of all kinds." 
 
 LETTER CCCXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 ''Venice,March 25,1817. 
 "Your letter and enclosure are safe; but 'English gen- 
 tlemen' are very rare — at least in Venice. I doubt whether 
 there are at present any save the consul and vice-consul, 
 with neither of whom I have the slightest acquaintance. 
 The moment I can pounce upon a witness, I wUl send the 
 
LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 109 
 
 deed properly signed : but must he necessarily be genteel ? 
 Venice is not a place where the English are gregarious ; 
 their pigeon-houses are Florence, Naples, Rome, &c. ; 
 and to tell you the truth, this was one reason why I stayed 
 here till the season of the purgation of Rome from these 
 people, which is infected with them at this time, should ar- 
 rive. Besides, I abhor the nation and the nation me ; it is 
 impossible for me to describe my own sensation on that 
 point, but it may suffice to say, that, if I met with any of 
 the race in the beautiful parts of Switzerland, the most 
 distant glimpse or aspect of them poisoned the whole 
 scene, and I do not choose to have the Pantheon, and St 
 Peter's, and the Capitol, spoiled for me too. This feeling 
 may be probably owing to recent events ; but it does not 
 exist the less, and while it exists, T shall conceal it as little 
 as any other. 
 
 " I have been seriously ill with a fever, but it is gone. I 
 believe or suppose it was the indigenous fever of the place, 
 which comes every year at this time, and of which the 
 physicians change the name annually, to despatch the peo- 
 ple sooner. It is a kind of typhus, and kills occasionally. It 
 was pretty smart, but nothing particular, and has left me 
 some debility and a great appetite. There are a good 
 many ill at present, I suppose of the same. 
 
 " I feel sorry for Horner, if there was any thing in the 
 A^orld to make him lilce it ; and still more sorry for his 
 friends, as there was much to make them regret him. I 
 had not heard of his death till by your letter. 
 
 " Some weeks ago I wrote to you my acknowledgments 
 of Walter Scott's article. Now I know it to be his, it can- 
 not add to my good opinion of him, but it adds to that of 
 myself. He, and Gifford, and Moore are the only regulars 
 I ever knew who had nothing of the garrison about their 
 manner: no nonsense, nor aiTectations, look you ! As for 
 the rest whom I have known, there was always more or 
 less of the author about them — the pen peeping from be- 
 hind the ear, and the thumbs a littie inky or so. 
 
 "'Lalla Rookh' — you must recollect that in the way of 
 title, the ' Giaour' has never been pronounced to this day ; 
 and both it and Childe Harold sounded very facetious to 
 the blue-botdes of wit and humour about town, till they 
 were taught and startled into a proper deportment ; and 
 therefore Lalla Rookh, which is very orthodox and oriental, 
 is as good a title as need be, if not better. I could wish 
 rather that he had not called it ' a Persian Tale ;' firstly, 
 because we have had Turkish Tales, and Hindoo Tales, 
 and Assyrian Tales already ; and tale is a word of which 
 it repents me to have nicknamed poesy. 'Fable' would 
 be better ; and, secondly, ' Persian Tale' reminds one of 
 the lines of Pope on Ambrose Phillips; though no one can 
 say, to be sure, that this tale has been 'turned for half-a- 
 crown ;' still it is as well to avoid such clashings. 'Persian 
 Story' — why not? — or Romance? I feel as anxious for 
 Moore as I could do for myself for the soul of me, and I 
 would not have him succeed otherwise than splendidly, 
 which I trust he will do. 
 
 " With regard to the 'Witch Drama,' I sent all the three 
 acts by post, week after week, within this last month. I 
 repeat that I have not an idea if it is good or bad. If bad, 
 it must, on no account, be risked in publication ; if good, it 
 is at your service. I value it at three hundred guineas, or 
 less, iif you like it. Perhaps, if published, the best way will 
 be to add it to your winter volume, and not publish sepa- 
 rately. The price will show you I don't pique myself upon 
 it ; so speak out. You may put it in the fire, if you like, and 
 GifFord do n't like. 
 
 " The Armenian Grammar is published — that is, one; 
 the other is still in MS. My illness has prevented me 
 from movmg this month past, and I have done nothing 
 more with the Armenian, 
 
 " Of Italian or rather Lombard manners, I could tell you 
 little or nothing: I went two or three times to the governor's 
 conversazione, (and if you go once, you are free to go 
 always,) at which, as I only saw very plain women, a 
 
 formal circle, in short, a worst sort of rout, I did not go again 
 I went to Academic and to Madame Aibrizzi's, where I 
 saw pretty much the same thing, with the addition of some 
 
 literati, who are the same blv^,* by , all the world over. 
 
 I fell in love the first week with Madame * *, and I have 
 continued so ever since, because she is very pretty and 
 pleasing, and talks Venetian, which amuses me, and is 
 naive. I have seen all their spectacles and sights ; but I 
 do not know any thing very worthy of observation, except 
 that the women Mss better than those of any other nation, 
 which is notorious, and attributed to the worship of images^ 
 and the early habit of osculation induced thereby. 
 
 "Very truly, &c. 
 "P. S. Pray send the red tooth-powder by a safe hand, 
 and speedily. 
 
 " To hook the reader, you, John Murray, 
 
 Have published ' Anjou's Margaret,' 
 Which won't be sold offin a hurry, 
 
 (At least, it has not been as yet ;) 
 And then, still farther to bewilder 'em. 
 Without remorse you set up ' Ilderim ;' 
 
 So mind you do n't get into debt. 
 Because as how, if you should fail, 
 These books would be but baddish bail. 
 
 " And mind you do not let escape 
 
 These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, 
 Which would be very treacherous — very, 
 And get mc into such a scrape ! 
 For, firstly, I should have to sally, 
 AH in my little boat, against a Galley ;X 
 And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight, 
 Have next to combat with the female knight. 
 And, prick'd to death, expire upon her needle— 
 A sort of end which I should take indeed ill ! 
 
 "You may show these matters to Moore and the select, 
 but not to the profane ; and tell Moore, that I wonder he 
 do n't write to one now and then." 
 
 LETTER CCCXXVL 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 « Venice, March 31, 1817. 
 
 You will begin to think my epistolary offerings (to 
 whatever altar you please to devote them) rather prodigal. 
 But until you answer I shall not abate, because you deserve 
 no better. I know you are well, because I hear of your 
 voyaging to London and the environs, which I rejoice to 
 learn, because your note alarmed me by the purgation and 
 phlebotomy therein prognosticated. I also hear of your 
 being in the press; all which, methinks, might have furnished 
 you with subject matter for a middle-sized letter, consider- 
 ing that I am in foreign parts, and that the last month's 
 advertisements and obituary would be absolute news to me 
 from your Tramontane country. 
 
 I told you, in my last, I have had a smart fever. There 
 is an epidemic in the place ; but I suspect, from the symp- 
 toms, that mine was a fever of my own, and had nothing 
 in common with the low, vulgar typhus, which is at this 
 moment decimating Venice, and which has half-unpeopled 
 Milan, if the accounts be true. This malady has sorely 
 discomfited my serving men, who want sadly to be gone 
 away, and get me to remove. But, besides my natural 
 perversity, I was seasoned in Turkey, by the continual 
 whispers of the plague, against apprehensions of contagion. 
 Besides which, apprehension would not prevent it: and 
 then I am still in love, and ' forty thousand' fevers should 
 not make me stir before my minute, while under the in- 
 fluence of that paramount delirium. Seriously speaking, 
 
 * Whenever a word or passage occurs, (as in this instance,) which Lord 
 Byron would have pronounced emphatically in speaking, it appears, in 
 his handwriting, as if written with something of the same vehemence. — 
 Moore, 
 
 t He) e follow the same rhymes (" I read the Christabel," &c.) which 
 have already been given in one of his letters to myself. — .~ ' 
 
 J Mr. Galley Knight, the author of " Ilderim." 
 
110 
 
 LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 there is a malady rife in the city — a dangerous one, they 
 say. However, mine did not appear so, though it was not 
 pleasant. 
 
 " This is passion-week — and twilight — and all the world 
 are at vespers. They have an eternal churching, as in all 
 Catholic countries, but are not so bigoted as they seemed 
 to be in Spain. 
 
 " I do n't know whether to be glad or sorry that you are 
 leaving Mayfield. Had I ever been at Newstead during 
 your stay there, (except during the winter of 1813-14, when 
 the roads were impracticable,) we should have been within 
 hail, and I should like to have made a giro of the Peak with 
 you. I kjiovv that country well, having been all over it 
 when a boy. Was you ever in Dovedale? I can assure 
 you there are things in Derbyshire as noble as Greece or 
 S\vitzerland. But you had always a lingering after Lon- 
 don, and I do n't wonder at it. I liked it as well as any 
 body, myself now and then. 
 
 " Will you remember me to Rogers? whom I presume 
 to be flourisliing, and whom I regard as our poetical papa. 
 You are his lawful son, and I the illegitimate. Has he 
 begun yet upon Sheridan ? If you see our republican 
 friend, Leigh Hunt, pray present my remembrances, 
 saw about nine months ago that he was in a row (like my 
 friend Hobhouse,) with the Gluarterly Reviewers. For my 
 part I never could understand diese quarrels of authors with 
 critics and with one another. 'For God's sake, gentlemen, 
 what do they mean ?' 
 
 " What think you of your countryman, Maturin? I take 
 some credit to myself for having done my best to bring out 
 Bertram; but I must say my colleagues were quite as 
 ready and willing. Walter Scott, however, was the first 
 who mentioned him, which he did to me, with great com 
 mendation, in 1815; and it is to this casualty, and two or 
 three other accidents, that tliis very clever fellow owed his 
 first and well-merited public success. What a chance is 
 fame! 
 
 "Did I tell you that I have translated two Epistles? — a 
 correspondence between St. Paul and the Corinthians, not 
 to be found in our version, but the Armenian — but which 
 seems to me very ortliodox, and I have done it into scrip- 
 tural prose English.* "Ever, &c: 
 
 LETTER CCCXXVIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Venice, April 2, 1817. 
 
 "I sent you the whole of the Drama at three several times, 
 act by act, in separate covers. I hope that you have, or 
 will receive, some or the whole of it. 
 
 " So Love has a conscience.f By Diana ! I shall make 
 him take back the box, though it were Pandora's. The 
 discovery of its intrinsic silver occurred on sending it to 
 have the lid adapted to admit Marianna's portrait. Of 
 course I had the box remitted in statu quo, and had the 
 picture set in another, which suits it (the picture) very 
 well. The defaulting box is not touched, hardly, and was 
 not in the man's hands above an hour. 
 
 " I am aware of what you say of Otway ; and am a very 
 great admirer of his, — all except of that maudlin b — h of 
 chaste lewdness and blubbering curiosity, Belvidera, whom 
 1 utterly despise, abhor, and detest. But the story of 
 Marino Fahero is different, and, I think, so much finer, that 
 I wish Otway had taken it instead: the head conspiring 
 against the body for refusal of redress for a real injury, — 
 jealousy, — treason, — with the more fixed and inveterate 
 passions (mixed with pohcy,) of an old or elderly man — 
 the Devil himself could not have a finer subject, and he is 
 your only tragic dramatist. ***** 
 
 "There is still, in the Doge's palace, the black veil 
 painted over Fahero's picture, and the staircase whereon 
 
 ■See p. 299. 
 
 t See Letter 316, to Mr. Murray. 
 
 he was first crowned Doge, and subsequently decapitated.* 
 This was the thing that most struck my imagination in 
 Venice — more than the Rialto, which I visited for the sake 
 of Shylock; and more, too, than Schiller's ^ Armenian^ a 
 novel which took a great hold of me when a boy. It is 
 also called the 'Ghost Seer,' and I never walked down St. 
 Mark's by moonlight without thinking of it, and 'at nine 
 o'clock he died !' — But I hate things aU fiction ; and there- 
 fore the Merchant and Otliello have no great associations 
 to me: but Pieire has. There should always be some 
 foundation of fact for the most airy fabric, and pure inven- 
 tion is but the talent of a har. 
 
 "Maturin's tragedy. — By your account of him last year 
 to me, he seemed a bit of a coxcomb, personally. Poor 
 fellow! to be sure, he had had a long seasoning of adversity, 
 which is not so hard to bear as t'other thing. I hope that 
 this won't throw him back into the 'slough of Despond.' 
 
 "You talk of 'marriage;' — ever since my own funeral, 
 the word makes me giddy, and throws me into a cold sweat. 
 Pray, do n't repeat it. 
 
 " You should close with Madame de Stael. This will 
 be her best work, and permanently historical; it is on her 
 father, the Revolution, and Buonaparte, &c. Bonstctten 
 told me in Switzerland it was very great. I have not seen 
 it myself but the author often. She was very kind to me 
 atCopet. * * * * * 
 
 " There have been two articles in the Venice papers, 
 one a Review of Glenarvon * * * *j and the other a Re- 
 view of Childe Harold, in which it proclaims me the most 
 rebellious and contumacious admirer of Buonaparte now 
 surviving in Europe. Both these articles are translations 
 from the Literary Gazette of German Jena. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "Tell me that Walter Scott is better. I would not have 
 him ill for the world. I suppose it was by sympathy that 
 I had my fever at the same time. 
 
 " I joy in the success of your duarterly, but I must still 
 stick by the Edinburgh; Jeffrey has done so by me, I must 
 say, through every thing, and this is more than I deserved 
 from him. — I have more than once acknowledged to you 
 by letter the 'Article' (and articles:) say that you have 
 received the said letters, as I do not otherwise know what 
 letters arrive. — Both Reviews came, but nothing more. 
 M.'s play and the extract not yet come. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "Write to say whether my Magician has arrived, with 
 all his scenes, spells, &c. "Yours ever, &c. 
 
 "It is useless to send to the Foreign-office: nothing 
 arrives to me by that conveyance. I suppose some zealous 
 clerk thinlis it a tory duty to prevent it." 
 
 LETTER CCCXXVIIL 
 
 TO MR. ROGERS. 
 
 "Venice, April 4, 1817. 
 "It is a considerable time since I wrote to you last, and 
 I hardly know why I should trouble you now, except that I 
 think you will not be sorry to hear from me now and then 
 You and I were never correspondents, but always some- 
 thing better, which is, very good friends. 
 
 T saw your friend Sharp in Switzerland, or rather m 
 the German territory, (which is and is not Sv^dtzerland.) 
 and he gave Hobhouse and me a very good route for the 
 Bernese Alps ; however, we took another from a German 
 and went by Clarens, tlie Dent de Jaman to Montbovon, 
 and through Simmenthal to Thoun, and so on to Lauter- 
 brounn; except that from thence to the Grindelwald, 
 instead of round about, we went right over the Wengen 
 Alps' very summit, and being close under the Jungfrau 
 saw it, its glaciers, and heard the avalanches in all their 
 lory, having famous weather there/or. We of course went 
 
 ' See Childe Harold, Canto 4, Stanza 18. 
 
LETTERS, 1811. 
 
 Ill 
 
 from the Grindelwald over the Sheidech to Brientz and its 
 lake ; past the Reichenbach and all that mountain road, 
 wliich reminded me of Albania, and iEtoUa, and Greece, 
 except that the people here were more civilized and ras- 
 cally. I did not think so very much of Chamouni (except 
 the source of the Arveron, to which we went up to the teeth 
 of the ice, so as to look into and touch the cavity, against 
 the warning of the guides, only one of whom would go with 
 us so close,) as of the Jungfrau, and the Pissevache, and 
 Simplon, which are quite out of all mortal competition. 
 
 "I was at Milan about a moon, and saw Monti and 
 some other living curiosities, and thence on to Verona, 
 where I did not forget your story of the assassination during 
 your sojourn there, and brought away with me some frag- 
 ments of Juliet's tomb, and a lively recollection of the am- 
 phitheatre. The Countess Goetz (the governor's wife 
 here,) told me that there is still a ruined castle of the 
 Montecchi between Verona and Vicenza. I have been 
 at Venice since November, but shall proceed to Rome 
 shortly. For my deeds here, are they not written in my 
 letters to the unreplying Thomas Moore ? to him I refer 
 you : he has received them all, and not answered one, 
 
 "Will you remember me to Lord and Lady Holland? 
 I have to thank the former for a book which I have not yet 
 received, but expect to reperuse with great pleasure on ray 
 return, viz. the 2nd edition of Lope de Vega. I have 
 heard of Moore's forthcoming poem: he cannot wish him- 
 self more success than I wish and augur for him. I have 
 also heard great things of ' Tales of my Landlord,' but I 
 have not yet received them; by all accounts they beat even 
 Waverley, &c. and are by the same author. Maturin's 
 second tragedy has, it seems, failed, for which I should 
 think any body would be sorry. My health was very 
 victorious till within the last month, when I had a fever. 
 There is a typhus in these parts, but I do n't think it was 
 that. However, I got well without a physician or drugs. 
 
 "I forgot to tell you that, last autumn, I furnished Lewis 
 with 'bread and salt' for some days at Diodati, in reward for 
 which (besides his conversation,) he translated ' Goethe's 
 Faust' to me by word of mouth, and I set him by the ears 
 with Madame de Stael about the slave trade. I am 
 indebted for many and kind courtesies to our Lady of 
 Copet, and I now love her as much as I always did her 
 works, of which I was and am a great admirer. When 
 are you to begin with Sheridan? what are you doing, and 
 how do you do ? " Ever very truly, &c.'' 
 
 LETTER CCCXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, April 9, 1817. 
 
 « Your letters of the 18th and 20th are arrived. In my 
 own I have given you the rise, progress, decline, and fall 
 of my recent malady. It is gone to the devil : I won't pay 
 him so bad a compliment as to say it came from him: — he 
 is too much of a gentleman. It was nothing but a slow 
 fever, which quickened its pace towards the end of its 
 journey. I had been bored with it some weeks — with 
 nocturnal burnings and morning perspirations; but I am 
 quite well again, which I attribute to having had neither 
 medicine nor doctor therefor. 
 
 "In a few days I set off for Rome: such is my purpose. 
 I shall change it very often before Monday next, but do 
 you continue to direct and address to Fenice, as heretofore. 
 If I go, letters will be forwarded: I say ^If,' because I 
 never know what I shall do till it is done ; and as I mean 
 most firmly to set out for Rome, it is not unlikely I may find 
 myself at St. Petersburg. 
 
 « You tell me to ' take care of myself ;'— faith, and I will. 
 I won't be posthumous yet, if I can help it. Notwith 
 standing, only think what a 'Life and Adventures,' while I 
 am in full scandal, v/ould be worth, together with the 
 'membra' of my writing-desk, the sixteen beginnings of 
 poems never to be finished! Do you think I would not 
 
 have shot myself last year, had I not luckily recollected 
 that Mrs. Charlmont, and Lady Noel, and all the old 
 women in England would have been delighted; — besides 
 the agreeable 'Lunacy' of the 'Crowner's Q,uest,' and the 
 regrets of two or three or half a dozen? ***** 
 Be assured that I would live for two reasons, or more ; — 
 there are one or two people whom I have to put out of the 
 world, and as many into it, before I can ' depart in peace ;' 
 if I do so before, I have not fulfilled my mission. Besides, 
 when I turn thirty, I will turn devout; I feel a great voca- 
 tion that way in CathoUc churches, and when I hear the 
 organ. 
 
 "So * * is writing again I Is there no bedlam in Scot- 
 land? nor thumb-screw? nor gag? nor handcuff? I went 
 upon my knees to him almost some years ago, to prevent 
 him from publishing a political pamphlet, which would have 
 given him a livelier idea of 'Habeas Corpus' than the world 
 will derive from his present production upon that suspended 
 subject, which will doubtless be followed by the suspension 
 of other of his majesty's subjects. 
 
 "I condole with Drury-lane and rejoice with * *, — that 
 is, in a modest way,— on the tragical end of the new 
 tragedy. 
 
 "You and Leigh Hunt have quarrelled then, it seems? 
 * * * * I introduce him and his poem to you, in the 
 hope that (malgre politics,) the union would be beneficial 
 to both, and the end is eternal enmity ; and yet I did this 
 with the best intentions : I introduce + * *, and * * + runs 
 away with your money : my friend Hobhouse quarrels, too, 
 with the (Quarterly : and (except the last,) I am the inno- 
 cent Istmhus (damn the word ! I can 't spell it, though I 
 have crossed that of Corinth a dozen times,) of these 
 enmities. 
 
 "I will tell you something about Chillon. — A Mr. De 
 JJuc, ninety years old, a Swiss, had it read to him, and is 
 pleased with it, — so my sister writes. He said that he was 
 with Rousseau at ChiUon, and that the description is per- 
 fectly correct. But this is not all : I recollected something 
 of the name and find the following passage in 'The Con- 
 fessions,' vol. 3, page 247, liv. 8. 
 
 " ' De tons ces amusemens celui qui me plut davantage 
 fut une promenade autour du Lac, que je fis en bateau 
 avec De Luc p6re, sa bru, ses deux Jils, et ma Therese. 
 Nous mimes sept jours a cette tournee par le plus beau 
 temps du monde, J'en gardai le vif souvenir des sites qui 
 m'avoient frappe a I'autre extremite du Lac, et dont je fis 
 la description, quelques annees aprfes, dans la Nouvelle 
 Heloise.' 
 
 " This nonagenarian, De Luc, must be one of the 'deux 
 fils,' He is in England — infirm, but still in faculty. It is 
 odd that he should have Uved so long, and not wanting in 
 oddness, that he should have made this voyage with Jean 
 Jacques, and afterward, at such an interval, read a poem 
 by an Englishman (who had made precisely the same 
 circumnavigation, ) upon the same scenery. 
 
 "As for 'Manfred,' it is of no use sending proof s ; nothing 
 of that kind comes. I sent the whole at different times. 
 The two first Acts are the best; the third so so; but I was 
 blown with the first and second heats. You must call it a 
 'Poem,' for it is no Drama, and I do not choose to have it 
 called by so * * a name — a ' Poem in Dialogue,' or Pan- 
 tomime, if you will ; any thing but a green-room synony me; 
 and this is your motto — 
 
 There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
 Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' 
 
 'My love and thanks to Mr. GifTord. 
 
 'Yours ever, &c. 
 
 LETTER CCCXXX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Venice, April 11, 1817. 
 " I shall continue to write to you while the fit is on me, 
 by way of penance upon you for your forn>er complaints 
 
112 
 
 LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 of long silence. I dare say you would blush, if you could, 
 for not answermg. Next week I set out for Rome. Having 
 seen Constantinople, I should like to look at t' other fellow. 
 Besides I want to see the Pope, and shall take care to tell 
 him that I vote for the Catholics and no Veto. 
 
 1 sha' n't go to Naples. It is but the second best sea- 
 view, and I have seen the first and third, viz. — Constan- 
 tinople and Lisbon (by-the-way, the last is but a river- 
 view ; however, they reckon it after Stamboul and Naples, 
 and before Genoa,) and Vesuvius is silent, and I have 
 passed by Etna. So I shall e'en return to Venice in July; 
 and if you write, I pray you address to Venice which is 
 my head, or rather my /leart-quarters. 
 
 «My late physician, Dr. Polidori, is here, on his way to 
 England, with the present Lord Guilford and the widow 
 of the late earl. Doctor Polidori has, just now, no more 
 patients, because his patients are no more. He had lately 
 three, who are now all dead — one embabued. Homer and 
 a child of Thomas Hope's are interred at Pisa and Rome. 
 Lord Guilford died of an inflammation of the bowels ; so 
 they took them out, and sent them (on account of their 
 discrepancies,) separately from the carcass, to England. 
 Conceive a man going one way and his intestines another, 
 and his immortal soul a third !— was there ever such a dis- 
 tribution? One certainly has a soul; but how it came to 
 allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can 
 imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I'll have a bit 
 of a'tustle before I let it get in again to that or any other. 
 
 « And so poor dear Mr. Maturin's second tragedy has 
 been neglected by the discerning public. * * will be d— d 
 glad of this, and d— d without being glad, if ever his own 
 plays come upon ' any stage' 
 
 " I wrote to Rogers the other day, with a message for 
 you. I hope that he flourishes. He is the Tithonus of 
 poetry— immortal already. You and I must wait for it. 
 
 "I hear nothing — know nothing. You may easily sup- 
 pose that the English do n't seek me, and I avoid them 
 To be sure, there are but a few or none here, save pas- 
 sengers. Florence and Naples are their Margate and 
 Ramsgate, and much the same sort of company too, by all 
 accounts, which hurts us among the Italians. 
 
 « I want to hear of Lalla Rookh— are you out ? Death 
 and fiends ! why do n't you tell me where you are, what 
 you are, and how you are? I shall go to Bologna by 
 Ferrara, instead of Mantua; because I would rather see 
 the cell where they caged Tasso, and where he became 
 mad and * *, than his own MSS. at Modena, or the 
 Mantuan birthplace of that harmonious plagiary and mis- 
 erable flatterer, whose cursed hexameters were drille<l into 
 me at Harrow. I saw Verona and Vicenza on my way 
 here — Padua too. 
 
 I go alone — but alone, because I mean to return here. I 
 only want to see Rome. I have not the least curiosity about 
 Florence, though I must see it for the sake of the Venus, 
 &c. &c. ; and I wbh also to see die Fall of Terni. I think 
 to return to Venice by Ravenna and Rimini of both of 
 which I mean to take notes for Leigh Hunt, who will be 
 glad to hear of the scenery of his Poem. There was a 
 devil of a review of him in the Gluarterly, a year ago, which 
 he answered. All answers are imprudent; but, to be 
 sure, poetical flesh and blood must have the last word- 
 that 's certain. I thought, and think, very highly of his 
 Poem , but I warned him of the row his favourite antique 
 phraseology would bring him into. 
 
 " You have taken a house at Hornsey ; I bad much rather 
 you had taken one in the Apenines. If you thmk of 
 coming out for a summer, or so, tell me, that I may be upon 
 the hover for you. " Ever, Sec." 
 
 LETTER CCCXXXL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Venice, Aprill4, 1817. 
 'By the favour of Dr. Polidori, who ia here on his way 
 
 to England, with the present Lord Guilford (the late earl 
 having gone to England, by another road, accompanied by 
 his bowels in a separate coffer,) I remit to you, to deliver 
 to Mrs. Leigh, two miniatures ; but previously you will have 
 the goodness to desire Mr. Love (as a peace-offering be- 
 tween him and me) to set them in plain gold, vvith my arms 
 complete, and 'Painted by Prepiani.— Venice, 1817,' on 
 the back. I wish also that you would desire Holmes to 
 make a copy of each — that is, both — for myselij and that 
 you will retain the said copies till my return. One was 
 done while I was very unwell ; the other in my health, 
 which may account for their dissimilitude. I trust that they 
 will reach their destination in safety. 
 
 " I recommend the doctor to your good offices with your 
 government friends ; and if you can be of any use to him 
 in a literary point of view, pray be so. 
 
 " To-day, or rather yesterday, for it is past midnight, I 
 have been up to the battlements of tlie highest tower in 
 Venice, and seen it and its view, in all the glory of a clear 
 Italian sky. I also went over the Manfrini Palace famous 
 for its pictures. Among them, there is a portrait o^ Ariosio 
 by Titian, surpassing all my anticipation of the power of 
 painting or human expression : it is the poetry of portrait, 
 and the portrait of poetry. There was also one of some 
 learned lady, centuries old, whose name I forget, but whose 
 features must always be remembered. I never saw greater 
 beauty, or sweetness, or wisdom: — it is the kind of face to 
 go mad for, because it cannot walk out of its frame. There 
 is also a famous dead Christ and live Apostles, for which 
 Buonaparte offered in vain five thousand louis ; and of 
 which, though it is a capo d'opera of Titian, as I am no 
 connoisseur, I say littie, and thought less, except of one 
 figure in it. There are ten tiiousand others, and some 
 very fine Giorgiones among them, &c. &c. There is an 
 original Laura and Petrarch, very hideous both. Petrarch 
 has not only the dress, but the features and air of an old 
 woman, and Laura looks by no means like a young one, 
 or a pretty one. What struck me most in the general 
 collection was the extreme resemblance of the style of the 
 female faces in the mass of pictures, so many centuries or 
 generations old, to those you see and meet every day 
 among the existing Italians. The queen of Cyprus and 
 Giorgione's wife,* particularly the latter, are Venetians as 
 it were of yesterday; the same eyes and expression, and, 
 to my mind, there is none finer. 
 
 "You must recollect, however, that I know nothing of 
 painting; and that I detest it, unless it reminds me of 
 something I have seen, or think it possible to see, for which 
 reason I spit upon and abhor all the saints and subjects of 
 one half the impostures I see in the churches and palaces ; 
 and when in Flanders, I never was so disgusted in my life, 
 as with Rubens and his eternal wives and infernal glare of 
 colours, as they appeared to me ; and in Spain I did not 
 think much of Murilo and Velasquez. Depend upon it, of 
 all the arts, it is the most artificial and unnatural, and that by 
 which the nonsense of mankind is most imposed upon. 1 
 never yet saw the picture or the statue which came a league 
 within my conception or expectation ; but I have seen many 
 mountains, and seas, and rivers, and views, and two or three 
 women, who went as far beyond it, — besides some horses ; 
 and a lion (at Veli Pacha's) in the Morea; and a tiger 
 at supper in Exeter 'Change. 
 
 " When you write, continue to address to me at Venice. 
 Where do you suppose the books you sent me are ? At 
 Turin ! This comes of the Foreign Office^ which is foreign 
 enough, God knows, for any good it can be of to me, or any 
 one else, and be d^-d to it, to its last clerk and first char- 
 latan, Castlereagh. 
 
 " This makes my hundredth letter at least, 
 
 •Yours, fee." 
 
 ' See Beppo, Stanza I2tb. 
 
LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 113 
 
 LETTER CCCXXXIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, AprilM, 1817. 
 
 " The present proofs* (of the whole) begins only at the 
 l7th page ; but as I had corrected and sent back the First 
 Act, it does not signify. 
 
 "The Third Act is certainly d d bad, and, like the 
 
 Archbishop of Grenada's honiily (which savoured of the 
 palsy,) has the dregs of my fever, during which it was 
 written. It must on no account be published in its present 
 state. I will try and reform it, or re-write it altogedier ; 
 but the impulse is gone, and I have no chance of making 
 any thing out of it. I would not have it published as it is 
 on any account. The speech of Manfred to the Sun is 
 the only part of this act I thought good myself; the rest is 
 certainly as bad as bad can be, and I wonder what the 
 devil possessed me. 
 
 " I am very glad indeed that you sent me Mr. GifFord's 
 opinion without deduction. Do you suppose me such a 
 booby as not to be very much obliged to him ? or that in 
 fact 1 was not, and am not, convinced and convicted in my 
 conscience of this same overt act of nonsense ? 
 
 "I shall try at it again; in the mean time lay it upon the 
 shelf (the whole Drama, I mean :) but pray correct your 
 copies of the First and Second Act from the original MS. 
 
 "I am not coming to England ; but going to Rome in a 
 few days. I return to Venice in June; so, pray, address 
 all letters, &c. to me Acre, as usual, that is, to Venice. Dr. 
 Polidori this day left this city with Lord Guilford for Eng- 
 land. He is charged with some books to your care (from 
 me,) and two miniatures also to the same address, both for 
 my sister. 
 
 " Recollect not to pubUsh, upon pain of I know not what, 
 until I have tried again at the Third Act. I am not sure 
 that I shall try, and still less that I shall succeed, if I do ; 
 but I am very sure, that (as it is, it is unfit for publication 
 or perusal ; and unless I can make it out to my own satis- 
 faction, I won't have any part published. 
 
 "I write in haste, and after having lately written very 
 often. "Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCXXXIIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « FoUngo, April 26, 1817. 
 " I wrote to you the other day from Florence, inclosing 
 a MS. entitled ' The Lament of Tasso.' It was written in 
 consequence of my having been lately at Ferrara. In the 
 last section of this MS. but one (that is, the penultimate,) 
 I think that I have omitted a line in the copy sent you from 
 Florence, viz. after the line — 
 
 " And woo compassion to a blighted name, 
 
 insert, 
 
 " Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 
 The context will show you the sense, which is not clear in 
 this quotation. Remember, I vyrite this in the supposition 
 that you have received my Florentine packet. 
 
 "At Florence I remained but a day, having a hurry for 
 Rome, to which I am thus far advanced. However, I 
 went to the two galleries, from which one returns dnmk 
 with beauty. The Venus is more for admiration than love ; 
 but there are sculpture and painting, which for the first 
 time at all gave me an idea of what people mean by their 
 cant, and what Mr. Braham calls ' entusimusy* (i. e. en- 
 thusiasm,) about those two most artificial of the arts. 
 What struck me most were, the mistress of Raphael, a 
 portrait ; tlie mistress of Titian, a portrait ; a Venus of 
 Titian in the Medici gallery— f/i6 Venus ; Canova's Venus 
 also, in the other gallery : Titian's mistress is also in the 
 
 other gallery (that is, in the Pitti Palace gallery:) the 
 Parcae of Michael Angelo, a picture ; and the AJitinous, 
 the Alexander, and one or two not very decent groups in 
 marble; the Genius of Death, a sleeping figure, &c. &c. 
 
 "I also went to the Medici chapel — fine frippery in great 
 slabs of various expensive stones, to commemorate fifty 
 rotten and forgotton carcasses. It is unfinished and will 
 remain so. 
 
 " The church of Santa Croce' contains much illustrious 
 nothing. The tombs* ofMachiavelli, Michael Angelo, Gali- 
 leo G alilei, and Alfieri, make it the Westminster Abbey of 
 Italy. I did not admire any of tliese tombs — beyond their 
 contents. That of Alfieri is heavy, and all of them seem 
 to me overloaded. What is necessary but a bust and 
 name ? and perhaps a date ? the last for the unchronologi- 
 cal, of whom I am one. But all your allegory and eulogy 
 is infernal, and worse than the long wigs of English num- 
 skulls upon Roman bodies in the statuary of the reigns of 
 Charles II., William, and Anne. 
 
 " AVhen you write, write to Venice, as usual ; I mean to 
 return there in a fortnight. I shall not be England for a 
 long time. This afternoon I met Lord and Lady Jersey, 
 and saw them for some time: all well ; children grown and 
 healthy ; she very pretty, but sunburnt ; he very sick of 
 travelling ; bound for Paris. There are not many EngUsh 
 on the move, and those who are, mostly homewards. I 
 shall not return till business makes me, being much better 
 where I am in health, &c. &c. 
 
 "For the sake of my personal comfort, I pray you send 
 me immediately to Venice — mind, Venice — viz. JVaiies's 
 tooth-powder, red, a quantity; calcined magnesia, of the 
 best quality, a quantity ; and all tliis by safe, sure, and 
 speedy means ; and, by the Lord ! do it. 
 
 "I have done nothing at Manfred's Third Act. You 
 must wait ; I '11 have at it in a week or two, or so. 
 
 " Yours ever, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCXXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Rome, May 5, 1817. 
 
 " By this post (or next at farthest) I send you in two 
 other covers, the new Third Act of ' Manfred.' I have re- 
 written the greater part, and returned what is not altered 
 in the proof you sent me. The Abbot is become a good 
 man, and the Spirits are brought in at the death. You 
 will find, I think, some good poetry in this new act, here 
 and there ; and if so, print it, without sending nie farther 
 proofs, under Mr. Giford^s correction, if he « ill have the 
 goodness to overlook it. Address all answers to Venice, 
 as usual ; I mean to return there in ten days. 
 
 " 'The Lament of Tasso,' which T sent from Florence, 
 has, I trust, arrived : I look upon it as a ' these be good 
 rhymes,' as Pope's papa said to liim when he was a boy. 
 For the two — it and the Drama — you will disburse to me 
 {via. ICinnaird) six hundred guineas. You will perhaps 
 be surprised that I set the same price upon this as upon 
 the Drama ; but, besides that I look upon it as good, I 
 won't take less than three hundred guineas for any thing. 
 The two together wiU make you a larger publication than 
 the ' Sieo-e' and ' Parisina ;' so you may think yourself let 
 off very easy : that is to say, if these poems are good for 
 any thing, wliich I hope and believe. 
 
 "I have been some days in Rome the Wonderful. I am 
 seeing si^^hts, and have done nothing else, except the new 
 Third Act for you. I have this morning seen a hve Popo 
 and a dead Cardinal: Pius VII. has been burying Cardi- 
 nal Bracchi, whose body I saw in state at the Chiesa 
 Nuova. Rome has delighted me beyond every thing, 
 since Atliens and Constantinople. But I shall not remain 
 long this visit. Address to Venice. 
 
 "Ever, &c. 
 
 Of Manfred. 
 
 15 
 
 ' Se« Childe Harold, Canto 3, Stanza 54. 
 
 L 
 
114 
 
 LETTERS, 1817, 
 
 " P. S. I have got my saddle-horses here, and have 
 ridden, and am riding, all about the country." 
 
 LETTER CCCXXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY, 
 
 "Rome, May 9, 1817. 
 
 "Address all answers to Venice; for there I shall re- 
 turn in fifteen days, God willing. 
 
 " I sent you from Florence ' The Lament of Tasso,' and 
 from Rome the Third Act of Manfred, both of which, I 
 trust, will duly arrive. The terms of these two I mentioned 
 in my last, and will repeat, in this : it is three hundred for 
 each, or six hundred guineas for the two— that is, if you 
 like, and they are good for any thing. 
 
 "At last one of the parcels is arrived. In the notes to 
 Childe Harold there is a blunder of yours or mine : you talk 
 of arrival at St. Gingo, and immediately after, add — ' on 
 the height is the Chateau of Clarens.'* This is sad work : 
 Clarens is on the othei- side of the Lake, and it is quite im- 
 possible that I should have so bungled. Look at the MS. ; 
 and, at any rate, rectify. 
 
 « The ' Tales of my Landlord' I have read with great 
 pleasure, and perfectly understand now why my sister and 
 aunt are so very positive m the very erroneous persuasion 
 that they must have been written by me. If you knew me 
 as well as they do, you would have fallen, perhaps, into the 
 same mistake. Some day or other, I will explain to you 
 wJv/ — when I have time ; at present it does not much mat- 
 ter ; but you must have thought this blunder of theirs very 
 odd, and so did I, till I had read the book.— Croker's letter 
 to you is a very great compliment ; I shall return it to you 
 in my next. 
 
 " I perceive you are publishing a life of Raffael d'Urbino : 
 it may perhaps interest you to *iear that a set of German 
 artists here allow their hair to grow, and trim it into his 
 fashion, thereby drinking the tummin of the disciples of the 
 old philosopher ; if they woh.d cut their hair, convert it into 
 brushes, and paint like him, it would be more ' German to 
 the matter.' 
 
 "I'll tell you a story: the other day, a man here — 
 an English — mistaking the statues of Charlemagne and 
 Constantine, which are equestrian, for those of Peter and 
 Paul, asked another which was Paul of these same horse- 
 men?— to which the reply was — 'I thought, sii-, that St. 
 Paul had never got on horseback since his accident .^' 
 
 "I '11 tell you another : Henry Fox, writing to some one 
 from Naples the other day, after an illness, adds — ^ and I 
 am so changed that my oldest creditors would hardly know 
 me.' 
 
 " I am delighted with Rome — as I would be v«th a band- 
 box, that is, it is a fine thing to see, finer than Greece ; but 
 I have not been here long enough to affect it as a residence, 
 and I must go back to Lombardy, because I am wretched 
 at being away from Marianna. I have been riding my 
 saddle-horses every day, and been to Albano, its Lakes, 
 and to the top of the Alban Mount, and to Frescati, Aricia, 
 &c. &c. with an &c. &c. &c. about the city, and in the 
 city: for all which — vide Guidebook. As a whole, ancient 
 and modem, it beats Greece, Constantinople, every thing 
 — at least that I have ever seen. But I can 't describe, 
 because my first impressions are always strong and con- 
 fused, and my memory selects and reduces them to order, 
 like distance in the landscape, and blends them better, 
 although they may be less distbct. There must be a 
 sense or two more than we have, us mortals ; for * * * 
 * * where there is much to be grasped we are always at 
 a loss, and yet feel that we ought to have a higher and 
 more extended comprehension. 
 
 " I have had a letter from Moore, who is in some alarm 
 about his Poem. I do n't see why. 
 
 Siaca corrected. 
 
 "I have had anotlier from my poor dear Augusta, who 
 is in a sad fuss about my late illness ; do, pray, tell her, (the 
 truth,) that I am better than ever, and in importunate 
 health, growing (if not grown) large and ruddy, and con • 
 gratulated by impertinent persons on my robustious appear- 
 ance, when I ought to be pale and interesting. 
 
 " You tell me that George Byron has got a son, and 
 Augusta says, a daughter; which is it?— it is ho great 
 matter: the father is a good man, an excellent officer, and 
 has married a very nice little woman, who will bring him 
 more babes than income : howbeit she had a handsomo 
 dowry, and is a very charming girl ; — but he may as well 
 get a ship. 
 
 "1 have no thoughts of coming among you yet awhile, so 
 that I can fight off business. If I could but make a tole- 
 rable sale of Newstead, there would be no occasion for my 
 return ; and 1 can assure you very sincerely, that I am 
 much happier (or, at least, have been so,) out of your island 
 than in it. "Yours ever. 
 
 " P. S. There are few English here, but several of my 
 acquaintance; among others, the Marquis of Lansdowne, 
 with whom I dine to-morrow. I met the Jerseys on the 
 road at Foligno — all well. 
 
 "Oh — I forgot — the Italians have printed Chillon, &c. a 
 piracy,— a pretty litde edition, prettier than yours — and 
 published, as I found to my great astonishment on arriving 
 here ; and what is odd, is, that the EngUsh is quite correctly 
 printed. Why they did it, or who did it, I know not; but 
 so it is ; — I suppose, for the Enghsh people. I will send 
 you a copy." 
 
 LETTER CCCXXXVl. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 «Rome,May 12, 1817. 
 
 " I have received your letter here, where I have taken a 
 cruise lately ; but I shall return back to Venice in a few 
 days, so that if you write again, address there, as usual. I 
 am not for returning to England so soon as you imagine; 
 and by no means at all as a residence. If you cross the 
 Alps in your projected expedition, you will find me some- 
 where in Lombardy, and very glad to see you. Only give 
 me a word or two beforehand, for I would really diverge 
 some leagues to meet you. 
 
 "Of Rome I say nothing; it is quite indescribable, and 
 the Guidebook is as good as any other. I dined yesterday 
 with Lord Lansdowne, who is on his return. But there 
 are few English here at present : the winter is thdr time. 
 I have been on horseback most of the day, all days since 
 my arrival, and have taken it as I did Constantinople. But 
 Rome is the elder sister, and the finer. I went some days 
 ago to the top of the Alban Mount, which is superb. As 
 for the Coliseum, Pantheon, St. Peter's, the Vatican, Pala- 
 tine, &c. &c. — as I said, vide Guidebook. They are quite 
 inconceivable, and must he seen. The Apollo Belvidere is 
 the image of Lady Adelaide Forbes — I think I never saw 
 such a likeness. 
 
 "I have seen the Pope alive, and a cardinal dead, — ^both 
 of whom looked very well indeed. The latter was in state 
 in the Chiesa Nuova, previous to his interment. 
 
 " Your poetical alarms are groundless ; go on and pros- 
 per. Here is Hobhouse just come in, and my horses at the 
 door, so that I must mount and take the field in the Campus 
 Martins, wlaich, by-the-way, is all built over by modern 
 Rome. " Yours very and ever, &c. 
 
 "P. S. Hobhouse presents his remembrances, and is 
 eager, with all the world, for your new Poem." 
 
 LETTER CCCXXXVIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, May 30, 1817. 
 "I returned from Rome two days ago, and have received 
 
LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 115 
 
 your letter; but no sign nor tidings of the parcel sent 
 through Sii- C. Stuart, which you mention. After an in- 
 terval of months, a packet of 'Tales,' &c. found me at 
 Rome ; but this is all, and may be ail that ever will find me. 
 The post seems to be the only sure conveyance, and that 
 otdy far letters. From Florence I sent you a poem on 
 Tasso, and from Rome the new Third Act of 'Manfred,' 
 and by Dr. Polidori two portraits for my sister. I left 
 Rome and made a rapid journey home. You wA\ continue 
 to direct here as usual. Mr. Hobhouse is gone to Naples : 
 I should have run down there too for a week, but tor the 
 quantity of English whom I heard of there. I prefer hating 
 them at a distance ; unless an earthquake, or a good real 
 eruption of Vesuvius, were ensured to reconcile me to their 
 vicinity. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "The day before I left Rome I saw three robbers guil- 
 lotined. The ceremony — including the masqued priests ; 
 the half-naked executioners ; the bandaged criminals ; the 
 black Christ and his banner, the scaffold ; the soldiery ; the 
 slow procession, and the quick rattle and heavy fall of the 
 axe; the splash of the blood, and the gho,stliness of the 
 exposed heads — is altogether more impressive than the 
 vulgar and ungentlemanly dirty ' new drop,' and dog-hke 
 agony of infliction upon the sufferers of tlie English sen- 
 tence. Two of these men behaved calmly enough, but the 
 first of the three died with great terror and reluctance. 
 What was very lK»rriblo, he would not lie down ; then his 
 neck was too large for the aperture, and the priest was 
 obliged to drown his exclamations by still louder exhorta- 
 tions. The head was off before the eye could trace the 
 blow ; but from an attempt to draw back the head, notwith- 
 standing it was held forward by tlie hair, the first head was 
 cut off close to the ears: the other two were taken off more 
 cleanly. It is better than the oriental way, and (I should 
 think) than the axe of our ancestors. The pain seems 
 Uttle, and yet the effect to the spectator, and the preparation 
 to the criminal, is very striking and chilling. The first 
 turned me quite hot and thirsty, and made me shake so 
 that I could hardly hold the opera glass ; (I was close, hut 
 was determined to see, as one should see every thing, once, 
 vrith attention ;) the second and third, (which shows how 
 dreadfiilly soon things grow indifferent,) I am ashamed to 
 say, had no effect on me as a horror, though I would have 
 saved them if I could. " Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCXXXVIIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, June 4, 1817 
 "I have received the proofs of the ' Lament of Tasso,' 
 which makes me hope that you have also received the 
 reformed Third Act of Manfred, from Rome, which 1 sent 
 soon after my arrival there. My date will apprize you of 
 my return home within these few days. For me, I have 
 received notie of your packets, except, after long delay, the 
 'Tales of my Landlord,' which I before acknowledged. I 
 do not at all understand the why nots, but so it is ; — no 
 Manuel, no letters, no tooth-powder, no extract from 
 Moore's Italy concerning Marino Faliern, no nothing — 
 as a man hallooed out at one of Burdett's elections, after a 
 long ululatus of ' No Bastille I No governorities ! No — ' 
 God knows who or what ; — but his ne plus ultra was ' No 
 nothing!' — and my receipts of your packages amount to 
 about his meaning. I want the extract from Moore's Italy 
 very much, and the tooth-powder, and the magnesia; I 
 don't care so much about the poetry, or the letters, or Mr. 
 Maturin's by-Jasus tragedy. Most of the things sent by 
 the post have come — I mean proofs and letters ; therefore, 
 send me Marino Faliero by the post, in a. letter. 
 
 " 1 was delighted with Rome, and was on horseback all 
 round it many hours daily, besides in it the rest of my time, 
 bothering over its marvels. I excursed and skirred the 
 
 country round to Alba, Tivoli, Frescari, Licenza, &c. Sec; 
 besides I visited twice the Fall of Terni, which beats every 
 thing.* On my way back, close to the temple by its banks, 
 I got some famous trout out of the river Clitumnus — the 
 prettiest Utile stream in all poesy, near the first post from 
 Foligno and Spoletto.f — I did not stay at Florence, being 
 anxious to get home to Venice, and having already seen 
 the galleries and other sights. 1 left my commendatory 
 letters the evening before I went ; so I saw nobody. 
 
 " To-day, Pindemonte, the celebrated poet of Verona, 
 called on me; he is a little, thin man, with acute and 
 pleasing features; his address good and gentle; his appear- 
 ance altogether very philosophical ; his age about sixty, or 
 more. He is one of their best going. I gave him Forsyth, 
 as he speaks, or reads rather, a httle English, and will find 
 there a favourable account of himself. He inquired after 
 his old Cruscan friends, Parsons, Greathead, Mrs. Piozzi, 
 and Merry, all of whom he had known in his youth. I 
 gave him as bad an account of them as I could, answering, 
 as the false 'Solomon Lob' does to ' Totterton' in the farce, 
 ' all gone dead,' and damned by a satire more than twenty 
 years ago ; that the name of their extinguisher was Gifford'; 
 that they were but a sad set of scribes after all, and no 
 great things in any other way. He seemed, as was natural, 
 very much pleased with this account of his old acquaint- 
 ances, and went away greatly gratified with that and Mr. 
 Forsyth's sententious paragraph of applause in his own 
 (Pindemonte's) favour. After having been a little liber- 
 tine in his youth, he is grown devout, and takes prayers, 
 and talks to himself, to keep off the Devil; but for all that, 
 he is a very nice little old gentleman. 
 
 "I am sorry to hear of your row with Hunt ; but suppose 
 him to be exasperated by the Quarterly and your refusal 
 to deal; and when one is angry and edits a paper, I should 
 think the temptation too strong for literary nature, which is 
 not always human. I can't conceive in what, and for 
 what, he abuses you : what have you done? you are not an 
 author, nor a politician, nor a pubUc character ; I know no 
 scrape you have tumbled into. I am the more sorry for 
 this because I introduced you to Hunt, and because I 
 believe him to be a good man ; but till I know the particu- 
 lars, I can give no opinion. 
 
 "Let me know about Lalla Rookh, which must be out 
 by this time. 
 
 "I restore the proofs, but the punctuation should be 
 corrected. I feel too lazy to have at it myself; so beg and 
 pray Mr. Gifford for me. — Address to Venice. In a few 
 days I go to my viUeggiatura^ in a casino near the Brenta, 
 a few miles only on the mainland. I have determined on 
 another year, and many years of residence, if I can com- 
 pass them. Marianna is with me, hardly recovered of the 
 fever, which has been attacking all Italy last winter. I am 
 afraid she is a Uttle hectic ; but I hope the best. 
 
 «Ever,&c. 
 
 "P. S. Towaltzen has done a bust of me at Rome for 
 Mr. Hobhouse, which is reckoned very good. He is their 
 best after Canova, and by some preferred to him. 
 
 "1 have had a letter from Mr. Hodgson. He is very 
 happy, has got a Uving, but not a child: if he had stuck to a 
 curacy, babes would have come of course, because he 
 could not have maintained them. 
 
 "Remember me to all friends, &c. &c. 
 
 " An Austrian ofiicer, the other day, being in love wdth a 
 Venetian, was ordered, with his regiment, into Hungary. 
 Distracted between love and duty, he purchased a deadly 
 drug, which, dividing with his misti-ess, both swallowed. 
 The ensuing pains were terrific, but the pills were purga- 
 tive, and not poisonous, by the contrivance of the unsenti- 
 mental apothecary; so that so much suicide was all thrown 
 away. You may conceive the previous confusion and the 
 final laughter; but the intention was good on all sides." 
 
 Childe Harold, Canlo IV. stanzas 70 to 72, and note. 
 ' t ChiWe Harold, Canto IV. stanza 66, and note. 
 
116 
 
 LETTERS, 18J7. 
 
 LETTER CCCXXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, June 8, 1817. 
 
 "The present letter will be delivered to you by two 
 Armenian friars, on tlieir way, by England, to INIadras. 
 They will also convey some copies of the Grammar, wliich 
 I think you agreed to take. If you can be of any use to 
 tliem, either among your naval or East Indian acquaint- 
 ances, I hope you will so far oblige me, as they and their 
 order have been remarkably attentive and friendly towards 
 me since my arrival at Venice. Their names are Father 
 Sukias Sonialian and Father Sarins Theodorosian. They 
 speak Italian, and probably French, or a little English. 
 Repeatins earnestly my recommendatory request, believe 
 me very truly youi-s, "Byron. 
 
 "Perhaps you can help them to their passage, or give 
 or get them letters for India." 
 
 LETTER CCCXL. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "La Mira, near Venice, June 14, 1817. 
 
 * I write to you from the banks of the Brenta, a few miles 
 from Venice, where I have colonized for sl\ months to 
 come. Address, as usual, to Venice. 
 
 "Three months after date, (17th March,)— like tlie un- 
 necrotiable bill despondingh' received by the reluctant tailor, 
 — ^your despatch has arrived, containing the extract from 
 Moore's Italy and Mr. Maturin's bankrupt tragedy.* It 
 is the absurd work of a clever man. I think it might have 
 done upon the stage if he had made Manuel (by some 
 trickery, in a mask or visor,) fight liis o\to battle instead of 
 emplopng Molineux as his champion; and, after the defeat 
 of Torrismond, have made him spare the son of his enemy, 
 by some revulsion of feeling, not incompatible with a cha- 
 racter of extravagant and distempered emotions. But as 
 it is, what with tlie Justiza, and the ridiculous conduct of 
 the whole drayn. pers. (for they are all as mad as Manuel, 
 who surely must have had more interest with a corrupt 
 bench than a distant relation and heir presumptive, some- 
 what suspect of homicide.) I do not wonder at its failure. 
 As a play, it is impracticable ; as a poem, no great things. 
 Who was the ' Greek that grappled with glory naked T the 
 Olympic wrestlers ? or Alexander the Great, when he ran 
 stark round the tomb of t'other fellow? or the Spartan who 
 was fined by the Ephori for fighting without his armour? 
 or who ? And as to ' flaying off life Uke a garment,' helas ! 
 that's in Tom Thumb — see king Arthur's soliloquy: 
 
 • Life 's a mere rag, not worth a prince's wearing ; 
 I '11 cast it off.' •■ •" • 
 
 And the stage-directions — ^'Staggers among the bodies;' 
 the slain are too numerous, as well as the blackamoor 
 knights-penitent being one too many: and De Zelos is such 
 a shabby Monmouth-street villain, witliout any redeeming 
 quahty — Stap my -vitals ! Maturin seems to be declining 
 into Nat. Lee. But let him try again ; he has talent, but 
 not much taste. I 'gin to fear, or to hope, that Sotheby 
 after all is to be the ^schylus of the age, unless Mr. Shiel 
 be really wortliy his success. The more I see of the stage, 
 the less I would wish to have any thing to do with it ; as a 
 proof of which, 1 hope you have received the Third Act of 
 Manfred, which ^^^ll at least prove that I wish to steer very 
 clear of the possibility of being put into scenery^ I sent it 
 from Rome. 
 
 " I returned the proof of Tasso. By-the-way, have you 
 never received a translation of St Paul, which I sent you, 
 not for publication, before 1 went to Rome ? 
 
 "I am at present on the Brenta. Opposite is a Spanish 
 marquis, ninety years old ; next his casino is a French- 
 marfs, — ^besides the natives; so that, as somebody said the 
 
 other day, we are exactly one of Goldoni's comedies, (La 
 Vedova Scaltra,) where a Spaniard, English, and French- 
 man are introduced : but we are all very good neighbours, 
 Venetians, &c. &c. &c. 
 
 "I am just getting on horseback for my evening ride, and 
 a visit to a physician, who has an agreeable family, of a 
 wife and four unmarried daughters, all under eighteen, w.ho 
 are friends of Signora S * *, and enemies to nobody. 
 There are, and are to be, besides, conversaziones and I 
 know not what, at a Countess Labbia's and I know not 
 whom. The weather is mild ; the thermometer 110 in the 
 sun this day, and 80 odd in the shade. 
 
 " Yours, &c. "N." 
 
 LETTER CCCXLL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY, 
 
 "La Mira, near Venice, June 17, 1817. 
 
 "It gives me great pleasure to hear of Moore's success, 
 and the more so that 1 never doubted that it would be 
 complete. Whatever good you can tell me of him and his 
 poem will be most acceptable : I feel very anxious indeed 
 to receive it. I hope that he is as happy in his fame and 
 reward as I wish him to be ; for I know no one who de- 
 serves both more — if any so much. 
 
 "Now to business; ****** I say unto you, 
 verily, it is not so ; or, as the foreigner said to the waiter, 
 after asking him to bring a glass of water, to which the 
 man answered, ' I will, sir,' — ' You ivill ! — G — d d — n, — I 
 sav, you mush P And I will submit this to the decision of 
 any person or persons to be appointed by both, on a fair 
 examination of the circumstances of this as compared with 
 the preceding publications. So, there 's for you. There 
 is always some row or other previously to all our publica- 
 tions: it should seem that, on approximating, we can never 
 quite get over tlie natural antipathy of author and book- 
 seller, and that more particularly tlie ferine nature of the 
 latter must break fortii. 
 
 ''You are out about the Third Canto: I have not done, 
 nor designed, a line of continuation to that poem. I waa 
 too short a time at Rome for it, and have no thought of 
 recommencmg. + * * 
 
 " I cannot well explain to you by letter what I conceive 
 to be the origin of Mrs. Leigh's notion about ' Tales of My 
 Landlord ;' but it is some points of the characters of Sir E. 
 Manley and Burley, as well as one or two of the jocular 
 portions, on which it is founded, probably. 
 
 "If you have received Dr. Pohdori, as well as a parcel 
 of books, and you can be of use to him, be so. I never was 
 much more disgusted with any human production than 
 with the eternal nonsense, and tracasseries, and emptiness, 
 and ill humour, and vanity of that young person; but he has 
 some talent, and is a man of honour, and has dispositions 
 of amendment, in which he has been aided by a litde sub- 
 sequent experience, and may turn out well. Therefore, 
 use your government interest for him, for he is improved 
 and improvable. "Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCXLIL 
 
 to: 
 
 "La Mira, near Venice, June 15, 1817. 
 "Enclosed is a letter to JDr. Holland from Pindemonte. 
 Not knowing the doctor's address, I am desired to inquire 
 and perhaps, being a literary man, you will know or dis- 
 cover his haunt near some populous churchyard. I have 
 written to you a scolding letter — I believe, upon a misap- 
 prehended passage in your letter — ^^but never mind: it will 
 do for next time, and you will surely deserve iL Talking 
 of doctors reminds me once more to recommend to you one 
 who will not recommend himself, — the Doctor Polidori. 
 If you can help liim to a publisher, do; or, if you have any 
 
LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 117 
 
 sick relation, I would advise his advice : all the patients he 
 had in Italy are dead — Mr. * *'s son, Mr. Horner, and 
 Lord Guildford, whom he embowelled with great success at 
 Pisa. * * * * 
 
 " Remember me to Moore, whom I congratulate. How 
 is Rogers? and what is become of Campbell and all 
 t 'other fellows of the Druid order? I got Maturin's Bed- 
 lam at last, but no other parcel ; I am in fits for the tooth- 
 powder, and the magnesia. I want some of Burkitt^s Soda 
 powders. Will you tell Mr. Kinnaird that I have written 
 him two letters on pressing business, (about Newstead, 
 
 of the like name a good deal in debt, pray dig him up, and 
 tell him that 'a pound of his fair flesh' or the ducats are 
 required, and that 'if you deny them, fie upon your law!' 
 
 "I hear nothing more from you about Mcore's poem, 
 Rogers, or other literar}' phenomena ; but to-morrow, being 
 post-day, will bring perhaps some tidings. I write to you 
 with people talking Venetian all about, so tliat you must 
 not expect this letter to be all English. 
 
 « The other day, T had a squabble on the highway as 
 follows : I was riding pretty quickly from Dolo home about 
 eight in the evening, when I passed a party of people in a 
 
 returned from a gallop along the banks of the Brenta- 
 tinie, sunset. "Yours, " B." 
 
 &c.) to which I humbly solicit his attendance. I am just hired carriage, one of whom, poking his head out of the 
 
 ~ window, began bawhng tome man inarticulate but insolent 
 
 manner. I wheeled my horse round, and overtaking, 
 stopped the coach, and said, ' Signor, have you any com- 
 mands for me ?' He rephed, impudently as to manner, 
 • No.' I then asked him what he meant by that unseemly 
 noise, to the discomfiture of the passers-by. He replied 
 by some piece of impertinence, to which I answered by 
 giving him a violent slap in the face. I then dismounted, 
 (for this passed at the window, I being on horseback still,) 
 and opening the door, desired him to walk out, or I would 
 give him another. But the first had settled him except as 
 to words, of which he poured forth a profusion in blasphe- 
 mies, swearing that he would go to the police and avouch 
 a battery sans provocation. I said he lied, and was a * *, 
 and, if he did not hold his tongue, should be dragged out 
 and beaten anew. He then held his tongue. I of course 
 told him my name and residence, and defied him to the 
 death, if he were a gentleman, or not a gendeman, and 
 had the inchnation to be genteel in the way of combat. 
 He went to the police, but there having been bystanders 
 in the road, — particularly a soldier who had seen the 
 business, — as well as my servant, notwithstanding the 
 oaths of the coachman and five insides besides the plain- 
 tiff, and a good deal of paying on all sides, his complaint 
 was dismissed, he having been the aggressor ; — and I was 
 subsequently informed that, had I not given him a blow, 
 he might have been had into durance. 
 
 " So set down this, — 'that in Aleppo once' 1 'beat a Ve- 
 netian -,' but I assure you that he deserved it, for I am a 
 quiet man, like Candide, though with somewhat of his for- 
 tune in being forced to forego my natural meekness every 
 
 LETTER CCCXLIIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "LaMira, near Venice, July 1, 1817. 
 
 " Since my former letter, I have been working up my 
 impressions into a Fourth Canto of Childe Harold, of which 
 I have roughened off about rather better than thirty 
 stanzas, and mean to go on ; and probably to make this 
 'Fytte' the concluding one of the poem, so that you may 
 propose against the autumn to draw out the conscription 
 for 1818. You must provide moneys, as this new resump- 
 tion bodes you certain disbursements. Somewhere about 
 the end of September or October I propose to be under 
 way, (i. e. in the press ;) but I have no idea yet of the 
 probable length or calibre of the Canto, or what it will be 
 good for ; but I mean to be as mercenary as possible, an 
 example (1 do not mean of any individual in particular, and 
 least of all any person or persons of our mutual acquaint- 
 ance,) which I should have followed in my youth, and I 
 might still have been a prosperous gentleman. 
 
 "No tooth-powder, no letters, no recent tidings of you. 
 
 " Mr. Lewis is at Venice, and I am going up to stay a 
 week with him there — as it is one of his enthusiasms also 
 to like the city. 
 
 " I stood in Venice on Iho ' Bridge of Siglis,' &c. &c. 
 
 « The ' Bridge of Sighs' (i. e. Ponte de'i Sospiri,) is tliat 
 which divides, or rather joms, the palace of the Doge to the ,"ow and then, 
 prison of the state. It has two passages : the criminal j 
 went by the one to judgment, and returned by the other to 
 death, being strangled in a chamber adjoining, where there 
 was a mechanical process for the purpose. 
 
 •* This is the first stanza of our new Canto: and now for 
 aline of the second: 
 
 " la Venice, Tasso'a echoes are no more, 
 And silent rows the songless gondolier, 
 Her palaces, &c. &c. 
 
 « You know that formerly die gondoliers sung always, 
 and Tasso's Gierusalemme was their ballad. Venice is 
 built on seventy-two islands. 
 
 " There ! there 's a brick of your new Babel ! and now, 
 sirrah ! what say you to the sample ? " Yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. I shail write again by-and-by." 
 
 'Yours, &c. 
 
 LETTER CCCXLV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 'B." 
 
 LETTER CCCXLIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "La Mira, near Venice, July 8, 1817. 
 "If you can convey the enclosed letter to its address, or 
 discover the person to whom it is directed, you will confer 
 a favour upon the Venetian creditor of a deceased English- 
 man. This episde is a dun to his executor, for house-rent. 
 The name of the insolvent defunct is, or was, PoHer Valter, 
 according to the account of the plaintiff, which I rather 
 suspect ought to be TVdier Porter^ according to our mode 
 of collocation. If you are acquainted with any dead man 
 
 " Venice, July 9, 1817. 
 "I have got the sketch and extracts from Lalla Rookh 
 —which I humbly suspect will knock up * *, and show 
 young gentlemen that something more than having been 
 across a camel's hump is necessary to write a good oriental 
 tale. The plan, as well as the extracts 1 have seen, please 
 me very much indeed, and I feel impatient for the whole. 
 
 " With regard to the critique on ' Manfred,' you have 
 been in such a devil of a hurry that you have only sent me 
 the half: it breaks oflf at page 294. Send me the rest; 
 and also page 270, where there is ' an account of the sup- 
 posed origin of this dreadful story,'— in which, by-the-way, 
 whatever it may be, the conjecturer is out, and knows no- 
 thing of the matter. I had a better origin than he can 
 devise or divine, for the soul of him. 
 
 "You say nothing of Manfred's luck in the world ; and 
 I care not. He is one of the best of my misbegotten, say 
 what they will. 
 
 « I got at last an extract, but no parcels. They will come, 
 I suppose, some time or other. I am come up to Venice 
 for a day or two to bathe, and am just going to take a 
 swim in the Adriatic; so, good evening— the post waits. 
 « Yours, &c. «B. 
 
118 
 
 LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 " P. S. Pray, was Manfred's speech to the Sun still 
 retained in Act Third ? I hope so : it was one of the best 
 in the xh'ing, and better than the Colosseum. I have done 
 Jifty-six of Canto Fourth, Chiide Harold ; so down with 
 your ducats." 
 
 LETTER CCCXLVI. 
 
 TO MK. MOOR£. 
 
 «La Mira, Venice, July 10, 1817. 
 
 " Murray, the Mokanna of booksellers, has contrived to 
 send me extracts from Lalla Rookh by tlie post. They 
 are taken from some magazine, and contain a short outline 
 and quotations from the first two Poems. I am very much 
 delighted with what is before me, and very thirsty for the 
 rest. You have caught the colours as if you had been in 
 the rainbow, and the tone of tlie East is perfectly preserv- 
 ed ; so that * * * and its author must be somewhat in 
 the back-ground, and learn that it requires something more 
 than to have been upon the haunch of a dromedary to com- 
 pose a good oriental story. I am glad you have changed 
 the title from 'Persian Tale.' + * * 
 
 " I suspect you have writte<i a devilish fine composition, 
 and I rejoice in it from my heart ; because ' the Douglas 
 and the Percy both together are confident against a world 
 in arms.' I hope you won't be affronted at my looking on 
 us as ' birds of a feather ;' though on whatever subject you 
 had written, I should have been very happy in your success. 
 
 " There is a simile of an orange tree's ' flowers and 
 fruits,' which I should have liked better, if I did not believe 
 it to be a reflection on 
 
 ****** 
 
 "Do you remember Thurlow's poem to Sam, *' When 
 Rogers ;' and that d — d supper of RanclifFe's that ought to 
 have been a dinner? 'Ah, Master Shallow, we have 
 heard the chimes at midnight.' — But 
 
 " My boat is on the shore, &c.t 
 
 " This should have been written fifteen moons ago — the 
 first stanza was. I am just come out from an hour's swim 
 in the Adriatic; and I write to you with a black-eyed 
 Venetian girl before me, reading Boccacio. * * 
 
 "Last week I had a row on the road (I came up to 
 Venice from my casino, a few miles on the Paduan road, 
 this blessed day, to bathe) with a fellow in a carriage, who 
 was impudent to my horse. I gave him a swinging box on 
 the ear, which sent him to the police, who dismissed his 
 complaint, and said, that if I had not thumped him, they 
 would have trounced him for being impertinent. Witnesses 
 had seen the transaction. He first shouted, in an unseemly 
 way, to frighten my palfrey. I wheeled round, rode up to 
 the window, and asked him what he meant. He grmned, 
 and said some foolery, which produced him an immediate 
 slap in the face, to his utter discomfiture. Much blasphemy 
 ensued, and some menace, which I stopped by dismounting 
 and opening the carriage-door, and intimating an intention 
 of mending the road with his immediate remains, if he did 
 not hold his tongue. He held it. 
 
 * The fellow went sneakingly to the police ; but a soldier, 
 who had seen the matter, and thought me right, went and 
 counter-oathed him ; so that he had to retire — and cheap 
 too : — ^I wish I had hit him harder. 
 
 "Monk Lewis is here — 'how pleasant !'f He is a very 
 good fellow, and very much yours. So is Sam — so is 
 every body — and, among the number, 
 
 "Yours ever, "B. 
 
 «P.S. What think you of Manfred? * * * 
 
 " If ever you see * * *, ask him what he means by 
 telling me, ' Oh, my friend, inveru portum T — What ' por- 
 
 * See Poems, p. 478. t See Poems, p. 484. 
 
 J An allusion (such as often occurs in these letters) to an anecdote with 
 which he bad been amused. 
 
 tum ?' Port wine, I suppose — the only port he ever sought 
 or found, since J knew him." 
 
 LETTER CCCXLVn. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " La Mira, near Venice, July 15, 1817. 
 
 "I have finished (that is, written — the file comes ailer- 
 ward) ninety and eight stanzas of the Fourth Canto, which 
 I mean to be the concluding one. It will probably be about 
 the same length as the Third^ being already of the dimen- 
 sions of the first or second Cantos. I look upon parts of 
 it as very good, that is, if die three former are good, but 
 this we shall see ; and at any rate, good or not, it is rather 
 a different style from the last — less metaphysical — which, 
 at any rate, will be a variety. I sent you the shaft of the 
 column as a specimen the other day, i. e. the first stanza. 
 So you may be thinking of its arrival towards autumn, 
 whose winds will not be the only ones to be raised, if so 6e 
 as )um) thai it is ready by that time. 
 
 " I lent Lewis, who is at Venice (in or on the Canal- 
 accio, the Grand Canal,) your e.xtracts from Lalla Rookh 
 and Manuel, and, out of contradiction, it may be, he likes the 
 last, and is not much taken with the first, of these perfonn- 
 ances. Of Manuel I tliink, with the exception of a few 
 capers, it is as heavy a nightmare as was ever bestrode by 
 indigestion. 
 
 "Of the extracts I can but judge as extracts, and I prefer 
 the 'Peri' to the ' Silver Veil.' He seems not so much at 
 home in his versification of the ' Silver Veil,' and a little 
 embarrassed with his horrors ; but the conception of tho 
 character of the impostor is fine, and the plan of great scope 
 for his genius, — and I doubt not that, as a whole, it will be 
 very Arabesque and beautiful. 
 
 "Your late epistle is not the most abundant in bforma- 
 tion, and has not yet been succeeded by any other ; so tliat 
 I know nothing of your own concerns, or of any concerns, 
 and as I never hear from any body but yourself who 
 does not tell me something cis disagreeable as possible, I 
 should not be sorry to hear from you: and as it is not very 
 probable, — if I can, by any device or possible arrangement 
 with regard to my personal affairs, so arrange it, — that I 
 shall return soon, or reside ever in England, all that you 
 tell me will be all I shall know or inquire after, as to our 
 beloved realm of Grub-street, and the black brethren and 
 blue sisterhood of that extensive suburb of Babylon. Have 
 you had no new babe of literature sprung up to replace the 
 dead, the distant, the tired, and the retired ? no prose, no 
 vrtse, no nothing .^" 
 
 ****** 
 
 LETTER CCCXLVnL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Venice, July 20, 1817. 
 " I write to give you notice that I have completed tho 
 fmirth and ultimate Canto of Chiide Harold. It consists 
 of 126 stanzas, and is consequently the longest of the four. 
 It is yet to be copied and polished ; and the notes are to 
 come, of which it will require more than the third Canto, as 
 it necessarily treats more of works of art than of nature. 
 It shall be sent towards autumn ; — and now for our barter. 
 What do you bid ? eh ? you shall have samples, an' it so 
 please you : but I wish to know what I am to ex-pect (as 
 the saying is) in tliese hard times, when poetry does not 
 let for half its value. If you are disposed to do what Mrs. 
 Winifred Jenkins calls ' the handsome tiling,' I may perhaps 
 throw you some odd matters to the lot, — translations, or 
 slight originals ; there is no saying what may be on the 
 anvil between this and the booking season. Recollect that 
 it is the last Canto, and completes the work; whether as 
 good as the others, I cannot judge, in course — ^least of all 
 as yet, but it shall be as httle worse as I can help. I may 
 
LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 119 
 
 erhaps, give some littie gossip in the notes as to the pre- 
 ent state of Italian literati and literature, being acquainted 
 with some of their capi — men as well as books : — but this 
 depends upon my humour at the time. So, now, pro- 
 nounce : 1 say nothing. 
 
 " When you have got the whole /our Cantos, I think you 
 might venture on an edition of the whole poem in quarto, 
 v/ith spare copies of the last two for the purchasers of the 
 old edition of the first two. There is a hint for you, 
 worthy of the Row; and now, perpend— pronounce. 
 
 " I have not received a word from you of the fate of 
 ' Manfred' or ' Tasso,' which seems to me odd, whether 
 tliey have failed or succeeded. 
 
 " As this is a scrawl of business, and I have lately writ- 
 ten at length and often on other subjects, [ will only add 
 that I am, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCXLIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "La Mira, near Venice, Aug. 7, 1817. 
 
 "Your letter of the 18th, and, what will please you, as it 
 did me, the parcel sent by the good-natured aid and abet- 
 ment of Mr. Croker, are arrived. — Messrs. Lewis and 
 Hobhouse are here; the former m the same house, the 
 latter a few hundred yards distant. 
 
 "You say nothing of Manfred, from which its failure may 
 be inferred ; but 1 think it odd you should not say so at 
 once. I know nothing, and hear absolutely nothing, of any 
 body or any thing in England ; and there are no English 
 papers, so that all you say will be news — of any person, 
 or thing, or things. I am at present very anxious about 
 Newstead, and sorry that Eannadrd is leaving England at 
 this minute, though I do not tell him so, and would rather 
 he should have his pleasure, although it may not in this 
 instance tend to my profit. 
 
 " If I understand rightly, you have paid into Morland's 
 1500 pounds: as the agreement in the paper is two thou- 
 sand guineas, there will remain therefore sir hundred 
 pounds, and not five hundred, the odd hundred being the 
 extra to make up the specie. Six hundred and thirty 
 pounds will bring it to the like for Manfred and Tasso, 
 making a total of twelve hundred and thirty, I believe, for 
 I am not a good calculator, I do not wish to press you, 
 but I tell you fairly that it will be a convenience to me to 
 have it paid as soon as it can be made convenient to your- 
 self. 
 
 " The new and last Canto is 130 stanzas in length ; and 
 may be made more or less. I have fixed no price, even in 
 idea, and have no notion of what it may be good for. 
 There are no metaphysics in it ; at least, I think not. Mr. 
 Hobhouse has promised me a copy of Tasso's Will, for 
 notes ; and I have some curious things to say about Fer- 
 rara, and Parisina's story, and perhaps a farthing candle's 
 worth of light upon the present state of Italian literature. 
 I shall hardly be ready by October; but that don't matter. 
 I have all to copy and correct, and the notes to write. 
 
 "I do not know whether Scott will Ukeit; but I have 
 called him the ^Ariosto of the North' in my text.* If he 
 should not, say so in tiine. 
 
 "Le\vis, Hobhouse, and I went the other day to the cir- 
 cumcision of a sucking Shylock. I have seen three men's 
 heads and a child's foreskin cut off m Italy. The cere- 
 monies are very moving, but too long for detail in this 
 weather. 
 
 "An Italian translation of 'Glenarvon' came lately to be 
 printed at Venice. The censor (Sr. Petrotini) refused to 
 sanction the publication till he had seen me on the subject. 
 I told him that I did not recognise the shghtest relation 
 between that book and myself; but that, whatever opinions 
 might be upon that subject, I would never prevent or oppose 
 
 the publication of any book, in any language, on my own 
 private account ; and desired him (against his inclination) 
 to permit the poor translator to publish his labours. It is 
 going forward in consequence. You may say this, with 
 my compliments, to the author. " Yours." 
 
 LETTER CCCL. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 Canto rv. rtanza 4(Hh. 
 
 "Venice, Aug. 12, 1817. 
 
 "I have been very sorry to hear of the death of Madame 
 de Stael, not only because she had been very kind to me at 
 Copet, but because now I can never requite her. In a 
 general point of view, she vidll leave a great gap in society 
 and literature. 
 
 " With regard to death, I doubt that we have any right 
 to pity the dead for theii- own sakes. 
 
 " The copies of Manfred and Tasso are arrived, thanks 
 to Mr. Croker's cover. You have destroyed the whole 
 effect and moral of the poem by omitting the last fine of 
 Manfred's speaking ; and why this was done, 1 know not. 
 Why you persist in saying nothing of the thing itself I am 
 equally at a loss to conjecture. If it is for fear of telling 
 me something disagreeable, you are wrong; because 
 sooner or later I must know it, and I am not so new, nor 
 so raw, nor so inexperienced, as not to be able to bear, not 
 the mere paltry, petty disappointments of authorship, but 
 things more serious, — at least, I hope so, and that what you 
 may think irritability is merely mechanical, and only acts 
 like galvanism on a dead body, or the muscular motion 
 which survives sensation. 
 
 "If it is that you are out of humour, because I wrote to 
 you a sharp letter, recollect that it was partly from a mis- 
 conception of your letter, and partly because you did a 
 thing you had no right to do without consulting me. 
 
 " I have, however, heard good of Manfred from two other 
 quarters, and from men who would not be scrupulous in 
 saying what they thought, or what was said; and so 
 ' good-morrow to you, good Master Lieutenant.' 
 
 "I wrote to you twice about the 4th Canto, which you 
 wiU answer at your pleasure. Mr. Hobhouse and I have 
 come up for a day to the city; Mr. Lewis is gone to Eng- 
 land; and I am "Yours." 
 
 LETTER CCCLL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "La Mira, near Venice, Aug. 21, 1817. 
 
 " I take you at your word about Mr. Hanson, and ^vill 
 feel obliged if you vdll go to him, and request Mr. Davies 
 also to visit him by my desire, and repeat that I trust that 
 neither Mr. Kinnaird's absence nor mine v\t11 prevent his 
 taking all proper steps to accelerate and promote the sale 
 of Newstead and Rochdale, upon which the whole of my 
 future personal comfort depends. It is impossible for me 
 to express how much any delays upon these points would 
 inconvenience me ; and I do not know a greater obligation 
 that can be conferred upon me than the pressing these 
 things upon Hanson, and making him act according to my 
 wishes. I wish you would speak out, at least to T/ie, and 
 tell me what you allude to by your cold way of mentioning 
 him. All mysteries at such a distance are not merely 
 tormenting but mischievous, and may be prejudicial to my 
 interests ; so pray expound, that I may consult with Mr. 
 Kinnaird when he arrives ; and remember that I prefer the 
 most disagreeable certainties to hints and inuendoes. The 
 devil take every body ; I never can get any person to be 
 expUcit about any tMng or any body, and my whole life is 
 passed in conjectures of what people mean : you all talk 
 in the style of Caroline Lamb's novels. 
 
 « It is not Mr. St. John, but Mr. St. Aubyn. son of Sii 
 John St. Aubyn. Polidori knows him, and introduced him 
 
 I. 
 
120 
 
 LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 to me. He is of Oxford, and has got my parcel. The 
 doctor vnW ferret him out, or ought. The parcel contabs 
 maiiy letters, some of Madame de Stael's, and other peo- 
 ple's, besides MSS., &c. By , if I find the gentleman, 
 
 and he don t find the parcel, I will say something he won't 
 like to hear. 
 
 « You want a ' civil and delicate declension' for the me- 
 dical tragedy ? Take it — 
 
 " Dear Doctor, I have read yonr play, 
 Which is a good one in its way ; 
 Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, 
 And drenches handkerchiefs like towels 
 With tears, that, in a tiux of grief, 
 Afford hysterical relief 
 To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, 
 Whicli your catastrophe convulses. 
 
 •' I like your moral and machinery ; 
 Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery I 
 Your dialogue is apt and smart ; 
 The play's concoction full of art ; 
 Your hero raves, your heroine cries, 
 All stab, and every body dies. 
 In short, your tragedy would be 
 The very thing to hear and see : 
 And for a piece of publication, 
 If I decline on this occasion, 
 It is not that I am not sensible 
 To merits in themselves ostensible. 
 But— and I grieve to speak it— plays 
 Are drugs — mere drugs, sir — now-a-days. 
 I had a heavy loss by ' Manuel,' — 
 Too lucky if it prove not annual,— 
 And Sotheby, with his ' Orestes,' 
 (Which, by-the-by, the author's best is,) 
 Has lain so very long on hand 
 That I despair of all demand, 
 I 've advertised, but see my hooka. 
 Or only watch my shopman's looks ;— 
 Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber, 
 My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 
 
 ' ' There 's Byron, too, who once did better, 
 Has sent me, folded in a letter, 
 A sort of^it 's no more a drama 
 Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama ; 
 So alter'd since last year his pen is, 
 I think he 's lost his wits at Venice. 
 • «*«•• 
 
 In short, sir, what with one and t' other, 
 I dare not venture on another. 
 I write in haste ; excuse each blunder ; 
 The coaches through the street so thunder I 
 My room 's so full— we 've Gilford here 
 Reading MS., with Hookham Frere 
 Pronouncing on the nouns and particles 
 Of some of our forthcoming Articles. 
 
 " The duarlerly — Ah, sir, if you 
 Had but the genius to review !-.- 
 A smart critique upon St. Helena, 
 Or if you only would but tell in & 
 
 Short compass what but, to resume S 
 
 As I was saying, sir, the room — 
 
 The room 's so full of wits and bards, 
 
 Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards, 
 
 And others, neither bards nor wits ;— 
 
 My humble tenement admits 
 
 All persons in the dress of gent.. 
 
 From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. 
 
 " A party dines with me to-day. 
 All clever men , who make their way ; 
 They 're at this moment in discussioa 
 On poor De Stael's late dissolution. 
 Her book, they say, was in advance- 
 Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France I 
 
 " Thus run our time and tongues away.— 
 But, to return, sir, ta your play ; 
 Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal, 
 Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill. 
 My hands so full, my head so busy, 
 I 'm almost dead, and always dizzy ; 
 And so, with endless truth and hurry. 
 Dear Doctor, I am yows, 
 
 " JOHN MURRAY. 
 
 "P. S. I've done the fourth and last Canto, which 
 amounts to 133 stanzas, I desire you to name a price ; 
 if you do n't, / will ; so I advise you in time. 
 
 " Yours, &c. 
 
 • There will be a good many notes." 
 
 LETTER CCCLIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Sept.4,1817. 
 
 " Your letter of the 15th has conveyed with its contents 
 the impression of a seal, to which the ' Saracen's Head' is 
 a seraph, and the ' Bull and Mouth' a delicate device. 1 
 knew that calumny had sufficiently blackened me of later 
 days, but not that it had given the features as well as com- 
 plexion of a negro. Poor Augusta is not less, but rather 
 more, shocked than myself, and says, ' people seem to have 
 lost tlieir recollection strangely' when they engraved such 
 a 'blackamoor.' Pray do n't seal (at least to me) with such 
 a caricature of the human numskull altogether ; and if you 
 do n't break the seal-cutter's head, at least crack his Ubel 
 (or likeness, if it should be a likeness) of mine. 
 
 "Mr. Kinnaird is not yet arrived, but expected. He has 
 lost by the way all the tooth-powder, as a letter from Spa 
 informs me. 
 
 " By Mr. Rose I received safely, though tardily, magne- 
 sia and tooth-powder, and * * * *. Why do you 
 send me such trash — worse than trash, the Sublime of 
 Mediocrity? Thanks for Lalla, however, which is good; 
 and thanks for the Edinburgh and Quarterly, botli very 
 amusing and well-written. Paris in 1815, &c. — good. 
 Modem Greece* — good for nothing; written by some one 
 who has never been there, and not bemg able to manage the 
 Spenser stanza, has invented a tiling of its own, consisting 
 of two elegiac stanzas, a heroic line, and an Alexandrine, 
 twisted on a string. Besides, why ' modem ?' You may 
 say modem Greeks, but surely Greece itself is rather more 
 ancient than ever it was. — Now for business. 
 
 "You offer 1500 guineas for the new Canto: I won't 
 take it. I ask two thousand five hundred guineas for it, 
 which you ^^'ill either give or not, as you think proper. It 
 concludes the poem, and consists of 144 stanzas. The 
 notes are numerous, and chiefly written by Mr. Hobhouse, 
 whose researches have been indefatigable, and who, I will 
 venture to say, has more real knowledge of Rome and its 
 environs than any Englishman who has been there since 
 Gibbon. By-the-way, to prevent any mistakes, I think it 
 necessary to state the fact that Ae, Mr. Hobhouse, has no 
 interest whatever in the price or profit to be derived fi-om 
 the copyright of eidier poem or notes directly or indirectly; 
 so that you are not to suppose that it is by, for, or through 
 him, that I require more for this Canto than the preceding. 
 — No : but if Mr. Eustace was to have had two thousand 
 for a Poem on Education ; if Mr. Moore is to have three 
 thousand for Lalla, &c. ; if Mr. Campbell is to have three 
 thousand for his prose on poetry — I do n't mean to dispa- 
 rage these gentlemen in their labours — but I ask the afore- 
 said price for mme. You will tell me that their productions 
 are considerably longer : very true, and when they shorten 
 them, I will lengtlien mine, and ask less. You shall submit 
 the MS. to Mr. GifFord, and any other two gendemen to 
 be named by you (Mr. Frere, or Mr. Croker,or whomever 
 you please, except such fellows as your * * s and * * s,) 
 and if they pronounce this Canto to be inferior as a whole 
 to the preceding, I will not appeal from their award, but 
 burn the manuscript, and leave things as they are. 
 
 "Yours very truly. 
 
 "P. S. In answer to a former letter, I sent you a short 
 statement of what I thought the state of our present copy- 
 right account, viz. six hundred pounds still (or lately) due 
 on Childe Harold, and six hundred guineas, Manfred and 
 Tasso, making a total of twelve hundred and thirty pounds. 
 If we agree about the new poem, I shall take the liberty to 
 reserve the choice of the manner in which it should be pub- 
 lished, viz. a quarto, certes." + ♦ * * 
 
 By Mrs. Heraartt. 
 
LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 121 
 
 LETTER CCCLIIL 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 «LaMira,Sept. 12, 1817. 
 
 " I set out yesterday morning with the intention of paying 
 my respects, and availing myself of your permission to 
 walk over the premises.* On arriving at Padua, 1 found 
 that the march of the Austrian troops had engrossed so 
 many horses, that those I could procure were hardly able 
 to crawl ; and their weakness, together with the prospect 
 of finding none at all at the post-house of Monselice, and 
 consequently either not arriving that day at Este, or so 
 late as to be unable to return home the same evening, in- 
 duced me to turn aside in a second \'isit to Arqua, instead 
 of proceeding onwards ; and even thus I hardly got back 
 in time. 
 
 " Next week I shall be obliged to be in Venice to meet 
 Lord Kinnaird and his brother, who are expected in a few 
 days. And this interruption, together widi that occasioned 
 by the continued march of the Austrians for the next few 
 days, will not allow me to fix any precise period for avail- 
 ing myself of your kindness, though I should wish to take 
 the earliest opportunity. Perhaps, if absent, you will have 
 the goodness to permit one of your servants to show me 
 the gi-ounds and house, or as much of either as may be 
 convenient; at any rate, I shall take the first occasion 
 possible to go over, and regret very much that 1 was 
 on yesterday prevented. 
 
 "I have the honour to be your obliged, &c." 
 
 Poem, for I do n't like the prose at all, at all : and in the 
 meantime, the 'Fire-worshippers' is the best, and the 
 ' Veiled Prophet' the worst, of the volume. 
 
 "With regard to poetry in general,* I am convinced 
 the more I think of if, that he and all of us — Scott, Sou- 
 they, Wordsworth, Moore, Campbell, I, — are all in the 
 wrong, one as much as another ; that we are upon a wrong 
 revolutionary poetical system, or systems, not worth a 
 damn in itself, and from which none but Rogers and Crabbe 
 are free ; and that the present and next generations will 
 finally be of this opinion. I am the more confirmed in 
 this by ha^'ing lately gone over some of our classics, par- 
 ticularly Pope, whom I tried in this way ; — If took' Moore's 
 poems and my own and some others, and went over them 
 side by side with Pope's, and 1 was really astonished (I 
 ought not to have been so) and mortified at the inefFable 
 distance in point of sense, learning, eifect, and even imagi- 
 nation, passion, and invention, between the little Q,ueen 
 Anne's man, and us of the Lower Empire. Depend upon 
 i', itis all Horace then, and Claudian now among us; and 
 if I had to begin again, 1 would mould myself accordingly. 
 Crabbe 's the man, but he has got a coarse and impracti- 
 cable subject, and Rogers is retired upon half-pay, and 
 has done enough, unless he v.ere to do as he did formerly." 
 
 LETTER CCCLV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 Sept. 
 
 LETTER CCCLIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Sept. 15, 1817. 
 
 ** I enclose a sheet for correction, if ever you get to an- j 
 other edition. You will observe that the blunder in printing ! 
 makes it appear as if the Chateau was over St. Gingo, 
 instead of being on the opposite shore of the Lake, over 
 Clarens. So, separate the paragraphs, otherwise my 
 topography will seem as inaccurate as your <^pography 
 on this occasion. 
 
 " The other day I wrote to convey my proposition with 
 regard to the fourth and concluding Canto. I have gone 
 over and extended it to one hundred and fifty stanzas, 
 which is almost as long as the first two were originally, 
 and longer by itself than any of the smaller poems except 
 the 'Corsair.' Mr. Hobhouse has made some veiT valu- 
 able and accurate notes, of considerable length, and you 
 may be sure that I will do for the text all that I can to 
 finish with decency. I look upon Childe Harold as my 
 best ; and as I begun, I think of concluding with it. But 
 I make no resolutions on that head, as I broke my former 
 intention wth regard to the ' Corsair.' However, I feai- 
 that I shall never do better ; and yet, not being thirty years 
 of age, for some moons to come, one ought to be progres- 
 sive, as far as intellect goes, for many a good year. But I 
 have had a devilish deal of tear and wear of mind and 
 body in my time, besides having published too often and 
 much already. God grant me some judgment to do what 
 may be most fitting in that and every thing else, for I doubt 
 my own exceedingly. 
 
 " I have read ' Lalla Rookh,' but not with sufficient at- 
 tention yet, for I ride about, and lounge, and ponder, and 
 — two or three other things ; so that my reading is very 
 desultory, and not so attentive as it used to be. I am very 
 glad to hear of its popularity, for Moore is a very noble 
 fellow in all respects, and will enjoy it without any of the 
 bad feeUngs which success — good or evil — sometimes en- 
 genders in the men of rhyme. Of the Poem itself, I will 
 tell you my opinion when I have mastered it: I say of the 
 
 17, 1817. 
 
 * 
 + 
 
 * * * * 
 
 * * + * 
 
 * Mr. Hobhouse purposes being in England in Novem- 
 ber ; he will bring the Fourth Canto with him, notes and 
 all : the text contains one himdred and fifty stanzas, which 
 is long for that measure. 
 
 " "\Viih regard to the ' Ariosto of the North,'J surely their 
 themes, chivalry, war, and love, were as like as can be ; 
 and as to the compliment, if you knew what the Italians 
 think of Ariosto, you would not hesitate about that. But 
 as to tlieir ' measures,' you forget that Ariosto's is an oc- 
 tave stanza, and Scott's any thing but a stanza. If you 
 think Scott will dislike it, say so, and I will expunge. I do 
 not call him the ' Scotch Ariosto,' which would be sd^d pro- 
 vincial eulogy, but the ' Ariosto of the JVorth,' meaning of 
 all couniiies that are not the South. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " As I have recently troubled you rather frequendy, I 
 will conclude, repeating that I am 
 
 " Yours ever, Sec." 
 
 LETTER CCCLVL 
 
 TO MR, MURRAY. 
 
 "Oct. 12, 1817. 
 "Mr. Ennaird and his brother. Lord Kinnaird, have 
 been here, and are now gone again. All your missives 
 came, except the tooth-powder, of which I request farther 
 supplies, at all convenient opportunities ; as also of mag- 
 nesia and soda-powders, both great laxuries here, and 
 neither to be had good, or indeed hardly at aU, of the 
 natives. 
 
 ****** 
 
 " In Coleridge's Life I perceive an attack upon the then 
 Committee of D. L. Theatre for acting Bertram, and an 
 attack upon Maturin's Bertram for being acted. Con- 
 sidering all things, this is not very grateful nor graceful 
 
 * A country-house on the Euganean hills, near Este, which Mr. Hopp- 
 ner who was thea the English consul-general at Venice, had for some 
 time occupied, and which Lord Byron afterward rented of him, bui never 
 resided in it. 
 
 * On this paragraph, in the MS. copy of the above letter, I find the 
 following note, in the handwriting of Mr. Gifford : " There is more good 
 sense, and feeling, and judgment in this passage, than in any other I ever 
 read, or Lord Byron wrote." — Moore. 
 
 t See letters for Bowles and Blaclrwood. 
 
 i See Letter 346. . 
 
 16 
 
122 
 
 LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 on the part of the worthy autobiographer ; and I would 
 answer, if I had not obliged him. Putting my own pains 
 to forward the views of Coleridge out of the question, I 
 know that there was every disposition, on the part of the 
 Sub-Committee, to bring forward any production of his, 
 were it feasible. The play he offered, though poetical, did 
 not appear at all practicable, and Bertram did; — and 
 hence this long tirade, which is the last chapter of his 
 vagabond life. 
 
 "As for Bertram, Maturin may defend his own be- 
 gotten, if he likes it well enough; I leave the Irish clergy- 
 man and the new orator Henley to battle it out between 
 them, satisfied to have done the best I could for both. I 
 may say this to you, who know it. 
 
 ****** 
 
 «Mr. Coleridge may console himself with the fervour, — 
 the almost religious fervour of his and Wordsworth's dis- 
 ciples, as he calls it. If he means that as any proof of 
 their merits, I will find him as much ' fervour in behalf of 
 Richard Brothers and Joanna Southcote as ever gathered 
 over his pages or round his fireside. * * * 
 
 " My answer to your proposition about the Fourth Canto 
 you will have received, and I await yours ; — perhaps we 
 may not agree. I have since written a Poem* (of 84 
 octave stanzas,) humorous, in or after the excellent manner 
 of Mr. Whistlecraft (whom I take to be Frere,) on a 
 Venetian anecdote which amused me : — but till I have 
 your answer, I can say nothing more about it. 
 
 "Mr. Hobhouse does not return to England in Novem- 
 ber, as he intended, but will winter here ; and as he is to 
 convey the poem, or {»oems, — for there may perhaps be more 
 than the two mentioned (which, by-the-way, I shall not 
 perhaps include in the same publication or agreement) — 
 1 shall not be able to publish so soon as expected ; but I 
 suppose there is no harm in the delay. 
 
 " I have signed and sent your former copyrights by Mr. 
 Kjnnaird, but not the recdpt^ because the money is not yet 
 paid. INIr. Kinnaird has a power of attorney to sign for 
 me, and will, when necessary. 
 
 "Many thanks for the Edinburgh Review, which is very 
 kind about Manfred, and defends its originality, which I 
 did not know that any body had attacked. I never read, 
 and do not know that I ever saw the ' Faustus of Marlow,' 
 and had, and have, no dramatic works by me in English, 
 except the recent things you sent me; but I heard Mr, 
 Lewis translate verbally some scenes of Goethe's Faust 
 (which were, some good and some bad) last summer — 
 which is all I know of the history of that magical person- 
 age ; and as to the germs of Manfred, they may be found 
 in the Journal which I sent to Mrs. Leigh (part of which 
 you saw) when I went over first the Dent de Jaman, and 
 then the Wengen or Wengeberg Alp and Sheideck, and 
 made the giro of the Jungfrau, Shreckhorn, &c. &c. 
 shortly before I left Svvitzerland. I have the whole scene 
 of Manfred before me as if it was but yesterday, and could 
 point it out, spot by spot, torrent and all. 
 
 "Of the Prometheus of ^Eschylus I was passionately 
 fond as a boy (it was one of the Greek plays we read 
 thrice a year at Harrow;) indeed that and the 'Medea' 
 were tlie only ones, except the ' Seven before Thebes,' 
 which ever much pleased me. As to the 'Faustus of 
 Marlow,' I never read, never saw, nor heard of it — at least, 
 thought of it, except that I think Mr. Gifford mentioned, 
 in a note of his which you sent me, something about the 
 catastrophe ; but not as having any thing to do with mine, 
 which may or may not resemble it, for any thing I know. 
 
 " The Prometheus, if not exactly in my plan, has always 
 been so much in my head, that I can easily conceive its 
 influence over all or any thing that I have written ; — but I 
 deny Marlow and his progeny, and beg that you will do 
 the same. 
 
 " If you can send me the paper in question,* which the 
 Edinburgh Review mentions, do. The Review in tlie 
 magazine you say was written by Wilson? it had all the air 
 of being a poet's, and was a very good one. The Edinburgh 
 Review T take to be Jeffrey's own by its friendliness. 1 
 wonder they thought it worth while to do so, so soon after 
 the former ; but it was evidently with a good motive. 
 
 "I saw Hoppner the other day, whose country-house at 
 Este I have taken for two years. If you come out next 
 summer, let me know in time. Love to Gifford. 
 
 "Yours ever truly. 
 
 " Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, 
 Are all partakers of my pantry. 
 
 These two lines are omitted in your letter to the doctor 
 
 after — 
 
 "AH clever men who make their way." 
 
 LETTER CCCLVIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 I « Venice, Oct. 23, 1817. 
 
 " Your two letters are before me, and our bargain is so 
 far concluded. How sorry I am to hear that Gifford is 
 unwell ! Pray tell me he is better ; I hope it is nothing but 
 ■ cold. As you say his iUness originates in cold, I trust it 
 I will get no farther. 
 
 "Mr. Whistlecraft has no greater admirer than myself: 
 I have written a story in 89 stanzas, in imitation of him, 
 ' called Beppo (the short name for Giuseppe, that is, the 
 Joe of the Itahan Joseph,) which I shall throw you into the 
 balance of the Fourth Canto, to help you round to your 
 money ; but you perhaps had better publish it anonymously: 
 but this we will see to by-and-by. 
 
 "In the Notes to Canto Fourth, Mr. Hobhouse has 
 pointed out several errors of Gibbon. You may depend 
 upon H.'s research and accuracy. You may print it in 
 what shape you please. 
 
 " With regard to a future large Edition, you may print 
 all, or any thing, except ' English Bards,' to the republica- 
 tion of which at no time will 1 consent. I would not reprint 
 them on any consideration. I don't think them good for 
 much, even in point of poetry ; and as to other things, you 
 are to recollect that I gave up the publication on account 
 of the Hollands, and I do not think that any time or cir- 
 cumstances can neutralize the suppression. Add to which, 
 that, after being on terms with almost all the bards and 
 critics of the day, it would be savage at any time, but worst 
 of all noM>, to revive this foolish Lampoon. 
 
 ****** 
 ****** 
 
 "The review of Manfred came very safely, and I am 
 much pleased with it. It is odd that they should say (that 
 is, somebody in a magazine whom the Edinburgh contro- 
 verts,) that it was taken from Marlow's Faust, which I 
 never read nor saw. An American, who came the other 
 day from Germany, told Mr. Hobhouse that Manfred was 
 taken from Goethe's Faust. The devil may take both the 
 Faustuses, German and English — I have taken neither. 
 
 "Will you send to Hanson, and say that he has not 
 written since 9th September? — at least I have had no letter 
 since, to my great surprise. 
 
 "Will you desire Messrs. Morland to send out whatever 
 additional sums have or may be paid in credit immediately, 
 and always, to their Venice correspondents ? It is two 
 months ago that they sent me out an additional credit for 
 one thousand pounds. I was very glad of it, but 1 do n't 
 know how the devil it came ; for I can only maJie out 500 
 
 Beppo. 
 
 * A paper in the Edinburgh Magazine, in which it was suggested that 
 the general conception of Manfred, and much of what is excellent in the 
 manner of its execution, had been borrowed from " The Tragic&l Historv 
 of Dr. Faustus," of Marlow. 
 
 t See Letter 348. 
 
LETTERS, 1817. 
 
 123 
 
 of Hanson's payment, and I had thought the other 500 
 came from you; but it did not, it seems, as, by yours of the 
 7th instant, you have only just paid the 1230/. balance. 
 
 "Mr. Kinnaird is on his way home \vith the assignments. 
 I can fix no time for the arrival of Canto Fourth, which 
 depends on the journey of Mr. Hobhouse home 5 and I do 
 not think that this will be immediate. 
 
 " Yours, in great haste and very truly, " B. 
 
 "P. S. Morlands have not yet written to my bankers 
 apprising the payment of your balances : pray desire tliem 
 to do so. 
 
 "Ask them about the previous thousand — of which I 
 know 500 came from Hanson's — and make out tlie other 
 500 — that is, whence it came." 
 
 LETTER CCCLVm. 
 
 TO MK. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, Nov. 15, 1817. 
 
 "Mr. Kinnaird has probably returned to England by this 
 time, and will have conveyed to you any tidings you may 
 wish to have of us and ours. 1 have come back to Venice 
 for the winter. Mr. Hobhouse will probably set off in 
 December, but what day or week I know not. He is my 
 opposite neighbour at present. 
 
 "I wrote yesterday in some perplexity, and no very good 
 humour, to Mr. Kinnaird, to inform me about Newstead 
 and the Hansons, of which and whom I hear nothing since 
 his departure from this place, except in a few unintelligible 
 words from an unintelligible woman. 
 
 "I am as sorry to hear of Dr. Polidori's accident as one 
 can be for a person for whom one has a dislike, and some- 
 thing of contempt. When he gets well, tell me, and how- 
 he gets on in the sick line. Poor fellow ! how came he to 
 fix there? 
 
 " I fear the doctor's skill at Norwich 
 Will hardly salt the doctor's porridge. 
 
 Methought he was going to the Brazils, to give the Portu- 
 guese physic (of which they are fond to desperation,) with 
 the Danish consul. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "Your new Canto has expanded to one hundred and 
 sixty-seven stanzas. It will be long, you see ; and as for 
 the notes by Hobhouse, I suspect they will be of the heroic 
 size. You must keep Mr. * * in good humour, for he is 
 devilish touchy yet about your Review and all which it 
 inherits, including the editor, the Admiralty, and its book- 
 seller. I used to think that / was a good deal of an author 
 in amour propre and noli me tangere; but these prose fellows 
 are worst, after all, about their little comforts. 
 
 "Do you remember my mentioning, some months ago, 
 the Marquis Moncada — a Spaniard of distinction and 
 fourscore years, my summer neighbour at La iNIira? Well 
 about six weeks ago, he fell in love with a Venetian girl 
 of family, and no fortune or character ; took her into his 
 mansion; quarrelled with all his former friends for givin 
 him advice (except me svho gave him none,) and installed 
 her present concubine and future uife and mistress of hnn 
 self and furniture. At the end of a month, in which she 
 demeaned herself as ill as possible, he found out a cor- 
 respondence between her and some former keeper, and 
 after nearly strangling, turned her out of the house, to the 
 great scandal of the keeping part of the town, and with a 
 prodigious eclat, which has occupied all the canals and 
 coffee-houses in Venice. He said she wanted to poison 
 him; and she says— God knows what; but between them 
 they have made a great deal of noise. I know a little of 
 both the parties: Moncada seemed a very sensible old man, 
 a character which he has not quite kept up on this occa 
 sion; and the woman is radier showy dian pretty. For 
 the honour of religion, she was bred in a convent, and for 
 the credit of Great Britain, taught by an EngUshwoman 
 
 "Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCLIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, Dec. 3, 1817. 
 
 "A Venetian lady, learned and somewhat stricken in 
 years, ha\Tng, in her intervals of love and devotion, taken 
 upon her to translate the Letters and write the Life of 
 Lady Mary Wordcy Montague, — to which undertaking 
 there are two obstacles, firstly, ignorance of English, and, 
 secondly, a total dearth of information on the subject of her 
 projected biography, — has applied to me for facts or falsi- 
 ties upon this promising project. Lady Montague lived 
 the last twenty or more years of her life in or near Venice, 
 I believe ; but here they know nothing, and remember 
 nothing, for the story of to-day is succeeded by the scandal 
 of to-morrow; and the wit, and beauty, and gallantry, 
 which might render your countrywoman notorious in her 
 own country, must have been here no great distinction — 
 because the first is in no request, and the two latter are 
 common to all women, or at least the last of them. If you 
 can therefore tell me any thing, or get any thing told, of 
 Lady Wortley Montague, I shall take it as a favour, and 
 will transfer and translate it to the ' Dama' in question. 
 And I pray you besides to send me, by some quick and 
 safe voyager, the edition of her Letters, and the stupid Life, 
 by Dr. Dallaway^ published by her proud and foolish family. 
 
 "The death of the Princess Charlotte has been a shock 
 even here, and must have been an earthquake at home.* 
 The Couriers list of some three hundred heirs to the crown 
 (including the house of Wirtemberg, \%ith that + * *, 
 
 P , of disreputable memory, whom I remember seeing 
 
 at various balls during the visit of tlie Muscovites, &c. in 
 1814,) must be very consolatory to all true lieges, as well 
 as foreigners, except Signer Travis, a rich Jew merchant 
 of this city, who complains grievously of the length of 
 British mourning, which has countermanded all the silks 
 which he was on the point of transmitting, for a year to 
 come. The death of this poor girl is melancholy in every 
 respect, dying at twenty or so, in childbed — of a boy too, a 
 present princess and future queen, and just as she began to 
 be happy, and to enjoy herself and the hopes which she 
 inspired. ******* 
 
 ^ I think, as far as I can recollect, she is the first royal 
 defunct in childbed upon record in our history. I feel sorry 
 in every respect — for the loss of a female reign, and a 
 woman hitherto harmless ; and all the lost rejoicings, and 
 addresses, and drunkenness, and disbursements of John 
 Bull on tlie occasion. ****** 
 
 " The Prince will man-y again, after divorcing his wife, 
 and Mr. Southey will write an elegy now, and an ode then ; 
 the (Quarterly will have an article against the press, and 
 the Edinburgh an article, half a.x\d half, about reform and 
 right of divorce ; * * + * the British will give you Dr. 
 Chalmers's funeral sermon much commended, with a place 
 in the stars for deceased royalty ; and the Morning Post 
 will have already yelled forth its 'syllables of dolour.' 
 
 ' Wo, wo, Nealliny !— the young Nealliny 1' 
 
 "It is some time since I have heard from you: are you 
 in bad humour? I suppose so. I have been so myself 
 and it is your turn now, and by-and-by mine will come 
 round again. "Yours truly, "B. 
 
 "P. S. Countess Albrizzi, come back from Paris, has 
 brought me a medal of himself a present from Denon to 
 me, and a likeness of Mr. Rogers (belonging to her,) by 
 Denon also." 
 
 LETTER CCCLX. 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 "Venice, Dec. 15. 1817. 
 •' I should have thanked you before, for your favour a 
 few days ago, had I not been ui the intention of paying my 
 
 * See Childe Hai-old, Canto 4. stanza 177. 
 
124 
 
 LETTERS, 1818. 
 
 respects, personally, this evening, from which I am deterred 
 by the recollection that you will probably be at the Count 
 Goess's this evening, which has made me postpone my 
 intrusion. 
 
 " I think your Elegy a remarkably good one, not only as 
 a composition, but both the politics and poetry contain a 
 far greater portion of truth and generosity than belongs to 
 the times, or to the professors of these oppo:.;ite pursuits, 
 which usually agree only in one point, as extremes meet. 
 I do not know whether you wished me to retain the copy, 
 but I shall retain it till you tell me otherwise; and am very 
 much obliged by the perusal. 
 
 "My own sentiments on Venice, &c. such as they are, 
 I had already thrown into verse last summer, in the Fourth 
 Canto of Childe Harold, now in preparation for the press; 
 and I think much more highly of them for being in coin- 
 cidence with yours. "Believe me yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXI. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Vemce,Jan. 8. 1818. 
 
 ' My dear Mr. Murray, 
 You 're in a damu'd hufry 
 
 To set up this ultimate Canto ; 
 But (if they don't rob us,) 
 You '11 see Mr. Hobhouse 
 
 Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. 
 
 2. 
 
 ' For the Journal you hint of, 
 As ready to print off, 
 
 No doubt you do right to commend it ; 
 But as yet I have writ off 
 The devil a bit of 
 Our ' Beppo ;'— when copied, I '11 send it. 
 
 4. 
 
 » Then you 've * * * 's Tour,— 
 No great things, to be sure,— 
 
 You could hardly begin with a less work ; 
 For the pompous rascallion 
 Who do n't speak Italian 
 >Ior French, must have scribbled by guess -work. 
 
 ' You can make any loss up 
 With ' Spence' and his gossip, 
 
 A work which must surely succeed ; 
 Then CLueen Mary's Epistle-craft, 
 With the new ' Fytte' of ' Whistlecraft,' 
 Must make people purchase and read. 
 
 8. 
 
 ' Then you 've General Gordon, 
 Who girded his sword on. 
 
 To serve with a Muscovite master, 
 And help him to polish 
 A nation so owlish. 
 
 They thought shaving their beards a disaster. 
 
 9. 
 
 ' For the man, 'poor and shrewd,^* 
 With whom you 'd conclude 
 
 A compact without more delay, 
 Perhaps some such pen is 
 Still extant in Venice ; 
 
 But please sir, to mention your pay," 
 
 LETTER CCCLXn. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Venice,Jan. 19, 1818. 
 " I send you the storyf in three other separate covers. 
 It won't do for your Journal, being full of political allusions. 
 Print alone, idthout name ; alter nothing ; get a scholar to 
 see that the Italian phrases are correcUy published (your 
 printing, by-the-way, always makes me ill with its eternal 
 
 blunders, which are incessant,) and God speed you. Hob- 
 house left Venice a fortnight ago, saving two days. I have 
 heard notiiing of or from him. 
 
 " Yours, &c. 
 " He has the whole of the MSS. ; so put up prayers in 
 your back shop, or in the printer's ' Chapel.'" 
 
 LETTER CCCLXIII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, Jan. 27,1818. 
 
 " My father— that is, my Armenian father, Padre Pas- 
 quali — in the name of all the other fathers of our Convent, 
 sends vou the enclosed, greeting. 
 
 "Inasmuch as it has pleased the translators of the long- 
 lost and lately-found portions of the text of Eusebius to 
 put forth the enclosed prospectus, of which I send six 
 copies, you are hereby implored to obtain subscribers in 
 the two Universities, and among the learned, and the un- 
 learned, who would unlearn their ignorance. — This they 
 (the Convent) request, / request, and do you request. 
 
 "I sent you Beppo some weeks agone. You must pub- 
 lish it alone ; it has politics and ferocity, and won't do for 
 your isthmus of a Journal. 
 
 " Mr. Hobhouse, if the Alps have not broken his neck, 
 is, or ought to be, swimming with my commentaries and 
 his own coat of mail in his teeth and right hand, in a cork 
 jacket, between Calais and Dover. 
 
 "It is the height of the Carnival, and I am in the extreme 
 and agonies of a new intrigue with T do n't exactly know 
 whom or what, except that she is insatiate of love, and 
 won't take money, and has light hair and blue eyes, which 
 are not common here, and that I met her at the Masque, 
 and that when her mask is off, I am as wise as ever. I 
 shall make what 1 can of the remainder of my youth." * 
 
 LETTER CCCLXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Venice. Feb. 2,1818. 
 
 "Your letter of Dec. 8, arrived but this day, by some 
 delay, common but inexplicable. Your domestic calamity 
 is very grievous, and I feel with you as much as I dare feel 
 at all. Throughout life, your loss must be my loss, and 
 your gain my gain ; and, though my heart may ebb, there 
 will always be a drop for you among the dregs.* 
 
 "I know how to feel with you, because (selfishness being 
 alv/ays the substratum of our danmable clay) I am quile 
 wrapt up in my own children. Besides my httle legiti- 
 mate, I have made unto myself an iZlegitimate since (to 
 say nothing of one before.) f and I look forward to one of 
 these as the pillar of my old age, supposing that I ever 
 reach — which I hope I never shall — that desolating period. 
 I have a great love for my little Ada, though perhaps she 
 may torture me, like ***** 
 * + * * 
 
 "Your offered address will be as acceptable as you can 
 wish. I do n't much care what the wretches of the world 
 think of me — all that 's past. But I care a good deal what 
 you think of me, and so, say what you like. You know that 
 I am not sullen ; and, as to being savage, such things depend 
 on circumstances. However, as to being in good humour 
 in your society, there is no great merit in that, because it 
 would be an effort, or an insanity, to be otherwise, 
 
 " I do n't know what Murray may have been saying or 
 quoting. I called Crabbe and Sam the fathers of present 
 Poesy ; and said, that I thought — except thern — all of ' us 
 youth- were on a wrong tack. But I never said that we 
 did not sail well. Our fame will be hurt by admiration and 
 imitation. "V\Tien I say our, I mean ail (Lakers included,) 
 
 ■ Vide your letter.' 
 
 t Beppo. 
 
 See Lines to Mr. Moore, p. 484. 
 
 t See Peoms, p, 474. 
 
LETTERS, 1&18. 
 
 125 
 
 except the postscript of the Augustans. The next gene- 
 ration (from the quantity and facility of imitation) will 
 tumble and break their necks off our Pegasus, who runs 
 away with us ; but we keep the saddle, because we broke 
 the rascal and can ride. But though easy to mount, he 
 is the devil to guide ; and the next fellows must go back to 
 the riding-school and the manege, and learn to ride the 
 'great horse.' 
 
 " Talking of horses, by-the-way, I have transported my 
 own, four in number, to the Lido {beach, in English,) a 
 strip of some ten miles along the Adriatic, a mile or two 
 from the city ; so that I not only get a row in my gondola, 
 but a spanking gallop of some miles daily along a firm and 
 solitary beach, from the fortress to Malamocco, the wMch 
 contributes considerably to my health and spirits. 
 
 " I have hardly had a wink of sleep this week past. We 
 are in the agonies of the Carnival's last days, and 1 must 
 be up all night again, as well as to-morrow. I have had 
 some curious masking adventures this Carnival, but, as they 
 are not yet over, ] shall not say on. I will work the mine 
 of my youth to the last veins of the ore, and then — good 
 night. I have lived, and am content. 
 
 "Hobhouse went away before the Carnival began, so 
 that he had httle or no fun. Besides, it requires some 
 time to be thoroughgoing with the Venetians ; but of all 
 this anon, in some other letter. + * ♦ 
 
 ***** 
 
 " I must dress for the evening. There is an opera and 
 ridotta, and 1 know not v/hat, besides balls ; and soj ever 
 and ever yours, " B. 
 
 " P. S. I send this without revision, so excuse errors. I 
 delight in the fame and fortune of Lalla, and again congratu- 
 late you on your well-merited success." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, Feb. 20, 1818. 
 
 "I have to thank Mr. Croker for the arrival, and you 
 for the contents, of the parcel which came last week, much 
 quicker than any before, owing to Mr. Croker's kind at- 
 tention and the official exterior of the bags ; and all Safe 
 except much friction among the magnesia, of which only 
 two bottles came entire; but it is all very well, and I am 
 exceedingly obliged to you. 
 
 " The books I have read, or rather am reading. Pray, 
 who may be the Sexagenarian, whose gossip is very amus- 
 ing? Many of his sketches 1 recognize, particularly Gif- 
 ford, Mackintosh, Drummond, Dutens, H. Walpole, Mrs. 
 Inchbald, Opie, &c. with the Scotts, Loughborough, and 
 most of the divines and lawyers, besides a few shorter hints 
 of authors, and a few lines about a certain ' noble author^ 
 characterized as malignant and sceptical, accordmg to the 
 good old story, ' as it was in the beginning, is now, but not 
 always shall be ^ do you know such a person. Master Mur- 
 ray ? eh ? — And pray, of the booksellers, which be you ? 
 the dry, the dirty, the honest, the opulent, the finical, the 
 splendid, or the coxcomb bookseller ? Stap my vitals, but 
 the author grows scurrilous in his grand climacteric. 
 
 " I remember to have seen Porson at Cambridge, in the 
 hall of our college, and in private parties, but not frequently \ 
 and I never can recollect him except as drunk or brutal, 
 and generally both : I mean in an evening, for in the hall, 
 he dined at the Dean's table, and I at the Vicemaster's, 
 so that 1 was not near him ; jind he then and there ap- 
 peared sober in his demeanour, nor did I ever hear of ex- 
 cess or outrage on his part in pubhc, — commons, college, 
 or chapel ; but I have seen him in a private party of under- 
 graduates, many of them freshmen and strangers, take up 
 a poker to one of them, and heard him use language as 
 blackguard as his action. I have seen Sheridan drunk, 
 too, with all the world ; but his intoxication was that of 
 Bacchus, and Person's that of Silenus. Of all the disgust- 
 
 ing brutes, sulky, abusive, and intolerable, Porson was the 
 most bestial, as far as the few times that I saw him went, 
 which were only at William Bankes's (the Nubian dis- 
 coverers) rooms. I saw him once go away in a rage, 
 because nobody knew die name of the 'Cobbler of Messi- 
 na,' insulting their ignorance with the most vulgar terms 
 of reprobation. He vvas tolerated in this state amonor the 
 young men for his talents, as the Turks think a madman 
 inspired, and bear with him. He used to recite or rather 
 vomit pages of all languages, and could hiccup Greek like 
 a Helot ; and certainly Sparta never shocked her children 
 with a grosser exliibition than this man's intoxication. 
 
 "I perceive, in the book you sent me, a long account of 
 him, which is very savage. I cannot judge, as I never 
 saw liim sober, except in hall or combination-room; and 
 then I was never near enough to hear, and hardly to see 
 him. Of his drunken deportment, I can be sure, because 
 I saw it. 
 
 "With the Reviews, I have been much entertained. It 
 requires to be as far from England as I am to relish a 
 periodical paper properly: it is like soda-water in an 
 Italian summer. But what cruel work you make with 
 Lady Morgan ! You should recollect that she is a woman ; 
 though to be sure, they are now and then very provoking ; 
 still, as authoresses they can do no great harm ; and I think 
 it is a pity so much good invective should have been laid 
 out upon her, when there is such a fine field of us, Jacobin 
 gentlemen, for you to work upon. It is, perhaps, as bitter 
 a critique as ever was written, and enough to make sad 
 work for Dr. Morgan, botli as husband and apothecary ; — 
 unless she should say, as Pope did of some attack upon 
 him, ' That it is as good for her as a dose o{ hartshorn J 
 
 "I heard from Moore lately, and was sorry to be 
 made aware of his domestic loss. Thus it is — 'medio de 
 fonte leporum' — in the acme of his fame and his happmess 
 comes a drawback as usual. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "Mr. Hoppner, whom I saw this morning, has been 
 made the father of a very fine boy.* — Mother and child 
 doing very well indeed. By this time Hobhouse should 
 be with you, and also certain packets, letters, &c. of mine, 
 sent since his departure. I am not at all well in health 
 within this last eight days. My remembrances to Gifford 
 and all friends. "Yours, &c. "B. 
 
 " P. S. In the course of a month or two, Hanson will 
 have probably to send off a clerk with conveyances to sign 
 (Newstead being sold in November last for ninety-four 
 thousand five hundred pounds,) in which case I supplicate 
 supplies of articles as usual, for which, desire Mr. Kin- 
 naird to settle from funds in their bank, and deduct from 
 my account with him. 
 
 "P. S. To-morrow night I am going to see ' Otello,' an 
 opera from our ' Othello,' and one of Rossini's best, it is 
 said. It will be curious to see in Venice the Venetian 
 story itself represented, besides to discover what they will 
 make of Shakspeare in music." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXVL 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 "Venice, Feb. 28, 1818. 
 "my dear sir, 
 "Our friend, il Conte M., threw me into a cold sweat 
 last night, by telling me of a menaced version of Manfred 
 
 * On the birth of this child, who was christened John Wilham Rizzo, 
 Lord Byrou wrote the four following lines, which are in no other respect 
 remarkable than that they were thought worthy of being metrically trans- 
 lated into no less than ten different languages; namely, Greek,' Latin, 
 Italian, (also in the Venetian dialect,) German, French, Spanish, lUy- 
 rian, Hebrew, Armenian, and Samaritan : — 
 
 " His father's sense, his mother's grace 
 
 In him, I hope, will always fit so ; 
 
 With (still to keep him in good case,) 
 
 The health and appetite of Rizzo. ' ' 
 
 The original lines, with the different vei-sions above mentioned, were 
 
 printed in a small volume, in the Seminary of Padua.— Moore. 
 
126 
 
 LETTERS, 1818. 
 
 (in Venetian, I hope, to complete the thing,) by some 
 Italian, who had sent it to you for correction, which is the 
 reason why I take the liberty of troubling you on the sub- 
 ject. If you have any means of communication with the 
 man, would you permit me to convey to him tlie offer of 
 any price he may obtain, or think to obtain, for his project, 
 provided he will throw his translation into the fire, and 
 promise not to imdertake any other of that or any odier of 
 my things: I will send him has money immediately on this 
 condition. 
 
 "As I did not write to the Italians, nor for the Italians, 
 nor of the Italians, (except in a poem not yet published, 
 where I have said all the good I know or do not know of 
 them, and none of the harm,) I confess I wish that they 
 would let me alone, and not drag me into their arena as 
 one of the gladiators, in a silly contest which I neither 
 understand nor have ever interfered with, having kept clear 
 of all their literary parties, both here and at Milan, and 
 elsewhere. — I came bto Italy to feel the chmate and be 
 quiet, if possible. Mossi's translation I would have pre- 
 vented if I had known it, or could have done so ; and I trust 
 that I shall yet be in time to stop this new gentleman, of 
 whom 1 heard yesterday for the first time. He will only 
 hurt himselij and do no good to his party, for in party the 
 whole thing originates. Our modes of thinking and writin, 
 are so unutterably different, that I can conceive no greater 
 absurdity than attempting to make any approach between 
 the English and Itahan poetry of the present day. I like 
 the people very much, and their hterature very much, but 
 I am not the least ambitious of being the subject of their 
 discussions literary and personal, (which appear to be 
 pretty much the same thing, as is the case in most coun- 
 tries ;) and if you can aid me in impeding this pubUcation, 
 you will add to much kindness ah-eady received from you 
 by yours, " Ever and truly, 
 
 "Byron. 
 
 " P. S. How is the son, and mamma? WeD, I dare say." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXVIL 
 
 TO MR. ROGERS. 
 
 "Venice, March 3, 1818. 
 
 " I have not, as you say, ' taken to wife the Adriatic' 1 
 heard of Moore's loss from himself in a letter which was 
 delayed upon the road three months. I was sincerely 
 sorry for it, but in such cases what are words? 
 
 " The villa you speak of is one at Este, which Mr. Hopp- 
 ner (Consul-general here,) has transferred to me. I have 
 taken it for two years as a place of Villeggiatura. The 
 situation is very beautiful indeed, among the Euganean 
 hills, and the house very fair. The vines are luxuriant to 
 a great degree, and all the fruits of the earth abundant. It 
 is close to the old castle of the Estes, or Guelphs, and 
 within a few miles of Arqua, which I have visited twice, 
 and hope to visit often. 
 
 "Last summer (except an excursion to Rome,) I passed 
 upon the Brenta. In Venice I winter, transporting my 
 horses to the Lido, bordering the Adriatic, (where the fort 
 is,) so that I get a gallop of some miles daily along the strip 
 of beach which reaches to Malamocco, when in health ; 
 but within these few weeks I have been unwell. At pre- 
 sent I am getting better. The Carnival was short, but a 
 good one. I do n't go out much, except during the time 
 of masks ; but there are one or two conversazioni, where I 
 go regularly, just to keep up the system ; as I had letters 
 to their givers ; and they are particular on such points ; and 
 now and then, though very rarely, to the Governor's. 
 
 "It is a very good place for women. I like the dialect 
 and their manner very much. There is a naivete about 
 thern which is very winning, and the romance of the place 
 is a mighty adjunct ; the hd sangue is not, however, now 
 among the doTTie or higher orders ; but all under ifazzioliy 
 or kerchiefs, (a white kind of veil which the lower orders 
 
 wear upon their heads ;) — the vesta zendale, or old national 
 female costume, is no more. The city, however, is decay- 
 ing daily, and does not gain in population. However, I 
 prefer it to any other in Italy ; and here have I pitched my 
 staffj and here do I purpose to reside for the remainder of 
 my life, unless events, connected with business not to be 
 transacted out of England compel me to return for that 
 purpose ; otherwise I have few regrets, and no desires to 
 visit it again for its own sake. I shall probably be obliged 
 to do so, to sign papers for my affairs and a proxy for tlie 
 Whigs, and to see Mr. Waite, for I can 't find a good 
 dentist here, and every two or three years one ought to 
 consult one. About seeing my children, I must take my 
 chance. One I shall have sent here; and I shall be very 
 happy to see the legitimate one when God pleases, which 
 he perhaps will some day or other. As for my mathe- 
 matical wife, I am as well without her. 
 
 " Your account of your visit to Fonthill is very striking : 
 could you beg of him for me a copy in MS. of the remaining 
 Tales?* I think I deserve them, as a strenuous and public 
 admirer of the first one. I will return it when read, and 
 make no ill use of the copy, if granted. Murray would 
 send me out any thing safely. If ever I return to England, 
 I should like very much to see the author, with his per- 
 mission. In the mean time, you could not obhge me more 
 than by obtaining me the perusal I request, in French or 
 English, — all's one for that, though I prefer Italian to 
 either. I have a French copy of Vathek, which I bought 
 at Lausanne. I can read French whh great pleasure and 
 facility, though I neither speak nor write it. Now Italian 
 I can speak with some fluency, and write sufficiently for 
 my purposes, but I do n't like their modem prose at all ; it 
 is very heavy, and so different from MachiaveUi. 
 
 " They say Francis is Junius ; — I think it looks like it. 
 I remember meeting him at Earl Grey's at dinner. Has 
 not he lately married a young woman ; and was not he 
 Madame Talleyrand's cavaiiere servente in India years ago? 
 
 " I read my death in the papers, which was not true. I 
 see they are marrying the remaining singleness of the royal 
 family. They have brought out Fazio with great and 
 deserved success at Covent-garden ; that 's a good sign. I 
 tried, during the directory, to have it done at Drury-lane, 
 but was overruled. If you think of coming into tliis country, 
 you will let me know perhaps beforehand. I suppose 
 Moore won't move. Rose is here. I saw him the other 
 night at Madame Albrizzi's ] he talks of returning in May. 
 My love to the Hollands. "Ever, &c. 
 
 "P. S. They have been crucifying Othello into an opera, 
 (Otello, by Rossini;) the music good, but lugubrious ; but 
 as for the words, all the real scenes with lago cut out, and 
 the greatest nonsense instead; the handkerchief turned 
 into a biUet-doux, and the first singer would not blaek his 
 face, for some exquisite reasons assigned in the preface. 
 Singing, dresses, and music, very good." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXVIIL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Venice, March 16,1818. 
 
 " MY DEAR TOM, 
 
 " Since my last, which I hope that you have received, I 
 have had a letter from our friend Samuel.f He talks of 
 Italy this summer — won't you come with him ? I do n't 
 know whether you would like our Italian way of life or not 
 *♦* + ** + *** 
 ****** 
 
 " They are an odd people. The other day I was telling 
 a girl, ' you must not come to-morrow, because Marguerita 
 is coming at such a time,' — (they are both about five feet 
 ten inches high, with great black eyes and fine fingers — fit 
 to breed gladiators from — and I had some difficulty to 
 
 A continuation of Vathek, by Mr. Beckford. 
 
 T Boi^rs. 
 
LETTERS, 
 
 1818. 
 
 127 
 
 prevent a battle upon a rencontre once before,) — 'unless 
 you promise to be friends, and' — the answer was an inter- 
 ruption, by a declaration of war against the other, which 
 she said would be a 'Guerra di Candia.' Is it not odd, 
 that the lower order of Venetians should still allude pro- 
 verbially to that famous contest, so glorious and so fatal to 
 the Republic? 
 
 " They have singular expressions, like all the Italians. 
 For exatnple, ' Viscere' — as we would say, ' my love,' or 
 'my heart,' as an expression of tenderness. Also, 'I would 
 go for you in the midst of a hundred knives.^ — ^3Iazza ben^ 
 excessive attachment, — literally, ' I wish you well even to 
 killing.' Then they say, (instead of our way, 'do you think 
 I would do you so much harm ?') ' do you think I would 
 assassinate you in such a manner ?' — ' Tempo perjide^ bad 
 weather; 'Strade perfide^ bad roads — with a thousand 
 other allusions and metaphors, taken from the state of 
 society and habits in the middle ages. 
 
 "I am not so sure about mazza, whether it don't mean 
 massa, i. e. a great deal, a mass, instead of the interpretation 
 I have given it. But of the other phrases I am sure. 
 
 " Three o' th' clock — I must ' to bed, to bed, to bed,' as 
 mother Siddons (that tragical friend of the mathematical 
 wife) says, * * ***** 
 
 * * * + *^ 
 
 "Have you ever seen — I forget what or whom — no 
 matter. They tell me Lady Melbourne is very unwell. 
 I shall be so sorry. She was my greatest friend, of the 
 feminine gender: — when I say 'friend,' I mean not mistress, 
 for that's the antipodes. Tell me all about you and every 
 body — how Sam is — how you hke your neighbours, the 
 Marquis and Marchesa, &c. &c. "Ever, &c.'' 
 
 LETTER CCCLXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, March 25, 1818. 
 "I have your letter, with the account of 'Beppo,' for 
 which I sent you four new stanzas a fortnight ago, in case 
 you print, or reprint. 
 
 ******** 
 
 "Croker's is a good guess; but the style is not English, 
 it is Italian ; — Berni is the original of all. Whistlecraft 
 was 77i_y immediate Tnodel; Rose's ' Animali' I never saw 
 till a few days ago, — they are excellent. But (as I said 
 above,) Berni is the father of that kind of writing, which 1 
 think suits our language, too, very well ; — we shall see by 
 the experiment. If it does, I shall send you a volume in a 
 year or two, for I loiow the Italian way of life well, and in 
 time may know it yet better ; and as for the verse and the 
 passions, I have them still in tolerable vigour. 
 
 " If you think that it will do you and the work, or works, 
 any good, you may put my name to it ; but first considt the 
 knowing ones. It will, at any rate, show them that I can 
 write cheerfully, and repel the charge of monotony and 
 mannerism. " Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, April 11, 1818. 
 " Will you send me by letter, packet, or parcel, half a 
 dozen of the coloured prints from Holmes's miniature, (the 
 latter done shortly before I left your country, and the prints 
 about a year ago ;) I shall be obliged to you, as some people 
 here have asked me for the like. It is a picture of my 
 upright self, done for Scrope B. Davies, Esq. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "Why have you not sent me an answer, and lists of 
 subscribers to the translation of the Armenian EuseUus? 
 of which I sent you printed copies of the prospectus (in 
 
 French,) two moons ago. Have you had the letter? — I 
 shall send you another : — ^you must not neglect my Arme- 
 nians. Tooth-powder, magnesia, tincture of myrrh, tooth- 
 brushes, diachylon plaster, Peruvian bark, are my personal 
 demands. 
 
 " Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times, 
 Patron and publisher of rhymes, 
 For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, 
 My Mun ay. 
 
 *' To thee, with hope and terror dumb. 
 The unfledged MS. authors come ; 
 Thou printest all— and sellest some— 
 My Murray. 
 
 " Upon thy table's baize so green 
 The last new duarterly is seen : 
 But where is thy new Magazine, 
 My Murray ? 
 
 " Along thy sprucest book-shelves shine 
 The works thou deemest most divine— 
 The • Art of Cookery,' and mine. 
 My Murray. 
 
 •' Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist. 
 And Sermons to thy mill bring grist ; 
 And then thou hast the ' Navy List,' 
 My Murray. 
 
 *' And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
 Without the ' Board of Longitude,' 
 Although this narrow paper would. 
 My Murray!" 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXI. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Vemce,ApriI 12,1818. 
 
 " This letter will be delivered by Signor Gioe. Bata. 
 Missiaglia, proprietor of the Apollo library, and the prin- 
 cipal publisher and bookseller now in Venice. He sets 
 out for London with a view to business and correspondence 
 with the English booksellers: and it is in the hope that it 
 may be for your mutual advantage that I furnish him with 
 this letter of introduction to you. If you can be of use to 
 him, either by recommendation to others, or by any per- 
 sonal attention on your own part, you will oblige him, and 
 gratify me. You may also perhaps both be able to derive 
 advantage, or establish some mode of literary communica- 
 tion, pleasing to the public, and beneficial to one another. 
 
 " At any rate, be civil to him for my sake, as well as for 
 the honour and glory of publishers and authors now and to 
 come for evermore. 
 
 With him I also consign a great number of MS. letters 
 written in English, French, and Italian, by various English 
 established in Italy during the last century : — the names 
 of the writers, Lord Hervey, Lady M. W. Montague, (hers 
 are but few — some billets-doux in French to Algarotti, and 
 one letter in English, Italian, and all sorts of jargon, to the 
 same,) Gray, the poet, (one letter,) Mason, (two or three,) 
 Garrick, Lord Chatham, David Hume, and many of less 
 note, — all addressed to Count Algarotti. Out of these, I 
 think, with discretion, an amusing miscellaneous volume of 
 letters might be extracted, provided some good editor were 
 disposed to undertake the selection, and preface, and a few 
 notes, &c. 
 
 ■ The proprietor of these is a friend of mine, Dr. Aglietti, 
 — a great name in Italy, — and if you are disposed to pub- 
 hsh, it will be for his benefit, and it is to and for him that 
 you will name a price, if you take upon you the work. I 
 would edit it myself, but am too far ofi^ and too lazy to 
 undertake it ; but I wish that it could be done. The letters 
 of Lord Hervey, in Mr. Rose's opinion and mine, are 
 good; and the short French love-letters certainly are Lady 
 M. W. Montague's — the French not good, but the senti- 
 ments beautiful. Gray's letter good ; and Mason's tolera- 
 ble. The whole correspondence must be weU weeded; but 
 this being done, a small and pretty popular volume might 
 be made of it. — There are many ministers' letters— Gray 
 
123 
 
 LETTERS, 1818. 
 
 the ambassador at Naples, Horace Mann, and others of 
 the same kiad of animal. 
 
 "I thought of a preface, defending Lord Hervey against 
 Pope's attack, but Pope — quoad Pope, the poet — against 
 all the world, in the unjustiliable attempts begun by War- 
 ion, and carried on at this day by the new school of critics 
 and scribblers, who think themselves poets because they do 
 not write like Pope. I have no patience wth such cursed 
 humbug and bad taste; your whole generation are not 
 worth a Canto of the Rape of the Lock, or the Essay on 
 Man, or the Dunciad, or ' any thing that is his.' — But it is 
 tliree in the matin, and I must go to bed. 
 
 " Yours alway, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Venice, AprillT, 1818. 
 
 " A few days ago, I wrote to you a letter requesting you 
 to desire Hanson to desire his messenger to come on from 
 Geneva to Venice, because 1 won't go from Venice to 
 Geneva ; and if this is not done, the messenger may be 
 damned, with him who mis-sent him. Pray reiterate my 
 request. 
 
 " With the proofs returned, I sent two additional stanzas 
 for Canto Fourth : did they arrive ? 
 
 " Your monthly re\aewer has made a mistake : Cavalierc 
 alone is well enough ; ' Cavalier' servente' has always the e 
 mute in conversation, and omitted in wTiting ; so that it is 
 not for the sake of metre ; and pray let Griffiths know this, 
 with mv compliments. I humbly conjecture that I know 
 as much of Italian society and language as any of his peo- 
 ple ; but to make assurance doubly sure, I asked, at the 
 Countess Benzona's, last night, the question of more than 
 one person in the office; and of these 'cavalieri serventi' (in 
 the plural, recollect,) I found that they all accorded in pro- 
 nouncing for ' cavalier servente' in the singular number. I 
 wish Mr. * + * * (or whoever Griffith's scribbler may be) 
 would not talk of what he do n't understand. Such fellows 
 are not fit to be intrusted with ItaJian, even in a quotation. 
 ****** 
 
 " Did you receive two additional stcuizas, to be inserted 
 towards tlie close of Canto Fourth? Respond, that (if 
 not) tliey may be sent. 
 
 " Tell JVIr. * * and Mr. Hanson, that they may as well 
 expect Geneva to come to me, as that I should go to Ge- 
 neva. The messenger may go or return, as he pleases ; I 
 won't stir : and I look upon it as a piece of singular absurdity 
 in those who know me, imagining that I should — ^not to say 
 malice, in attempting unnecessary torture. IfJ on the occa- 
 sion, my interests should suffer, it is their neglect that is to 
 blame ; and they may all be d d together 
 
 * * 
 
 ' It is ten o'clock, and time to dress. 
 
 « Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXIU. 
 
 TO MR. aiURRAY. 
 
 "April 23, 1818. 
 
 "The time is past in which I could feel for the dead, — 
 or I should feel for the death of Lady Melbourne, the best, 
 and kindest, and ablest female I ever knew, old or young. 
 But 'I have supped full of horrors;' and events of this kind 
 have only a kind of numbness worse than pain, like a \'io- 
 lent blow on the elbow or the head. There is one link less 
 between England and myself. 
 
 "Now to business. I presented you with Beppo, as 
 part of the contract for Canto Fourth,— considering the 
 price you are to pay for the same, and intending to eke 
 you out in case of pubhc caprice or my own poetical failure. 
 If you choose to suppress it entirely, at Mr. * * ♦ *'s sug- 
 
 gestion, you may do as you please. But recoUect it is not 
 to be pubhshed in a garbled or miUilaied state. I reserve 
 to my friends and myself the right of correcting the press , 
 — if the publication continue, it is to continue in its present 
 form. 
 
 ****** 
 
 " As Mr. * * savs that he did not write this letter, &c., 
 I am ready to believe him; but for the firmness of my for- 
 mer persuasion, I refer to JNIr. * * * *^ who can inform 
 you how sincerely I erred on this point. He has also the 
 note — or, at least, had it, for I gave it to him with my verbal 
 comments thereupon. As to 'Beppo,' I will not alter or 
 suppress a syllable for any man's pleasure but my owti. 
 
 " You may tell them this ; and add, that nothing but force 
 or necessity shall stir me one step towards the places to 
 which they would wring me. 
 
 ****** 
 
 ■ If your literary matters prosper, let me know. If 
 ' Beppo' pleases, you shall have more in a year or two in 
 the same mood. And so, ' Good morrow to you, good 
 Master Lieutenant.' "Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 " Palazzo Mocenigo, Canal Grande, 
 "Venice, Jime 1, 1818. 
 
 "Your letter is almost the only news, as yet, of Canto 
 4th, and it has by no means settled its fate, — at least, does 
 not tell me how the 'Poeshie' has been received by the 
 public. But I suspect, no great things, — firstly, from Mur- 
 ray's ' horrid stilbiess ;' secondly, from what you say about 
 the stanzas running into each other,* which I take not to 
 he yaws, but a notion you have binned with among the 
 Blues. The fact is, tliat the terza rima of the Italians, 
 which always runs on and in, may have led me into expe- 
 riments, and carelessness into conceit — or conceit into care- 
 lessness — in either of wliich events failure will be probable 
 and my fair woman, ' supeme,' end in a fish ; so that Childe 
 Harold will be like the mermaid, my family crest, with the 
 Fourth Canto for a tail thereunto. I won't quarrel with 
 the public, however, for the ' Bulgars' are generally right ; 
 and if I miss now, I may hit another time : — and so ' the 
 gods give us joy.' 
 
 "You like Beppo; that's right. * + * * J have 
 
 not had tlie Fudges yet, but live in hopes. I need not say 
 
 that your successes are mine. By-the-way, Lydia White 
 
 is here, and has just borrowed my copy of 'Lalla Rookli. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "Hunt's letter is probably tlie exact piece of vulgar cox- 
 combry you might expect from his situation. He is a good 
 man, with some poetical elements in his chaos ; but spoiled 
 by the Christ-Church Hospital and a Sunday newspaper, 
 — to say nothbg of the Surry Jail, which concei'.ed him 
 into a mart}T. But he is a good man. '^■Vhen I saw 
 ' Rimini' in MSS., I told liim that I deemed it good poetry 
 at bottom, disfigured only by a strange stvle. His answer 
 was, that his style was a system, or iipon system, or some 
 such cant ; and, when a man talks of systetrj, his case is 
 hopeless: so I said no more to him, and very little to any 
 one else. 
 
 "He believes his trash of vulgar phrases tortured into 
 compound barbarisms to be old English ; and we may say 
 of it as Aimwell says of Captain Gibbet's regiment, when 
 the Captain calls it an ' old corps,' — ' the oldest in Europe 
 if I may judge by your uniform.' He sent out his 'Foliage 
 by Percy Shelley, and, of all the mefFable Centaurs that 
 were ever begotten by Self-love upon a Night mare, I think 
 this monstrous Sagittary- the most prodigious. He (Leigh 
 H.)is an honest Charlatan, who has persuaded himself 
 
 ' Mr. Moore had said, tn his letter to him, that this practice of carrying 
 one stanza into another, was " something like taking oo horses anoUwi 
 stage without bailing." 
 
LETTERS, 1818. 
 
 129 
 
 Into a belief of his own impostures, and talks Punch in pure 
 simplicity of heart, taking himself (as poor Fitzgerald said 
 of /umse\f in the Morning Post) for Votes in both senses, 
 or nonsenses, of the word. Did you look at the transla 
 tions of his own which he prefers to Pope and Cowper, and 
 says so ? — Did you read his skimble-skamble about * 
 being at the head of his own profession in the eyes of thx)se 
 who followed it? I thought that poetry was an art, or an 
 attribtUe, and not ^.profession; — but be it one, is that * * * 
 
 * * * at the head o?your profession in your eyes ? 1 11 
 be cursed if he is of mine, or ever shall be. He is the only 
 one of us (but of us he is not) whose coronation I would 
 oppose. Let them take Scott, Campbell, Crabbe, or you 
 or me, or any of the living, and throne him-— but not this 
 new Jacob Behmen, this * * * * 
 
 * * * whose pride might have kept 
 him true, even had his principles turned as perverted as his 
 soi-disant poetry. 
 
 " But Leigh Hunt is a good man, and a good father — 
 see his Odes to all the Masters Hunt ; — a good husband- 
 see his Sonnet to Mrs. Hunt;— a good friend— see his 
 Epistles to different people ; — and a great coxcomb, and a 
 very vulgar person in every thing about him. But that 's 
 not his fault, but of circumstances. 
 
 ***** 
 ***** 
 *I do not know any good model for a life of Sheridan 
 but that of Savage. Recollect, however, that the life of 
 such a man may be made far more amusing than if he had 
 been a Wiiberforce ; — and this without offending the living, 
 or insulting the dead. The Whigs abuse him; however, 
 he never left them, and such blunderers deserve neither 
 credit nor compassion. As for his creditors, — remember, 
 Sheridan never had a shilling, and was thrown, with great 
 powers and passions, into the thick of the world, and placed 
 upon the pinnacle of success, with no other external means 
 to support him in his elevation. Did Fox * * * pay his 
 debts ? — or did Sheridan take a subscription ? Was the 
 Duke of Norfolk's drunkenness more excusable than his ? 
 Were his intrigues more notorious than those of all his 
 contemporaries ? and is his memory to be blasted, and 
 theirs respected? Don't let yourself be led away by 
 clamour, but compare him with the coalitioner Fox, and 
 the pensioner Burke, as a man of principle, and with ten 
 hundred thousand in personal views, and with none in 
 talent, for he beat them all out and out. Without means, 
 vsdthout connexion, without character (which might be false 
 at first, and made him mad afterward from desperation,) he 
 beat them all, in all he ever attempted. But alas, poor 
 human nature! Good night — or, rather, morning. It is 
 four, and the dawn gleams over the Grand Canal, and un- 
 shadows the Rialto. I must to bed ; up all night — but, as 
 George Philpot says, ' it's life, though, damme, it's life !' 
 " Ever yom-s, " B. 
 
 " Excuse errors — no time for revision. The post goes 
 out at noon, and I sha' n't be up then. 1 will write again 
 soon about your plan for a publication." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXV. 
 
 "Since you desire the story of Margarita Cogni, you 
 shall be told it, though it may be lengthy. 
 
 "Her face is the fine Venetian cast of the old time; her 
 figure, though perhaps too tall, is not less fine — and taken 
 altogether in the national dress. 
 
 " In the summer of 1817, * * * * and myself were saun- 
 tering on horseback along the Brenta one evening, when, 
 among a group of peasants, we remarked two girls as the 
 prettiest we had seen for some time. About this period 
 there had been great distress in the country, and I had a 
 little relieved some of the people. Generosity makes a 
 great figure at very little cost in Venetian livres, and mine 
 17 
 
 had probably been exaggerated as an Englishman's. 
 Whether they remarked us looking at them or no, I know 
 not; but one of them called out to me in Venetian, 'Why 
 do not you, who relieve others, think of us also ?' I turned 
 round and answered her — 'Cara, tu sei troppo beUa e 
 giovane per aver' bisogna del' soccorso mio.' She an- 
 swered, ' If you saw my hut and my food, you would not 
 say so.' All this passed half jestingly, and I saw no more 
 of her for some days. 
 
 "A few evenings after, we met with these two girls 
 again, and they addressed us more seriously, assuring us 
 of the truth of their statement. They were cousins ; Mar- 
 garita married, the other single. As I doubted still of the 
 circumstances, I took the business in a different light, and 
 made an appointment with them for the next evening. 
 ******* 
 
 * * In short, in a few evenings we arranged our 
 affairs, and for a long space of time she was the only one 
 
 ho preserved over me an ascendancy which was often 
 disputed, and never impaired. 
 
 " The reasons for this were, firstly, her person ; — ^verv 
 dark, tall, the Venetian face, very fine black eyes. She 
 was two-and-twenty years old, * * * 
 
 * * *. She was besides a thorough Vene- 
 tian in her dialect, in her thoughts, in her countenance, in 
 every thing, with all their naivet and pantaloon humour. 
 Besides, she could neither read nor write, and could not 
 plague me with letters, — except twice that she paid six- 
 pence to a public scribe, under the piazza, to make a letter 
 for her, upon some occasion when I was ill and could not 
 see her. In other respects, she was somewhat fierce and 
 ' prepotente.' that is overbearing, and used to walk in when- 
 ever it suited her, with no very great regard to time, place, 
 nor persons ; and if she found any women in her way, she 
 knocked them down. 
 
 "When I first knew her, I was in 'relazione' (haison) 
 with la Signora * *, who was silly enough one evening at 
 Dolo, accompanied by some of her female friends, to threaten 
 her ; for the gossips of the Villeggiatura had already found 
 out, by the neighing of my horse one evening, that I used to 
 ' ride late in the night' to meet the Fornarina. Margarita 
 threw back her veil (fazziolo,) and replied in very explicit 
 Venetian : ' You are 7iot his wife : I am not his wife : you 
 are his Donna, and I am his Donna : your husband is a 
 becco, and mine is another. For the rest, what right have 
 you to reproach me ? If he prefers me to you, is it my 
 fauh? If you wish to secure him, tie him to your petticoat- 
 string. But do not think to speak to me without a reply, 
 because you happen to be richer than I am.' Having de- 
 livered this pretty piece of eloquence (which I translate 
 as it was translated to me by a bystander,) she went on 
 her way, leaving a numerous audience, with Madame * *, 
 to ponder at her leisure on the dialogue between them. 
 
 " When I came to Venice for the winter she followed ; 
 and as she found herself out to be a favourite, she came to 
 me pretty often. But she had inordinate self-love, and was 
 not tolerant of other women. At the 'Cavalchina,' the 
 masked ball on the last night of the Carnival, where all the 
 world goes, she snatched off the mask of Madame Con- 
 tarini, a lady noble by birth, and decent in conduct, for no 
 other reason but because she happened to be leaning on 
 my arm. You may suppose what a cursed noise this made ; 
 but this is only one of her pranks. 
 
 " At last she quarrelled with her husband, and one even- 
 ing ran away to my house. I told her this would not do; 
 she said she would lie in the street, but not go back to him ; 
 that he beat her, (the gende tigress !) spent her money, and 
 scandalously neglected her. As it was midnight, I let her 
 stay, and next day there was no moving her at all. Her 
 husband came roaring and crying, and entreating her to 
 come back — not she ! He then applied to the police, and 
 they applied to me : I told them and her husband to take 
 her; I did not want her; she had come, and I could not 
 fling her out of the window ; but they might conduct hex 
 
130 
 
 LETTERS, 1818. 
 
 through that or the door if they chose it. She went before 
 the commissary, but was obliged to return with that ' becco 
 ettico,' as she called the poor man, who had a phthisic. In 
 a few days she ran away again. After a precious piece 
 of work, she fixed herself in my house, really and truly 
 without my consent ; but, owing to my indolence, and not 
 being able to keep my countenance — for if I began in a 
 rage, she always finished by making me laugh mth some 
 Venetian pantaloonery or another ; and the gipsy laiew 
 tliis well enough, as well as her other powers of persuasion, 
 and exerted them widi the usual tact and success of all 
 she-things ; — high and low, they are all alike for tliat. 
 
 "Madame Benzoni also took her imder her protection, 
 and then her head tvirned. She was always in extremes, 
 either crpng or laughing, and so fierce when angered, that 
 she was the terror of men, women, and cliildren — for she 
 had the strength of an Amazon, Vv-ith tlie temper of Medea 
 She vv-cLS a fine animal, but quite untameable. / was the 
 only person that could at all keep her in any order, and 
 when she saw me really angry (which they tell me is a 
 savage sight,) she subsided. But she had a thousand 
 fooleries. In her fazziolo, the dress of the lower orders, 
 she looked beautiful ; but, alas ! she longed for a hat and 
 featliers; and all I could say or do (and I said much) 
 could not prevent tliis travestie. I put the first into the 
 fire; but I got tired of burnixig tliem before she did of buy- 
 ing them, so that she made herself a figure — for they did 
 not at all become her. 
 
 " Then she would have her gowns with a tail — ^like a 
 lady, forsooth ; notliing would serve her but ' I'abita coUa 
 coua,^ or cua (that is the Venetian for ' la cola,' the tail or 
 train,) and as her cursed pronunciation of the word made 
 me laugh, there was an end of aU controversy, and she 
 dragged this diabolical tail after her every where. 
 
 " In the mean time, she beat tlie women and stopped my 
 letters. I found her one day pondering over one. She 
 used to try to find out by their shape whether tliey were 
 feminine or no ; and she used to lament her ignorance, and 
 actually studied her alphabet, on purpose (as she declared) 
 to open all letters addressed to me, and read their contents. 
 
 " I must not omit to do justice to her housekeeping quali- 
 ties. After she came into my house as ' donna di governo,' 
 the expenses were reduced to less than haJ^ and every 
 body did their duty better — ^the apartments were kept 
 in order, and every thing and every body else, except 
 herself. 
 
 " That she had a sufficient regard for me in her wild 
 way, I had many reasons to believe. I ^^•ill mention one. 
 In the autumn, one day going to the Lido with my gon- 
 doliers, we were overtaken by a heavy squall, and the 
 gondola put in peril — hats blo\^ii away, boat filling, oar 
 lost, tumbling sea, thunder, rain in torrents, night coming, 
 and wind unceasing. On our return, after a tight struggle, 
 I found her on the open steps of the Mocenigo palace, on 
 tlie Grand Canal, with her great black eyes flashbg 
 through her tears, and the long dark hair, which was 
 streaming, drenched with rain, over her brows and breast. 
 She was perfectly exposed to the storm ; and the wind 
 blov\ing her hair and dress about her thin tall figure, and 
 the lightning flashing around her, and die waves rolling at 
 her feet, made her look like Medea alighted from her 
 chariot, or the Sibyl of the tempest that was rolling around 
 her, the only living thing within hail at that moment except 
 ourselves. On seeing me safe, she did not wait to greet 
 me, as might have been expected, but calling out to me — 
 Ah ! can' della Madonna, xe esto il tempo por andar' al' 
 Lido ?' (Ah ! dog of the Virgin, is this a time to go to 
 Lido?) ran into the house, and solaced herself with scold- 
 ing the boatmen for not foreseeing the * temporale.' I am 
 told by the servants diat she had only been prevented from 
 coming in a boat to look after me, by the refusal of all the 
 gondoliers of the canal to put out into the harbour in such 
 a moment ; and that then she sat down on the steps in ail 
 the thickest of the squall, and would neither be removed 
 nor comforted. Her joy at seeing me again was mode- 
 
 rately mixed vvi'di ferocity, and gave me tlie idea of a tigress 
 over her recovered cubs. 
 
 " But her reign drew near a close. She became quite 
 ungovernable some months after, and a concurrence of 
 complaints, some true, and many false — ' a favourite has 
 no friends' — determined me to part with her. I told her 
 quietly that she must return home, (she had acquired a 
 sufficient provision for herself and mother, &c. in my 
 service,) and she refused to quit the house. I was firm, 
 and she went threatening knives and revenge. I told her 
 that I had seen knives drawn before her time, and that if 
 she chose to begin, there was a knife, and fork also, at her 
 service on the table, and that intimidation would not do. 
 The next day, while I was at dinner, she walked in, (having 
 broken open a glass door that led from the hall below to 
 the staii'case, by way of prologue,) and advancing straight 
 up to the table, snatched the knife from my hand, cutting 
 me slightly in the thumb ui the operation. Whether she 
 meant to use this against herself or me, I know not — 
 probably agciinst neither — but Fletcher seized her by the 
 arms, and disarmed her. I then called my boatmen, and 
 desired them to get the gondola ready, and conduct her to 
 her own house again, seeing carefully tliat she did herself 
 no miscliief by the way. She seemed quite quiet, and 
 walked down stairs. I resumed my dinner. 
 
 " We heard a great noise, and went out, and met them 
 on the staircase, carrying her up stairs. She had tlirowii 
 herself into the canal. That she intended to destroy 
 herself, I do not believe: but when we consider the fear 
 women and men who can 't swim have of deep or even of 
 shallow water, (and tlie Venetians in particular, though 
 they live on the waves.) and that it was also night, and 
 dark, and very cold, it shows that she had a devilish spirit 
 of some sort within her. They had got her out without 
 much difficulty or damage, excepting the salt water she 
 had swallowed, and the w etting she had undergone. 
 
 "I foresaw her intention to refix herself, and sent for a 
 surgeon, inquiiing how many hours it would require to 
 restore her from her agitation ; and he named the time. I 
 then said, 'I give you that time, and more if you require it; 
 but at the expiration of this prescribed period, if she does 
 not leave the house, / will.' 
 
 "All m.y people w^ere consternated. They had always 
 been frightened at her, and w-ere now paralyzed: they 
 wanted me to apply to the police, to guard myself, &c. &c. 
 like a pack of snivelling servile boobies, as they were. I 
 did nothing of the kind, thinking that I might as well end 
 tliat way as another ; besides, I had been used to savage 
 women, and knev/ their ways. 
 
 "I had her sent home quietly after her recovery, and 
 never saw her since, except twice at the opera, at a distance 
 among the audience. She made many attempts to return, 
 but no more \iolent ones. — And this is the story of Mar- 
 garita Cogn, as far as it relates to me. 
 
 " I forgot to mention tliat she was verv' devout, and would 
 cross herself if she heai-d the prayer time strike. * * 
 ****** 
 
 "She was quick in reply; as, for instance — One day 
 when she had made me very angry with beating somebody 
 or other, I called her a cow, (a cow, in Italian, is a sad 
 affront.) I called her ' Vacca.' She turned round, curt- 
 sied, and answered, 'Vacca tria, 'celenza,' (i. e. eccellenza.) 
 ' Your COW', please your Excellency.' In short, she was, as 
 I said before, a very fine animal, of considerable beauty 
 and energy, with many good and several amusing qualities, 
 but wild as a witch and fierce as a demon. She used to 
 boast publicly of her ascendency over me, contrasting it 
 with that of other women, and assigning for it sundry 
 reasons, * * *, True it was, that tliey all tried to get her 
 away, and no one succeeded till her own absurdity helped 
 them. 
 
 " I omitted to tell you her answer, when I reproached her 
 for snatching Madame Contarini's mask at the Cavalchina. 
 I represented to her that she was a lady of high birth, 'una 
 Dama,' &c. She answered, 'Se ella e dama mi [io) son 
 
LETTERS, 1818. 
 
 131 
 
 Veneziana ;' — ' if she is a lady, I am a Venetian.' This 
 would have been fine a hundred years ago, the pride of the 
 nation rising up against the pride of aristocracy ;* but, alas ! 
 Venice, and her people, and her nobles, are alike returning 
 fast to the ocean: and where there is no independence, 
 there can be no real self-respect. I believe that I mistook 
 or misstated one of her phrases in my letter ; it should 
 have been — 'Can' della Madonna, cosa vus' tu? esto non 
 e tempo per andar' a Lido?'" 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXVL 
 
 TO MR. MURKAY. 
 
 "Venice, June 18,1818. 
 "Business and the utter and inexplicable silence of all 
 my correspondents renders me impatient and troublesome. 
 I wrote to Mr. Hanson for a balance which is (or ought to 
 be) in his hands ; — no answer. I expected the messenger 
 with the Newstead papers two months ago, and instead of 
 him, I received a requisition to proceed to Geneva, which 
 (from * *, who knows my wishes and opinions about 
 approacliing England) could only be irony or insult. 
 
 " I must, therefore, trouble you to pay into my bankers' 
 immediately whatever sum or sums you can make it con- 
 venient to do on our agreement ; otherwise, I shall be pnt 
 to the severest and most immediate inconvenience ; and 
 this at a time when, by every rational prospect and calcu- 
 lation, I ought to be in the receipt of considerable sums. 
 Pray do not neglect this ; you have no idea to what incon- 
 venience you will otherwdse put me. * * had some absurd 
 notion about the disposal ofthis money in annuity, (oi God 
 knows what,) which I merely listened to when he was 
 here to avoid squabbles and sermons; but I have occasion 
 for the principal, and had never any serious idea of 
 appropriating it otherwise than to answer my personal 
 expenses. Hobhouse's wish is, if possible, to force me 
 back to England: he will not succeed; and if he did, I 
 would not stay. I hate tl:e country, and like this ; and all 
 foolish opposition, of course, merely adds to the feebng. 
 Your silence makes me doubt the success of Canto Fourth. 
 If it has failed, I will make such deduction as you think 
 proper and fair from the original agreement ; but I could 
 wish whatever is to be paid were remitted to me, without 
 delay, through the usual channel, by course of post. 
 
 "When I tell you that I have not heard a word from 
 England since very early in May, I have made the eulo- 
 gium of my friends, or the persons who call themselves so, 
 since I have written so often and in the greatest anxiety. 
 Thank God, the longer I am absent, the less cause I see 
 for regretting the country or its living contents. 
 
 "I am yoOTS, &c. 
 
 "P. S. TeUMr. * * * that + * * * 
 
 + * + * * * * 
 
 and that I will never forgive him, (or any body,) the atrocity 
 of their late silence at a time when I wished particularly 
 to hear, for every reason, from my friends." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXVII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, July 10, 1818. 
 
 "I have received your letter and the credit from Mor 
 lands, &c. for whom I have also drawn upon you at sixty 
 days' sight for the remainder, according to your proposition. 
 
 " I am still waiting in Venice, in expectancy of the arrival 
 of Hanson's clerk. What can detain him, I do not know ; 
 but I trust that Mr. Hobhouse and Mr. Kinnaird, when 
 their political fit is abated, will take the trouble to inquire 
 
 and expedite him, as I have nearly a hundred thousand 
 pounds depending upon the completion of the sale and the 
 signature of the papers. 
 
 " The draft on you is drawn up by Siri and Willhalm. 
 I hope that the form is correct. 1 signed it two or three 
 days ago, desii-ing them to forward it to Messrs. Morland 
 and Ransom. 
 
 Your projected editions for November had better be 
 postponed, as I have some things in project, or preparation, 
 that may be of use to you, though not very important in 
 themselves. I have completed an Ode on Venice,* and 
 have two Stories, one serious and one ludicrous, (a la 
 Beppo,) not yet finished, and in no hurry to be so. 
 
 " You taUi of the letter to Hobhouse bemg much admired, 
 and speak of prose. | I think of writing (for your full 
 edition) some Memoirs of my life, to prefix to them, upon 
 the same model (though far enough, I fear, from reaching 
 it,) of Gifford, Hume, &c. ; and this without any intention 
 of making disclosures, or remarks upon living people, which 
 would be unpleasant to them : but I think it might be done, 
 and well done. However, this is to be considered. I have 
 materials in plenty, but the greater part of them could not 
 be used by me, nor for these hundred years to come. 
 However, there is enough without these, and merely as a 
 literary man, to make a preface for such an edition as you 
 meditate. But this is by-the-way : I have not made up my 
 mind. 
 
 " I enclose you a note on the subject of'Parisina^'l which 
 Hobhouse can dress for you. It is an extract of particu- 
 lars from a liistory of Ferrara. 
 
 "I trust you have been attentive to Missiaglia, for the 
 Enghsh have the character of neglecting the Italians at 
 present, which 1 hope you will redeem. 
 
 " Yours in haste, " B." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXVIII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Venice,July 17, 1818. 
 " I suppose that Aglietti will take whatever you offer, but 
 till his return from Vienna I can make him no proposal ; 
 nor, indeed, have you authorized me to do so. The three 
 French notes are by Lady Mary; also another half- 
 English-French-Italian. They are very pretty and pas- 
 sionate ; it is a pity that a piece of one of them is lost. 
 Algarotti seems to have treated her ill ; but she was much 
 his senior, and all women are used ill — or say so, whether 
 they are or not. 
 
 ***** 
 
 "I shall be glad of your books and powders. I am still 
 in waiting for Hanson's clerk, but lucidly not at Geneva. 
 All my good friends wrote to me to hasten there to meet 
 him, but not one had the good sense, or the good nature, to 
 write afterward to tell me that it would be time and a 
 journey thrown away, as he could not set off for some 
 months after the period appointed. If 1 had taken the 
 journey on the general suggestion, I never would have 
 spoken again to one of you as long as I existed. I have 
 WTitten to request Mr. Kinnaird, when the foam of his 
 pohtics is wiped away, to extract a positive answer from 
 that + * * *, and not to keep me in a state of suspense 
 upon the subject. I hope that Kinnaird, who has my 
 power of attorney, keeps a look-out upon the gentleman, 
 which is the more necessary, as I have a great dishke to 
 the idea of coming over to look after him myself 
 
 "I have several things begun, verse and prose, but none 
 in much forwardness. I have written some six or seven 
 sheets of a Life, which I mean to continue, and send you 
 when finished. It may perhaps serve for your projected 
 editions. If you would tell me exactly (for I know nothing. 
 
 • Childe Harold, Canto IV. stanza 13:— " Siaks like a seaweed 
 whence she rose." 
 
 ' See page 20J. The two Stories were Mazeppa aad Don Juan. 
 
 t Dedication of the 4th Canto of Childe Harold. 
 1 See Parisina, Note 3d. 
 
LETTERS, 
 
 132 
 
 and have no correspondents, except on business) the state 
 of the reception of our late publications, and the feeling 
 upon them, without consulting any delicacies, (I am too 
 seasoned to require them,) I should know how and in what 
 manner to proceed. 1 should not like to give them too 
 much, which may probably have been the case already; 
 but, as I tell you, I know nothing. 
 
 «I once wrote from the fuhess of my mind and the love 
 of fame, (not as an end^ but as a means^ to obtain that 
 influence over men's minds which is power in itself and in 
 its consequences,) and now from habit and from avarice ; 
 so that the efFect may probably be as different as the 
 inspiration. I have the same facility and indeed necessity, 
 of composition, to avoid idleness, (though idleness in a hot 
 country is a pleasure,) but a much greater indifference to 
 what is to become of it, after it has served my immediate 
 
 purpose. However, I should on no account lilie to 
 
 but I won't go on, hke the archbishop of Granada, as I am 
 very sure that you dread the fate of Gil Bias, and with 
 good reason. "Yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. I have written some very savage letters to Mr 
 Hobhouse, Kinnaird, to you, and to Hanson, because the 
 silence of so long a time made me tear off my remaining 
 rags of patience. I have seen one or two late Enghsh 
 publications which are no great things, except Rob Roy 
 I shaU be glad of Whistlecraft." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, Aug. 26, 1818 
 •'You may go on with your edition, without calculating 
 on the Memoir, which I shall not publish at present. It is 
 nearly finished, but will be too long ; and tliere are so many 
 things, which, out of regard to the living, cannot be men- 
 tioned, that I have written with too much detail of that 
 which interested me least; so tliat my autobiographical 
 Essay would resemble the tragedy of Hamlet at tlie 
 country theatre, recited 'with tlie part of Hamlet left 
 out by particular desire.' I shall keep it among my 
 papers; it will be a kind of guide-post in case of death, 
 and prevent some of the lies which would otherwise be 
 told, and destroy some which have been told already. 
 
 " The Tales also are in an unfinished state, and I can 
 fix no time for their completion : they are also not in the 
 best manner. You must not, therefore, calculate upon any 
 thing in time for this edition. The Memoir is already 
 above forty-four sheets of very large, long paper, and will 
 be about fifty or sixty ; but I uish to go on leisurely ; and 
 when finished, although it might do a good deal for you at 
 the time, I am not sure that it would serve any good pur- 
 pose in the end either, as it is full of many passions and 
 prejudices, of which it has been impossible for me to keep 
 clear : — I have not the patience. 
 
 « Enclosed is a hst of books which Dr. Aglietti would 
 be glad to receive by vray of price for his MS. letters, if 
 you are disposed to purchase at the rate of fifty pounds 
 sterling. These he will be glad to have as part, and the 
 rest / will give him in money, and you may carry it to 
 the account of books, &c. which is in balance against me, 
 deducting it accordingly. So that the letters are yours, if 
 you like^them, at this rate; and he and I are going to 
 hunt for more Lady Montague letters, which he thinks of 
 finding. I write in haste. Thanks for the article, and 
 beUeveme, « Yours, &c." 
 
 1818. 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXX. 
 
 TO CAPT. BASIL HALL. 
 
 "Venice, Aug. 31, 1818, 
 
 " DEAR SIR, 
 
 ^ Dr. Aglietti is the best physician, not only in Venice, 
 but in Italy; his residence is on the Grand Canal, and 
 
 easily found; I forget the number, but am probably the 
 only person in Venice who do n't know it. There is no 
 comparison between him and any of the other medjcal 
 people here. I regret very much to hear of your indispo- 
 sition, and shall do my?eif the honour of waiting upon you 
 the moment I am up." I write this in bed, and have only 
 just received the letter and note. I beg you to beheve 
 that nothing but the extreme lateness of my hours coukl 
 have prevented me from replying immediately, or coming 
 in person. I have not been called a minute.— I have the 
 honour to be, very truly, 
 
 "Your most obedient servant, 
 
 « Byron." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXXI. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Venice, Sept. 19,1818. 
 
 "An English newspaper here would be a prodigy, and 
 an opposition one a monster ; and, except some extracts 
 from extracts in the vile, garbled Paris gazettes, nothing 
 of the kind reaches the Veneto-Lombard public, who are 
 perhaps the most oppressed in Europe. My correspond- 
 ences with England are mostly on business, and chiefly 
 with my SoUcitor, Mr. Hanson, who has no very exalted 
 notion, or extensive conception, of an author's attributes ; 
 for he once took up an Edinburgh Review, and, looking at 
 it a minute, said to me, ' So, I see you have got into the 
 magazine,'— -.vhich is the only sentence I ever heard him 
 utter upon hterary matters, or the men thereof. 
 
 " My first news of your Irish apotheosis has, conse- 
 quently, been from yourseF. But, as it will not be forgotten 
 in a hurry, either by your friends or your enemies, I hope 
 to have it more in detail from some of the former, and, in 
 the mean time, I wish you joy widi all my heart. Such a 
 moment must have been a good deal better than West- 
 minster-Abbey, — besides being an assurance of thai one 
 day (many years hence, I trust) into the bargain. 
 
 " I am sorry to perceive, however, by the close of your 
 letter, that even you have not escaped the 'surgit amari, 
 &c. and that your damned deputy has been gathering such 
 ' dew from the still vcxt Bermoothes' — or rather vexatious. 
 Pra}', give me some items of the affair, as you say it is a 
 serious one ; and if it grows more so, you should make a 
 trip over here for a few months, to see how things turn 
 out. I suppose you are a violent admirer of England by 
 your staying so long in it. For my ovm part, I have passed 
 between the age of on e-and- twenty and tliirty, half the in- 
 tervenient years out of it without regretting any thing, ex- 
 cept that I ever returned to it at all, and the gloomy pros- 
 pect before me of business and parentage obliging me, one 
 day, to return again, — at least, for the transaction of affairs, 
 the signing of papers, and inspecting of children. 
 
 "I have here my natural daughter, by name AUegra, — a 
 pretty litde girl enough, and reckoned like papa. Her 
 mamma is English, — ^but it is a long story, and — ^there's an 
 end. She is about twenty months old. * * + 
 
 "I have finished the First Canto, (a long one, of about 
 180 octaves,) of a poem in the style and maimer of 'Beppo, 
 encouraged by the good success of the same. It is called 
 ' Don Juan,' and is meant to be a little quietly facetious 
 upon every tiling. But I doubt whether it is not — at least, 
 as far as it has yet gone — too free for these very modest 
 days. However, I shall try the experiment, anonymously 
 and if it do n't take, it will be discontinued. It is dedicated 
 to Southey in good, simple, savage verse, upon the * * + *'g 
 politics,* and the way he got them. But the bore of 
 copying it out is intolerable ; and if I had an amanuensis he 
 would be of no use, as my writing is so difficult to decipher 
 
 " My poem 's Epic, and is meaut to be 
 
 Divided in twelve books, each book containing, 
 
 The dedication to Southey was suppressed. 
 
LETTERS, 1819. 
 
 133 
 
 Wifn lOire and war, a heavy gale at sea— 
 
 A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning— 
 New characters, &c. &c. 
 
 The above are two stanzas, which I send you as a brick 
 of my Babel, and by which you can judge of the texture of 
 the structure. 
 
 "In writing 1 he life of Sheridan, never mind the angry 
 «ies of the humbug Whigs. Recollect that he was an 
 Irishman and a clever fellow, and that we have had some 
 very pleasant days with him. Do n't forget that he was at 
 school at Harrow, where, in my time, we used to show his 
 name — R. B. Sheridan, 1765 — as an honour to the walls. 
 Remember ****** 
 
 ******* 
 Depend upon it that there were worse folks going, of that 
 gang, than ever Sheridan was. 
 
 "What did Parr mean by 'haughtiness and coldness?' 
 I listened to him with admiring ignorance, and respectfU 
 silence. What more could a talker for fame have? — they 
 do n't like to be answered. It was at Payne Knight's I 
 met him, where he gave me more Greek than I could carry 
 away. But I certainly meant to (and did) treat him with 
 the most respectful deference. 
 
 " I wish you good night with a Venetian benediction, 
 'Benedetto te, e la terra che ti fara !' — 'May you be blessed, 
 and the earth which you will make^ — is it not pretty ? You 
 would think it still prettier if you had heard it, as I did two 
 hours ago, from the lips of a Venetian girl, with large black 
 eyes, a face like Faustma's, and the figure of a Juno — tall 
 and energetic as a Pythoness, with eyes flashing, and her 
 dark hair streaming in the moonlight — one of those women 
 who may be made any thing. I am sure if I put a poniard 
 into the hand of this one, she would plunge it where I told 
 her, — and into ttzc, if I offended her. I like this kind of 
 animal, and am sure that I should have preferred Medea 
 to any woman that ever breathed. You maj', perhaps, 
 wonder that I do n't in that case * + * 
 
 ******* 
 
 I could have forgiven the dagger or the bowl, any thing, but 
 the deliberate desolation piled upon me, when I stood alone 
 upon my hearth, vvitli my household gods shivered around 
 me.+ + * * * * *_ 
 
 Do you suppose I have forgotten or forgiven it ? It has 
 comparatively swallowed up in me every other feeling, and 
 I am only a spectator upon earth, till a tenfold opportunity 
 offers. It may come yet. There are others more to be 
 blamed than * * +j and it is on these tliat my 
 eyes are fixed unceasingly." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXXII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, Sept. 24, 1818. 
 "In the one hundred and thirty-second stanza of Canto 
 4th, the stanza runs in the manuscript 
 
 " And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
 Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! 
 
 and not ^lost^ which is nonsense, as what losing a scale 
 means, I know not ; but leaving an unbalanced scale, or a 
 scale unbalanced, is intelligible.f Correct this, I pray, — not 
 for the public, or the poetry, but I do not choose to have 
 blunders made in addressing any of the deities so seriously 
 as this is addressed. "Yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. In the translation from the Spanish, alter 
 
 " In increasing squadrons flew, 
 
 to— 
 
 " To a mighty squadron grew. 
 
 "What does 'thy waters wasted them' mean (in the 
 Canto ?) That is not me-X Consult the MS. always. 
 
 * Don Juan, Canto I. 36.— Marino Faliero, Act 3, Scene 2. 
 
 t Corrected in ttiis edition. | This passage remains uncoirected. 
 
 "I have written the first Canto (180 octave stanzas) of 
 a poem* in the style of Beppo,and have Mazeppa to finish 
 besides. 
 
 "In referring to the mistake in stanza 132, I take the 
 opportunity to desire that in future, in all parts of my 
 writings referring to religion, you will be more careful, and 
 not forget that it is possible that in addressing the Deity a 
 blunder may become a blasphemy ; and I do not choose to 
 suffer such infamous perversions of my words or of my 
 intentions. 
 
 "I saw the Canto by accident." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXXm. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY, 
 
 " Venice, Jan. 20, 1819. 
 
 *__*_* + + * 
 
 " The opinions which I have asked of Mr. Hobhouse 
 and others were with regard to the poetical merit, and not 
 as to what they may think due to the cant of the day, which 
 still reads the Bath Guide, Little's Poems, Prior, and 
 Chaucer, to say nothing of Fielding and Smollet. If 
 published, publish entire, with the above-mentioned ex- 
 ceptions ; or you may publish anonymously, or not at all. 
 In the latter event, print 50 on my account, for private 
 distribution. "Yours, &c. 
 
 "I have written to Messrs. Kinnaird and Hobhouse, to 
 desire that they will not erase more than I have stated. 
 
 "The Second Canto of Don Juan is finished in 206 
 stanzas." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, Jan. 25, 1819. 
 
 " You will do me the favour to print privately (for private 
 distribution) fifty copies of 'Don Juan.' The list of the 
 men to whom I wish it to be presented, I will send here- 
 after. The other two poems had best be added to the 
 collective edition: I do not approve o^ their being published 
 separately. Print Don Juan entire, omitting, of course, the 
 lines on Castlereagh, as I am not on the spot to meet him. 
 I have a Second Canto ready, which will be sent by-and- 
 by. By this post, I have written to Mr. Hobhouse, 
 addressed to your care. "Yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. I have acquiesced in the request and repre- 
 sentation; and having done so, it is idle to detail my 
 arguments in favour of my own self-love and 'Poeshie;* 
 but I protest. If the poem has poetry, it would stand : if 
 not, fall ; the rest is 'leather and prunella,' and has nevei 
 yet affected any human production 'pro or con.' Dulness 
 is the only annihilator in such cases. As to the cant of 
 the day, I despise it, as 1 have ever done all its other finical 
 fashions, which become you as paint became the ancient 
 Britons. If you admit this prudery, you must omit half 
 Ariosto, La Fontaine, Shakspeare, Beaumont, Fletcher 
 Massinger, Ford, all the Charles Second writers ;t in short; 
 something of most who have written before Pope and are 
 worth reading, and much of Pope himseF. Read him — 
 most of you do rUt — but do — and I will forgive you ; though 
 the inevitable consequence would be that you would burn 
 all I have ever written, and all your other wretched 
 Claudians of the day (except Scott and Crabbe) into the 
 bargain. I wTong Claudian, who was a poet, by naming 
 him with such fellows ; but he was the ' ultimus Roman- 
 orum,' the tail of the comet, and these persons are the tail 
 of an old gown cut into a waistcoat for Jackey ; but being 
 both tails, I have compared the one with the other, though 
 very unlike, like all similes.f I write in a passion and a 
 
 * Don Juan, Canto IV. stanza 18. 
 t See Don Juan, Canto IV. stanza 18. 
 X See Letters to Bowles and Blackwood. 
 
134 
 
 LETTERS, I8ia. 
 
 sirocco, and I was up till six this morning at the Carnival ; 
 but I protest^ as I did in my former letter." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MtTRRAY. 
 
 "Venice, Feb. 1,1819. 
 "After one of the concluding stanzas of the First Canto 
 of 'Don Juan,' which ends with (I forget the number)— 
 
 "To have, 
 
 . . . when the original is dust, 
 A book, a d — d bad picture, and worse bust,* 
 
 insert the following stanza : — 
 
 " What are the hopes of man, &o. 
 
 " I have written to you several letters, some with addi- 
 tions, and some upon the subject of the poem itself, which 
 rny cursed puritanical committee have protested against 
 publishing. But we will circumvent them on that point. 
 1 have not yet begun to copy out the Second Canto, which 
 is finished, from natural laziness, and the discouragement 
 of the milk and water they have thrown upon the First 
 I say all this to them as to you, that is, for you to say to 
 iiiem^ for I will have nothing underhand. If they had told 
 me the poetry was bad, I would have acquiesced; but they 
 say the contrary, and then talli to me about morality— the 
 first time I ever heard the word from any body who was 
 not a rascal that used it for a purpose. I maintain tliat it 
 is the most moral of poems ; but if people won't discover 
 the moral, that is their fault, not mine. I have already 
 written to beg that in any case you will print Jifty for 
 private distribution. I will send you tlie list of persons to 
 whom it is to be sent afterward. 
 
 " Within this last fortnight I have been rather indisposed 
 with a rebellion of stomach, which would retain nothing, 
 (liver, I suppose,) and an inability, or fantasy, not to be 
 able to eat of any thing with relish but a kind of Adriatic 
 fish called 'scampi,' wh.ich happens to be the most indi- 
 gestible of marine viands. However, within these last two 
 days, I am better, and very truly yours." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXXVl. 
 
 TO MR. MTTRRAT. 
 
 "Venice, AprH 6, 1819. 
 
 « The Second Canto of Don Juan was sent, on Saturday 
 last, by post, in four packets, two of four, and two of tiiree 
 sheets each, containing in all two hundred and seventeen 
 stanzas, octave measure. But I will permit no curtail- 
 ments, except tliose mentioned about Castlereagh and * 
 * * * * *. You sha'n't make canticles 
 of my cantos. The poem will please, if it is lively; if it is 
 stupid, it will fail: but I will have none of your damned 
 cutting and slashing. If you please, you may publish 
 anonyrnously ; it will, perhaps, be better ; but I will battle 
 my way against them all, hlie a porcupine. 
 
 " So you and Mr. Foscolo, &c. want me to undertake 
 what you call a 'great work?' an Epic Poem, I suppose, 
 or some such pyramid. I'll try no such thing; I hate 
 tasks. And then 'seven or eight years!' God send us all 
 well this day three months, let alone years. If one's years 
 can 't be better employed than in sweating poesy, a man 
 had better be a ditcher. And woiks, too! — is Childe 
 Harold nothing? You have so many 'divine' poems, is it 
 nothing to have written a human one? without any of your 
 worn-out machinery. Vv'hy, man, I could have spun the 
 thoughts of the Four Cantos of that poem into twenty, had 
 I wanted to book-make, and its passion into as many 
 modern tragedies. Since you want Imgth, you shall have 
 enough oi Juan^ for I'll make Fifty Cantos.f 
 
 "And Foscolo, too! Why does Ive not do something 
 more than the Letters of Ortis, and a tragedy, and pam- 
 phlets? He has good fifteen years more at his command 
 than I have: what has he done all that time? — proved his 
 genius, doubtless, but not fixed its fame, nor done his 
 utmost. 
 
 "Besides, I mean to write my best work in Italian, and 
 it will take me nine years more thoroughly to master the 
 language ; and then if my fancy exists, and I exist too, I 
 will try what I can do really. As to the estimation of the 
 English which you talk of^ let them calculate what it is 
 worth, before they insult me with their insolent conde- 
 scension. 
 
 "I have not written for tlieir pleasure. If they are 
 pleased, it is that they chose to be so ; I have never flat- 
 tered their opinions, nor their pride ; nor will T. Neither 
 wall I make 'Ladies' books' 'al dilettar le femine e la 
 plebe.'* I have written from the fubess of my mind, from 
 passion, from impulse, from many motives, but not for their 
 'sweet voices.' 
 
 " I know the precise worth of popular applause, for few 
 scribblers have had more of it ; and if I chose to swerve 
 into their paths. I could retain it, or resume it. But I 
 neither love ye, nor fear ye ; and though I buy with ye and 
 sell with ye, I will neither eat with ye, drink with ye, nor 
 pray with ye. They made me, without my search, a 
 species of popular idol ; they, without reason or judgment, 
 beyond the caprice of their good pleasure, threw douTi the 
 image from its pedestal : it was not broken with the fall, 
 and they would, it seems, again replace it, — but they shall 
 not. 
 
 "You ask about my health: about the beginning of the 
 year I was in a state of great exhaustion, attended by such 
 debility of stomach that nothing remained upon it ; and I 
 was obliged to reform my 'way of hfe,' which was conduct- 
 ing me from the 'yellow leaf to tlie ground, with all 
 deliberate speed. I am better in health and morals, and 
 very much yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. I have read Hodgson's 'Friends.' v ♦ * + 
 He is right in defending Pope against the bastard pelicans 
 of the poetical winter day, who add insult to their parricide, 
 by sucking the blood of the parent of English real poetry- 
 poetry without fault — cuid then spurning the bosom which 
 fed them." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXXVII. 
 
 TO THE EDITOR OF GALIGNANl's JIESSENGER. 
 
 "Venice, April 27, 1819. 
 
 " SIR, 
 
 "In various numbers of your journal, T have seen men- 
 tioned a work entitled ' the Vampire,' with the addition of 
 my name as that of the author. I am not the author, and 
 never heard of the work in question until now. In a more 
 recent paper I perceive a formal annunciation of 'the 
 Vampire,' with the addition of an account of my 'residence 
 in the Island of Mitylene,' an island wliich I have occa- 
 sionally sailed by in the course of travelling some years 
 ago through the Levant — and where I should have no 
 objection to reside, but where I have never yet resided. 
 Neither of these performances are mine, and I presume 
 that it is neither unjust nor ungracious to request that you 
 vAW favour me by contradicting the advertisement to which 
 I allude. If the book is clever, it would be base to deprive 
 the real writer, whoever he maybe, of his honours; and if 
 stupid, I desire the responsibility of nobody's dulness but 
 my own. You will excuse the trouble I give you, the 
 imputation is of no great importance, and as long as it was 
 confined to surmises and reports, I should have received 
 it, as I have received many others, in silence. But the 
 
 * In the printed version " a wretched picture.' 
 t See Don Juan, Canto XII. stanza 55. 
 
 Childe Harold, Canto HI. stania 113k 
 
LETTERS, 1819. 
 
 135 
 
 formality of a public advertisement, of a book I never wrote, 
 and a residence where I never resided, is a little too much ; 
 particularly as I have no notion of the contents of the one, 
 nor the incidents of the other. I have besides, a personal 
 dislike to * Vampires,' and the little acquaintance I have 
 with them would by no means induce me to divulge their 
 secrets. Yoa did me a much less injury by your para- 
 graphs about ' my devotion' and ' abandonment of society 
 for the sake of religion,' vvhich appeared in your Messenger 
 during last Lent, all of which are not founded on fact, but 
 you see I do not contradict them, because they are merely 
 personal, whereas the others in some degree concern the 
 reader. You will oblige me by complying with my request 
 of contradiction — I assure you that I know nothing of the 
 work or works in question, and have the honour to be (as 
 the correspondents to Magazines say) ' your constant 
 reader,' and very " Obt. humble servt. 
 
 " Byroiv." 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXXVIII. 
 
 TO MR. SltTRRAY. 
 
 "Venice, May 15, 1819. 
 
 + * + **;<: 
 
 " I have got your extract, and the ' Vampire.'* 1 need 
 not say it is not mine. There is a rule to go by: you are 
 my publisher, (till we quarrel,) and what is not published 
 by you is not written by me. 
 
 * + + * * + 
 
 " Next week I set oat for Roniagna — at least in all 
 probability. You had better go on with the publications, 
 without waiting to hear farther, for I have other things in 
 my head. ' Mazeppa' and tlie ' Ode' separate ? — vvhat 
 think you ? Juan anonymous, without the Dedication ; for 
 I won't be shabby, and attack Southey under cloud of 
 night. "Yours, &c," 
 
 In another letter on the subject of the Vampire, are 
 the following particulcU-s. 
 
 LETTER CCCLXXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. aiURRAY. 
 
 " The story of Shelley's agitation is true.f I can't tell 
 what seized him for he don't want courage. He was once 
 with me in a gale of wind, in a small boat, right under the 
 rocks between Meillerie and St. Gingo. We were five in 
 the boat — a servant, two boatmen, and ourselves. The 
 sail was mismanaged, and the boat was filling fast. He 
 can't swim. I stripped off my coat, made him strip off 
 his, and take hold of an oar, telling him that I thought 
 (being myself an expert swimmer) I could save him, if he 
 would not struggle when I took hold of him — unless we 
 got smashed against the rocks, which were high and sharp, 
 with an awkvvard surf on them at that minute. We were 
 then about a hundred yards from shore, and the boat in 
 peril. He answered me, with the greatest coolness, ' that 
 he had no notion of being saved, and that I would have 
 enough to do to save myself,and begged not to trouble me.' 
 Luckily ,the boat righted, and, bailing, we got round a point 
 
 * By Doctor Polidori. 
 
 tThis story, as given in the Preface to the "Vampire," is as follows: — 
 "It appearis, that one evening; Lord B. Mr. P. B. Shelley, two ladies, 
 and the gentleman before alluded to, after having perused a German work 
 called Phantasmagoria, began relating ghost stories, when his lordship 
 having recited the beginning of Christahel, then unpulilished, the whole 
 took so strong a hold of Mr. Shelley's mind, ihat he suddenly started up, 
 and rati out of the room. The physician and Lord Byron followed, and 
 discovered him leaning against a mantel-piece, with cold drops of per- 
 spiration trickling down his face. After having given him something to 
 refresh him, upon inquiring into the cause of his alarm, they found that 
 his wild imagination having pictured to him the bosom of one of the ladies 
 with eyes, (which was reported of a lady in the neighbourhood where he 
 lived,) he was obliged to leave the room in order to destroy the im- 
 pression." 
 
 into St. Gingo where the inhabitants came do\%-n and 
 embraced the boatmen on their escape, the wind having 
 been high enough to tear up some huge trees from the 
 Alps above us, as we saw next day. 
 
 '•'And yet the same Shelley, who was as cool as it was 
 possible to be in such circumstances, (of which I am no 
 judge myself, as the chance of swimming naturally gives 
 self-possession when near shore,) certainly had the fit of 
 fantasy which Pohdori describes, though not exactly as lu 
 describes it. 
 
 " The story of the agreement to write the ghost-books 
 is true ; but the ladies are not sisters. * * + * 
 * * * +■■* + * * + + 
 
 Mary Godwin (now Mrs. Shelley) wrote Frankenstein, 
 which you have reviewed, thinking it Shelley's. Metlrinks 
 it is a wonderfd book for a girl of nineteen, not nineteen 
 indeed, at that time. I enclose you the beginning of mine,* 
 by which you will see how far it resembles Mr. Colburn's 
 publication. If you choose to publish it, you may, stating 
 why, and with such explanatory proem as you please. I 
 never went on with it, as you will perceive by the date. 
 I began it in an old account-book of Pvliss Milbanke's, 
 which I kept because it contained the word ' Household,' 
 written by her twice on the inside blanlipage of the co- 
 vers, being the only two scraps I have in the world in her 
 writing, except her name to the Deed of Separation. Her 
 letters I sent back, except those of the quarrelling corre- 
 spondence, and iliose, being documents, are placed in the 
 hands of a third person, witli copies of several of my 
 own ; so that I have no kind of memorial whatever of 
 her, but these two words, — and her actions. I have torn 
 the leaves containing the part of the Tale out of the 
 book, and enclose them with this sheet. 
 
 ****** 
 
 ' What do you mean ? First you seem hurt by my 
 letter, and then, in your next, you talk of its ' power,' 
 and so forth. ' This is a d — d blind story, Jack ; but 
 never mind, go on.' You may be sure I said nothing on 
 purpose to plague you, but if you will put me ' in a phrensy, 
 I will never call you Jach again.' I remember nothing 
 of the epistle at present. 
 
 " V\'hat do you mean by Polidori's Diary 7 Why, I defy 
 him to say any thing about me but he is welcome. I have 
 nothing to reproach me with on his score, and I am much 
 mistaken if that is not his awn opinion. But why publish 
 the name of the two girls ? ojid in such a manner ? — what 
 a blundering piece of e.xculpation ! He asked Pictet, &c. 
 to dinner, and of course was left to entertain them. I went 
 into society solely to present him, (as I told him,) that he 
 might return into good company if he chose ; it was the 
 best thing for his youth and circumstances : for myself, I 
 had done with society, and. having presented him, with- 
 drew to my o^'^Ti ' way of life.' It is true that I returned 
 without entering Lady Dalrymple Hamilton's, because 1 
 saw it full. It is true that Mrs. Hervey (she writes novels) 
 fainted at my entrance into Copet, and then came back 
 again. On her fainting, the Duchesse de Broglie ex 
 claimed, ' This is too much at sixty-five years of age !' — ] 
 never gave ' the English' an opportunity of avoiding me 
 but I trust that if ever I do, they wiU seize it. With re- 
 gard to Mazeppa and the Ode, you may join or separate 
 them, as you please, from the two Cantos. 
 
 " Don't suppose I want to put you out of humour. I 
 have a great respect for your good and gentlemanly quali- 
 ties, and return your personal friendship towards me ; and 
 although I think you a little spoiled by * villainous com- 
 pany,' — wits, persons of honour about town, authors, and 
 fashionables, together with your ' I am just going to call at 
 Carlton House, are you walking that way V — I say, not- 
 withstanding ' pictures, taste, Shakspeare, and the musi- 
 cal glasses,' you deserve and possess the esteem of those 
 whose esteem is worth having, and of none more (how- 
 ever useless it may be) than yours very truly, &c. 
 
 See Fragment, page 278. 
 
136 
 
 LETTERS, 1819. 
 
 " P. S. Make my respects to Mr. Giffbrd. I am per- 
 fectly aware that ' Don Juan' must set us all by tlie ears, 
 but that is my concern, and my beginning. There will 
 be the ' Edinburgh,' and all, too, against it, so that, like 
 * Rob Roy,' I shaU have my hands full." 
 
 LETTER CCCXC. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Venice, May 25, 1819. 
 " I have received no proofs by the last post, and shall 
 probably have quitted Venice before the arrival of the 
 next. There wanted a few stanzas to the termination of 
 Canto First in the last proof: the next will, I presume 
 contain them, and the whole or a portion of Canto Second; 
 but it will be idle to wait for farther answers from me, as I 
 have directed that my letters wait for my return, (perhaps 
 in a month, and probably so;) therefore do not wait for 
 farther advice from me. If ou may as well talk to the wind, 
 and better — for it will at least convey your accents a little 
 farther than they would otherwise have gone ; whereas / 
 shall neither echo nor acquiesce in your 'exquisite reasons. 
 You may omit the note of reference to Hobhouse's travels 
 in Canto Second, and you will put as motto to the whole— 
 
 ' Difficile est proprie commuiila dicere.' — Horace. 
 
 "A few days ago I sent you all 1 know of Polidori'j 
 Vampire. He may do, say, or write what he pleases, but 
 I wish he would not attribute to me his own compositions 
 If he has any thing of mine in his possession, the manu- 
 script will put it beyond controversy ; but I scarcely think 
 that any one who knows me would believe the thing in 
 the Magazine to be mine, even if they saw it in my own 
 hyeroglyphics. 
 
 " I write to you in the agonies of a sirocco, which annihi- 
 lates me ; and I have been fool enough to do four things 
 since dinner, which are as well omitted in very hot weather: 
 Istly, + + + + ; 2dly, to play at billiards from 10 to 12, 
 under the influence of lighted lamps, that doubled the heat; 
 3dly, to go afterward into a red-hot conversazione of the 
 Countess Benzoni's; and 4thly, to begin this letter at three 
 in the morning : but being begun, it must be finished. 
 "Ever very truly and affectionately yours, 
 
 "B. 
 
 " P. S. I petition for tooth-brushes, powder, magnesia, 
 Macassar oil, (or Russia,) the sa.shes, and Sir Nl. Wrax- 
 all's Memoirs of his Own Times. I want, besides, a bull- 
 dog, a terrier, and two Newfoundland dogs ; and I want 
 (is it Buck's ?) a life of Richard Sd, advertised by Long- 
 man, long, long, long ago ; I asked for it at least three years 
 since. See Longman's advertisements." 
 
 LETTER CCCXCL 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 " A journey in an Italian June is a conscription ; and 
 if I was not the most constant of men, I should now be 
 swimming from the Lido, instead of smoking in the dust 
 of Padua. Should there be letters from England, let 
 them wait my return. And do look at my house and (not 
 lands, but) waters, and scold ; — and deal out the moneys 
 to Edgecombe* with an air of reluctance and a shake of 
 the head — and put queer questions to him — and turn up 
 your nose when he answers. 
 
 " Make my respects to the Consuless — and to the 
 Chevalier — and to Scotin — and to all the counts and 
 countesses of our acquaintance. 
 " And believe me ever 
 
 " Your disconsolate and affectionate, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCXCn. 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 • A clerk of the English Consulate, whonj he at this time employed to 
 control his accouats. 
 
 " Bologna, June 6, 1819. 
 
 " I am at length joined to Bologna, where I am settled 
 like a sausage, and shall be broiled like one, if this weather 
 continues. Will you thank Mengaldo on my part for the 
 Ferrara acquaintance, which was a very agreeable one. 
 I stayed two days at Ferrara, and was much pleased with 
 the Count Mosti, and the little the shortness of the time 
 permitted me to see of his family. I went to his conver- 
 sazione, which is very far superior to any thing of the kind 
 at Venice — the women almost all young — several pretty 
 — and the men courteous and cleanly. The lady of the 
 mansion, who is young, lately married, and with child, 
 appeared very pretty by candlelight, (I did not see her by 
 day,) pleasing in her manners, and very lady-like, or 
 thorough-bred, as we call it in England, — a kiixl of thing 
 which reminds one of a racer, an antelope, or an Italian 
 greyhound. She seems very fond of her husband, who is 
 amiable and accomplished ; he has been in England two 
 or three times, and is young. The sister, a Countess 
 somebody — I forget what — (they are both Maffei by birth, 
 and Veronese of course) — is a lady of more display ; she 
 sings and plays divinely ; but I thought she was a d — d 
 long time about it. Her likeness to Madame Flahaut 
 (Miss Mercer that was) is something quite extraordinary. 
 
 " I had but a bird's-eye view of these people, and shall 
 not probably see them again ; but I am very much obliged 
 to Mengaldo for letting me see them at all. Whenever I 
 meet with any thing agreeable in tliis world, it surprises 
 me so much, and pleases me so much, (when my passions 
 are not interested one way or the other,) that I go on 
 wondering for a week to come. I feel, too, in great ad- 
 miration of the Cardinal Legate's red stockings. 
 
 " I found, too, such a pretty epitaph in the Certosa 
 cemetery, or rather two : one was 
 
 ' Martini Luigi 
 Implora pace ;' 
 
 the other, 
 
 ' Lucretia Picini 
 
 Irnplora eterna quiete.' 
 
 That was all ; but it appears to me that these two and 
 three words comprise and compress all that can be said on 
 the subject, — and then, in Italian, they are absolute music. 
 They contain doubt, hope, and humility ; nothing can be 
 more pathetic than the 'implora' and the modesty of the 
 request ; — they have had enough of life — they want nothing 
 but rest — they implore it, and ' eterna quiete.' It is like a 
 Greek inscription in some good old heathen ' City of the 
 Dead.' Pray, if I am shovelled into the Lido churchyard 
 in your time, let me have the ' implora pace,' and nothing 
 else, for my epitaph. I never met with any, ancient or 
 modern, that pleased me a tenth part so much. 
 
 " In about a day or two after you receive this letter, I wil 
 thank you to desire Edgecombe to prepare for my return. 
 I shall go back to Venice before I village on the Brenta- 
 I shall stay but a few days in Bologna. I am just going 
 out to see sights, but shall not present my introductory 
 letters for a day or two, till I have run over again the place 
 and pictures ; nor perhaps at all, if I find that I have books 
 and sights enough to do without the inhabitants. After 
 that, I shall return to Venice, where you may expect me 
 about the eleventh, or perhaps sooner. Pray make my 
 thanks acceptable to Mengaldo ; my respects to the 
 Consuless, and to Mr. Scott. 
 
 " I hope my daughter is well. 
 
 " Ever yours, and truly, 
 
 " P. S.I went over the Ariosto MS. &c. &c. again at 
 Ferrara, with the castle, and cell, and house, &c. Sec. 
 
 " One of the Ferrarese asked me if I knew ' Lord By- 
 ron,' an acquaintance of his now at Naples. I told him 
 'No ." which was true both ways ; for I knew not an 
 impostor, and, in the other, no one knows himself. He 
 
LETTERS, 1819, 
 
 137 
 
 stared when told that I was 'the real Simon Pure.' — 
 Anoiher asked me if I had vat translated ' Tasso.' You 
 see wlidt Fame is I how accurate', how boundless! I do n't 
 icnow how others feel, but I am always the lighter and the 
 better looked on when I have got rid of mine; it sits on me 
 like aimour on the Lord Mayor's champion ; and I got rid 
 of all the husk of literature, and the attendant babble, by 
 answering, that I had not translated Tasso, but a name- 
 sake had; and by the blessing of Heaven, I looked so litde 
 like a poet, that every body believed me." 
 
 LETTER CCCXCIIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Bologna, June 7, 1819. 
 
 "Tell Mr. Hobhouse tliat I wrote to him a few days ago 
 from Ferrara. It will therefore be idle in him or you to 
 wait for any farther answers or returns of proofs from 
 Venice, as I have directed that no Enghsh letters be sent 
 after me. The publication can be proceeded in without, 
 and I am already sick of your remarks, to which I think 
 not the least attention ought to be paid. 
 
 " Tell Mr. Hobhouse, that since I wrote to him, I had 
 availed myself of my Ferrara letters, and found the societ 
 much younger and better there than at Venice. I am 
 very much pleased with the little the shortness of my stay 
 permitted me to see of the Gonfaloniere Count Mosti, and 
 his family and friends in general. 
 
 " I have been picture-gazing this morning at the famous 
 Domenichmo and Guido, both of which are superlative. I 
 afterward went to the beautiful cemetery of Boloo-na, 
 beyond the walls, and found, besides the superb burial- 
 ground, an original of a Custodc, who reminded one of the 
 grave-digger in Hamlet. He has a collection of capuchins' 
 skulls, labelled on the forehead, and taking down one of 
 them, said, ' This was BroUier Desiderio Berro, who died 
 at forty — one of my best friends. I begged his head of his 
 brethren after his decease, and they gave it me. I put it 
 in hme, and tJien boiled it. Here it is, teeth and all, in 
 excellent preservation. He was the merriest, cleverest 
 fellow I ever knew. Wherever he went he brought joy ; 
 and whenever any one was melancholy, the sight of him 
 was enough to make him cheerful again. He walked so 
 actively, you might have taken him for a dancer — he joked 
 — he laughed — oh ! he was such a Frate as I never saw 
 before, nor ever shall again !' 
 
 "He told me that he had liimself planted all the cypresses 
 in the cemetery ; that he had the greatest attachment to 
 them and to his dead people ; that since 1801 they had 
 buried fifty-three tliousand persons. In showing some 
 older monuments, there was that of a Roman girl of twenty, 
 with a bust by Bernini. She was a princess Barlorini, 
 dead two centuries ago: he said, that on opening her 
 grave, they had found her hair complete, and ' as yellow as 
 gold.' Some of die epitaphs at Ferrara pleased me more 
 than the more splendid monuments at Bologna; for in- 
 stance — 
 
 ' Martini Luigi 
 Implora pace ;' 
 
 ' Lucrezia Picini 
 
 Implora eterna quiete.' 
 
 Can any thing be more full of pathos? Those few words 
 say all that can be said or sought; the dead had had 
 enough of life ; all they wanted was rest, and this they 
 implore! There is all the helplessness, and humble hope, 
 and deathlike prayer, that can arise from the grave — 
 'implora pace.' I hope whoever may survive me, and 
 shall see me put in the foreigners' burying-ground at the 
 Lido, within the fortress by the Adriatic, will see those two 
 words, and no more, put over me. I trust they won't tliink 
 of 'pickling, and bringing me home to Clod or Blunderbuss 
 Hall' I am sure my bones would not rest in an English 
 grave, or my clay mix with the eartli of tliat country. I 
 
 believe the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed) 
 could I suppose that any of my friends would be base 
 enough to convey my carcass back to your soil. — I would 
 not even feed your worms, if I could help it. 
 
 "So, as Shakspeare says of Mowbray, the banished 
 Duke.of Norfolk, who died at Venice, (see Richard 2d.) 
 that he, after fighting 
 
 ' Against black Pagans, Turks, aiirl Saracens, 
 And loilVJ Willi works of war, retired liimsulf 
 To Italy, and there, at Venice, gave 
 His body to that pleasant coiiiury's earth, 
 And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ, 
 Under whose colours he had fought so long ' 
 
 " Before I lefi Venice, I had returned to you your late, 
 and Mr. Hobhouse's, sheets of Juan. Do n't' wait for 
 farther answers fi-om me, but address yours to Venice, as 
 usual. I know nothing of my ovvii movements; 1 may 
 return there in a few days, or not for some ti.me. All this 
 depends on circumstances. I left Mr. Hoppner very well. 
 My daughter Allegra was well too, and is growing pretty; 
 her hair is growing darker, and her eyes are blue. Her 
 temper and her ways, Mr. Hoppner says, are like mine, as 
 ■•veil as her features: she will malie, in that case, a ma- 
 nageable young lady. 
 
 "I have never heard anything of Ada, the little Electra 
 of my Mycenog. * * * *. But there wiU 
 come a day of reckoning, even if I should not live to see it. 
 I have at least seen Romiily* shivered, who was one of 
 my assassins. Wh'fen that man was doing his worst to 
 uproot my whole family, tree, branch, and blossoms — when, 
 after taking my retainer, he went over to them— when he 
 was bringing desolation on my hearth, and destruction on 
 my household godsf— did he think that, in less than three 
 years, a natural event — a severe, domestic, but an expected 
 and common calamity — would lay his carcass in a cross- 
 road, or stamp his name in a Verdict of Lunacy ! Did he 
 (who in his sexagenary * * *) reflect or consider what 
 my feelings must have been, when wife, and child, and 
 sister, and name, and fame, and country, were to be my 
 sacrifice on his legal altar — and this at a moment when my 
 health was declining, my fortune embarrassed, and mv 
 mind had been shaken by many kinds of disappointment- 
 while I was yet young, and might have reformed what 
 might be wrong in my conduct, and retrieved what was 
 perplexing in my affairs ! But he is in his gi-ave, and * 
 * * *, What a long letter I have scribbled ! 
 
 " Yours, &c. 
 " P. S. Here, as in Greece, th«y strew flowers on the 
 tombs. I saw a quantity of rose-leaves, and entire roses, 
 scattered over the graves at Ferrara. It has the most 
 pleasing effect you can imagine." 
 
 LETTER CCCXCIV. 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 'Ravenna, June 20, 1819. 
 
 * * * 
 
 "I wrote to you from Padua, and from Bologna, and 
 since from Ravenna. I find my situation very agreeable, 
 but want my horses very much, tliere being good riding in 
 the environs. I can fix no time for my return to Venice — 
 it may be soon or late — or not at all — it all depends on the 
 Donna,j whom I found very seriously in bed with a cough 
 and spitting of blood, &c. all of which has subsided. * 
 + + * + * + ****_ 
 I found all the people here firmly persuaded that she would 
 never recover ; — they vvere mistaken, however. 
 
 "My letters were useful as far as I employed them; and 
 I like jaoth the place and people, though I do n't trouble the 
 latter more than I can help. She manages very well — 
 
 * + ♦ + **:*:** + 
 
 * Sir Samuel Romiily. He committed suicide, 
 t See Letiei- 378. + The C'ouutess Guiccioli. 
 
138 
 
 LETTERS, 1819. 
 
 ***** but if I come away with a 
 stiletto in my gizzard some fine afternoon, I shall not be 
 astonished. I can't make him out at all — he visits me 
 frequently, and takes me out (like Whittington, the Lord 
 Mayor) in a coach and six horses. The fact appears to 
 be, that he is completely governed by her — for tliat matter, 
 so am L The people here do n't know what to make of 
 us, as he had the character of jealousy with all his wives — 
 this is the tliird. He is the richest of the Ravennese, by 
 llieir own account, but is not popular among them. 
 
 ♦ ****♦ 
 
 ♦ ♦**** 
 Now do, pray, send off Augustine, and carriage and cattle, 
 to Bologna, without fail or delay, or I shall lose my re- 
 maining shred of senses. Do n't forget this. My coming, 
 going, and every thing depend upon her entirely, just as 
 Mrs. Hoppner (to whom I remit my reverences) said in 
 the true spirit of female prophecy. 
 
 "You are but a shabby fellow not to have written before. 
 " And I am truly yours, &c.'' 
 
 LETTER CCCXCV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, June 29, 1819. 
 
 * The letters have been forwarded from Venice, but 1 
 trust that you will not have wai'ed for farther alterations — 
 I will make none. You ask me to spare Romilly — ask the 
 worms. His dust can suffer nothing from the truth being 
 spoken — and if it couItJ, how did he behave to me? You 
 may talk to the wind, which will carry the sound — and to 
 the caves, which will echo you — but not to me, on the sub- 
 ject of a * * * who wronged me — whether dead or 
 alive. 
 
 "I have no time to return you the proofs — publish with- 
 out them. I am glad you think the poesy good; and as to 
 'thinking of the effect,' think you of the sale, and leave me 
 to pluck the porcupines who may point their quills at you. 
 
 "1 have been here (at Ravenna) these four weeks, 
 having left Venice a month ago; — I came to see my 
 •Amica,' the Countess Guiccioli, who has been, and still 
 continues, very unwell. * * * * 
 
 + + * * * * + 
 
 She is only twenty years old, but not of a strong constitu- 
 tion. *****♦ + * + 
 She has a perpetual cough, and an intermittent fever, but 
 bears up most gaUanily in every sense of the word. Her 
 husband (this is his third wife) is the richest noble of 
 Ravenna, and almost of Romagna; he is also not the 
 youngest, beuig upwards of threescore, but in good pre- 
 servation. All this will appear strange to you, who do not 
 understand the meridian morality, nor our way of life in 
 such respects, and I cannot at present expound the differ- 
 ence ; — but you would find it much the same in these parts. 
 At Faenza there is Lord * * * * with an opera girl ; and 
 at the inn in the same town is a Neapolitan Prince, who 
 serves the wife of the Gonfaloniere of that city. I am on 
 duty here — so you see 'Cosi fan tuUi e tutte.' 
 
 " I have my horses here, saddle as well as carriage, and 
 ride or drive every day in the forest, the Pineta, the scene 
 of Boccaccio's novel, and Dryden's fable of Honoria, &c. 
 &c. ; and I see my Dama every day + *****• 
 but I feel seriously uneasy about her health, wliich seems 
 very precarious. In losing her, I should lose a being who 
 has run great risks on my account, and whom I have 
 every reason to love — but I must not think this possible. 
 [ do not know what 1 shoiUd do if she died, but I ought to 
 blow my brains out — and I hope that I should. Her hus- 
 band is a very polite personage, but T wish he would not 
 carry me out in his coach and six, like Whittington and 
 his cat. 
 
 "You ask me if I mean to continue Don Juan, &c. 
 How .should I Imow? Wiiat encouragement do you give 
 
 me, ail of you, with your nonsensical prudery? — publish 
 the two Cantos, and then you will see. I desired Mr. 
 Kinnaird to speak to you on a Uttle matter of business; 
 either he has not spoken, or you have not answered. You 
 are a pretty pair, but I will be even with you both. I 
 perceive that Mr. Hobhouse has been challenged by 
 Major Cartwright. — Is the Major 'so cunning of fence?' 
 — why did not they fight? — they ought. 
 
 ''Yours, &€." 
 
 LETTER CCCXCVI. 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 « Ravenna, July 2, 1819. 
 
 " Thanks for your letter and for Madame's. I will an- 
 swer it directly. Will you recollect whether I did not 
 consign to you one or two receipts of Madame Mocenigo'3 
 for house-rent — (I am not sure of this, but think I did — if 
 not, they will be in my drawers) — and will you desire Mr. 
 Dorville* to have tlie goodness to see if Edgecombe has 
 receipts to all payments hitherto made by him on my ac- 
 count, and that there are 710 debts at Venice ? On your 
 answer, I shall send order of farther remittance to carry 
 on my household expenses, as my present return to Venice 
 is verj' problematical ; and it may happen — but I can say 
 nothing positive — every thing with me being indecisive and 
 undecided, except tlie disgust which Venice excites when 
 fairly compared with any other city in this part of Italy. 
 ^Vhen I say Venice, I mean the Venetians — the city itself 
 is superb as its history — but the people are what I never 
 thought them till they taught me to think so. 
 
 " The best way will be to leave AUegra with Antonio's 
 spouse till I can decide something about her and myself— 
 but I thought that you would have had an answer from 
 
 Mrs. V r.f — ^You have had bore enough witli me and 
 
 mine already. 
 
 " I greatly fear that the Guiccioli is going into a con- 
 sumption, to which her constitution tends. Thus it is 
 w ith every thing and every body for whom I feel any thing 
 like a real attachment ; — ' War, death, or discord, doth 
 lay siege to them.' I never even could keep alive a dog 
 that I liked or that hked me. Her symptoms are obsti- 
 nate cough of the lungs, and occasional fever, &c. &c. 
 and there are latent causes of an eruption in the skin, 
 which she foolishly repelled into the system two years 
 ago; but I have made them send her case to Aglietti; 
 and have begged him to come — if only for a day or two — 
 to consult upon her state. * + ♦ 
 
 + * **** %:^ 
 
 ** + + + * :tc^ 
 
 If it would not bore Mr. Dorvijle, I wish he would keep 
 an eye on Edgecombe and on my other ragamuffins. I 
 might have more to say, but I am absorbed about La 
 Gui. and her illness. I cannot tell you the effect it has 
 upon me. 
 
 " The horses came, &c. &c. and I have been galloping 
 through the pine forest daily. 
 
 " Believe me, &c. 
 
 "P. S. My benediction on Mrs. Hoppner, a pleasant 
 journey among the Bernese tyrants, and safe return. You 
 ought to bring back a Platonic Bernese for my reformation. 
 If any thing happens to my present Amica, I have done 
 with the passion for ever — it is my last love. As to Uber- 
 tiiiism, I have sickened myself of that, as was natural in 
 the way I went on, and I have at least derived that advan- 
 tage from vice, to love in the better sense of the word. 
 This will be my last adventurel— I can hope no more to 
 inspire attachment, and I trust never again to feel it." 
 
 • The Vice-Con&ul of Mr. Hoppner. 
 
 t An English lady, who proposed taking charge of Allegi-a. 
 
 J See his lines, page 487. 
 
LETTERS, 1819. 
 
 139 
 
 LETTER CCCXCVII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Ravenna, August 1, 1819 
 " [Address your answer to Venice, however.] 
 
 "Don't be alarmed. You will see me defend myself 
 gayly — that is, if 1 happen to be in spirits ; and by spirits, 
 I don't mean your meaning of the word, but the spirit of a 
 bull-dog when pinched, or a bull when pinned ; it is then 
 that they make best sport ; and as my sensations under 
 an attack are probably a happy compound of the united 
 energies of these amiable animals, you may perhaps see 
 what Marrall calls 'rare sf)ort,' and some good tossing 
 and goring, in the course of the controversy. But I must 
 be in the right cue first, and T doubt I am almost too far 
 off to be in a sufficient fury for the purpose.. And then I 
 have effeminated and enervated myseljf with love and the 
 summer in these last two months. 
 
 "I wrote to Mr. Hobhouse the other day, and foretold 
 that Juan would either fall entirely or succeed completely ; 
 there will be no medium. Appearances are not favour- 
 able ; but as you write the day after publication, it can 
 hardly be decided what opinion will predominate. You 
 seem in a fright, and doubtless with cause. Come what 
 may, I never will flatter the million's canting in any shape. 
 Circumstances may or may not have placed me at times 
 in a situation to lead the public opinion, but the public 
 opinion never led, nor ever shall lead, me. I will not sit 
 on a degraded throne ; so pray put Messrs. * + or * *, 
 or Tom Moore, or * * * upon it ; they will all of them 
 be transported with their coronation. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "P. S. The Countess Guiccioli is much better than she 
 was. I sent you, before leaving Venice, the real original 
 sketch which gave* rise to the ' Vampire,' &c. Did you 
 get it?" 
 
 are as child's play in comparison. The fools think that 
 al! my poeshie is always allusive to my oivn adventures : I 
 have had at one time or another better and more* extra- 
 ordinary and perilous and pleasant than these, every day 
 of the week, if I might tell them ; but that must never be. 
 "I hope Mrs. M. has accouched. 
 
 "Yours ever." 
 
 LETTER CCCXCIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 LETTER CCCXCVIIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, August 9, 1819. 
 ****** 
 
 * Talking of blunders reminds me of Ireland — Ireland 
 of Moore. What is this I see in Galignani about ' Ber- 
 muda — agent — deputy — appeal — attachment,' &c. ? What 
 is the matter? Is it any thing in which his friends can be 
 of use to him ? Pray inform me. 
 
 " Of Don Juan I hear nothing farther from you ; * * *^ 
 but the papers do n't seem so fierce as the letter you sent 
 me seemed to anticipate, by their extracts at least in 
 Galignani's Messenger. I never saw such a set of fel- 
 lows as you are ! And then the pains taken to exculpate 
 the modest publisher — he remonstrated, forsooth ! I will 
 write a preface that shall exculpate you and * * *, &c. 
 completely on that point ; but, at the same time, I will cut 
 you up like gourds. You have no more soul than the 
 Count de Caylus (who assured his friends, on his death- 
 bed, that he had none, and that he must know better than 
 they whether he had one or no,) and no more blood than 
 a water-melon ! And I see there hath been asterisks, and 
 what Perry used to call ' domned cutting and slasliing' — 
 but, never mind. 
 
 " I write in haste. To-morrow I set off for Bologna. 
 I write to you with thunder, lightning, &c. and all the 
 winds of heaven whistling through my hair, and the racket 
 of preparation to boot. 'My mistress dear, who hath fed 
 ray heart upon smiles and wine' for the last two months, 
 set off with her husband for Bologna this morning, and it 
 seems that I follow him at three to-morrow morning. I 
 cannot tell how our romance will end, but it hath gone on 
 hitherto most erotically. Such perils and escapes I Juan's 
 
 See Letter 
 
 "Bologna, August 12, 1819. 
 
 " I do not know how far I may be able to reply to your 
 letter, for I am not very well to-day. Last night I went 
 to the representation of Alficri's Mirra, the last two acts 
 of which threw me into convulsions. I do not mean by 
 that word a lady's hysterics, but the agony of reluctant 
 tears, and the choking shudder, which I do not often under- 
 go for fiction. This is but the second time for any thincr 
 under reality: the first was on seeing Kean's Sir Giles 
 Overreach. The worst was, that the ' Dama,' in whoso 
 box I was, went off in the same way, I reaOy believe more 
 from fright than any other sympathy — at least with the 
 players : but she has been ill, and I have been ill, and we 
 are all languid and pathetic this morning, with great 
 expenditure of sal volatile. But, to return to your letter 
 of the 23d of July. 
 
 " You are right, GifFord is right, Crabbe is right, Hob- 
 house is right — ^you are all right, and I am all wrong ; but 
 do, pray, let me have that pleasure. Cut me up root and 
 branch; quarter me in the (Quarterly; send round my 
 ' disjecti membra poetae,' like those of the Levite's con- 
 cubine ; make me if you will a spectacle to men and 
 angels ; but do n't ask me to alter, for I won't :— I am 
 obstinate and lazy — and there 's the truth. 
 
 "But, nevertheless, I will answer your friend Perry, who 
 objects to the quick succession of fun and gravity, as if in 
 that case the gravity did not (in intention, at least) heighten 
 the fun. His metaphor is, that ' we are never scorched 
 and drenched at the same time.' Blessings on his uxpe- 
 rience! Ask him these questions bout 'scorching and 
 drenching.' Did he never play at cricket, or walk a mile 
 in hot weather? Did he never spill a dish of tea over 
 himself in handing the cup to his charmer, to the great 
 shame of his nankeen breeches ? Did he never swim in 
 the sea at noonday with the sun in his eyes and on his 
 head, which all the foam of ocean could not cool ? Did 
 he never draw his foot out of too hot water, d — ning his 
 eyes and his valet's ? * * * * 
 
 Was he ever in a Turkish bath— that marble paradise of 
 sherbet and * * ? Was he ever in a cauldron of boiling 
 
 oil, like St. John? or in the sulphureous waves of h 1? 
 
 (where he ought to be for his ' scorching and drenching 
 at the same time.') Did he never tumble into a river or 
 lake, fishing, and sit in his wet clothes in the boat, or on 
 the bank afterward, ' scorched and drenched,' like a true 
 sportsman? ' Oh for breath to utter I' — but make him my 
 comphments ; he is a clever fellow for all that — a very 
 clever fellow. 
 
 " You ask me for the plan of Donny Johnny : I have no 
 plan ; I had no plan ; but I had or have materials ; though 
 ifj like Tony Lumpkin, ' I am to be snubbed so when T am 
 m spirits,' the poem will be naught, and the poet turn 
 serious again. If it do n't take, I will leave it off where it 
 is, with all due respect to the public ; but if continued, it 
 must be in my own way. You might as well made 
 Hamlet (or Diggory) ' act mad' in a strait waistcoat as 
 trammel my buffoonery, if I am to be a buffoon : their 
 gestures and my thoughts would only be pitiably absurd 
 and ludicrously constrained. Why, man, the soul of such 
 writing is its license ; at least the lU)erty of that license, if 
 
 DoD Juan, Canto XTV. Stanza 101. 
 
140 
 
 LETTERS, 1819. 
 
 one likes — not that one should abuse it. It is like Trial 
 by Jury and Peerage and the Habeas Corpus — a very 
 fine thing, but chiefly in the reversion; because no one 
 wishes to be tried for the mere pleasure of proving his 
 possession of ihe privilege. 
 
 "But a truce with these reflections. You are too 
 earnest and eager about a v.ork never intended to be 
 serious. Do vou suppose that I could have any intention 
 but to gigsle and make giggle ? — a playful satire, with as 
 little poetry as could be helped, was wiiat I meant. And 
 as to the indecency, do pray, read in Bos well what John- 
 son, the sullen moralist, says of Prior and Paulo Purgante. 
 
 " Will you get a favour dene for me ? You can, by 
 your government friends, Croker, Canning, or my old 
 schoolfellow Peel, and I can't. Here it is. Will you 
 ask them to appoint {iciihout salary or emolument) a noble 
 Italian (whom I will name afterward) consul or vice- 
 consul for Ravenna? He is a man of very large pro- 
 perty — noble too ; but he wishes to have a British protec- 
 tion in case of changes. Ravemia is near the sea. He 
 wants 710 ejnolumeiii whatever. That his office might be 
 useful, I know; as I lately sent olf from Ravenna to 
 Trieste a poor devil of an English sailor, who had re- 
 mained there sick, sorry, and pennyless (having been set 
 ashore in 1814,) from the want of any accredited agent 
 able or willing to help him homewards. Will you get 
 this done ? If you do, I will then send his name and 
 condition, subject of course to rejection, if not. approved 
 when known. 
 
 " 1 know that in the Levant you make consuls and vice- 
 consuls, perpetually, of foreigners. This man is a patri- 
 cian, and has t\^'elve thousand a year. His motive is a 
 British protection in case of new invasions. Don't you 
 think Croker would do it for us ? To be sure, my interest 
 is rare I ! but perhaps a brother wit in the Tory line might 
 do a good turn at the request of so harmless and long 
 absent a Whig, particularly as there is no salary or 
 burthen of any sort to be annexed to the office. 
 
 " I can assure you, I should look upon it as a great 
 ol;ligation ; but, alas ! tlmt very circumstance may, very 
 probably, operate to the contrary — indeed, it ought; but I 
 have, at least, been an honest and an open enemy. Among 
 your many splendid government connexions, could not 
 you, think you, get cur Bibulus made a Consul? or make 
 me one. that I may make liim my Vice. You may be 
 assured that, in case of accidents in Italy, he would be no 
 feeble adjunct — as you would think, if you knew his patri- 
 mony. 
 
 " What is all this about Tom Moore ? but why do I 
 ask? since the state of my own affaii-s would not permit me 
 to be of use to him, though they are greatly improved since 
 1816, and may, with some more luck and a little prudence, 
 become quite clear. It seems his claimants are American 
 merchants ? There goes Nemesis ! Moore abused Ame- 
 rica. It is always thus b the long run : — Time, the 
 Avenger. You have seen every trampler down, in turn, 
 from Buonaparte to the simplest individuals. You saw 
 how some were avenged even upon my insignificance, and 
 how in turn * * * paid for his atrocity. It is an odd 
 world ; but the watch has its mainspring, after all. 
 
 "So the Prince has been repealing Lord Edward Fitz- 
 gerald's forfeiture ? Ecco urU sonctto ! 
 
 " To be the father of the fatherless, &c.* 
 
 " There, you dogs ! there 's a sormet for you : you won't 
 have such as that in a hurry from Mr. Fitzgerald. You 
 may publish it with my name, an ye wool. He deserves 
 all praise, bad and good ; it was a very noble piece of 
 principality. Would you lilve an epigram — a translation ? 
 
 " ]f far silver, or for gold, 
 
 You could melt ten thousand pimples 
 
 Into half a dozen dimples. 
 Then your face we might behold, 
 
 Looking doubtless much more snugly, 
 
 Yet ev'n t/ien 't would be d d ugly. 
 
 ■" See Poems, p. 484. 
 
 "This was written on some Frenchwoman, by Rul- 
 
 hieres, 1 believe. " Yours." 
 
 LETTER CCCC. 
 
 TO MR. MTTKRAY. 
 
 « Bologna, August 23, 1819. 
 
 " I send you a letter to Roberts, signed ' Wortley Clut- 
 terbuck,'* which you may pubhsh in what form you please, 
 in answer to his article. I have had many proofs of men's 
 absurdity, but he beats all in folly. Why, the wolf in 
 sheep's clothing has tumbled into the very trap ! We '11 
 strip him. The letter is written in great haste, and amid 
 a thousand vexations. Your letter only came yesterday 
 so that there is no time to polish: the post goes out 
 to-morrow. The date is ' Little Pidlington.' Let * * * * 
 correct the press : he knows and can read the handwrit- 
 ing. Continue to keep tlie anonymous about ' Juan ;' it 
 helps us to fight against overwhelming numbers. I have 
 a thousand distractions at present ; so excuse haste, and 
 wonder I can act or write at all. Answer by post, as 
 usual. " Yours. 
 
 "P. S. If I had had time, and been quieter and nearer, 
 I would have cut him to hash ; but as it is. you can judge 
 for yourselves." 
 
 LETTER CCCCL 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS GITICCIOLA. 
 
 [Written in tlie last page of her copy of Madame De 
 Stael's "Corinna."] 
 
 * My dearest Teresa, — I have read this book in your 
 garden ; — my love, you were absent, or else I could not have 
 read it. It is a favourite book of yours, and the writer 
 was a friend of mine. You will not understand these 
 English words, and Mers will not understand them, — 
 which is the reason I have not scrawled them in Italian. 
 But you will recognise the handwriting of him who pas- 
 sionately loved yoU; and you will divine that, over a book 
 which was yours, he could only think of love. In that 
 word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in yours — 
 Amor mio — is comprised my existence here and here- 
 after. I feel I exist here, and I fear that I shall exist 
 hereafter, — to what purpose you wiU decide ; my destiny 
 rests with you, and you are a woman, eighteen years of 
 age, and two out of a convent. I wish that you had stayed 
 there, with all my heart, — or, at least, that 1 had never met 
 you in your married state. 
 
 "But all this is too late. I love you, and you love me, 
 — at least, you say so, and act as if you did so, which last 
 is a great consolation in ail events. But / more than 
 love you, and cannot cease to love you. 
 
 " Think of me, sometnnes, when the Alps and the ocean 
 divide us, — but tliey never will, unless you wish it. 
 
 "Byron. 
 
 « Bologna, August 25, 1819." 
 
 LETTER CCCCIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Bologna, August 24, 1819. 
 " I wrote to you by last post, enclosing a buffooning let- 
 ter for publication, addressed to the buffoon Roberts, who 
 has thought proper to tie a canister to his own tail. It 
 was written oif-hand, and in the midst of circumstances 
 not very favourable to facetiousness, so that there may, 
 perhaps, be more bitterness than enough for that sort of 
 small acid punch : — you will tell me. 
 
 page 296. 
 
'.'7/an'3'ff3Sss ©■i0ac«ii'&: 
 
 . -WOOD. AETEP AN OBXGrWJVI, MaWJAIUB j 
 
 \:-cJ. by T'J. f>can . 
 
 \ 
 
LETTERS, 1819. 
 
 141 
 
 "Keep the anonymom, in any case: it helps what fun 
 there may be. But if the matter grows serious about 
 Don Juan^ and you fuel yourself m a scrape, or me either, 
 own tliat I am the author. I will never shrink ; and if you 
 do, I can always answer you in the question of Guatimo- 
 zin to his minister — each being on his own coals.* 
 
 " I wish that I had been in better spirits ; but I am out 
 of sorts, out of nerves, and now and then (I begin to fear) 
 out of my senses. All this Italy has done for me, and 
 not England : 1 defy all you, and your climate to boot, to 
 make me mad. But if ever I do really become a bedla- 
 mite, and wear a strait waistcoat, let me be brought back 
 among you ; your people will then be proper company. 
 
 " I assure you what I here say and feel has nothing to 
 do with England, either in a Uterary or personal point of 
 view. All my present pleasures or plagues are as Italian 
 as the opera. And after all, they are but trifles ; for all 
 this arises from my 'Dama's' being in the country for 
 three days, (at Capo-fiume.) But as I could never live 
 but for one human being at a time, (and, I assure you, that 
 one has never been myself as you may knov/ by the con- 
 sequences, for the selfish are successful in life,) I feel alone 
 and unhappy. 
 
 "I have sent for my daughter from Venice, and I ride 
 daily, and walk in a garden, under a purple canopy of 
 grapes, and sit by a fountain, and talk with the gardener 
 of his tools, which seem greater than Adam's, and wdth 
 his wife, and with his son s wife, who is the youngest of 
 the party, and, I think, talks best of the three. Then I 
 revisited the Campo Santo, and my old friend, the sexton, 
 has two — but one the prettiest daughter imaginable ; and 
 I amuse myself with contrasting her beautiful and inno- 
 cent face of fifteen, with the skulls with which he has 
 peopled several cells, and particularly with that of one skull 
 dated 1766, which was once covered (the tradition goes) 
 by the most lovely features of Bologna — noble and rich. 
 When I look at these, and at this girl — when I think of 
 what they were, and what she must be — why, then, my 
 dear Murray, I won't shock you by saying what I think. 
 It is little matter what becomes of us ' bearded men,' but 
 I do n't like the notion of a beautiful woman's lasting less 
 than a beautiful tree — than her own picture — her own 
 shadow, which won't change so to the sun as her face 
 to the mirror. — I must leave offj for my head aches con- 
 sumedly. I have never been quite well since the night 
 of the representation of Alfieri's Mirra, a fortnight ago. 
 
 "Yours ever." 
 
 LETTER CCCCm. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Bologna, August 29, 1819. 
 " I have been in a rage these two days, and am still 
 bilious therefrom. You shall hear. A captain of dra- 
 goons, * *, Hanoverian by birth, in the Papal troops at 
 present, whom I had obliged by a loan when nobody 
 would lend him a paul, recommended a horse to me, on 
 sale by a Lieutenant * *, an officer who unites the sale 
 of cattle to the purchase of men. I bought it. The 
 next day, on shoeing the horse, we discovered the thrush, 
 — the animal being warranted sound. I sent to reclaim 
 the contract and the money. The lieutenant desired to 
 speak with me in person. I consented. He came. It was 
 his own particular request. He began a story. I asked 
 him if he would return the money. He said no — but he 
 would exchange. He asked an exorbitant price for his 
 other horses. I told him that he was a thief. He 
 said he was an officer and a man of honour, and pulled 
 out a Parmesan passport signed by General Count Neif- 
 perg. I answered, that as he was an officer, I would treat 
 iiim as such ; and that as to his being a gentleman, he 
 
 " Am I now reposing on a bed of roses ?"— See Robertson. 
 
 might prove it by returning the money : as for his Parme- 
 san passport, I should have valued it more if it had been a 
 Parmesan cheese. He answered in high terms, and said 
 that if it were in the morning (it was about eight o'clock in 
 the evening) he would have satisfaction. I tlien lost my 
 temper; 'As for that,' I replied, 'you shall liave it 
 directly, — it will be mutual satisfaction, I can assure you. 
 You are a thief, and, as you say, an officer ; my pistols 
 are in the next room loaded ; take one of the candles, 
 examine, and make yoiu- choice of weapons.' He replied 
 that pistols were English weapons ; he always fought with 
 the siuord. I told him that I was able to accommodate 
 him, having three regimental swords in a drawer near us ; 
 and he might take the longest, and put himself on guard. 
 
 "All this passed in presence of a third person. He 
 then said No, but to-morrow morning he would give me 
 the meeting at any time or place. I answered that it 
 was not usual to appoint meetings in the presence of 
 witnesses, and that we had best speak man to man, and 
 appoint time and instiuments. But as the man present 
 was leaving the room, the Lieutenant * *, before he could 
 shut the door after him, ran out, roaring ' help and mur- 
 der' most lustily, and fell into a sort of hysteric in the arms 
 of about fifty people, who all saw that I had no weapon 
 of any sort or kind about me, and followed him, asking 
 him what the devil was the matter with him. Nothing 
 would do: he ran away without his hat, and went to bed, 
 ill of the fright. He then tried his complaint at the 
 police, which dismissed it as frivolous. He is, I believe 
 gone away, or going. 
 
 The horse was warranted, but, I believe, so worded 
 that the villain will not be obliged to refund, according to 
 law. He endeavoured to raise up an indictment of assault 
 and battery, but as it was in a public inn, in a frequented 
 street, there were too many witnesses to the contrary; 
 and, as a military man, he has not cut a martial figure^ 
 even in the opinion of the priests. He ran off in such a 
 hurry that he left his hat, and never missed it till he got 
 to his hostel or inn. The facts are as I tell you, I can 
 assure you. He began by ' coming Captain Grand over 
 me,' or I should never have thought of trying his ' cunning 
 in fence.' But what could T do? He talked of 'honour, 
 and satisfaction, and his commission ;' he produced a mili- 
 tary passport; there are severe punishments for regular 
 duels on the continent, and trifling ones for rencontres, so 
 that it is best to fight it out directly ; he had robbed, and 
 then wanted to insult me ; — what could I do ? My 
 patience was gone, and the weapons at hand, fair and 
 equal. Besides, it was just after dinner, when my diges- 
 tion was bad, and I don't hke to be disturbed. His 
 friend * * is at Forli ; we shall meet on my way back to 
 Ravenna. The Hanoverian seems the greater rogue of 
 the two ; and if my valour does not ooze away like 
 Acres's — ' Odds flints and triggers !' if it should be a 
 rainy morning, and my stomach in disorder, there may be 
 something for the obituary. 
 
 " Now, pray, ' Sir Lucius, do not you look upon me as 
 very ill-used gentleman?' I send my Lieutenant to 
 match Mr. Hobhouse's Major Cartwright: and so 'good 
 morrow to you, good master Lieutenant.' With regard 
 to other things, I will write soon, but I have been quarrelling 
 and fooling till I can scribble no more." 
 
 LETTER CCCCIV. 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 « October 22, 1819. 
 " I am glad to hear of your return, but I do not know 
 how to congratulate you — unless you think differently of 
 Venice from what I think now, and you thought always. 
 I am, besides, about to renew your troubles by requesting 
 you to be judge between Mr. Edgecombe and myself 
 in a small matter of imputed peculation and irregular 
 
142 
 
 LETTERS, 1819. 
 
 accounts on the part of that phoenix of secretaries. As I 
 knew that you had not parted friends, at the same time 
 that / refused for my owti part any judgment but yours, I 
 offered him his choice of any person, the least scoundrel 
 native to be found in Venice, as his o\vti umpire : but 
 he expressed himself so convinced of your impartiahty, 
 that he declined any but you. This is in his favour. — 
 The paper within will explain to you the default in his 
 accounts. You will hear his explanation, and decide, if 
 it so please you. I shall not appeal from the decision. 
 
 *As he complained that his salary was insufficient, I 
 determined to have his accounts examined, and the en- 
 closed was the result. — It is all in black and white with 
 documents, and I have despatched Fletcher to explain 
 (or rather to perplex) the matter. 
 
 " I have had much civility and kindness from Mr. Dor- 
 ville during your journey, and I thank him accordingly. 
 
 "Your letter reached me at your departure,* and dis- 
 pleased me very much; — not that it might not be true in 
 its statement and kind in its intention, but you have lived 
 long enough to know how useless all such representations 
 ever are and must be in cases where the passions are 
 concerned. To reason with men in such a situation is 
 like reasoning with a drunkard in his cups — the only 
 answer you will get from him is that he is sober, and you 
 are drunk. 
 
 " Upon that subject we will (if you like) be silent. 
 You might only say what would distress me without 
 answering any purpose whatever; and I have too many 
 obligations to you to answer you in the same style. So 
 that you should recollect that you have also that advan- 
 tage over me. I hope to see you soon. 
 
 "I suppose you know that they said at Venice, that I 
 was arrested at Bologna as a Carbonaro — a story about 
 as true as their usual conversation. Moore has been 
 here — I lodged him in my house at Venice, and went to 
 see him daily ; but I could not at that time quit La Mira 
 entirely. You and I were not very far from meeting in 
 Switzerland. With my best respects to Mrs. Hoppner, 
 believe me ever and truly, &c. 
 
 "P. S. AUegra is here in good health and spirits — I 
 shall keep her with me till T go to England, which will 
 perhaps be in the spring. It has just occurred to me that 
 you may not perhaps like to undertake the office of judge 
 between Mr. Edgecombe and your humble servant. — Of 
 course, as Mr. Liston (the comedian, not the ambassador) 
 says, 'it is all hoptional f but I have no other resource. I 
 do not wish to find him a rascal, if it can be avoided, and 
 would rather think him guilty of carelessness than cheat- 
 ing. The case is this — can I, or not, give him a character 
 for honesty 7 — It is not my intention to continue him in 
 my service." 
 
 truth in general by speaking ill at all — and although they 
 know that they are trying and wishing to lie, they do not 
 succeed, merely because they can say nothing so bad of 
 each other, that it may not, and roust not be true from the 
 atrocity of their long-debased national character. 
 
 " With regard to Edgecombe, you will perceive a most 
 irregular, extravagant account, without proper documents 
 to support it. He demanded an increase of salary, which 
 made me suspect him ; he supported an outrageous extra- 
 vagance of expenditure, and did not like the dismission of 
 the cook ; he never complained of him — as in duty bound 
 — at the time of his robberies. I can only say, that the 
 house expense is now under cme-half of what it then was, 
 as he himself admits. He charged for a comb eighteen 
 francs, — the real price was eight. He charged a passage 
 from Fusina for a person named lambeUi, who paid it 
 herself^ as she will prove, if necessary. He fancies, or 
 asserts himselfj the victim of a domestic complot against 
 him ; — accounts are accounts — prices are prices ; — let 
 him make out a fair detail. / am not prejudiced against 
 him — on the contrary, I supported him against the com- 
 plaints of his wife, and of his former master, at a time 
 when I could have crushed him like an earwig, and if he 
 is a scoundrel, he is the greatest of scoundrels, an un- 
 grateful one. The truth is, probably, that he thought I 
 was leaving Venice, and determined to make the most of 
 it. At present he keeps bringing in account after account, 
 though he had always money in hand — as I beUeve you 
 know my system was never to allow longer than a week's 
 bills to run. Pray read him this letter— I desire nothing 
 to be concealed against which he may defend himself. 
 
 "Pray how is your little boy? and how are you — I 
 shall be up in Venice very soon, and we will be bilious 
 together. I hate the place and aU that it inherits. 
 
 « Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCVL 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 LETTER CCCCV. 
 
 TO >IR. HOPPNER. 
 
 « October 25, 1819. 
 " You need not have made any excuses about the let- 
 ter ; I never said but that you might, could, should, or 
 would have reason. I merely described my owti state of 
 inaptitude to listen to it at that time, and in those circum- 
 stances. Besides, you did not speak from your oivn 
 authority — but from what you said you had heard. Now 
 my blood boils to hear an Italian speaking ill of another 
 Italian, because, though they lie in particular, they speak 
 
 * Mr. Hoppner, before hie departuj-e from Venice for Switzerland, 
 liad wiilten a letter to Lord Byron, entreating him " to leave Ravenna, 
 while yet he had a whole skin, and urging him not to risk the safety of a 
 person he appeared so sincerely attached to — as well as his own — for the 
 gi-atificatiou of a momentary passion, which could only be a source of 
 regret to both parties." In the same letter Mr. Hoppner informed him 
 of some reports he had heard lately at Venice, which, though possibly, 
 he said, unfo'inded, had much increased his anxiety respecting the con- 
 sequences of the connexion formed by him. — Moore. 
 
 "October 28, 1819. 
 
 * * * 
 "I have to thank you for your letter, and your com- 
 pliment to Don Juan. I said nothing to you about it, 
 understanding that it is a sore subject with the moral 
 reader, and has been the cause of a great row ; but I am 
 glad you like it. I will say nothing about the shipwreck, 
 except that I hope you think it is as nautical and technical 
 as verse could admit in the octave measure. 
 
 " The poem has not sold well, so Murray says — 'but the 
 best judges, &c. say, &c.' so says that worthy man. I have 
 never seen it in print. The Third Canto is in advance 
 about one hundred stanzas ; but the failure of the first two 
 has weakened my estro^ and it will neither be so good as 
 the former two, nor completed, unless I get a little more 
 riscaldato in its behalf.* I understand the outcry was 
 beyond every thing. — Pretty cant for people who read 
 Tom Jones, and Roderick Random, and the Bath Guide, 
 and Ariosto, and Dryden, and Pope — to say nothing of 
 Little's Poems. Of course I refer to the morality of these 
 works, and not to any pretension of mine to compete with 
 them in any thing but decency. I hope yours is the Paris 
 edition, and tliat you did not pay the London price. I 
 have seen neither except b the newspapers. 
 
 " Pray make my respects to Mrs. H. and take care of 
 your litde boy. All my household have the fever and 
 ague, except Fletcher, AUegra, and mysera, (as we used to 
 say in Nottinghamshire,) and the horses, and Mutz, and 
 Moretto. In the beginning of November, perhaps sooner 
 I expect to have the pleasure of seeing you. To-day 1 
 got drenched by a thunder-storm, and my horse and groom 
 too, and his horse all bemired up to the middle in a cross- 
 
 See Letter 380. 
 
LETTERS, 1819. 
 
 143 
 
 road. It was summer, at noon, and at five we were 
 bewinlered ; but the lightning was sent perhaps to let us 
 know that the summer was not yet over. It is queer 
 weather for the 27th of October. 
 
 « Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCGVIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Venice, October 29, 1819. 
 
 "Yours of the 15th came yesterday. I am sorry that 
 you do not mention a large letter addressed to your care 
 for Lady Byron, from me, at Bologna, two months ago. 
 Pray tell me was this letter received and for^varded ? 
 
 " You say nothing of the vice-consulate for the Ravenna 
 patrician, from which it is to be inferred that the thing will 
 not be done. 
 
 "I had written about a hundred stanzas of a Third 
 Canto to Don Juan, but the reception of the first two is 
 no encouragement to you nor me to proceed. 
 
 " I had also v/ritten about six hundred lines of a poem, 
 the Vision (or Prophecy) of Dante, the subject a view of 
 Italy in the ages down to the present — supposing Dante 
 to speak in his own person, previous to his death, and 
 embracing all topics in the way of prophecy, like Lyco- 
 phron's Cassandra; but this and the other are both at a 
 stand-still for the present. 
 
 " I gave Moore, who is gone to Rome, my life in MS. 
 in 78 folio sheets, brought down to 1816. But this I put 
 into his hands for his care, as he has some other MSS. of 
 mine — a Journal kept in 1814, &c. Neither are for pub- 
 lication during my Ufe, but when I am cold, you may do 
 what you please. In the mean time, if you like to read 
 them you may, and show them to any body you like — I 
 care not. 
 
 " The Life is Memoranda, and not Confessions. I have 
 left out all my loves, (except in a general way,) and many 
 other of the most important things, (because I must not 
 compromise other people,) so that it is like the play of 
 Hamlet — 'The part of Hamlet omitted by particular 
 desire.' But you will find many opinions, and some fun, 
 with a detailed account of my marriage and its conse- 
 quences, as true as a party concerned can make such 
 account, for I suppose we are all prejudiced. 
 
 " I have never read over this Life since it was written, 
 so that I know not exactly what it may repeat or contain. 
 Moore and I passed some merry days together. * 
 
 * * ^* >ic ^ * :|c 
 
 " I probably must return for business, or in my way to 
 America. Pray, did you get a letter for Hobhouse, who 
 will have told you the contents ? I understand that the 
 Venezuelan commissioners had orders to treat with emi- 
 grants ; now I want to go there. I should not make a bad 
 South American planter, and I should take my natural 
 daughter, AUegra, with me, and settle. I wrote, at length, 
 to Hobhouse, to get information from Perry, who, I sup- 
 pose, IS the best topographer and trumpeter of the new 
 republicans. Pray write. •* Yours, ever. 
 
 " P. S. Moore and I did nothing but laugh. He will 
 tell you of ' my whereabouts,' and all my proceedings at 
 this present ; they are as usual. You should not let those 
 fellows publish false ' Don Juans ;' but do not put my name. 
 because I mean to cut Roberts up like a gourd in the pre- 
 face, if I continue the poem." 
 
 changed horses there since I wrote to you, after my visit 
 in June last. Convent,^ and ^ carry qf^ quotha! and 
 ' girl.^ I should like to know who has been carried of^ 
 except poor dear me, I have been more ravished myself 
 than any body since the Trojan war; but as to the 
 arrest, and its causes, one is as true as the other, and 
 I can account for the invention of neither. I suppose it 
 is some confusion of the tale of the Fornaretta and of Me. 
 GuiccJoli, and half a dozen more; but it is useless to 
 unravel the web, when one has only to brush it away. I 
 shall settle with Master E., who looks very blue at your 
 in-dedsion, and swears that he is the best arithmetician in 
 Europe; and so I think also, for he makes out two and 
 two to be five. 
 
 * You may see me next week. I have a horse or two 
 more, (five in all,) and I shall repossess myself of Lido 
 and I will rise earUer, and we will go and shake our livers 
 over the beach, as heretofore, if you like — and we will 
 make the Adriatic roar again with our hatred of that now 
 empty oyster-shell, without its pearl, the city ofVenice. 
 
 Murray sent me a letter yesterday : the impostors 
 have published two new TViird Cantos of Don Juan : — 
 the devil take the impudence of some blackguard book- 
 seller or other there/or .' Perhaps I did not make myself 
 understood ; he told me the sale had been great, 1200 out 
 of 1500 quarto, I believe, (which is nothing, after, selling 
 13,000 of the Corsair in one day ;) but that the * best 
 judges,' &c. had said it was very fine, and clever, and par- 
 ticularly good English, and poetry, and all those consola- 
 tory things, which are not, however, worth a single copy 
 to a bookseller : and as to the author, of course I am in a 
 ned passion at the bad taste of the times, and swear 
 there is nothing like posterity, who, of course, must know 
 more of the matter than their grandfathers. There has 
 been an eleventh commandment to the women not to read 
 it, and what is still more extraordinary, they seem not to 
 have broken it. But that can be of little import to them, 
 poor things, for the reading or non-reading a book will 
 never * + * + *=(« 
 
 Count G. comes to Venice next week, and I am re- 
 quested to consign his wife to him, which shall be done. * 
 * * * What you say of the long even- 
 
 ings at the Mira, or Venice, reminds me of what Curran 
 said to Moore : — ' So I hear you have married a pretty 
 woman, and a very good creature, too— an excellent crea- 
 ture. Pray — um ! — how do you pass your evenings ?^ It 
 is a devil of a question that, and perhaps as easy to 
 answer with a wife as with a mistress. 
 
 "If you go to Milan, pray leave at least a Vice-Consul 
 — the only vice that will ever be wanting at Venice. 
 D'Orville is a good fellow. But you shall go to England 
 in the spring with me, and plant Mrs. Hoppner at Berne 
 with her relations for a few months. I wish you had been 
 here (at Venice, I mean, not the Mira) when Moore was 
 here — we were very merry and tipsy. He hated Venice 
 by-the-way, and swore it was a sad place . 
 
 •So Madame Albrizzi's death is in danger — ^poor wo- 
 man !****** 
 Moore told me that at Geneva they had made a devil of 
 a story of the Fornaretta : — ' Young lady seduced ! — sub- 
 sequent abandonment! — ^leap into the Grand Canal!'— 
 and her being in the ' hospital o^fous in consequence !' I 
 should like to know who was nearest being made *fou* 
 
 and be d d to them ! Don't you think me in the 
 
 interesting character of a very ill-used gentleman ? I 
 hope your little boy is well. Allegrina is flourishing like 
 a pomegranate blossom. "Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCVIIL 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 « October 29, 1819, 
 
 " The Ferrara story is of a piece with all the rest of 
 
 the Venetian manufacture,* — you may judge: I only 
 
 See Letter 100. 
 
 LETTER CCCCIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Venice, November 8, 1819. 
 'Mr. Hoppner has lent me a copy of Don Juan,' Paris 
 
144 
 
 LETTERS, 1819. 
 
 edition, which he tells me is read in Switzerland by clergy- 
 men and ladies, widi considerable approbation. In the 
 Second Canto, you must alter the 49tli stanza to 
 
 " 'T was twilight, and the sunless day went down 
 
 Over the waste 6f waters, like a veil 
 Which if withdrawn would hut disclose the frown 
 
 Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail ; 
 Thus to their liopeless eyes the night was shown, 
 
 And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale 
 And the dim desolate deep ; twelve days had Fear 
 Been their familiar, and now Death was here.* 
 
 " I have been iU these eight days with a tertian fever, 
 caught in the country on horseback in a thunder-storm. 
 Yesterday I had the fourth attack : the two last were very 
 smart, the first day as well as the last being preceded by 
 vomiting. It is the fever of the place and the season. 
 I feel weakened, but not unwell, m the btervals, except 
 headache and lassitude. 
 
 « Count Guiccioli has arrived in Venice, and has pre- 
 sented his spouse (who had preceded him two months for 
 her health and the prescriptions of Dr. Aglietti) with a 
 paper of conditions, regulations of hours, and conduct, and 
 morals, &c. &c. &c. which he insists on her accepting, 
 and she persists in refusing. I am expressly, it should 
 seem, excluded by this treaty, as an indispensable pre- 
 liminary ; so that they are in high dissension, and what 
 the result may be, I know not, particularly as they are 
 consulting friends. 
 
 "To-night, as Countess Guiccioli observed me poring 
 over 'Don Juan,' she stumbled by mere chance on the 
 137th stanza of the First Canto, and asked me what it 
 meant. I told her, 'Nothing, — but "your husband is 
 coming."' As I said this in Italian with some emphasis, 
 she started up in a fright, and said, ' Oh, my God, is he 
 coming?^ thinking it was her oum, who either was or ought 
 to have been at the theatre. You may suppose we 
 laughed when she found out the mistake. You \^ill be 
 amused, as I was ; — it happened not three hours ago. . 
 
 " I wrote to you last week, but have added nothing to 
 the Third Canto since my fever, nor to 'The Prophecy 
 of Dante.' Of the former there are about a hundred 
 octaves done ; of the latter about five hundred hnes — per- 
 haps more. Moore saw the Third Juan, as far as it then 
 went. I do not know if my fever will let me go on with 
 either, and the tertian lasts, they say, a good while. I had 
 it in Malta on my way home, and the malaria fever in 
 Greece the year before that. The Venetian is not very 
 fierce, but I was delirious one of the nights with it, for 
 an hour or two, and, on my senses coming back, found 
 Fletcher sobbing on one side of tlie bed, and La Contessa 
 Guiccioli weeping on the other; so that I had no want of 
 attendance. I have not yet taken any physician, because, 
 though I think they may relieve in chronic disorders, such 
 as gout and the like, &c. &c. &c. (though they can't cure 
 them) — just as surgeons are necessary to set bones and 
 tend wounds — yet I think fevers quite out of their reach, 
 and remediable only by diet and nature. 
 
 "I do n't like the taste of bark, but I suppose that I must 
 take it soon. 
 
 " Tell Rose that somebody at IVIilan (an Austrian, Mr. 
 Hoppner says) is answering his book. William Bankes 
 is in quarantine at Trieste. I have not lately heard from 
 you. Excuse this paper: it is long paper shortened for 
 the occasion. What folly is this of Carlile's trial ? why 
 let him have the honours of a martyr 7 it will only adver- 
 tise the books in question. 
 
 " Yours, &c. 
 
 " P. S. As I tell you that tlie Guiccioli business is on 
 the eve of exploding in one way or the other, I will just 
 add, that v^-ithout attempting to influence the decision of 
 the Contessa, a good deal depends upon it. If she and 
 her husband make it up, you will perhaps see me in Eng- 
 land sooner than you expect. If not, I shall retire with 
 
 ' Corrected iii this edition. 
 
 her to France or America, change my name, and lead a 
 quiet provincial hfe. All this may seem odd, but I have 
 got the poor girl into a scrape ; and as neither her birth, 
 nor her rank, nor her connexions by birtli or marriage, 
 are interior to mv o^^■n, I am in honour bound to support 
 her througii. Besides, she is a very pretty woman — ask 
 Moore — and not yet one-and-twenty. 
 
 " If she gets over tliis, and I get over my tertian, I wiU 
 perhaps look in at Albemarle-street, some of these days, 
 en passant to Bolivar. 
 
 LETTER CCCCX. 
 
 TO MR. BAKKES. 
 
 "Venice, November 20, 1819. 
 
 " A tertian ague which has troubled me for some time, 
 and the indisposition of my daughter, have prevented me 
 from replying before to your welcome letter. I have not 
 been ignorant of your progress nor of your discoveries, 
 and I trust that you are no worse in health from your 
 labours. You may rely upon finding every body in Eng- 
 land eager to reap the fruits of them ; and as you have 
 done more than other men, I hope you will not limit your- 
 self to sajing less than may do justice to tlie talents and 
 time you have bestowed on your perilous researches. 
 The first sentence of my letter will have explained to you 
 why I cannot join you at Trieste. I was on the point of 
 setting out for England, (before I knew of your arrival,) 
 when my child's illness has made her and me dependent 
 on a Venetian Proto-Medico. 
 
 "It is now seven years since you and I met; — which 
 time you have employed better for others, and more 
 honourably for yourselfj than I have done. 
 
 "In England you will find considerable changes, public 
 and private, — you will see some of our old college con- 
 temporaries turned into lords of the treasury, admiralty, 
 and the like, — others become reformers and orators, — 
 many settled in life, as it is called, — and others settled in 
 death; among the latter (by-the-way, not our fellow-col- 
 legians,) Sheridan, Curran. Lady Melbourne, Monk 
 Lewis, Frederick Douglas, &c. &c. &c.; but you will 
 still find Mr. * * living and all his family, as also * 
 
 "Should you come up this way, and I am still here, 
 you need not be assured how glad I shall be to see you ; 
 J long to hear some part, from you, of that which I expect 
 in no long time to see. At length you have had better 
 fortune than any traveller of equal enterprise, (except 
 Humboldt,) in reiurning safe ; and after the fate of the 
 Brownes,and the Parkes, and the Burckhardts, it is hardly 
 less surprise tlian satisfaction to get you back again. 
 "Believe me ever 
 
 " and very affectionately yours, 
 
 " BVRON." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXI. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Venice, Dec. 4,1819. 
 " You may do as you please, but you are about a hope- 
 less experiment.* Eldon will decide against you, were it 
 only that my name is in the record. You will also recol- 
 lect that if the publication is pronounced against, on the 
 grounds you mention, as indecent and blasphemous, that / 
 lose all right in my daughter's guardianship and education^ 
 in short, all paternal authority, and every thing concerning 
 her, except ***** 
 
 * Mr. Murray had commenced a suit against a London bookseller, for 
 an infringement of bis copyright, in publishing a pirated edition of Don 
 Juan. 
 
LETTERS, 1819. 
 
 145 
 
 It was so decided in Shelley's case, because he had writ- 
 ten Q-ueen Mab, &c, &c. However you can ask the 
 lawj'ers, and do as you like : I do not inhibit you trying 
 the question ; I merely state one of the consequences to 
 me. With regard to the copyright, it is hard that you 
 should pay for a nonentity: I will therefore refund it, 
 which I can very well do. not having spent it, nor begun 
 upon it ; and so we will be quits on that score. It lies at 
 my banker's. 
 
 " Of the Chancellor's law I am no judge ; but take up 
 Tom Jones, and read his Mrs. Waters and Molly Sea- 
 grim ; or Prior's Hans Carvel and Paulo Purganti ; Smol- 
 lett's Roderick Random, the chapter of Lord Strutwell, 
 and many others 5 Peregrine Pickle, the scene of the 
 Beggar Girl ; Johnson's London, for coarse expressions ; 
 for instance, the words ' * *,' and ' + * ;' Anstey's Bath 
 Guide, the 'Hearken, Lady Betty, hearken;' — take up, 
 in short. Pope, Prior, Congreve, Dryden, Fielding, Smol- 
 lett, and let the Counsel select passages, and what be- 
 comes of their copyright, if liis Wat Tyler decision is to 
 pass into a precedent ?* I have nothing more to say : 
 you must judge for yourselves. 
 
 " I wrote to you some time ago. I have had a tertian 
 ague ; my daughter AUegra has been ill also, and I have 
 been almost obliged to run away widi a married woman ; 
 but with some difficulty, and many internal struggles, I 
 reconciled the lady v\dth her lord, and cured the fever of 
 the child with bark, and my o\ati with cold water. I think 
 of setting out for England by the Tyrol in a few days, so 
 that I could wish you to direct your next letter to Calais. 
 Excuse my writing in great haste and late in the morn- 
 ing, or night, whichever you please to call it. The Third 
 Canto of ' Don Juan' is completed, in about two hundred 
 stanzas ; very decent, I believe, but do not know, and it 
 is useless to discuss until it be ascertained, if it may or 
 may not be a property. 
 
 " My present determination to quit Italy was unlocked 
 for ; but I have explained the reasons in letters to my 
 sister and Douglas Kinnaird, a week or two ago. INIy 
 progress will depend upon the snows of the Tyrol, and 
 .he health of my child, who is at present quite recovered ; 
 -but I hope to get on well, and am 
 
 " Yours every and truly, 
 
 "P. S. Many thanks for your letters, to which you are 
 not to consider this as an answer, but as an acknowledg- 
 ment." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXII. 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 
 
 "You are, and ever will be, my first thought. But 
 at this moment, I am in a state most dreadful, not know- 
 ing which way to decide ; — on the one hand, fearing that 
 I should compromise you for ever, by my return to Ra- 
 venna and the consequences of such a step, and, on the 
 other, dreading that I shall lose both you and myself^ and 
 all that I have°ever known or tasted of happiness, by never 
 seeing you more. I pray of you, I implore you to be 
 comforted, and to believe that i cannot cease to love you 
 but with my life." * * * * « I go to 
 
 save you, and leave a country insupportable to me with- 
 out you. Your letters to F * * and myself do wrong 
 to my motives — but you will yet see your injustice. It is 
 not enoui^h that I must leave you — from motives of which 
 ere long°you will be convinced — it is not enough that I 
 must fly from Italy, with a heart deeply woimded, after 
 having passed all my days in solitude since your depar- 
 ture, sick both in body and mind — but I must also have to 
 endure your reproaches without answerbg and without 
 deserving them. Farewell!— in that one word is com- 
 prised the death of my happiness." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXm. 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 
 
 «-p + * + yyjii already have told yon, wilh her accus^ 
 tomed sublimity, that Love has gained the victory. I could 
 not summon up resolution enough to leave tlie country 
 where you are, without, at least, once more seeing you. 
 On yourself, perhaps, it will depend, whether I ever again 
 shall leave you. Of the rest we shall speak when we 
 meet. You ought, by this time, to know which is most 
 conducive to your welfare, my presence or my absence. 
 For myself, I am a citizen of the world — all countries are 
 alLke to me. You have ever been, since our first acquaint- 
 ance, the sole object of my thoughts. My opinion was, that 
 the best course I could adopt, both for your peace and 
 that of all your family, would have been to depart and go 
 far,yar away from you ; — since to have been near and not 
 approach you would have been, for me, impossible. You 
 have however decided that I am to return to Ravenna. 1 
 shall accordingly return — and shall do — and be all that you 
 wish. I cannot say more." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXIV. 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 " MY DEAR HOPPNER, 
 
 "Partings are but bitter work at best, so that I shall ncA 
 venture on a second with you. Pray make my respects to 
 Mrs. Hoppner, and assure her of my unalterable rever- 
 ence for the singular goodness of her disposition, which is 
 not without its reward even in this world — for those who 
 are no great believers in human virtues would discover 
 enough in her to give them a better opinion of their fellow- 
 creatures, and — what is still more difficult — of themselves, 
 as being of the same species, however inferior in approach- 
 ing its nobler models. Make, too, what excuses you can 
 for my omission of the ceremony of leave-taking. If we 
 all meet again, I will make my humblest apology ; if not, 
 recollect that I wished you all well : and, if you can, for- 
 get that I have given you a great deal of trouble. 
 
 "Yours, &C.&C* 
 
 LETTER CCCCXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 See Letter 381. 
 
 19 
 
 "Venice, December 10, 1819. 
 
 " Since I last wrote, I have changed my mind, and shall 
 not come to England. The more I contemplate, the more 
 I dislike the place and the prospect. You may therefore 
 address to me as usual here, though I mean to go to 
 another city. I have finished the Third Canto of Don 
 Juan, but the things I have read and heard discourage all 
 fardier publication — at least for the present. You may 
 try the copy question, but you '11 lose it : the cry is up, 
 and cant is up. I should have no objection to return the 
 price of the copyright, and have written to Mr. Kinnaird 
 by this post on the subject. Talk with him. 
 
 "I have not the patience, nor do I feel interest enough 
 in the question, to contend with the fellows in their own 
 slang; but I perceive IMr. Blackwood's Magazine and 
 one or two others of your missives have been hj-perbolical 
 in their praise, and diabolical in their abuse. I like and 
 admire Wilson, and he should not have indulged himself 
 in such outraseous license.* It is overdone and defeats 
 itself Whatwould he say to the grossness without pas- 
 sion and the misanthropy without feeling of Gulliver's 
 
 • This is one of the many mistakes into which his distance from the scene 
 of literary operations led hira. The gentleman to whom the hostile 
 article in the Magazine is here attributed, has never, either then or 
 since -n-ritten upon the subject of llie noble poet's character or genius, 
 without giving vent to a feeling of admiration as enthusiastic as it is 
 always eloquenlly and powerfully expressed.— Moore. 
 
146 
 
 LETTERS, 1S20. 
 
 Travels?— When he talks of lady Byron's business, he 
 talks of what he knows nothing about; and you may tell 
 him that no one can more desire a public investigation of 
 fhat affair than I do. 
 
 » I sent home by Moore {for INIoore only, who has my 
 journal also) my Memoir written up to 1816, and I gave him 
 leave to show it to whom he pleased, but not to publish, on 
 any account. You may read it, and you may let Wilson 
 read it, if he likes— not for his public opinion, but his 
 private ; for I like the man, and care very litde about his 
 magazine. And 1 could wish Lady B. herself to read 
 it, that she may have it in her power to mark any thing 
 mistaken or misstated ; as it may probably appear after 
 my extinction, and it would be but fair she should see it, 
 — that is to say, herself willing. 
 
 « Perhaps I may take a journey to you in the spring; 
 but I have been ill and am indolent and indecisive, because 
 few things interest me. These fellows first abused me 
 for being gloomy, and now they are wroth that I am, or 
 attempted to be^, facetious. I have got such a cold and 
 headach that I can hardly see what I scrawl ;— the win- 
 ters here are as sharp as needles. Some time ago I 
 wrote to you rather fuUy about my Italian affairs ; at pre- 
 sent I can say no more except that you shall hear farther 
 by-and-by. 
 
 "Your Blacbvood accuses me of treating women 
 harshly : it may be so, but I have been tlieir martyr ; my 
 whole life has been sacrificed to them and % them. I 
 mean to leave Venice in a few days, but you will address 
 your letters here as usual. When I fix elsewhere, you 
 shall know." 
 
 season itself is so little complimentary with snow and 
 rain that I wait for sunshine." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXVII. 
 
 TO MK. MOORE. 
 
 ■January 2, 
 
 MY DEAR MOORE. 
 
 " ' To-day it is my wedding-day, 
 And all the folks would stare 
 
 If wife should dine at Edmoaion, 
 Aud I should dine at Ware.' 
 
 Or thus, — 
 
 LETTER CCCCXVL 
 
 TO MR. HOPPXER. 
 
 " Here 's a happy new year ! but with reason , 
 
 I beg you '11 permit me to say- 
 Wish me marn/ returns of the season, 
 
 But as few as you please of the day. 
 
 " My this present writing is to direct you that, if she 
 chooses, she may see the MS. Memoir in your possession. I 
 wish her to have fair play in all cases, even though it will 
 not be published till after my decease. For this purpose, it 
 were but just that Lady B. should know what is there said 
 of her and hers that she may have full power to remark on 
 or respond to any part or parts, as may seem fitting to 
 herself. This is fair dealing, I presume, in all events. 
 
 " To change the subject, are you in England ! I send 
 you an epitaph for Casdereagh. 
 
 Another for Pitt — 
 
 " with death doom'd to grapple 
 
 Beneath this cold slab, he 
 Who lied in the Chapel 
 Now lies in the Abbey, 
 
 " The gods seem to have made me poetical this day ; — 
 
 " In dig^ng up your bones, Tom Paine, 
 
 Will. Cobbett has done well : 
 You visit him on earth again, 
 
 He '11 visit you in hell. 
 
 " You come to him on earth again. 
 He '11 go with you to hell. 
 
 " Pray let not these vei-siculi go fordi with my name, 
 
 Sodom.* — I never saw such a difference between two 
 places of the same latitude (or jjlatitude, it is all one,) — 
 music, dancing, and play, all in the same saUe.. The G.'s 
 object appeared to be to parade her foreign lover as 
 much as possible, and, faith, if she seemed to glory in the 
 scandal, it was not for me to be ashamed of it. Nobody 
 seemed surprised ; — all the women, on the contrary, were, 
 as it were, delighted with the excellent example. The 
 vice-legate, and all the other vices, were as poUte as could 
 jje ; — and I, who had acted on the reserve, was faii-ly 
 obliged to take the lady under my arm, and look as much 
 like a cicisbeo as I could on so short a notice, — to say 
 nothing of the embarrassment of a cocked hat and sword, 
 much more formidable to me than ever it will be to the 
 enemy. 
 
 « I write in great haste— -do you answer as hastily. I 
 can understand notliing of all this ; but it seems as if 
 the G. had been presumed to be planted, and was deter- 
 mined to show that she was not,— plantation, in this 
 hemisphere, being the greatest moral misfortune. But 
 this is mere conjecture, for I know nothing about it — 
 except that every body are very kind to her, and not dis- 
 courteous to me. Fathers, and all relations, quite agree- 
 able. " Yours ever, 
 
 «B. 
 
 «P, S. Best respects to Mrs. H. 
 
 "I would send the complijnents of the season; but the 
 
 "Ravenna, December 31, 1819. 
 "I have been here this week, and was obliged to put on 
 my armour and go the night after my arrival to the Mar- 
 quis Cavalli's, where there were between two and three 
 
 hundred of the best company I have seen in Italy,— i • • • , , ^ . , - 
 
 more beauty, more youth, and more diamonds among the except among the ininated, because my friend Hobhouse 
 women than have been seen these fifty years in the Sea- has foamed mto a reformer, and I greatly fear, wiU sub- 
 side into ]S ewgate ; since the Honourable House, accord- 
 ing to Galignani's Reports of Parliamentary' Debates, 
 are menacing a prosecudon to a pamphlet of his. I shall 
 be very sorry to hear of any thing but good for him, par- 
 ticularly in these miserable squabbles ; but these are the 
 natural effects of taking a part in them. 
 
 " For my ovvn part, I had a sad scene since you went. 
 Count Gu. came for his \\i{e, and none of those conse- 
 quences which Scott prophesied ensued. There was no 
 damages, as in England, and so Scott lost his wager. But 
 tliere was a great scene, for she would not, at first, go 
 back with him — at least, she did go back with him ; but 
 he insisted, reasonably enough, that all communication 
 should be broken off between her and me. So, finding 
 Italy very dull, and having a fever tertian, I packed up 
 my valise and prepared to cross the Alps ; but my daugh- 
 ter fell ill, and detained me. 
 
 " After her arrival at Raverma, the Guiccioli fell ill 
 again too ; and, at last her father (who had, all along, op- 
 posed the haison most violendy till now) wrote to me to 
 say that she was in such a state that ?i€ begged me to 
 come and see her, — and that her husband had acquiesce^ 
 in consequence of her relapse, and that he (her father) 
 would guarantee all this, and that there would be no far- 
 tlier scenes in consequence between them, and that I 
 should not be compromised in any way. I set out soon 
 after, and have been here ever since. I found her a good 
 deal altered, but getting better :—aU this comes of reading 
 Corinna. 
 
 " The Carnival is about to begin, and I saw about two 
 
 ' Gehenna of the waters ! thou Sea-Sodom !" 
 
 Marino Faliero. 
 
LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 147 
 
 or three hundred people at the Marquis Cavalli's the other 
 evening, wth as much youth, beauty, and diamonds among 
 the women, as ever averaged in the lilce number. My 
 appearance in waiting on the Guiccioli was considered as 
 a thing of course. The Marquis is her uncle, and natu- 
 rally considered me as her relation. 
 
 " The paper is out, and so is the letter. Pray write. 
 Address to Venice, whence the letters will be forwarded. 
 « Yours, &c. «B." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXVIIL 
 
 TO MR. HOPPSTER. 
 
 « Ravenna, January 20, 1820. 
 
 " I have not decided any thing about remauiing at Ra- 
 venna. I may stay a day, a week, a year, all my life ; but 
 all this depends upon what I can neither see nor foresee. 
 I came because I was called, and vM go the moment that 
 1 perceive what may render my departure proper. My 
 attachment has neither the blindness of the beginning, nor 
 the microscopic accuracy of the close to such liaisons ; 
 but ' time and the hour' must decide upon what I do. I 
 can as yet say nothing, because I hardly know any thin^ 
 beyond what I have told you. 
 
 " I wrote to you last post for my moveables, as there is 
 no getting a lodging with a chair or table here ready ; and 
 as I have already some tilings of ihe sort at Bologna which 
 I had last summer there for my daughter, I have directed 
 them to be moved ; and wish the like to be done with 
 those of Venice, that I may at least get out of the ' Alber- 
 go Imperiale,' which is imperial in all true sense of the 
 epithet. Buffini may be paid for his poison. I forgot 
 to thank you and Mrs. Hoppner for a whole treasure 
 of toys for AUegra before our departure ; it was very kind, 
 and we are very grateful. 
 
 "Your account of the wedding of tlie Governor's party 
 js very entertaining. If you do not understand the con- 
 sular exceptions, I do ; and it is right that a man of ho- 
 nour, and a woman of probity, should fmd it so, particu- 
 larly in a place where there are not ' ten rigliteous.' As 
 to nobility — in England none are strictly noble but peers, 
 n»t even peers' sons, though titled by courtesy ; nor knights 
 of the garter, unless of the peerage, so that Castlereagh 
 hmiself would hardly pass through a foreign herald's or- 
 deal till the death of his father. 
 
 " The snow is a foot deep here. There is a theatre, and 
 opera, — the Barber of Seville. Balls begin on Monday 
 next. Pay the porter for never looking after tlie gate, and 
 ship my chattels, and let me know, or let Castelli let me 
 know, how my lawsuits go on — ^but fee him only in pro- 
 Dortion to his success. Perhaps we may meet in the 
 spring yet, if you are for England. I see Hobhouse has 
 got into a scrape, which does not please me ; he should 
 not have gone so deep among those men, without calculat- 
 ing the consequences. I used to think myself the most 
 imprudent of all among my friends and acquaintances, 
 but almost begin to doubt it. 
 
 "Yours &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXIX. 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 plead laziness the whole and sole cause of my not reply- 
 ing: — dreadful is the exertion of letter-writing. The 
 Carnival here is less boisterous, but we have balls 
 and a theatre. I carried Bankes to both, and he carried 
 away, I beUeve, a much more favourable impression of 
 the society here than of that of Venice — recollect that I 
 speak of the native society only. 
 
 " I am drilling very hard to learn how to double a shawl, 
 and should succeed to admiration if I did not always dou- 
 ble it the wrong side out ; and then I sometmies confuse 
 and bring away two, so as to put all the Serventi out, be- 
 sides keeping their Sa-viie in the cold till every body can 
 get back their property. But it is a dreadfully moral 
 place, for you must not look at any body's wife except 
 your neighbour's,— if you go to the next door but one, you 
 are scolded, and presumed to be perfidious. And then a 
 relazione or an amicizia seems to be a regular affair of 
 from five to fifteen years, at wliich period, if there occur 
 a widowhood, it finishes by a sposalizio ; and in the mean 
 time, it has so many rules of its own that it is not much 
 better. A man actually becomes a piece of female pro- 
 perty, — they won't let their Serventi marry until there is 
 a vacancy for themselves. I know two instances of this 
 in one family here. 
 
 " To-night there was a — * Lottery after the opera : it 
 IS an odd ceremony. Bankes and I took tickets of it, and 
 buffooned together very merrily. He is gone to Firenze. 
 Mrs. J * * should have sent you my postscript ; there 
 was no occasion to have bored you m person. I never 
 interfere in any body's squabbles, — she may scratch your 
 face herself. 
 
 " The weather here has been dreadfiil — snow several 
 feet — a Jiume broke dov/n a bridge, and flooded heaven 
 knows how many campi ; then rain came — and it is still 
 thawing — so that my saddle-horses have a sinecure till 
 the roads become more practicable. Why did Lega give 
 away the goat ? a blockhead — I must have him again. 
 
 " Will you pay Missiaglia and the Buffo Buffin! of the 
 Gran Bretagna. I heard from Moore, who is at Paris ; 
 I had previously written to him in London, but he has not 
 yet got my letter, apparently, 
 
 « Believe me, fee." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Ravenna, January 31, 1820. 
 
 "You would hardly have been troubled with the remo 
 val of my furniture, but there is none to be had nearer than 
 Bologna, and I have been fain to have that of the rooms 
 which I fitted up for my daughter there in the summer re- 
 moved here. The expense will be at least as great of the 
 land carriage, so that you see it was necessity, and not 
 choice. Here they get every thing from Bologna, except 
 some liffhter articles from Forli or Faenza. 
 
 " If Scott is returned, pray remember me to him, and 
 
 "Raverma, February 7, 1820. 
 « I have had no letter from you these two months ; but 
 suice I came here in December, 1819, I sent you a letter 
 for Moore, who is God knows where — in Paris or London, 
 I presume. I have copied and cut the Third Canto of Don 
 Juan into two, because it was too long ; and I tell you this 
 beforehand, because in case of any reckoning between 
 you and me, these two are only to go for one, as this was 
 the original form, and, in fact, the two together are not 
 longer than one of the first : so remember that I have not 
 made this division to double upon you ; but merely to sup- 
 press some tediousness in the aspect of the thing, I 
 should have served you a pretty trick if I had sent you, 
 for example, cantos of 50 stanzas each. 
 
 " I am translating the First Canto of Pulci's Morgante 
 Maggiore, and have half done it ; but these last days of 
 the Carnival confuse and interrupt every thing. 
 
 "I have not yet sent off the Cantos, and have some 
 doubt whether they ought to be pubUshed, for they have 
 not the spirit of the first. The outcry has not frightened 
 but it has hurt me, and I have not written con amore this 
 time. It is very decent, however, and as dull as ' the last 
 new comedy.' 
 
 " I thinlc my translations of Pulci will make you stare. 
 
 • The word here, beiug under the seal, is illegible. 
 
148 
 
 LETTERS, 182a 
 
 It must be put by the original, stanza for stanza, and verse 
 for verse ; and you will see what was permitted in a Ca- 
 tholic coimtry and a bigoted age to a churchman, on the 
 score of religion ; — and so tell those buffoons who accuse 
 me of attacking tlie Liturgy. 
 
 « I write in the greatest haste, it being the hour of the 
 Corso, and I must go and buffoon with the rest. My 
 daughter AUegra is just gone with the Countess G. in 
 Count G.'s coach and six, to jom the cavalcade, and I must 
 follow with all tlie rest of the Ravenna world. Our old 
 Cardinal is dead, and tlie new one not appointed yet ; but 
 the masking goes on the same, the vice-legate being a 
 good governor. We have had hideous frost and snow, but 
 all is mild again. " Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXL 
 
 TO MR. BANKES. 
 
 « Ravenna, February 19, 1820. 
 
 " 1 have room for you in the house here, as I had in 
 Venice, if you thinlc fit to make use of it ; but do not ex- 
 pect to find the same gorgeous suite of tapestried halls. 
 Neither dangers nor tropical heats have ever prevented 
 your penetrating wherever you had a mind to il, and why 
 should the snow now I — Italian snow — fie on it ! — so 
 pray come. Tita's heart yearns for you, and mayhap 
 for your silver broad pieces ; and your pla}^ellow, the 
 monkey, is alone and inconsolable. 
 
 " I forget whether you admire or tolerate red hair, so 
 that I ratlier dread showing you all that I have about me 
 and around me in this city. Come, nevertheless, — you 
 can pay Dante a morning visit, and I will undertake that 
 Theodore and Honoria will be most happy to see you in 
 the forest hard by. We Goths, also, of Ravenna hope 
 you will not despise our arch-Goth, Theodoric. I must 
 leave it to these wortliies to entertain you all the fore part 
 of the day, seeing that I have none at all myself — the 
 lark, that rouses me from my slumbers, being an afternoon 
 bird. But, then, aU yom- evenings, and as much as you 
 can give me of your nights, w^ill be mine. Ay ! and you 
 will find me eating flesh, too, like yourself or any other 
 cannibal, except it be upon Fridays. Then, there are 
 more Cantos (and be d — d to them) of what the cour- 
 teous reader, Mr. Saunders, calls Grub-street, in my 
 drawer, which I have a little scheme to commit to your 
 charge for England ; only I must first cut up (or cut 
 do'mi) two aforesaid C antos into tliree, because I am grown 
 base and mercenary, and it is an ill precedent to let my 
 Mecaenas, IMm-ray, get too much for his money. I am 
 busy, also, with Puici — translasting — servilely translating, 
 stanza for stanza, and line for line — two octaves every 
 night, — the same allowance as at Venice. 
 
 " Would you call at your banker's at Bologna, and ask 
 him for some letters lying there for me, and bum them ? — 
 or I will — so do not burn tliem, but bring them, — and be- 
 lieve me ever and very affectionately 
 
 « Yours, " Byron, 
 
 " P. S. I have a particular wish to hear from yourself 
 something about Cyprus, so pray recollect all that you 
 can. — Good night." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXn. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, Feb. 21, 1820. 
 •* The bull-dogs will be very agreeable. I have only 
 those of this countr}', who, though good, have not the tena- 
 city of tooth and stoicism in endurance of my canine fel- 
 low-citizens : then pray send them by the readiest con- 
 
 See Don Juan, Canto III, Stanza 105. 
 
 veyance — perhaps best by sea. Mr. Kinnaird will dis- 
 burse for them, and deduct from the amount on your ap- 
 phcation or that of Captain Tyler. 
 
 " I see die good old King is gone to his place. One 
 can't help being sorrv^, tliough blindness, and age, and in- 
 sanity are supposed to be drawbacks on human fehcity ; 
 but I am not at all sure that the latter at least might not 
 render him happier than any of his subjects. 
 
 " I have no thoughts of coming to the coronation, though 
 I should like to see it, and though I have a right to be a 
 puppet in it ; but my division with Lady Byron, which 
 has dra\\-n an equinoctial line between me and mine in 
 all odier things, mil operate in this also to prevent my 
 being in the same procession. 
 
 " By Saturday's post I sent you four packets, contain- 
 ing Cantos Third and Fourth. Recollect that these two 
 cantos reckon only as one with you and me, being in fact 
 the third canto cut into two, because I found it too long. 
 Remember tiiis, and do n't imagine that there could be any 
 other motive. The whole is about 225 stanzas, more or less, 
 and a IjTic of 96 lines, so that they are no longer than the 
 first single cantos : but the truth is, that I made the first 
 too long, and should have cut those do^vn also had I 
 diought better. Listead of saving in future for so many 
 cantos, say so many stanzas or pages : it was Jacob Ton- 
 son's way, and certainly the best ; it prevents mistakes. 
 I might have sent you a dozen cantos, of 40 stanzas each, 
 — those of ' The JVIinstrel' (BeatUe's) are no longer, — 
 and ruined you at once, if you do n't suffer as it is. But 
 recollect tliat you are not pinned down to any thing you 
 say in a letter, and that, calculating even these two cantos 
 as one only (which they were and are to be reckoned,) 
 you are not bound by your offer. Act as may seem fair 
 to all parties. 
 
 "I have finished my translation of the First Canto of 
 the 'Morgante Maggiore' of Pulci, which I will transcribe 
 and send. It is the parent, not only of Whistlecraft, but 
 of all jocose Itahan poetry. You must print it side by 
 side witli the original Italian, because I v/ish the reader 
 to judge of the fidelity: it is stanza for stanza, and often 
 line for line, if not word for word. 
 
 " You ask me for a volume of manners, &c. on Italy. 
 Perhaps I am in the case to know more of them than 
 most Englishmen, because I have lived among the na- 
 tives, and in parts of the country where Englishmen 
 never resided before (I speak of Romagna and this place 
 particularly ;) but there are many reasons why I do not 
 choose to treat in print on such a subject. I have hved 
 in their houses and in the heart of their famihes, sometimes 
 merely as ' amico di casa,' and sometimes as ' amico di 
 cuore' of the Dama, and in neither case do I feel myself 
 authorized in mailing a book of them. Their moral is 
 not your moral ; theii- life is not your life ; you would not 
 understand it ; it is not English, nor French, nor German, 
 which you would all understand. The conventual edu- 
 cation, the cavalier servitude, the habits of thought and 
 living are so entirely different, and the difference becomes 
 so much more striking tlie more you live intimately with 
 them, that I know not how to make you comprehend a 
 people who are at once temperate and profligate, serious 
 in their characters and buffoons in their amusements, 
 capable of impressions and passions, which are at once 
 sudden and durable (what you find in no other nation,) 
 and who actually have no society (what we would call 
 so,) as you may see by their comedies ; they have no 
 real comedy, not even in Goldoni, and that is because 
 they have no society to draw it from. 
 
 " Their conversazioni are not society at all. They go 
 to the theatre to tallj, and into company to hold their 
 tongues. The women sit in a circle, and tlie men gather 
 into groupes, or they play at dreary faro, or ' lotto reale,' 
 for small sums. Their academic are concerts like our 
 own. with better music and more form. Their best things 
 are the carnival balls, and masquerades, when every body 
 
LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 149 
 
 runs mad for six weeks. After their dinners and suppers 
 they make extempore verses and buffoon one another ; 
 but it is in a humour which you would not enter into, ye 
 of the north. 
 
 " In their houses it is better. I should know something 
 of the matter, having had a pretty general experience 
 among their women, from the fisherman's wife up to the 
 Nobil Dama, whom I serve. Their system has its rules, 
 and its fitnesses, and its decorums, so as to be reduced to 
 a kind of discipline or game at hearts, which admits few 
 deviations, unless you wish to lose it. They are ex- 
 tremely tenacious, and jealous as furies, not permitting 
 their lovers even to mairy if they can help it, and keeping 
 them always close to them in public as in private, when- 
 ever they can. In short, they transfer marriage to adul- 
 tery, and stilte the not out of that commandment. The 
 reason is, that they marry for their parents, and love for 
 themselves. They exact fidelity from a lover as a debt 
 of honour, while they pay the husband as a tradesman, 
 that is, not at all. You hear a person's character, male 
 or female, canvassed, not as depending on their conduct 
 to their husbands or wives, but to their mistress or lover. 
 If I wrote a quarto, I do n't know that I could do more 
 than amplify what I have here noted. It is to be observed 
 that while they do all this, the greatest outward respect 
 is to be paid to the husbands, not only by the ladies, but 
 by their Serventi — particularly if the husband serves no 
 one himself (which is not often the case, however ;) so 
 that you would often suppose them relations — the Ser- 
 vente making the figure of one adopted into the family. 
 Sometimes the ladies run a little restive and elope, or 
 divide, or make a scene ; but this is at starting, generally, 
 when they know no better, or when they fall in love with 
 a foreigner, or some such anomaly, — and is always reck- 
 oned unnecessary and extravagant. 
 
 " You inquire after Dante's Prophecy : I have not done 
 more than six hundred lines, but will vaticinate at leisure. 
 
 " Of the bust I know nothing. No cameos or seals are 
 to be cut here or elsewhere that I know of, in any good 
 style. Hobhouse should write himself to Thorwaldsen: 
 the bust was made and paid for three years ago. 
 
 " Pray tell Mrs. Leigh to request Lady Byron to urge 
 forward the transfer from the funds. I wrote to Lady 
 Byron on business this post, addressed to the care of 
 Mr. D. Kinnaird." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXm. 
 
 TO MR. BANKES. 
 
 "Ravenna, February 26, 1820. 
 
 " Pulci and I are waiting for you with impatience ; but 
 I suppose we must give way to the attraction of the Bo- 
 lognese galleries for a time. I know nothing of pictures 
 myself, and care almost as little ; but to me there are 
 none lilte the Venetian — above all, Giorgione. I remem- 
 ber well his judgment of Solomon in the Mariscalchi 
 in Bologna. The real mother is beautiful, exquisitely 
 beautiful. Buy her, by all means, if you can, and 
 take her home with you : put her in safety — for be as- 
 sured there are troublous times brewing for Italy ; and 
 as I never could keep out of a row in my life, it will 
 be my fate, I dare say, to be over head and ears in it ; 
 but no matter, these are the stronger reasons for coming 
 to see me soon. 
 
 « I have more of Scott's novels (for surely they are 
 Scott's) since we met, and am more and more delighted. 
 I think that I even prefer them to his poetry, which (by- 
 tihe-way) I redde for the fiist time in my life in your 
 rooms in Trinity college. 
 
 « There are some curious commentaries on Dante pre- 
 served here, which you should see. Believe me ever, 
 %ithfully and most affectionately, 
 
 « Yours, &c. 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MITRRAY. 
 
 « Ravenna, March 1, 1820. 
 " I sent you by last post the translation of the First 
 Canto of the Morgante Maggiore, and wish you to ask 
 Rose about the word ' sbergo,' i. e. ' usbergo,' which I 
 have translated cuirass. I suspect that it means lielmet 
 also. Now, if so, which of the senses is best accordant 
 with the text ? I have adopted cuirass, but will be ame- 
 nable to reasons. Of the natives, some say one, and 
 some t' other ; but they are no great Tuscans in Ro- 
 magna. However I will ask Sgricci (the famous impro- 
 visatore) to-morrow, who is a native of Arezzo. The 
 Countess Guiccioli, who is reckoned a very cultivated 
 young lady, and the dictionary, say cuirass. I have writ- 
 ten cuirass, but helmet runs in my head nevertheless — and 
 will run in verse very well, whilk is the principal point. 
 1 will ask the Sposa Spina Spinelli, too, the Florentino 
 bride of Count Gabriel Rusponi, just imported from Flo 
 rence, and get the sense out of somebody. 
 
 " I have just been visiting the new Cardinal, who ar- 
 rived the day before yesterday in his legation. He seems 
 a good old gentleman, pious and simple, and not quite 
 like his predecessor, who was a bonvivant, in the worldly 
 sense of the words. 
 
 " Enclosed is a letter which I received some time ago 
 from Dallas. It will explain itself. I have not answered 
 it. This comes of doing people good. At one time or 
 another (including copyrights) this person has had about 
 fourteen hundred pounds of my money, and he writes 
 what he calls a posthumous work about me, and a scrubby 
 letter accusing me of treating him ill, when I never did 
 any such thing. It is true that I left off letter-writing, 
 as I have done with almost every body else ; but I can't 
 see how that was misusing him. 
 
 I look upon his epistle as the consequence of my not 
 sending him another hundred pounds, which he wrote to 
 me for about two years ago, and which I thought proper 
 to withhold, he having had his share, methought, of what 
 I could dispone upon others. 
 
 " In your last you ask me after my articles of domestic 
 wants : I beUeve they are as usual ; the bull-dogs, mag- 
 nesia, soda-powders, tooth-powders, brushes, and every 
 thing of the kind which are here unattainable. You still 
 ask me to return to England : alas ! to what purpose ? 
 You do not know what you are requiring. Return I must, 
 probably, some day or other (if I live,) sooner or later ; 
 but it will not be for pleasure, nor can it end in good. 
 You inquire after my health and spirits in large letters : 
 my health can't be very bad, for I cured myself of a sharp 
 tertian ague, in three weeks, with cold water, which had 
 held my stoutest gondolier for months, notwithstanding 
 all the bark of the apothecary, — a circumstance which 
 surprised Dr. Aglietti, who said it was a proof of great 
 stamina, particularly in so epidemic a season. I did it 
 out of dislike to the taste of bark (which I can't bear,) 
 and succeeded, contrary to the prophecies of every body, 
 by simply taking nothing at all. As to spirits, they are 
 unequal, now high, now low, like other people's, I suppose, 
 and depending upon circumstances. 
 
 " Pray send me W. Scott's new novels. What are 
 their names and characters ? I read some of his former 
 ones, at least once a day, for an hour or so. The last are 
 too hurried : he forgets Ravenswood's name and calls him 
 Edgar and then Norman ; and Girder, the cooper, is 
 styled now Gilbert, and now John ; and he do n't msike 
 enough of Montrose ; but Dalgetty is excellent, and so is 
 Lucy Ashton, and the b — ^h her mother. What is Ivan- 
 hoe ? and what do you call his other ? are there two ? 
 Pray make him write at least two a year : I like no read- 
 ing so well. 
 
 " The editor of the Bologna Telegraph has sent me a 
 paper with extracts from Mr. Mulock's (his name always 
 
LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 150 
 
 reminds me of Muley Moloch of Morocco) ' Atheism 
 answered,' in which tlieir is a long eulogium of my poesy, 
 and a great ' compatimento' for my misery. I never could 
 understand what tliey mean by accusing me of irreligion. 
 However, they may have it their own way. This gen- 
 tleman seems to be my great admirer, so I take what he 
 says in good part, as he evidently intends kindness, to 
 which I can't accuse myself of being invincible. 
 
 « Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Ravenna, IVIarch 5, 1820. 
 
 " In case, in your coimtry, you should not readily lay 
 hands on the Morgante Maggiore, I send you the original 
 text of tlie First Canto, to correspond with the translation 
 which I sent you a few days ago. It is from the Naples 
 edition in quarto of 1732, — dated i^/orence, however, by a 
 trick of the trade, which you, as one of the allied sove- 
 reigns of the profession, will perfectly understand without 
 any farther spiegazione. 
 
 " It is strange that here nobody understands tlie real 
 precise meaning of ' sbergo,' or ' usbergo,'* an old Tuscan 
 word, which I have rendered ctdrass (but am not sure it is 
 not helmet.) I have asked at least twenty people, learned 
 and ignorant, male and female, including poets, and offi 
 cers civil and military. The dictionary says cuirass, but 
 gives no authority ; and a female friend of mine says 
 positively cuirass, which makes me doubt the fact still 
 more tlian before. Ginguene says, ' bormet de fer,' with 
 the usual superficial decision of a Frenchman, so that I 
 can't believe him : and what between the dictionary, the 
 Italian woman, and the Frenchman, there 's no trusting 
 to a word they say. The context too, which should de- 
 cide, admits equally of either meajiing, as you will per- 
 ceive. Ask Rose, Hobhouse, Merivale, and Foscolo, 
 and vote with the majority. Is Frere a good Tuscan 
 if he be, bother him too. I have tried, you see, to be as 
 accurate as I well could. This is my third or fourtli 
 letter, or packet, within the last twenty days." 
 
 did not come of it. I have no objection to this being his 
 fourteenth in the four-and-twenty hours. He presides over 
 overtui-ns and all escapes therefrom, it seems ; and they 
 dedicate pictures, &c. to him, as the sailors once did to 
 Neptune, after 'the high Roman fashion.' 
 
 " Yours, in haste." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXVI. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, March 14, 1820 
 'Enclosed is Dante's Prophecy — Vision — or what not. 
 Where I have left more than one reading, (which I have 
 done often,) you may adopt that which Gifford, Frere. 
 Rose, and Hobhouse, and others of your Utican Senate 
 think the best, or least bad. The preface will explain all 
 that is explicable. These are but the first four cantos 
 if approved, I will go on. 
 
 " Pray mind in printing ; and let some good Itahan scho- 
 lar correct the Italian quotations. 
 
 " Four days ago I w^as overturned in an open carriage 
 between the river and a steep bank : — wheels dashed to 
 pieces, slight briiises, narrow escape, and all that ; but no 
 harm done, though coachman, footman, horses, and vehi 
 cle were all mixed together like macaroni. It was owing 
 to bad driving, as I say ; but the coachman swears to a 
 start on the part of the horses. We went against a post 
 on the verge of a steep banlv, and capsized. I usually go 
 out of the town in a carriage, and meet the saddle horses 
 at the bridge ; it was in going there that we boggled ; but 
 I got my ride, as usual, after the accident. They say here 
 it was all owing to St. Antonio of Padua (serious, I as 
 sure you,) — who does thirteen mii-acles a day, — that worse 
 
 ♦ Usbergo is obviously the same as hauberk, habergeon, &c. all from 
 the German hols-berg, or covering of ihe neck. See Gray's Bard, " Helm 
 nor hauberk's twisted mail." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXVn. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Ravenna, March 20, 1820. ' 
 Last post I sent you, 'The Vision of Dante,' — first 
 four cantos. Enclosed you will find, line for line, in tJiird 
 rhyme (ierza rima,*) of which your British blackguard 
 reader as yet understands nothing, Fanny of Rimini. You 
 know that she was born here, and married, and slain, from 
 Gary, Boyd, and such people. I have done it into cramp 
 Enghsh, line for line, and rhyme for rhyme, to try the pos- 
 sibility. You had best append it to the poems already sent 
 by last three posts. I shall not allow you to play the tricks 
 you did last year, with the prose you j)os<-scribed to Ma- 
 zeppa, which I sent to you not to be published, if not in a 
 periodical paper, — and there you tacked it, without a word 
 of explanation. If this is published, publish it with the ori- 
 ginal, and together with the PvJci translation, or the Dante 
 imitation. I suppose you have both by novr, and the Jtian 
 long before. 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXVIIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Ravenna, March 23, 1820. 
 
 " I have received your letter of the 7th. Besides the 
 four packets you have already received, I have sent Ae 
 Pulci a few days after, and since (a few days ago) the 
 first four Cantos of Dante's Prophecy, (the best thing I ever 
 wrote, if it be not unxnteUigible,) and by last post a literal 
 translation, word for word (versed like the original) of the 
 episode of Francesca of Rimini. I want to hear what 
 you think of the new Juans, and the translations, and the 
 Vision. They are all things that are, or ought to be, very 
 different from one another. 
 
 "If you choose to make a print from the Venetian, you 
 may ; but she do n't correspond at all to the character you 
 mean her to represent. On the contrary, the Contessa G. 
 does (except that she is fair,) and is much prettier than 
 the Fomarina ; but I have no picture of her except a mi- 
 niature, which is very ill done ; and, besides, it would not 
 be proper, on any account whatever, to make such a use 
 of it, even if you had a copy. 
 
 " Recollect that the two new Cantos only count with us 
 for one. You may put the Pulci and Dante together : per- 
 haps that were best. So you have put your name to Juan 
 after all your panic. Y^ou are a rare fellow. — I must now 
 put myself in a passion to continue my prose. 
 
 "I have caused write to Thorwaldsen. Pray be care- 
 ful in sending my daughter's picture — I mean, that it be 
 not hurt in the carriage, for it is a journey rather Ion* 
 and jolting." ^ 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 t "Ravenna, March 28, 1820. 
 Enclosed is a 'Screed of Doctrine' for you, of which I 
 \N-ill trouble you to aclmowledge the receipt by next post. 
 Mr. Hobhouse must have the correction of it for the press. 
 You may show it first to whom you please. 
 
 * See Poems, p. 4a5. 
 
 t Letter iu answer to Mr. Uowles, page 280. 
 
LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 151 
 
 "I wish to know what became of my two Epistles from 
 St. Paul, (translated from the Armenian three years ago 
 and more,) and of the letter to Roberts of last autumn, 
 which you never have attended to ? There are two pack- 
 ets with this. 
 
 "P. S. I have some thoughts of publishing the 'Hints 
 from Horace,' written ten years ago — if Hobhouse can 
 rummage them out of my papers left at his father's, — with 
 some omissions and alterations previously to be made when 
 I see the proofs." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, March 29, 1820. 
 
 "Herewith you will receive a note (enclosed) on Pope, 
 which you will find tally vsith a part of the text of last post. 
 I have at last lost all patience with the atrocious cant and 
 nonsense about Pope, v.'ith which our present * *s are 
 overflo\ving, and am determined to make such head 
 against it as an individual can, by prose or verse ; and I 
 will at least do it with good will. There is no bearing it 
 any longer; and if it goes on, it will destroy what Utile 
 good writing or taste remains among us. I hope there are 
 still a few men of taste to second me ; but if not, I 'U battle 
 it alone, convinced that it is in the best cause of English 
 literature. 
 
 "I have sent you so many packets, verse and prose, 
 lately, that you will be tired of the postage, if not of the pe- 
 rusal. I want to answer some parts of your last letter, but 
 I have not time, for I must 'boot and saddle,' as my Cap- 
 tain Craigengilt (an officer of the old Napoleon Itahan 
 army) is in waiting, and my groom and cattle to boot. 
 
 " You have given me a screed of metaphor and what 
 not about Puldy and manners, ' going without clothes, like 
 our Saxon ancestors.' Now, the Saxons did not go with- 
 out clothes ; and, in the next place, they are not my an- 
 cestors, nor yours either ; for mine were Norman, and 
 yours, I take it by your name, where Gael. And, in the 
 next, I differ from you about the ' refinement' which has 
 banished the comedies of Congreve. Are not the come- 
 dies of Sheridan acted to the thinnest houses ? I know (as 
 ex-committed) that' The School for Scandal' was the worst 
 stock-piece upon record. I also know that Congreve gave 
 up writing because Mrs. Centlivre's balderdash drove his 
 comedies off. So it is not decency, but stupidity, that does 
 all this ; for Sheridan is as decent a writer as need be, and 
 Congreve no worse than Mrs. Centlivre, of whom Wilkes 
 (the actor) said, ' not orJy her play would be damned, but 
 she too.' He aUuded to ' A Bold Stroke for a Wife.' But 
 last, and most to the purpose, Pulci is not an indecent 
 wiriter — at least in his first Canto, as you will have per- 
 ceived by this time. 
 
 " You talk of refinement : — are you all rnorre moral ? are 
 you so moral ? No such thing. / know what the world 
 is in England, by my own proper experience of the best 
 of it — at least of the loftiest ; and I have described it 
 every where as it is to be found in all places. 
 
 " But to return. I should hke to see the proofs of mine 
 answer, because there will be something to omit or to 
 alter. But pray let it be carefully printed. When con- 
 venient let me have an answer, " Yours." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXXL 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 "Ravenna, March 31, 1820. 
 
 * * + ♦ * 
 
 * Ravenna continues much the same as I described it. 
 Conversazioni all Lent, and much better ones than any at 
 Venice. There are small games at hazard, that is, faro, 
 
 where nobody can point more than a shilling or two ; — 
 other card-tables, and as much talk and coffee as you 
 please. Every body does and says what they please 5 
 and I do not recollect any disagreeable events, except 
 being three times falsely accused of flirtation, and once 
 being robbed of six sixpences by a nobleman of the city, a 
 Count + * *. I did not suspect the illustrious dehn- 
 quent ; but the Countess V * * * and the Marquis L * * * 
 told me of it directly, and also that it was a way he had, 
 of filching money w^hen he saw it before him ; but I did 
 not ax him for the cash, but contented myself with telling 
 him that if he did it again, I should anticipate the law. 
 
 " There is to be a theatre in April, and a fair, and an 
 opera, and another opera in June, besides the fine weather 
 of nature's giving, and the rides in the Forest of Pine. 
 With my best respects to Mrs. Hoppner, beUeve me 
 ever,&c. "Byron. 
 
 " P. S. Could you give me an item of what books re- 
 mam at Venice ? I do n't want them, but want to know 
 whether the few that are not here are there, and were not 
 lost by the way. I hope and trust you have got all your 
 wine safe, and that it is drinkable. AUegra is prettier, I 
 think, but as obstinate as a mule, and as ravenous as a 
 vulture : health good, to judge of the complexion — temper 
 tolerable, but for vanity and pertinacity. She thinks her- 
 self handsome and will do as she pleases." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXXIL 
 
 TO MR. PJTTRRAY. 
 
 " Raveima, April 9, 1820. 
 
 In the name of all the devils in the printing-office, why 
 do n't you write to acknowledge the receipt of the second, 
 third, and fourth packets, viz. the Pulci translation and 
 original, the Danticles, the Observations on, &c. ? You 
 forget that you keep me in hot water till I know whether 
 they are arrived, or if I must have the bore of recopving 
 * * * * + '^■^ ^ 
 
 Have you gotten the cream of translations, Francesca 
 of Rimini, from the Inferno ? Why, I have sent you a 
 warehouse of trash witlnn the last month, and you have 
 no sort of feeling about you : a pastry-cook would have 
 had twice the gratitude, and thanked me at least for the 
 quantity. 
 
 " To make the letter heavier, I enclose you the Cardi- 
 nal Legate's (our Campeius) circular for his conversa- 
 zione this evening. It is the armiversary of the Pope's 
 iiam-tion, and all polite Christians, even of the Lutheran 
 creed, must go and be civil. And there will be a circle, 
 and a faro-table, (for shillings, that is, they do n't allow 
 high play,) and all the beauty, nobility, and sanctity of 
 Ravenna present. The Cardinal himself is a very good- 
 natured little fellow, bishop of Muda, and legate here, — a 
 decent believer in all the doctrines of the church. He 
 has kept his housekeeper these forty years * + * * j 
 but is reckoned a pious man, and a moral liver. 
 
 " I am not quite sure that I won't be among you this 
 autumn, for I find that business do n't go on — ^what with 
 trustees and lawyers — as it should do, ' with all dehbe- 
 rate speed.' They differ about investments in Ireland. 
 
 " Between the devil and deep sea, 
 Between the lawyer and trustee, 
 
 I am puzzled ; and so much time is lost by my not being 
 upon the spot, what with answers, demurs, rejoinders, that 
 it may be I must come and look to it ; for one says do, 
 and t' other do n't, so that I know not which way to turn : 
 but perhaps they can manage without me. 
 
 " Yours, &c. 
 " P. S. I have begun a tragedy on the subject of Ma- 
 rino FaUero, the Doge of Venice ; but you sha n't see it 
 these SLx years, if you do n't acknowledge my packets with 
 more quickness and precision. Always write, if but a 
 
152 
 
 LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 line, by return of post, when any thing arrives, which is 
 not a mere letter. 
 
 " Address direct to Ravenna \ it saves a week's time, 
 and much postage." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXXm. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, April 16, 1820. 
 
 " Post afler post arrives without bringing any acknow- 
 ledgment from you of the different packets (excepting the 
 first) which I have sent within the last two months, all of 
 tvhich ought to be arrived long ere now; and as they 
 h'cre aimounced in other letters, you ought at least to say 
 tvhetlier they are come or not. You are not expected to 
 write frequent or long letters, as your time is much occu 
 pied ; but when parcels that have cost some pains in the 
 composition, and great trouble in the copying, are sent to 
 you, I should at least be put out of suspense, by the im- 
 mediate acknowledgment, per return of post, addressed 
 directly to Ravenna. I am naturally — kno\\Tng what con- 
 tinental ^osfo are — anxious to hear that they are arrived; 
 especially as I loath the task of copying so much, that if 
 there was a human being that could copy my blotted 
 MSS. he should have all they can ever bring for his 
 trouble. All I desire is two hnes, to say, such a day I 
 received such a packet. There are at least six unac- 
 knowledged. This is neittier kind nor courteous. 
 
 " I have, besides, another reason for desiring you to be 
 speedy, which is, that there is that brewing in Italy 
 which will speedily cut off all security of communication, 
 and set all your Anglo-travellers flying in every direction, 
 with their usual fortitude in foreign tumults. The Spa- 
 nish and French affairs have set the Italians in a ferment ; 
 and no wonder: they have been too long trampled on. 
 This will malte a sad scene for your exquisite traveller, 
 but not for the resident, who naturally wishes a people to 
 redress itself. I shall, if permitted by the natives, remain 
 lo see what will come of it, and perhaps to take a turn 
 with them, like Dugald Dalgetty and his horse, in case of 
 business ; for I shall think it by far the most interesting 
 spectacle and moment in existence, to see the Itahans 
 send the barbarians of all nations back to their own dens, 
 I have lived long enough among them to feel more for 
 them as a nation than for any other people in existence. 
 But they want union, and they want principle; and I 
 doubt their success. However, they will try, probably, 
 and if they do, it will be a good cause. No Itahan can 
 hate an Austrian more than I do : unless it be the Eng- 
 hsh, the Austrians seem to me the most obnoxious race 
 under the sky. 
 
 " But I doubt, if any thing be done, it won't be so qui- 
 etly as in Spain. To be sure, revolutions are not to be 
 made with rose-water, where there are foreigners as 
 masters. 
 
 " Write while you can ; for it is but the toss up of a 
 paul that there will not be a row that will somewhat re- 
 tard the mail by-and-by. 
 
 "Yours, &c.» 
 
 to get it ashore for me ; but should like to be certiorated 
 of its safety in leaving Venice. I would not lose it for its 
 weight in gold — there is none such in Italy, as I take it 
 to be. 
 
 " I wrote to you a week or so ago, and hope you are in 
 good plight and spirits. Sir Humphry Davy is here, and 
 was last night at the Cardinal's. As I had been there 
 last Sunday, and yesterday was warm, 1 did not go, which 
 I should have done, if I had thought of meeting the man 
 of chemistry. He called this morning, and I shall go in 
 search of him at Corso time. I beheve to-day, being 
 Monday, there is no great conversazione, and only the 
 family one at the Marchese Cavalli's, where I go as a 
 relation sometimes, so that, unless he stays a day or two, 
 we should hardly meet in pubUc. 
 
 " The theatre is to open in May for the fair, if there is 
 not a row in all Italy by that time, — the Spanish business 
 has set them all a constitutioning, and what will be the 
 end no one knows — it is also necessary thereunto to have 
 a beginning. "Yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. My benediction to Mrs. Hoppner. How is 
 your little boy ? Allegra is growing, and has increased 
 in good looks and obstinacy." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 « Ravenna, April 18, 1820. 
 "1 have caused write to Siri and Willhalm to send with 
 Vincenza, in a boat, the camp-beds and swords lefl in 
 ^heir care when I quitted Venice. There are also seve- 
 ral pounds of Manton's best powder in a japan case ; but 
 unless I felt sure of getting it away from V. without 
 seizure, I won't have it ventured. I can get it in here, by 
 means of an acquaintance in the customs, who has offered | 
 
 "Ravenna, April 23, 1820. 
 
 The proofs don't contain the last stanzas of Canto 
 Second, but end abruptly with the 105th stanza. 
 
 "I told you long ago that the new Cantos+ were not 
 good, and I also told you a reason. Recollect, T do not 
 oblige you to publish them ; you may suppress them, if 
 you like, but I can alter nothing. I have erased the six 
 stanzas about those two impostors, * * * * 
 (which I suppose will give you great pleasure,) but I can 
 do no more. I can neither recast, nor replace ; but I give 
 you leave to put it all into the fire, if you like, or rwt to 
 pubhsh, and I think that 's sufficient. 
 
 " I told you that I wrote on with no good-will — that I 
 had been, not frightened, but hurt by the outcry, and, be- 
 sides, that when I wrote last November, I was ill in body, 
 and in very great distress of mind about some private 
 things of my own ; but you tootdd have it : so I sent it to 
 you, and to make it hghter, cut it in t%vo — but I can't piece 
 it together again. I can't cobble : I must 'either make a 
 spoon or spoil a horn,' — and there 's an end ; for there 's 
 no remeid: but I leave you free will to suppress the 
 whole, if you like it. 
 
 " About the Morgante Maggiore, I won\ have a line 
 omitted. It may circulate, or it may not; but all the 
 criticism on earth sha'n't touch aline, unless it be because 
 it is badly translated. Now you say, and I say, and 
 others say, that the translation is a good one ; and so it 
 shall go to press as it is. Pulci must answer for his own 
 irreligion : I answer for the translation only. 
 
 + + + * + + 
 
 "Pray let Mr. Hobhouse look to the Italian next time 
 in the proofs : this time, while I am scribbling to you, they 
 are corrected by one who passes for the prettiest woman 
 in Romagna, and even the Marches, as far as Ancona, 
 be the other who she may. 
 
 "I am glad you like my answer to your inquiries about 
 Italian society. It is fit you should Uke something, and 
 be d — d to you. 
 
 "My love to Scott. I shall think higher of knighthood 
 ever after for his being dubbed. By-the-way, he is the 
 first poet titled for his talent in Britain : it has happened 
 abroad before now ; but on the continent titles are univer- 
 sal and worthless. Why do n't you send me Ivanhoe and 
 the Monastery ? I have never written to Sir Walter, for 
 
LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 153 
 
 I know he has a thousand things, and I a thousand nothings, 
 to do ; but I hope to see Mm at Abbotsford before very 
 long, and I will sweat his claret for him, though Itahan 
 abstemiousness has made my brain but a shilpit concern 
 for a Scotch sitting 'inter pocula.' * I love Scott, and 
 Moore, and all the better brethren ; but T hate and abhor 
 that puddle of water- worms whom you have taken into 
 your troop. 
 
 " Yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. You say that one-half is very good: you are 
 wrong; for, if it were, it would be the finest poem in exist- 
 ence. Where is tlie poetry of which otie-half is good ? is 
 it the uSEneid? is k 3Iilton's? is iX Dry dais? is it any 
 one's except Pope^s and Goldsmith's, of wliich all is good? 
 and yet these last two are the poets your pond poets 
 would explode. But if o?ie-/jaZfof the two new Cantos be 
 good in your opinion, what the devil would you have more ? 
 No — no ; no poetry is generally good — only by fits and 
 starts — and you are lucky to get a sparkle here and there. 
 You might as well want a midnight all stars as rhyme all 
 perfect. 
 
 "We are on the verge of a row here. Last night they 
 have ovenvritten all the city v/alls with ' Up with the re- 
 public 1' and ' Death to the Pope ! ' &c. &c. This ^vould 
 be nothing in London, where the walls are pri-vileged. But 
 here it is a different thing: they are not used to such 
 fierce political inscriptions, and the police is all on the 
 alert, and the Cardinal glares pale through all his purple. 
 "April 24th, 1820, 8 o'clock, p. m. 
 
 " The police have been, all noon and after, searching 
 for the inscribers, but have caught none as yet. They 
 must have been all night about it, for the 'Live repubUcs 
 — Death to Popes and Priests,' are innumerable, and 
 plastered over all the palaces : ours has plenty. There is 
 ' Down with the Nobility,' too ; they are down enough al- 
 ready, for that matter. A very heavy rain and wind hav- 
 ing come on, I did not go out and ' skirr the countrv ;' but 
 I shall mount to-morrow, and take a canter among the 
 peasantry, who are a savage, resolute race, always riding 
 with guns in their hands. I wonder they do n't suspect 
 the serenaders, for they play on the guitar here all night, 
 as in Spain, to their mistresses. 
 
 "Talking of pohtics, as Caleb Q,uotem says, pray look 
 at the conditsion of my Ode on Waterloo, written m the year 
 1815, and, comparing it with the Duke de Bern's cata- 
 .strophe in 1820, teU me if I have not as good a right to the 
 character of ' Vates^ in both senses of the word, as Fitz- 
 gerald and Coleridge ? 
 
 ' Crimson tears ■will follow yet — ' 
 and have not they ? 
 
 * I CEUi't pretend to foresee what wall happen among you 
 Englishers at this distance, but I vaticinate a row in Italy; 
 in whilk case, I do n't know that I won't have a finger in it. 
 I dislike the Austrians, and think the ItaUans Infamously 
 oppressed; and if they begin, why, I will recommend 'the 
 erection of a sconce upon Drumsnab,' like Dugald Dal- 
 getty." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXXVL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, May 8, 1820. 
 "From your not having written again, an intention which 
 your letter of the 7th ultimo indicated, I have to presume 
 that the ' Prophecy of Dante ' has not been found more 
 worthy than its predecessors in the eyes of your illustrious 
 S)Tiod. In that case, you will be in some perplexity ; to 
 end which, I repeat to you, that you are not to consider 
 yourself as bound or pledged to pubhsh any thing because 
 it is mine, but aways to act according to your own views, 
 or opinions, or those of your friends ; and to be sure that 
 
 you will in no degree offend me by ' declining the article,' 
 to use a technical phrase. The prose observations on 
 John Wilson's attack,* I do not intend for publication at 
 this time ; and I send a copy of verses to Mr. Kinnaird, 
 (they were written last year on crossing the Po,) f which 
 must not be published either. I mention this, because it 
 is probable he may give you a copy. Pray recollect this, 
 as they are mere verses of society, and written upon pri- 
 vate feelings and passions. And, moreover, I can't con- 
 sent to any mutilations or omissions oi PuLci: the original 
 has been ever free from such in Italy, the capital of Chris- 
 tianity, and the translation may be so in England ; though 
 you will think it strange that they should have allowed 
 such freedom for many centuries to the Morgante, while 
 the other day they confiscated the whole translation of the 
 Fourth Canto of Childe Harold, and have persecuted 
 Leoni, the translator — so he writes me, and so I could 
 have told liim, had he consulted mo before its publication. 
 This shows how much more politics interest men in these 
 pai-ts than religion. Half a dozen invectives against ty- 
 ramiy confiscate Childe Harold in a month ; and eight- 
 and-twenty cantos of quizzing monks and knights, and 
 church government, are let loose for centuries. I copy 
 Leoni's account. 
 
 " 'Non ignorera forse che la mia versione del 4° Canto 
 del Childe Harold fu confiscata in ogni parte : ed io stesso 
 ho dovuto soffrir vessazioni altrettanto ridicole quanto illi- 
 berali, ad arte che alcuni versi fossero esclusi dalla cen- 
 sura. Ma siccome il divieto non fa d'ordinario che ac- 
 crescere la curiosita cosi quel carme suU' Italia e ricercato 
 piu che mai, e penso di farlo ristampare in Inghilterra 
 senza nulla escludere. Sciagurata condizione di questa 
 mia patria ! se patria si pub cliiamare una terra cosi av- 
 vilita dalla fortuna, dagU uomini, da se medesima.' 
 
 "Rose will translate this to you. Has he had his letter ? 
 I enclosed it to you months ago. 
 
 "This intended piece of publication I shall cUssaudehim 
 from, or he may chance to see the inside of St. Angelo's. 
 The last sentence of his letter is the common and pathetic 
 sentiment of all his countr}Tnen. 
 
 " Sir Humphry Davy was here last fortnight, and I was 
 in his company in the house of a very pretty Italian lady of 
 rank, who, by way of displaying her learning in presence 
 of the great chemist, then describing his fourteenth ascen- 
 sion of JNIount Vesuvius, asked 'if there was not a similar 
 volcano in Ireland ? ' My only notion of an Irish volcano 
 consisted of the lake of Killarne}', which I naturally con- 
 ceived her to mean ; but on second thoughts I divined that 
 she alluded to /celand and to Hecia — and so it proved, though 
 she sustained her volcanic topography for some time \vith 
 all the amiable pertinacity of 'the feminie.' She soon 
 after turned to me, and asked me various questions about 
 Sir Humphry's pliilosophy, and I explained as well as an 
 oracle his skill in gasen safety lamps, and ungluing the 
 Pompeian MSS. 'But what do you call bun ?' said she. 
 ' A great chemist,' quoth I. ' What can he do ?' repeated 
 the lady. 'Almost any thing,' said I. 'Oh, then, mio 
 caro, do pray beg him to give me something to dye my 
 eyebrows black. I have tried a thousand things, and the 
 colours all come off; and besides, they do n't grow : can't 
 he mvent something to make them grow ?' AU this with 
 the greatest earnesmess ; and what you will be surprised 
 at, she is neither ignorant nor a fool, but really well edu- 
 cated and clever. But they speak hke children, when first 
 out of their convents ; and, after all, tliis is better than an 
 English blue-stocking. 
 
 "I did not tell Sir Humpliry of this last piece of philoso- 
 phy, not knowing how he might take it. Davy was much 
 taken with Ravenna, and the primitive Italianismoixhe 
 people, who are unused to foreigners : but he only stayed a 
 day. 
 
 " Send me Scott's novels and some news. 
 
 • See Beppo, Stanza 76. 
 
 20 
 
 * See letter to the editor of Blackwood's Magazine, page 292. 
 t See Poems, p. 484. 
 
154 
 
 LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 " P. S. i have begun and advanced into the second act of 
 a tragedy on the subject of the Doge's conspiracy, (i. e. the 
 story of Maruio Faliero ;) but my present feeling is so 
 little encouraging on such matters that I begin to think I 
 have mined my talent out, and proceed in no great phan- 
 tasy of iinding a new vein. 
 
 «P. S. I sometimes think (if the Italians do n't rise) 
 of coming over to England in the autumn after the corona- 
 tion, (at which I would not appear on account of my family 
 schism,) but as yet I can decide nothing. The place 
 must be a great deal changed since I left it, now more 
 than four years ago." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXXVIl. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, May 20, 1820. 
 
 "Murray, my dear, make my respects to Thomas 
 Campbell,* and tell him from me, v\ath faith and friend- 
 ship, three things that he must right in his poets : Firstly, 
 he says Anstey's Bath Guide characters are taken from 
 Smollett. 'T is impossible : — the Guide was published 
 ml766, and Humphrey Clinker in 1771 — dunqiie, 't is 
 Smollett who has taken from Anstey. Secondly, he does 
 not know to whom Cowper alludes when he says diat 
 there was one who ' built a church to God, and then blas- 
 phemed liis name :' it was ' Deo erexit Voltcare^ to whom 
 that maniacal Calvinist and coddled poet alludes. Third- 
 ly, he misquotes and spoils a passage from Shakspeare, 
 *lo gild refined gold, to paint the lily,' &c. ; for U{y he puts 
 rose, and bedevils in more words than one the whole quo- 
 tation. 
 
 " Now, Tom is a fine fellow ; but he should be correct : 
 for the first is an injustice, (to Anstey,) the second an 
 igTwrcaice, and the third a blunder. Tell him all this, and 
 Jet him take it in good part ; for I might have rammed it 
 "mlo a review and rowed liim — instead of which, I act like 
 a Christian. " Yours, &,c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXXVm. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, May 20, 1820. 
 
 "First and foremost, you must forward my letter to 
 Moore dated 2c^ January, which I said you might open, 
 but desired you to forward. Now, you should really not 
 forget these little things, because they do mischief among 
 friends. You are an excellent man, a great man, and live 
 among great men, but do pray recollect your absent fliends 
 and authors. 
 
 " In the first place, your packets ; then a letter from 
 Kinnaird, on the most urgent business ; another from 
 Moore, about a commimication to Lady ByTon of import- 
 ance ; a fourdi from the mother of Allegra; and fifthly, at 
 Ravenna, the Contessa G. is on the eve of being divorced. 
 — But the Italian public are on our side, particularly the 
 women, — and the men also, because they say that he had 
 no business to take the business up now after a year of 
 toleration. All her relations (who are numerous, high 
 m rank, and powerful) are furious against him for his 
 conduct. I am warned to be on my guard, as he is verv ca- 
 pable of employing «cam — this is Latin as well as Italian, 
 so you can understand it ; but I have arms, and do n't mind 
 them, thinking that I could pepper his ragamuffins, if they 
 do n't come unawares, and that if they do, one may as well 
 end that way as another ; and it would besides serve you 
 as an advertisement. 
 
 ' Man may "scapp from rope or gun, &c. 
 
 But he who takes woman, woman, woman,' &c. 
 
 "Yours." 
 
 " P. S. I have looked over the press, but heaven knows 
 how. Think what I have on hand, and the post going 
 out to-morrow. Do you remember the epitaph on Vol- 
 taire? 
 
 ' Ci-git "'enfant gSitfe,' &c. 
 
 * Here lies the spoil 'd child 
 Of the world which he spoil'd,' 
 
 The original is in Grimm and Diderot, &c. &c. &c. 
 
 LETTER CCCCXXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 See Don Juan, Canto V. Note 9. 
 
 "Ravenna, May 24, 1820. 
 " I wrote to you a few days ago. There is also a letter 
 of January last for you at Murray's which will explain to 
 3'ou why I am here. Murray ought to have forwarded 
 it long ago. I enclose you an epistle from a country- 
 woman of yours at Paris, which has moved my entrails. 
 You will have the goodness, perhaps, to inquire into the 
 truth of her story, and I will help her as far as I can, — 
 though not in the useless way she proposes. Pier letter 
 is evidently unstudied, and so natural, that the orthography 
 is also in a state of nature. 
 
 " Here is a poor creature, ill and solitary, who thinks, 
 as a last resource, of translating you or me mto French ! 
 Was there ever such a notion ? It seems to me the con- 
 summation of despair. Pray inquire, and let me know, 
 and, if you could draw a biU on me here for a few hundred 
 francs, at your banker's, I will duly honour it, — that is, if 
 she is not an impostor. If not, let me know, that I may get 
 something remitted by my banker Longhi, of Bologna, for 
 I have no correspondence, myself, at Paris ; but tell her 
 she must not translate; — if she does, it will be the height 
 of ingratitude. 
 
 'T had a letter (not of the same kind, but in French and 
 flatter}') from a Madame Sophie Gail, of Paris, whom I 
 take to be the spouse of a Gallo-Greek of that name. 
 Who is she ? and what is she ? and how came she to take 
 an interest in my poeshie or its author ? If you know her 
 tell her, with my compliments, that, as I only read French, 
 I have not answered her letter ; but would have done so in 
 Italian, if I had not thought it would look hke an affecta- 
 tion. I have just been scolding my monkey for tearin<^ the 
 seal of her letter, and spoiling a mock book, in which I put 
 rose leaves. I had a civet-cat the other day, too ; but it 
 ran away after scratching my monkey's cheek, and I am 
 in search of it still. It was the fiercest beast I ever saw 
 and like * * in the face and manner. 
 
 "I have a world of things to say; but as they are not 
 come to a denouement, 1 do n't care to begin their history 
 till it is wound up. After you went I had a fever, but got 
 well again without bark. Sir Humphry Davy was here 
 the other day, and lilced Ravenna very much. He will tell 
 you any thing you may wish to know about the place and 
 your humble servitor. 
 
 "Your apprehensions (arising from Scott's) were un- 
 founded. There are no damages in this country, but there 
 will probably be a separation between them, as her family 
 which is a principal one, by its connexions, are very much 
 against Mm, for the whole of his conduct ; — and he is old 
 and obstinate, and she is young and a woman, determined 
 to sacrifice every thing to her afFections. I have given her 
 the best advice, viz. to stay with him, — pointing out the 
 state of a separated woman, (for the priests won't let lovers 
 live openly together, unless the husband sanctions it,) and 
 making the most exquisite moral reflections,— but to no 
 purpose. She says, ' I vviU stay with him, if he will let you 
 remain with me. It is hard that I should be the only wo- 
 man in Romagna who is not to have her Amico ; but, if 
 not, I will not live with him ; and as for the consequences, 
 love, &c. &c. &c. —you know how females reason on such 
 occasions. 
 
LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 155 
 
 *He says he has let it go on, till he can do so no longer. 
 But he wants her to stay, and dismiss me ; for he does n't 
 like to pay back her dowry and to make an alimony. Her 
 relations are rather for the separation, as they detest him, 
 — indeed, so does every body. The populace and the 
 Women are, as usual, all for those who are in the wrong, 
 viz. the lady and her lover. I should have retreated, but 
 honour, and an erysipelas which has attacked her, prevent 
 me, — to say nothing of love, for I love her most entirely, 
 thougli not enough to persuade her to sacrifice every thing 
 to a phrensy. ' I see how it will end 5 she will be the six- 
 teenth Mrs. Shuffleton.' 
 
 " My paper is finished, and so must this letter. 
 
 "Yours ever, « B. 
 
 " P. S. I regret that you have not completed the Itahan 
 Fudges. Pray, how come you to be still in Paris ? 
 Murray has four or five things of mine m hand — the new 
 Don Juan, which his back-shop synod do n't admire ; — a 
 translation of the first Canto of Pulci's Morgante Maggiore, 
 excellent ; — a short ditto from Dante, not so much approv- 
 ed ; — the Prophecy of Dante, very grand and worthy, &c. 
 &c. &c. : — a furious prose answer to Blackv.'ood's Obser- 
 vations on Don Juan, with a savage Defence of Pope — 
 likely to make a row. The opinions above I quote from 
 Murray and his Utican senate ; — ^you will form your own, 
 when you see the things. 
 
 "You will have no great chance of seeing me, for I 
 begin to think 1 must finish in Italy. But, if you come my 
 way, you shall have a tureen of macaroni. Pray tell me 
 about yourself and your intents. 
 
 "My trustees are going to lend Earl Blessington sixty 
 tliousand pounds (at six per cent.) on a Dublin mortgage. 
 Only think of my becoming an Irish absentee !" 
 
 LETTER CCCCXL. 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 "Ravenna, May 25, 1830. 
 
 "A German named Ruppsecht has sent me, heaven 
 knows why, several Deutsche Gazettes, of all which I 
 understand neither word nor letter. I have sent you the 
 enclosed to beg you to translate to me some remarks, 
 which appear to be Goethe's upon Manfred — and if I may 
 judge hy two notes o{ admiration (generally put after some- 
 thing ridiculous by us), and the word ' hypocondrischj' are 
 any thing but favourable. I shall regret this, for I should 
 have been proud of Goethe's good word ; but I sha'n't alter 
 my opinion of him, even though he should be savage. 
 
 " Will you excuse this trouble, and do me this favour ? 
 — Never mmd — soften nothing — I am hterary proof- 
 having had good and evil said in most modern languages. 
 " Believe me, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXLI. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Ravenna, June 1820. 
 «I have received a Parisian letter from W. W. which 
 I prefer answering through you, if that worthy be still at 
 Paris, and, as he says, an occasional visiter of yours. In 
 November last he wrote to me a well-meaning letter, 
 stating, for some reasons of his own, his beUef that a re- 
 union might be effected between Lady B. and myself. 
 To this I answered as usual ; and he sent me a second 
 letter, repeating his notions, which letter I have never an- 
 swered, having had a thousand other things to think of. 
 He now writes as if he beUeved that he had offended me, 
 by touching on the topic ; and I wish you to assure him 
 that I am not at all so, — ^but, on the contrary, obliged by 
 his good-nature. At the same time acquaint him the 
 thing is impossible. You knoio tMs, as well as I, — and 
 there let it end. 
 
 " I believe that I showed you his epistle in autumn last. 
 He asks me if I have heard o^mi/ 'laureate' at Paris,* — 
 somebody who has written ' a most sanguinary Epitre' 
 against me ; but whether in French, or Dutch, or on what 
 score, I know not, and he don't say, — except that (for my 
 satisfaction) he says it is the best thing in the fellow's 
 volume. If there is any thmg of the kind that I ought to 
 know, you will doubtless tell me. I suppose it to be some- 
 tliing of the usual sort; — he says, he do n't remember the 
 author's name. 
 
 " I wrote to you some ten days ago, and expect an an- 
 swer at your leisure. 
 
 "The separation business still continues, and all the 
 world are imphcated, including priests and cardinals. The 
 pubUc opinion is furious against him, because he ought to 
 have cut the matter short at first, and not waited twelve 
 months to begin. He has been tiying at evidence, but can 
 get none mffjcient ; for what would make fifty divorces in 
 England won't do here — there must be the most decided 
 proofs. + * * 
 
 "It is the first cause of the kind attempted in Ravenna 
 for these tv/o hundred years ; for, though they often sepa- 
 rate, they assign a different motive. You know that the 
 continental incontinent are more delicate than the Eng- 
 lish, and do n't like proclaiming their coronation in a court, 
 even when nobody doubts it. 
 
 "All her relations are furious against him. The father 
 has challenged him — a superfluous valour, for he do n't 
 fight, though suspected of two assassinations — one of the 
 famous Monzoni of Forli. Warning was given me not to 
 take such long rides in the Pine Forest without being on 
 my guard ; so I take my stiletto and a pair of pistols in my 
 pocket during my daily rides. 
 
 "I won't stir from this place till the matter is settled one 
 way or the other. She is as femininely firm as possible ; 
 and the opinion is so much against him, that the advocates 
 decline to undertake his cause, because they say that he 
 is either a fool or a rogue — fool, if he did not discover the 
 liaison till now ; and rogue, if he did know it, and waited, 
 for some bad end, to divulge it. In short, there has been 
 nothing like it since the days of Guido di Polenta's family, 
 in these parts. 
 
 " If the man has me taken off, like Polonius, ' say he 
 made a good end' — ^for a melodrame. The principal se- 
 curity is, that he has not the courage to spend twenty 
 scudi — the average price of a clean-handed bravf>— other- 
 v/ise there is no want of opportunity, for I ride about the 
 woods every evening, with one servant, and sometimes an 
 acquaintance, who latterly looks a htde queer in sohtary 
 bits of bushes. 
 
 "Good-by. — Write to yours ever, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXLH. 
 
 TC MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Ravenna, June 7, 1820. 
 "Enclosed is something which will mterest you, to 
 wit, the opinion of the greatest man of Germany — per- 
 haps of Europe — upon one of the great men of your adver- 
 tisements (all 'famous hands,' as Jacob Tonson used to 
 say of his ragamuffins) — in short, a critique of Go'ethe^s 
 upon Manfred. There is the original, an English trans- 
 lation, and an Italian one ; keep them all in your archives, 
 for the opinions of such a man as Goethe, whether favour 
 able or not, are always interesting — and this is more so, as 
 favourable. His Faust I never read, for I do n't know 
 German \ but Matthew Monlc Lewis, m 1816, at Cohgny, 
 translated most of it to me viva voce, and I was naturally 
 much struck with it ; but it was the Steinhach and the 
 Jungfrau, and something else, much more than Faustus, 
 
156 
 
 LETTERS, 1S20. 
 
 that made me write Manfred. The first scene, however, 
 and tliat of Faustus, are very similar Acknowledge this 
 letter. " Yours ever. 
 
 * P. S. I have received Ivanhoe ; — good. Pray send me 
 some tooth-powder and tincture of myrrh, by IVaite, &c. 
 Ricciardelto should have been translated Uteraliy, or not at 
 all. As to puffing JVhistlecraJi, it won't do. I '11 tell you 
 why some day or other. Cornwall's a poet, but spoiled by 
 the detestable schools of the day. Mrs. Hemans is a 
 poet also, but too stiltiiied and apostrophic, — and quite 
 wrong. Men died calmly before the Christian era, and 
 since, without Christianity: witness the Romans, and, 
 lately, Thistlewood, Sandt, and Level — men wJio ought to 
 have been weighed down with their crimes, even had they be- 
 lieved. A death-bed is a matter of nerves and constitu- 
 tion, and not of rehgion. Voltaire was frightened, Frede- 
 rick of Prussia not : Christians the same, according to their 
 strentfth rather than their creed. What does H * * H * * 
 mean by his stanza ? which is octave got drunk or gone 
 mad. He ought to have his ears boxed with Thor's ham 
 mer for rhyming so fantastically." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXLllI. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Ravenna, June 9, 1820 
 
 "Galignani has just sent me the Paris edition of your 
 works, (which I wrote to order,) and I am glad to see my 
 old friends wth a French face. I have been slamming and 
 dipping, in and over them, like a swallow, and as pleased as 
 one. It is the first time thati had seen the Melodies without 
 music ; and, I do n't Imow how, but I can't read in 
 music-book — tlie crotchets confound the words in my 
 head, thougli I recollect diem perfectly when sung. Music 
 assists my memory through the ear, not through the eye ; 
 I mean, that her quavers perplex me upon paper, but tliey 
 are a help when heard. And thus I was glad to see the 
 words without their borrowed robes ; — to my mind they 
 look none the worse for their nudity. 
 
 " The biographer has made a botch of your life — call 
 ing your father ' a venerable old gentleman,' and prattling 
 of 'Addison,' and 'dowager countesses.' If that damned 
 fellow was to write my life, I would certainly take his. 
 And tlien, at the Dublin dinner, you have ' made a speech,' 
 (do you recollect, at Douglas K.'s, ' Sir, he made me a 
 speech?') too complimentary to the 'living poets,' and 
 somewhat redolent of universal praise. / am but too 
 wellofi'mitjbut + * * * 
 
 * * + + +_ 
 
 " You have not sent me any poetical or personal news 
 of yourself. "Why do n't you complete an Italian Tour of 
 the Fudges ? I have just been turning over Little, which 
 I knew by heart in 1803, being then in my fifteenth sum- 
 mer. Heigho ! I believe all the mischief I have ever 
 done, or sung, has been owing to that confotmded book 
 of yours. 
 
 "In my last I told you of a cargo of 'Poeshie,' which I 
 had sent to M. at his own impatient desire ; — and, now 
 he has got it, he do n't like it, and demurs. Perhaps he is 
 right. I have no great opinion of any of my last ship- 
 ment, except a translation from Pulci, which is word for 
 word, and verse for verse. 
 
 " I am in the Third Act of a Tragedy ; but whether it 
 will be finished or not, I know not: I have, at this pre- 
 sent, too many passions of my own on hand to do justice 
 to those of the dead. Besides the vexations mentioned 
 in my last, I have incurred a quarrel with the Pope's 
 carabiniers, or gens-d"armerie, who have petitioned the 
 Cardinal against my liveries, as resembling too nearly 
 their own lousy uniform. They particularly object to 
 the epaulettes, which all the world with us have upon 
 gala days. My liveries are of the colours conforming to my 
 arms, and have been the family hue since the year 1066. 
 
 "I have sent a tranchont reply, as you may suppose ; 
 and have given to understand that, if any soldados of that 
 respectable coips insult my servants, I will do likewise 
 by their gallant commanders; and I have directed my 
 ragamuffins, six in number, who are tolerably savage, to 
 defend themselves, in case of aggression ; and, on holy- 
 days and eaudy days, I shall arm the whole set, including 
 myself, incase of accidents or treachery. I used to play 
 pretty well at the broadsword, once upon a time, at 
 Angelo's ; but I should like the pistol, our national buc- 
 caneer weapon, better, though I am out of practice at 
 present. However, I can 'wink and hold out mine iron.' 
 It makes me think (the whole thing does) of Romeo and 
 Juliet — ' now, Gregoi-v, remember thy smashing blow.' 
 
 "All these feuds, however, with the Cavalier for his 
 wife, and the troopers for my liveries, are very tiresome 
 to a quiet man, who does his best to please all the world, 
 and longs for fellowship and good-will. Pray write. 
 
 " I am yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXLIV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Ravenna, July 13. 1820. 
 
 " To remove or increase your Irish anxiety about my 
 being ' in a whisp,'* I answer your letter forthwith ; pre- 
 mising tliat, as I am a ' Will of the wisp.' I may chance to 
 flit out of it. But, first, a word on the Memoir ; — I have 
 no objection, nay, I would rather that one correct copy 
 was taken and deposited in honourable hands, in case of 
 accidents happening to the original ; for you Imow that I 
 have none, and have never even re-read, nor, indeed, read 
 at all what is there written ; I only know that I •wTote 
 it with the fullest intention to be 'faithful and true' in my 
 narrative, but not impartial — no, by the Lord ! I can't pre- 
 tend to be dial, while I feel. But I wish to give every 
 body concerned the opportunity to contradict or correct me. 
 
 " I have no objection to any proper person seeing what 
 is tliere %vritten, — seeing it was written, like every thing 
 else, for the purpose of being read, however much many 
 writings may fail in arriving at that object. 
 
 " With regard to ' the whisp,' the Pope has pronounced 
 their separation. The decree came yesterday from Baby- 
 lon, — it was sJie and her friends who demanded it, on the 
 grotmds of her husband's (the noble Count Cavaher's) 
 extraordinary usage. He opposed it with all his might, 
 because of the alimony, which has been assigned, with all 
 her goods, chattels, carriage, &c. to be restored by him. 
 In Italy they can't divorce. He insisted on her giving 
 me up, and he would forgive every thing, — even the adul- 
 tery which he swears that he can prove by ' famous wit- 
 nesses.' But, in this country, the very courts hold such 
 proofs in abhorrence, tlie Italians being as much more 
 delicate in public than the EngUsh, as they are more 
 passionate in private. 
 
 " The friends and relatives, who are numerous and 
 powerful reply to him — ' You yourself are either fool or 
 knave, — foot if you did not see the consequences of the 
 approximation of these two young persons, — knave, if 
 you connive at it. Take your choice, — but do n't break 
 out (after twelve months of the closest intunacv, under 
 your ovsTi eyes and positive sanction) with a scandal, 
 which can only make you ridiculous and her unhappy.' 
 
 " He swore that he thought our intercourse was purely 
 amicable, and that /was more partial to him than to her, 
 till melancholy testimony proved the contrary. To this 
 they answer, that ' Will of this wisp' was not an unknown 
 person, and that ' clamosa Fama' had not proclaimed the 
 purity of my morals ; — that her brother, a year ago, wrote 
 from Rome to warn him, that his \\ife would infallibly 
 be led astray by this ignis fatuus, unless he took proper 
 measures, all of which he neglected to take, &c. &c. 
 
 * All liisli phrase for being in a scrape. 
 
LETTERS, mo. 
 
 157 
 
 "Now. he says, that he encouraged my return to 
 Ravenna, to see ' in quantipiedi di acqua aamo^ and he 
 has found enough to drown him in. In shcwt, 
 
 ' Ce ne fut pas le lont ; sa fenune seplaisnit — 
 Proci — La jarentes se joinl en excuse et dit 
 Qjie da Docleur Tenoit toat le maavais vakazsz ; 
 &ae cet homme kxoit foo, que sa femms 6toit sage. 
 
 On St casser le Esariaige.' 
 
 It is but to let the women alone, in the way of conflict, 
 
 f<w they are sure to win against the field. She returns 
 
 to her father's house, and I can only see her under great 
 
 restrictions — such is the custom of the country. The 
 
 relations behaved verv well;— I offered anv settle- j ^"^^^ "^ ^^^^™P^ t*' *^ter the government, by what 
 
 ment, but they refused to accept it, and swear she dm n't f^^'^^ ^al^^ ^ judgment on him for, many years before, 
 
 live widi G. (as he has tried to prove her faithless.) but '"^^^^ Podesta and Captain of Treviso.) having knocked 
 
 that he shall maintain her ; and, in fact, a judgment to i ^^"^ ^ bishop, who was sluggish in carrying the host at 
 
 this effect came vesterdav. I am. of course, in an awk- 
 
 foUowed. Dr. IMoore's account is in some respects falsej 
 and in all foolish and flippant. None of the chronicles 
 (and I have consulted Sanuto, Sandi, Xavagero, and am 
 anon}-mous Siege of Zara, besides the histories of Lau- 
 gier, Daru, Sismondi, &c.) state, or even hint, that he 
 begged his life ; they merely say that he did not deny 
 the conspiracy. He was cme of their great men, — com- 
 mander at the siege of Zara, — beat 80,000 Him^arians, 
 killing 8000, and at the same time kept the town he was 
 besieging in order, — tocdi Capo dlstria, — ^was ambassa- 
 dor at Genoa, Rome, and finally Dose, where he fell foi 
 
 ward simation enough. 
 
 " I have heard no more of the carabiniers viho protested 
 against my liveries. They are not popular, those same 
 soldiers, and, in a small row, the other ni^ht one was 
 slain, another wounded, and divers put to flight, by some 
 of the Romagnuole youth, who are dexterous, and some- 
 what liberal of the knife. The perpetrators are not 
 discovered, but I hope and believe that none of my raga- 
 muffins were in it, though they are somewhat savage, 
 and secretly armed, like most of the inhabitants. It is 
 their way, and saves sometimes a good deal of litigation. 
 
 " There is a revolution at Naples, If so, it will pro- 
 bably leave a card at Ravenna in its way to Lombardy. 
 
 "Your publishers seem to have used you like mine. 
 Murray has shuffled, and almost insinuated that my last 
 productions are dull. Dull, sir I — damme, dull I I believe 
 he is right. He begs for the completion of my tragedy 
 <m Marino Faliero, none of which is yet gone to England. 
 The fifth act is nearly completed, but it is dreadfully long 
 —40 sheets of long paper, 4 pages eaich — about 150 when 
 printed ; but 'so Ml of pastime and prodigality* that I 
 think it will do. 
 
 "Pray send and pubhsh your Poem upon me: and 
 don't be afraid of praising me too highly. I shall pocket 
 my blokes. 
 
 « * Not actionable V—Chantre <£enfer .'*— by * * that 's 
 •a speech,' and I won't put up with it. A pretty title 
 to give a man for doubting if there be any such place ! 
 
 "So my Gail is gone — and ZSIiss ^lahony won't take 
 moaej. 1 am very glad of it — I like to be generous fi-ee 
 of expense. But beg her not to translate me. 
 
 " Oh, prav tell Galignani that I shall send him a screed 
 of doctrine if he do n't be more ptmctual. Somebody 
 regularly deUuns two. and sometimes four, of his messen- 
 gers by the way. Do, pray, entreat him to be more 
 precise. News are worth money in this remote kingdom 
 of the Ostrogoths. 
 
 "Prav, reply. I should like much to share some of 
 your Champagne and La Fitte, but I am too Italian for 
 Paris in general. ZNIake Murray send my letter to you 
 — ^it is fiiii of epigrams . Tours. &c ." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXLV. 
 
 TO MR, MTJRRAr. 
 
 " Ravenna, July 17, 1S20. 
 
 ■I have received some bodis, and Q,uarterlies, and 
 Edinburshs, for all which I am grateful ; they contain 
 all I know of England except by Galignani's newspaper. 
 
 " The Trasedyt is completed, but now comes the task 
 of copy and correction. It is very long, (42 &keds of long 
 paper, of four pages each.) and I believe must make more 
 Jian 140 or 150 pages, besides many historical extracts 
 as notes, which I mean to append. History is closely 
 
 • The liile eiven him by M. Lamaiiioe, in one of bis PoemB. 
 
 Marino Faliero. 
 
 a procession. He 'saddles him,' as Thwackum did 
 Square, 'with a judgment:' but he does not mention 
 whether he had been punished at the time for what 
 would appear very strange, even now, and must have been 
 sliE more so in an age of papal power and slory. Sa- 
 nuto says, that Heaven toc4£ away his senses for this 
 buffet, and induced him to conspire. « Pero fii permesso 
 che il Faliero perdette i" intelletto,' &c. 
 
 " I do not know what your parlour-boarders will think 
 of the Drama I have founded upon this extraordinary 
 event. The only similar one in history is the storv of Agis, 
 King of Sparta, a prince, vnih the commons against tlie 
 aristocracy, and losing his Ufe therefor. But it shall be 
 sent when copied. 
 
 '•■ I should be glad to know why your Cluarterin^ Re- 
 viewers^ at the close of ' the FaD of Jerusalem,' accuse me 
 of ZNIanicheism ? a compliment to which the s^veetener of 
 ' one of the mightiest spirits' bv no means reconciles me. 
 The Poem they review is very noble : but could they not 
 do justice to the %\Titer without converting him into mv 
 rehgious antidote ? I am not a Manichean. nor an Any- 
 chean. I should hke to know what harm mv ' poeshies' 
 have done ? I can't tell what people mean bv making me 
 a hobgoblin." 
 
 ***** 
 
 LETTER CCCCXLVI. 
 
 TO Mil. MURRAT. 
 
 = Ravenna. August 31, 1820. 
 
 "I have ^pxd my sout into the tragedy, (as you if it:) 
 but you know that there are d — d sotils as well as trage- 
 dies. Recollect that it is not a political plav, though it 
 may look like it : it is strictly historical. Read the history 
 and judge. 
 
 " Ada's picture is her mothers. I am glad of it — the 
 mother made a good daughter. Send me Giffords opi- 
 nion, and never mind the Archbishop. I can neither send 
 you away, nor give you a hundred pistoles, nc«- a better 
 taste : I send you a tragedy, and you asked for ' facetious 
 episties f a little like your predecessor, who advised Dr. 
 Prideaux to 'put some more himiour into his Life of Ma- 
 homet.' 
 
 " Bankes is a wonderful fellow. There is hardly one of 
 my school or college contemporaries that has not turned 
 out more or less celebrated. PeeL Palmerston, Bankes. 
 Hobhouse, Tavistock. Bob MiDs, Douglas Kinnaird, &c. 
 &c. have all talked and been talked about. 
 
 ***** 
 
 "We are here going to fight a Uttle next month, if the 
 Huns don't cross the Po. and probably if they do. I can't 
 say more now. If anv thing happens, you have matter for 
 a posthumous work in ZNIS. : so pray be civil. Depend 
 upon it, there will be savage work, if once they begin here. 
 The French courage proceeds from vanity, the German 
 from phlegm, the Turkish from fanaticism and opium, the 
 Spanish fix)m pride, the English from coolness, the Dutch 
 fi-om obstinacy, the Russian from insensibility, but the Ita- 
 lian from cm^er ; sd you "fl see that they vsiH spare nothing."" 
 
158 
 
 LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 LETTER CCCCXLVn. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Ravenna, August 31, 1820. 
 
 "D — n your 'mezzo cammin'* — you should say 'the 
 prime of life,' a much more consolatory phrase. Besides, 
 it is not conect. I was born in 1788, and consequently 
 am but tliirty-two. You are mistaken on another point. 
 The ' Sequin Box' never came into requisition, nor is it 
 likely to do so. It were better that it had, for then a man 
 is not bound, you know. As to reform, I did reform — what 
 would you have ? 'Rebellion lay in his way, and he found 
 It.' I verily believe that nor you, nor any man of poetical 
 temperament, can avoid a strong passion of some kind. It 
 is the poetry of life. What should I have known or v«-it- 
 ten, had I been a quiet, mercantile politician, or a lord in 
 waiting? A man must travel and turmoil, or there is no 
 existence. Besides, I only meant to be a Cavaher Ser- 
 vente, and had no idea it would turn out a romance, in the 
 Anglo fashion. 
 
 "However, I suspect I know a thing or two of Italy — 
 more than Lady Morgan has picked up in her posting. 
 What do Englishmen know of Italians beyond their mu- 
 seums and saloons — and some hack * *, en passant ? Now, 
 I have lived in the heart of their houses, in parts of Italy 
 freshest and least influenced by strangers, — have seen and 
 become (pars magna fui) a portion of their hopes, and 
 fears, and [lassions, and am almost inoculated into a fa- 
 mily. This is to see men and things as they are. 
 
 " You say that I called you ' quiet'f — I do n't recollect 
 any thing of the sort. On the contrary you are always in 
 scrapes. 
 
 " What think you of the Q,ueen ? I hear Mr. Hoby 
 says, ' that it makes him weep to see her, she reminds him 
 so much of Jane Shore.' 
 
 " Mr. Hoby the bootmaker's heart is quite sore, 
 For seeing theGlueen makes him think of Jane Shore ; 
 And, in fact, • « • * * « 
 
 Pray, excuse this ribaldry. What is your Poem about? 
 Write and tell me all about it and you. 
 
 * Yours, &c. 
 "P. S. Did you write the lively quiz on Peter Bell? It 
 has wit enough to be yours, and almost too much to be 
 any body else's now going. It was in Galignani the other 
 day or week." 
 
 pies, all Italy will be behind them. The dogs — the wolves 
 — may they perish like the host of Sennacherib! If you 
 want to publish the Prophecy of Dante, you never will 
 have a better time." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXLIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, Sept. 11, 1820. 
 
 " Here is another historical note for you. I want to be 
 as near truth as the Drama can be. 
 
 "Last post I sent you a note fierce asPaliero himself* 
 in answer to a trashy tourist, who pretends that he could 
 have been introduced to me. Let me have a proof of it, 
 that I may cut its lava into some shape. 
 
 " What Gilford says is very consolatory, (of the First 
 Act.) English, sterling genuine English, is a desideratum 
 among you, and I am glad that I have got so much left ; 
 though Heaven knows how I retain it : I hear none but 
 from my valet, and his is Nottinghamshire ; and I see none 
 but in your new publications, and theirs is no language at 
 all, but jargon. Even your + * + + is terribly stilted and 
 affected, with ' vert/, very' so soft and pamby. 
 
 " Oh ! if ever I do come among you again, I will give 
 you such a ' Baviad and Maeviad I' not as good as the old, 
 but even better merited. There never was such a set as 
 your ragamuffins, (I mean no« yours only, but every body's.) 
 What with the Cockney's, and the Lakers, and the/oUot«- 
 exs of Scott, and Moore, and Byron, you are in the very 
 uttermost decline and degradation of literature. I can't 
 think of it without all the remorse of a murderer. 
 that Johnson were alive again to crush them !" 
 
 I wish 
 
 LETTER CCCCXLVIIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, September 7, 1820. 
 
 " In correcting the proofs you must refer to the manu- 
 script, because there are in it various readings. Pray at- 
 tend to this, and choose what Gilford thinks best. Let me 
 hear what he thinks of the whole. 
 
 " You speak of Lady **'s illness: she is not of those 
 who die : — the amiable only do ; and those whose death 
 would do good live. Whenever she is pleased to return. 
 It may be presumed she will take her 'divining rod' alonw 
 wdth her : it may be of use to her at home, as well as to 
 the ' rich man' of the Evangelists. 
 
 "Pray do not let the papers paragraph me back to Eng- 
 land. They may say what they please, any loathsome 
 abuse but that. Contradict it. 
 
 "My last letters will have taught you to expect an ex- 
 plosion here: it was primed and loaded, but they hesitated 
 to fire the train. One of the cities shirked from the league. 
 I canriot write more at large for a thousand reasons. Our 
 'puir hill folk' oflfered to strike, and raise the first banner, 
 but Bologna paused ; and now 'tis autumn, and the sea- 
 son half over. 'O Jerusalem! Jerusalem !' The Huns are 
 on the Po ; but if once they pass it on their way to Na- 
 
 LETTER CCCCL. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, Sept. 14, 1820. 
 
 "What! not a line ? Well, have it in your own way. 
 
 " I wish you would inform Perry that his stupid para- 
 graph is the cause of all my newspapers being stopped in 
 Paris.f The fools believe me in your infernal country, and 
 have not sent on their gazettes, so that I know nothing of 
 your beastly trial of the Ctueen. 
 
 " I cannot avail myself of Mr. GifTord's remarks, bo- 
 cause I have received none, except on the first act. 
 
 "Yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. Do, pray, beg the editors of papers to say any 
 thing blackguard they please ; but not to put me among 
 tlieir arrivals. They do me more mischief by such non- 
 sense than all their abuse can do." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 * I had congratulated him upon arriving at what Dante calls the " mez- 
 10 cammin" of life, the age of ihirty-three. 
 t I had mistaken the concluding words of his letter of the 9th of June. I 
 
 Moore, ' 
 
 "Ravenna, Sept. 21, 1820. 
 " So you are at your old tricks again. This is the se- 
 cond packet I have received unaccompanied by a single 
 line of good, bad, or indifferent. It is strange that you have 
 never forwarded any farther observations of GifTord's. How 
 am I to alter or amend, if I hear no farther? or does this 
 silence mean that it is well enough as it is, or too bad to 
 be repaired ? if the last, why do you not say so at once, 
 instead of playing pretty, while you know that soon or late 
 you must out with the truth. 
 
 "Yours, &c. 
 P. S. My sister tells me, that you sent to her to in- 
 quire where I was, believing in my arrival, ^driving a cur- 
 
 * See notes to Marino Faliero. 
 
 t It had been reported that he had arrived in London to attend the 
 •iueen's trial. 
 
LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 159 
 
 ricle,^ &c. &c. into Palace-yard. Do you think me a cox- 
 comb or a madman, to be capable of such an exhibition? 
 My sister knew me better, and told you, that could not be 
 me. You might as well have thought me entering on ' a 
 pale horse,' like Death in the Revelations." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Ravenna,Sept. 23, 1820 
 " Get from Mr. Hobhouse, and send me a proof (with 
 the Latin) of my Hints from Horace : it has now the 
 nonum premature in annum complete for its production, 
 being written at Athens m 1811. I have a notion that, 
 with some omissions of names and passages, it will do ; 
 and I could put my late observations for Pope among the 
 notes, with the date of 1820, and so on. As far as versifi- 
 cation goes, it is good ; and on looking back to what I 
 wrote about that period, I am astonished to see how little 
 I have trained on. I wrote better then than now ; but 
 that comes of my having fallen into the atrocious bad 
 taste of the times. If 1 can trim it for present publica- 
 tion, what with the other things you have of mine, you 
 will have a volume or two of variety at least, for there will 
 be all measures, styles, and topics, whether good or no. 
 I am anxious to hear what GifTord thinks of the tragedy ; 
 pray let me know. I really do not know what to think 
 myself. 
 
 "If the Germans pass the Po, they will be treated to a 
 mass out of the Cardinal de Retz's Breviary. * * 's a 
 fool, and could not understand this : Frere will. It is as 
 pretty a conceit as you would wish to see on a summer's 
 day. 
 
 "Nobody here believes a word of the evidence against 
 the Q,ueen. The very mob cry shame against their 
 countrymen, and say that for half the money spent upon 
 the trial, any testimony whatever may be brought out of 
 Italy. This you may rely upon as fact. 1 told you as 
 much before. As to what travellers report, what are tra- 
 vellers? Now I have lived among the Italians — not 
 Fiorenced, and Romed, and galleried, and conversationed 
 it for a few months, and then home again ; but been of 
 their families, and friendships, and feuds, and loves, and 
 councils, and correspondence, in a part of Italy least 
 known to foreigners, — and have been among them of all 
 classes, from the Conte to the Contadine ; and you may 
 be sure of what I say to you. "Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLin. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, September 28, 1820, 
 " I thought that I had told you long ago, that it* never 
 was intended nor written with any view to the stage. 
 have said so in the preface too. It is too long and too 
 regular for your stage, the persons too few, and the unity 
 too much observed. It is more like a play of Alfieri's 
 than of your stage, (I say this humbly in speaking of that 
 great man ;) but there is poetry, and it is equal to Man^ 
 fred, though I know not what esteem is held of Manfred. 
 
 « I have now been nearly as long om< of England as I 
 was there durmg the time I saw you frequently. I came 
 home July 14lh, 1811, and left agab April 23th, 1816 : so 
 that Sept. 28th, 1820, brings me within a very few months 
 of the same duration of time of my stay and my absence. 
 In course, I can know nothing of the public taste and 
 feelings, but from what I glean from letters, &c. Both 
 seem to be as bad as possible. 
 
 "I thought Anxislasius excellent: did I not say so? 
 Matthews's Diary most excellent ; it, and Forsytii, and 
 
 parts of Hobhouse, are all we have of truth or sense upon 
 Italy. The letter to Julia very good indeed. I do not 
 despise +*** + +. buj if ghg jj^it blue-stockings 
 instead of wearing them, it would be better. You are 
 taken in by that false, stilted, trashy style, which is a mix- 
 ture of all the styles of the day, which are aU bombastic, 
 (I do n't except my oum — no one has done more through 
 negligence to corrupt the language ;) but it is neither 
 English nor poetry. Time will show. 
 
 "I am sorry GiiFord has made no farther remarks 
 beyond the first Act: does he think all the English equally 
 sterling as he thought the first? You did right to send 
 the proofs: I was a fool; but I do really detest the sight 
 of proofs; it is an absurdity ; but comes from laziness. 
 
 " You can steal the two Juans into the world quietly, 
 tagged to the others. The play as you will — the Dante 
 too ; but the Pulci I am proud of: it is superb ; you have 
 no such translation. It is the best thing I ever did in my 
 life. I wrote the play from beginning to end, and not a 
 single scene without interruption, and being obliged to break 
 oiF in the middle ; for I had my hands full, and my head, 
 too, just then ; so it can be no great shakes — I mean the 
 play ; and the head too, if you like. 
 
 " P. S. Pohtics here still savage and uncertain. How- 
 ever, we are all in our 'bandaliers' to join the 'Highland- 
 ers if they cross the Forth,' i. e. to crush the Austnans 
 if they pass the Po. The rascals ! — and that dog Liver- 
 pool, to say their subjects are happy I If ever I come 
 back, I'll work some of these ministers. 
 
 ' Sept. 29. 
 I open my letter to say that on reading more of tne 
 four volumes on Italy, where the author says ' dechned 
 an introduction,' I perceive {horresco referens) it is wTitten 
 by a WOMAN ! ! ! In that case you must suppress my 
 note and answer,* and all I have said about the book 
 and the writer. I never dreamed of it until now, in my 
 extreme wrath at that precious note. I can only say that 
 I am sorry that a lady should say any thing of the kind. 
 What I would have said to one of the other sex you know 
 already. Her book too (as a she book) is not a bad one ; 
 but she evidently don't know the Italians, or rather don't 
 hke them, and forgets the causes of their misery and pro- 
 fligacy, {Matthews and Forsyth are your men for the truth 
 
 and tact,) and has gone over Italy in company always 
 
 a bad plan: you must be alone with people to know them 
 well Ask her, who was the ' descendant of Lady M. W. 
 Montagu£,^ and by wjiora ? by Algarotti ? 
 
 "I suspect that in Marino Faliero, you and yours won't 
 like the politics which are perilous to you in these times : 
 but recollect that- it is not a political play, and that I 
 was obliged to put into the mouths of the characters the 
 sentiments upon which they acted. I hate all things 
 written like Pizarro, to represent France, England, and 
 so forth. All I have done is meant to be purely Vene- 
 tian, even to the very prophecy of its present state. 
 
 " Your Angles in general know little of the Italians, 
 who detest them for their numbers and their Genoa 
 treachery. Besides, the English travellers have not been 
 composed of the best company. How could they ? — out 
 of 100,000, how many gentlemen were there, or honest 
 men? 
 
 Mitchell's Aristophanes is excellent. Send me tho 
 rest of it. 
 
 " These fools will force me to write a book about Italy 
 myself, to give them ' the loud lie.' They prate about 
 assassbation ; what is it but the origin of duellbg — and 
 ' a wild justice,^ as Lord Bacon calls it ? It is the fount 
 of the modern point of honour b what the laws can't or 
 wonH reach. Every man is liable to it more or less, 
 accordbg to circumstances or place. For instance, I am 
 living here exposed to it daily, for I have happened to 
 make a powerful and unprbcipled man my enemy \ — and 
 
 Marino Faliero. 
 
 ' See Letter 445. 
 
160 
 
 LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 I never sleep the worse for it, or ride in less solitary 
 places, because precaution is useless, and one thinks of it 
 as of a disease which may or may not strike. It is true 
 that there are those here, who, if he did, would ' live to 
 tliink on 't ;' but that would not awake my bones : I should 
 be sorry if it would, were they once at rest." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLIV. 
 
 TO MR. ArORRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, 8bre 6°, 1820. 
 
 "You will have now received all the Acts, corrected, of 
 the Marino Faliero. What you say of the 'bet of 100 
 guineas' made by some one who says that he saw me last 
 week reminds me of what happened in 1810 ; you can 
 easily ascertain the fact, and it is an odd one. 
 
 " In the latter end of 1811, I met one evening at the 
 Alfred my old school and form-fellow, (for we were within 
 two of each other, he the higher, though both very near 
 the top of our remove,) Peel, the Irish secretary. He 
 told me that, in 1810, he met me, as he thought, in St. 
 James'-street, but we passed without speaking. He men- 
 tioned this, and it was denied as impossible ; I being then 
 m Turkey. A day or two afterwards, he pointed out to 
 his brother a person on the opposite side of the way : 
 — ' There,' said he ' is the man whom I took for Byron.' 
 His brother instantly answered, ',Why it is Byron, and 
 no one else.' But this is not all :— I was seen by some- 
 body to vyrite down my name among the inquirers after 
 the king's health, then attacked by insanity. Now, at 
 this very period, as nearly as I coidd make out, I was ill 
 of a strong fever at Patras, caught in the marshes near 
 Olympia, from the malaria. If I had died diere, this 
 would have been a new ghost story for you. You can 
 easily make out the accuracy of this from Peel himself, 
 who told it in detail. I suppose you will be of the opinion 
 of Lucretius, who (denies the immortality of the soul, but) 
 asserts that from the ' flying off of the surfaces of bodies, 
 these surfaces or cases, Wve the coats of an onion, are 
 sometimes seen entire when they are separated from it, 
 so that the shapes and shadows of both the dead and 
 living are frequently beheld.' 
 
 "But if they are, are their coats and waistcoats also 
 seen ? I do not disbelieve that we may be two by some 
 unconscious process, to a certain sign, but which of these 
 two I happen at present to be, I leave you to decide. I 
 only hope that ^ other me behaves like a gemman. 
 
 " I wish you would get Peel asked how far I am accu 
 rate in my recollection of what he told me ; for I do n't 
 like to say such things without authority. 
 
 " I am not sure that I was not spoken with ; but this also 
 you can ascertciin. I have written to you such letters 
 that I stop, " Yours, &c. 
 
 «P. S. Last year (in June, 1819) I met at Count 
 Mosti's, at Ferrara, an Italian, who asked me ' if I knew 
 Lord Byron T I told him no, (no one knows himself j/om 
 know.) 'Then,' says he, 'I do; I met him at Naples 
 the oliier day.' I pulled out my card and asked him if 
 that was the way he spelled his name : he answered, yes. 
 I suspect that it was a blackguard navy surgeon, who 
 attended a young travelling madam about, and passed 
 himself for a lord at the posthouses. He was a vulgar 
 dog — quite of the cockpit order — and a precious repre- 
 sentative I must have had of him, if it was even so ; but 
 I do n't know. He passed himself off as a gendeman, 
 and squired about a Countess * * (of this place) then 
 at Venice, an ugly, battered woman, of bad morals even 
 for Italy." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, 
 
 1820. 
 
 Foscolo's letter is exacdy the thing wanted : firstly. 
 
 because he is a man of genius ; and, next, because he ia 
 an Italian, and thereibre the best judge of Italics. Be- 
 sides, 
 
 ' He 'a more an antique Roman than a Dane j' 
 that is, he is more of the ancient Greek than of the 
 modern Itahan. Though 'somewhat,' as Dugald Dal- 
 getty says, 'too wild and salvage,' (like 'Ronald of the 
 Mist,') 't is a wonderful man, and my friends Hobhouse 
 and Rose both swear by him ; and they are good judges 
 of men and of Italian humanity. 
 
 ' Here are in all two worthy voices gain'd :' 
 Gifford says it is good ' sterling genuine English,' and 
 Foscolo says that the characters are right Venetian. 
 Shakspeare and Otway had a million of advantages over 
 me, besides the incalculable one of being dead from one 
 to two centures, and having been both born blackguards, 
 (which ARE such attractions to the gentle Uving reader;) 
 let me then preserve the only one which I could possibly 
 have — that of having been at Venice, and entered more 
 into the local spirit of it. I claim no more. 
 
 " I know what Foscolo means about Calendaro's spitting 
 at Bertram ; that''s national — the objection, I mean. The 
 Italians and French, with those 'flags of abomination,' 
 their pocket-handkerchiefs, spit there, and here, and every 
 where else — in your face almost, and therefore object to 
 it on the stage as too familiar. But we who spit nowhere 
 — but in a man's face when we grow savage — are not 
 likely to feel this. Remember Massinger^ and Kean's Sir 
 Giles Overreach — 
 
 ' Lord ! thus I spit at thee and at thy counsel I' 
 
 Besides, Calendaro does not spit in Bertram's face; he 
 spits at him, as I have seen the Mussulmans do upon the 
 ground when they are in a rage. Again, he does not in 
 fact despise Bertram, though he affects it, — as we all do, 
 when angry with one we think our inferior. He is angry 
 at not being allowed to die in his own way, (ahhough not 
 afraid of death;) and recollect that he suspected and 
 hatred Bertram from the first. Israel Bertuccio, on the 
 other hand, is a cooler and more concentrated follow : he 
 acts upon pn'ncip/e 8uid impulse; Calendaro upon imptdse 
 and example. 
 
 " So there's argument for you. 
 
 " The Doge repeats ; — true, but it is from engrossing 
 passion, and because he sees different persons, and is 
 always obliged to recur to the caiLse uppermost in his 
 mind. His speeches are long ; — true, but I wrote for the 
 closet, and on the French and Italian model rather than 
 yours, which I think not very highly of, for all your old 
 dramatists, who are long enough, too, God knows : — look 
 into any of them. 
 
 " I return you Foscolo's letter, because it alludes also 
 to his private affairs. I am sorry to see such a man in 
 straits, because I know what they are, or what they were. 
 I never met but three men who would have held out a 
 finger to me : one was yourself, the other William Bankes, 
 and the other a nobleman long ago dead; but of these the 
 first was the only one who offered it while I redly wanted 
 it ; the second from good-will — but I was not in need of 
 Bankes's aid, and would not have accepted it if I had, 
 
 (though I love and esteem liim ;) — and the third 
 
 — — — — * 
 
 " So you see that I have seen some strange things in 
 my time. As for your own offer, it was in 1815, when I 
 was in actual uncertainty of five pounds. I rejected it ; 
 but I have not forgotten it, ahhoughf you probably have. 
 
 " P. S. Foscolo's Ricciardo was lent, with the leaves 
 uncut, to some Italians, now m villeggiatura, so that I have 
 had no opportunity of hearing their decision, or of reading 
 it. They seized on it as Foscolo's, on account of the 
 beauty of the paper and printing, directly. If I find it 
 takes, I will reprint it here. The Italians think as highly 
 
 * The paragraph is left thus imperfect in the original, 
 t See Letter 289. 
 
L E T I E R S , 1820. 
 
 161 
 
 of Foscolo as they can of any man, divided and miserable 
 as they are, and with neither leisure at present to read, 
 nor head nor heart to judge of any thing but extracts from 
 French newspapers and the Lugano Gazette. 
 
 " We are all looking at one another, lilie wolves on their 
 prey in pursuit, only waiting for the first falling on to do 
 unutterable things. They are a great world in chaos, or 
 angels in hell, which you please ; but out of chaos came 
 paradise, and out of hell — I do n't know what ; but the 
 Devil went in there, and he was a fine fellow once, you 
 know. 
 
 " You need never favour me with any periodical publi- 
 cation, except the Edinburgh, Q,uarterly, and an occasional 
 Blackwood ; or now and then a Monthly Review : for the 
 rest I do not feel curiosity enough to look beyond their 
 covers. 
 
 " To be sure I took in the Editor of the British finely. 
 He fell precisely into the glaring trap laid for him. It was 
 inconceivable how he could be so absurd as to imagine us 
 serious with him. 
 
 "Recollect, that if you put my name to ' Don Juan' in 
 these Ccinting days, any la%vyer might oppose my guardian 
 right of my daughter in chancery, on the plea of its con- 
 taining the parody ; — such are the perils of a foolish jest. 
 I was not aware of this at the time, but you will find it 
 correct, I believe ; and you may be sure diat the Noels 
 would not let it slip. Now I prefer my child to a poem 
 at any time, and so should you, as having half a dozen. 
 " Let me know your notions. 
 
 " If you turn over the earlier pages of the Huntingdon 
 peerage story, you will see how common a name Ada 
 was in the early Plantagenet days. I found it in my own 
 pedigree in the reign of John and Henry, and gave it to 
 my daughter. It was also the name of Charlemagne's 
 sister. It is in an early chapter of Genesis, as the name 
 of the wife of Lamech ; and I suppose Ada is the femi- 
 nine of Adam. It is short, ancient, vocalic, and had been 
 in my family, for which reason I gave it to my daughter." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLVL 
 
 TO MR. RIURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, S^re 12°, 1820. 
 "By land and sea carriage a consideraUe quantity of 
 books have arrived ; and I am obliged and grateful : but 
 medio de fonte leporura, surgit amari aliquid,' &c. &c. ; 
 which, being interpreted, means, 
 
 ' I 'm thaokful for your books, dear Murray ; 
 But why uot sead Scott's Mcmastery 7 
 
 the only book in four living volumes I would give a baioc- 
 colo to see — 'bating the rest of the same author, and an 
 occasional Edinburgh and duarterly, as brief chroniclers 
 of the times. Instead of this, here are Johnny Keats's 
 * * poetry, and three novels, by God knows whom, except 
 tliat there is Peg * * *'s name to one of them — a spin- 
 ster whom I thought we had sent back to her spinning. 
 Crayon is very good ; Hogg's Tales rough, but racy, and 
 welcome. 
 
 « Books of travels are expensive, and I do n't want 
 them, having travelled already ; besides, they He. Thank 
 the author of the Profligate' forlus (or her) present. Pray 
 send me no more poetry but what is rare and decidedly 
 good. There is such a trash of Keats and the Uke upon 
 my tables that I am ashamed to look at them. I say 
 nothing against your parsons, your Smith's, and your 
 Croly's— it is all very fine— but pray dispense me from 
 the pleasure. Instead of poetry, if you will favour me 
 with a few soda-powders, I shall be delighted: but all 
 prose ('bating travels and novels not by Scott) is wel- 
 come, especially Scott's Tales of My Landlord, and so on. 
 
 « In the notes to Marino Faliero, it may as be well to 
 sav that ' Benintende' was not really oUhe Ten, but merely 
 
 21 
 
 Grand Chancellor, a separate office, (although unportant); 
 it was an arbitrary alteration of mine. The Doges too 
 were all buried in St.. 3Iark''s before Faliero. It is sin- 
 gular that when his predecessor, Andrea Dandolo, died, 
 the Ten made a law that all the future Doges should be 
 buried with their families, in their own churches, — one 
 would think by a kind of presentiment. So that all that 
 is said of his ancestral Doges, as buried at St. John's and 
 Paul's, is altered from the fact, they being in St. Mark's. 
 Make a note of this, and put Editor as the subscription 
 to it. 
 
 " As I make such pretensions to accuracy, I should not 
 hke to be twitted even with such trifles on that score. Of 
 the play they may say what they please, but not so of my 
 costume ainddram.pei-s. theyha\'ing been real existences. 
 " I omitted Foscolo in my hst of living Venetian wortldes 
 in the notes, consideiing him as an Italian in general, and 
 not a mere provincial like the rest ; and as an Italian I 
 have spoken of him in the preface to canto 4th of Childe 
 Harold. 
 
 " The French translation of us ! ! ! oiinb '. oiml ! — and 
 the Gennan ; but I do n't understand the latter, and his 
 long dissertation at the end about the Fausts. Excuse 
 haste. Of politics it is not safe to speak, but nothing is 
 decided as yet. 
 
 " I am in a very fierce humour at not ha\ing Scott's 
 Monastery. — You are too liberal in quantity, and some- 
 what careless of the quality, of your missives. All the 
 Quarterlies (four in number) I had had before from you, 
 and two of the Edinburgh ; but no matter, we shall have 
 new ones by-and-by. No more Keats, I entreat : — flay 
 him alive ; if some of you do n't, I must skin him myself. 
 There is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the manikin. 
 " I do n't feel inchaed to care farther about ' Don Juan.' 
 What do you think a very pretty Italian lady said to me 
 the other day ? She had read it in the French, and paid 
 me some compliments, with due drawbacks, upon it. 
 I answered that what she said was true, but that I sus- 
 pected it would hve longer than Childe Harold. — ',4a, 
 but, (said she,) '/ vMuld ratlier have the fame of Childe 
 Harold far three years than an immortality of Don 
 Juan ." The truth is that it is too true, and the women 
 hate many things which strip off" the tinsel of sentiment ; 
 and they are right, as it would rob them of their weapons. 
 I never knew a woman who did not hate De Gramnwn/s 
 Memoirs for the same reason : even Lady * * used to 
 abuse them. 
 
 "Rose's work I never received. It was seized at 
 Venice. Such is the liberahty of the Huns, with their 
 two hundred thousand men, that they dare not let such a 
 volume as his circulate." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLVn. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Ravenna, 8t>re i6o, 1820. 
 
 " The Abbot has just arrived ; many thanks ; as also 
 for the Monastery — when you send it ! ! ! 
 
 " The Abbot will have a more than ordinary interest for 
 me, for an ancestor of mine by the mother's side. Sir J. 
 Gordon of Gight, the handsomest of his day, died on a 
 scaffold at Aberdeen for his loyalty to Mary, of whom he 
 was an imputed paramour as well as her relation. His 
 fate was much commented on in the Chronicles of the 
 times. If I mistake not, he had something to do with her 
 escape from Loch Leven, or with her captinty there. But 
 this you will know better than I. 
 
 " i recollect Loch Leven as it were but yesterday. I 
 saw it in my way to England, in 1798, being then ten 
 years of age. My mother, who was as haughty as Luci- 
 fer with her descent from the Stuarts, and her right line 
 from the old Gordons, not tlie Seyton Gordons, as she dis- 
 
62 
 
 LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 dainfuUy termed the ducal branch, told me the story, 
 always reminding me how superior her Gordons were to 
 the southern Byrons, — notwithstandmg our Norman, and 
 always mascuhne descent, which has never lapsed into a 
 female, as my mother's Gordons had done in her own 
 person. 
 
 " I have written to you so often lately that the brevity 
 of this will be welcome. 
 
 " Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLVIII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Ravenna, S^^^ 17°, 1820. 
 
 " Enclosed is the Dedication of Marino Faliero to 
 Goethe, duery,— is his title Baron or not ? I think yes . 
 Let me know your opinion, and so forth. 
 
 " P. S. Let me know what Mr. Hobhouse and you 
 have decided about the two prose letters and theii- publi- 
 cation. 
 
 " I enclose you an Italian abstract of the German trans- 
 lator of Manfred's Appendix, in which you will perceive 
 quoted what Goethe says of the whole body of English 
 poetr}', (and not of me in particular) . On this the Dedi- 
 cation is founded, as you will perceive, though I had 
 thought of it before, for I look upon him as a great man." 
 " ' Dedication to Baron Gotthe^ &c. &c. &c. 
 "'sir, 
 
 "'In the Appendix to an English work lately trans- 
 lated into German and published at Leipsic, a judgment 
 of yours upon English poetry is quoted as follows : " That 
 in English poetry, great genius, universal power, a feeling 
 of profundity, with sufficient tenderness and force, are to 
 be found ; but that altogether these do not constitute poets" 
 &c. &c. 
 
 " ' I regret to see a great man falling into a great mis- 
 take. This opbion of yours only proves that the " Dic- 
 tionury often thousand living English aiUhors'^ has not been 
 translated into German. You will have read, in you:- 
 friend Schlegel's version, the dialogue in Macbeth — 
 
 Macbeth. 
 Answer. 
 
 ' There are ten thousand ! 
 Geese, villaiu ? 
 
 Authors, sir. 
 
 Now, of these " ten thousand authors," there are actually 
 nineteen hundred and eighty-seven poets, all alive at thiis 
 moment, whatever their works may be, as their booksellers 
 well know ; and among these there are several who pos- 
 sess a far greater reputation than mine, although consi- 
 derably less than yours. It is owing to this neglect on 
 the part of your German translators that you are not 
 aware of the works of * * * * 
 
 " ' There is also another, named * ♦ + 
 
 * ♦ + **♦ + 
 
 + ♦ ♦ * =)c^ 
 
 " ' I mention these poets by way of sample to enlighten 
 you. They form but two bricks of our Babel, (Windsor 
 bricks, by-the-way,) but may serve for a specimen of the 
 building. 
 
 " ' It is, moreover, asserted that " the predominant cha- 
 racter of the whole body of the present English poetrv' is 
 a disgust and co^Uempt for life." But I rather suspect 
 that, by one single work of prose, you yourself have 
 excited a greater contempt for life than all the English 
 volumes of poesy that ever were written. Madame de 
 Stael says, that " Werther has occasioned more suicides 
 than the most beautiful woman ;" and I really believe that 
 he has put more individuals out of this world than Napo- 
 leon himself, — except in the way of his profession. Per- 
 haps, illustrious sir, the acrimonious judgment passed by a 
 celebrated northern journal upon you in particular, and 
 the Germans in general, has ratlier indisposed you towards 
 English poetry as well as criticism. But you must not 
 
 regard our critics, who are at bottom good-natured fellows, 
 considering their two professions, — taking up the law in 
 court, and laying it down out of it. No one can more 
 lament their hasty and unfair judgment, in your particu- 
 lar, than I do ; and I so expressed myself to your friend 
 Schlegel, in 1816, at Copet. 
 
 " ' In behalf of my " ten thousand" living brethren, and 
 of myself, I have thus far taken notice of an opinion 
 expressed with regard to " English poetry" in general, and 
 which merited notice, because it was yours. 
 
 " ' My principal object in addressing you was to testify 
 my sincere respect and admiration of a man, who, for half 
 a centuiy, has led the hterature of a great nation, and will 
 go down to posterity as the first literary character of 
 his age. 
 
 « ' You have been fortunate, sir, not only in the writings 
 which have illustrated your name, but in the name itself, 
 as being sufficiently musical for the articulation of poste- 
 rity. In this you have the advantage of some of your 
 countrymen, wnose names would perhaps be immortal 
 also — if any body could pronounce them. 
 
 " ' It may, perhaps, be supposed, by this apparent tone 
 of le\Tity, that I am wanting in intentional respect towards 
 you ; but this will be a mistake : I am always flippant in 
 prose. Considering you, as I reaUy and warmly do, in 
 common with all your o%mi, and with most other nations, 
 to be by far the first hterary character which has existed 
 in Europe since the death of Voltaire, I felt, and feel, 
 desirous to inscribe to you the following work, — not as 
 being either a tragedy or a.poem, (for I cannot pronounce 
 upon its pretensions to be either one or the other, or both, 
 or neither,) but as a mark of esteem and admiration from 
 a foreigner to the man who has been hailed in Germany 
 
 "the great GOETHE." 
 
 " ' I have the honour to be, 
 " ' with the truest respect, 
 " ' your most obedient 
 
 " ' and very humble servant, 
 
 " ' Byron.' » 
 " Ravenna, 8'^^^ 14°, 1820. 
 "P.S.I perceive that in Germany, as weU as in Italy, 
 there is a great struggle about what they call ' Classical^ 
 and ^Romantic,- — terms which were not subjects of clas- 
 sification in England, at least when I left it four or five 
 years ago. Some of the English scribblers, it is true, 
 abused Pope and Swift, but the reason was that they 
 themselves did not know how to write either prose or 
 verse ; but nobody thought them worth maliing a sect of, 
 Perhaps there may be something of the kind sprung up 
 lately, but I have not heard much about it, and it would 
 be such bad taste that I shall be very sorry to believe it." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 " Ravenna, October \1% 1820. 
 
 "You owe me two letters — pay them. I want to 
 know what you are about. The summer is over, and you 
 will be back to Paris. Apropos of Paris, it was not 
 Sophia Gail, but Sophia Gay — the English word Gay — 
 who was my correspondent. Can you tell who she is, as 
 you did of the defunct + + ? 
 
 " Have you gone on with your poem ? I have received 
 the French of mine. Only tliink of being tradticed into a 
 foreign language in such an abominable travesty ! It is 
 useless to rail, but one can't help it. 
 
 " Have you got my Memoir copied ? I have begun a 
 continuation. ShaU I send it you, as far as it is gone ? 
 
 " I can't say any thing to you about Italy, for the Go- 
 vernment here look upon me with a suspicious eye, as I 
 am well informed. Pretty fellows! — as if I, a solitary 
 stranger, could do any mischief. It is because I am fond 
 of rifle and pistol shooting, I beUeve ; for they took the 
 
LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 163 
 
 alarm at the quantity of cartridges I consumed,— the 
 wiseacres ! 
 
 " You do n't deserve a long letter — nor a letter at all — 
 for your silence. You have got a new Bourbon, it seems, 
 whom they have christened ' Dieu-donne ;' — perhaps the 
 honour of the present may be disputed. Did you write 
 the good Unes on , the Laker 7 * * 
 
 " The queen has made a pretty theme for the journals. 
 Was there ever such evidence published ? Why it is 
 worse than ' Little's Poems' or ' Don Juan.' If you do n't 
 write soon, I will « make you a speech ' 
 
 « Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, Sbre 25, 1820. 
 
 « Pray forward the enclosed to Lady Byron. It is on 
 business. 
 
 " In thanking you for the Abbot, I made four grand 
 mistakes. Sir John Gordon was not of Gight, but of 
 Bogagicht, and a son of Huntley's. He suffered not for 
 his loyalty, but in an insurrection. He had nothing to do 
 with Loch Leven, having been dead some time at the 
 period of the Q,ueen's confinement : and, fourthly, I am 
 not sure that he was the (Queen's paramour or no, for 
 Robertson does not allude to- this, though Walter Scott 
 does, in the Ust he gives of heradn^-ers (as unfortunate) 
 at the close of ' the Abbot.' 
 
 " I must have made all these mistakes in recollecting 
 my mother's account of the matter, although she was 
 more accurate than I am, being precise upon points of 
 genealogy, like all the aristocratical Scotch. She had a 
 long list of ancestors, like Sir Lucius O'Trigger's, most 
 of whom are to be found in the old Scotch Chronicles, 
 Spalding, &c. in arms and doing mischief. I remember 
 well passing Loch Leven, as well as the Ctueen's Fen-y : 
 we were on our way to England in 1798. 
 
 " Yours. 
 
 "You had better not publish Blackwood and the 
 Roberts' prose, except what regards Pope ; — you have 
 let the time slip by." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, 9b«-e 4, 1820. 
 
 " I have received from Mr. Galignani the enclosed let- 
 ters, duplicates, and receipts, which will explain them- 
 selves.* As the poems are your property by purchase, 
 right, and justice, ail matters of publication, &c. &c. are for 
 you to decide upon. I know not how far my comphance 
 with Mr. Galignani's request might be legal, and I doubt 
 that it would not be honest. In case you choose to ar- 
 range with him, I enclose the permits to you, and in so 
 doing I wash my hands of the business altogether. I sign 
 them merely to enable you to exert the pov/er you justly 
 possess more properly. I will have nothing to do with it 
 farther^ except, in my answer to Mr. Galignani, to state 
 that the letters, &c. &c. are sent to you, and the causes 
 thereof. 
 
 " If you can check these foreign pirates, do ; if not, put 
 the permissive papers in the fire. I can have no view nor 
 object whatever, but to secure to you your property. 
 
 "Yours, &c. 
 
 « P . S . I have read part of the (Quarterly just arrived ; 
 Mr. Bowles shall be answered : — ^he is not quite correct 
 
 * Mr. Galignani had applied to Lord Byron with the view of procuring 
 from him such legal right over those worlis of his of which he had hitherto 
 been the sole publisher ia France, as would enable him to prevent others, 
 lu future, from usurpiog the same privilege. 
 
 in his statement about English Bards and Scotch Re- 
 viewers. They support Pope, I see, in the Quarterly ; 
 let them continue to do so: it is a sin, and a shame, and 
 a damnation to think that Pope ! ! should require it — but he 
 does. Those miserable mountebanlcs of the day, the 
 poets, disgrace themselves and deny God in running down 
 Pope, the most foadtless of poets, and almost of men. 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXn. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 " Ravenna, Nov. 5, 1820. 
 
 « Thanks for your letter, which hath come somewhat 
 costively, — but better late than never. Of it anon. Mr. 
 GaUgnani, of the Press, hath, it seems, been supplanted 
 and sub-pirated by another Parisian publisher, who has 
 audaciously printed an edition of L. B.'s Works, at the 
 ultra-liberal price of 10 francs, and (as Gahgnani pite- 
 ousiy observes) 8 francs only for booksellers ! 'horresco 
 referens.' Think of a man's whole w^orks producintr so 
 little ! ° 
 
 " Galignani sends me, post haste, a permission for Mm, 
 from me, to publish, &c. &c., which permit I have signed 
 and sent to Mr. Murray, of Albemarle-street. Will you 
 explain to G. thai I have no right to dispose of Murray's 
 works without his leave ? and tlierefore I must refer him 
 to M. to get the permit out of his claws — no easy matter, 
 I suspect. I have written to G. to say as much; hut a 
 word of mouth from a ' great brother author' would con- 
 vhice him that I could not honestly have complied with 
 his wish, though I might legally. What I could do I 
 have done, viz. signed the warrant and sent it to Murray, 
 Let the dogs divide tlie carcass, if it is killed to their 
 liking. 
 
 " I am glad of your epigram. It is odd that we should 
 both let our wits run away with our sentiments ; for I am 
 sure that we are botli dueen's men at bottom. But there 
 is no resisting a clinch — it is so clever ! Apropos of that 
 — we have ' a dip thong' also in this part of the world — not 
 a Greek, but a Spanish one — do you understand me ? — 
 v/hich is about to blow up the whole alphabet. It was 
 first pronounced at Naples, and is spreading; — ^butwe 
 are nearer the Barbarians ; who are in great force on the 
 Po, and will pass it, with the first legitimate pretext. 
 
 " There will be the devil to pay, and there is no saying 
 who will or who will not be set down in his bill. If 
 'honour should come unlooked for' to any of your ac- 
 quainlance, malie a Melody of it, that his ghost, Uke poor 
 Yorick's, may have the satisfaction of being plaintively 
 pitied — or still more nobly commemorated, like 'Oh 
 breathe not his name.' In case you should not tliink him 
 woith it, here is a Chant for you instead — 
 
 " When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home, 
 Let him combat for that of his neighbours ; 
 Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome, 
 And get knock'd on the head for his labours. 
 
 " To do good to mankind is the chivalroas plan, 
 And is always as nobly requited ; 
 Then battle for freedom wherever you can. 
 And, if not shot or hang'd, you '11 get knighted. 
 
 " So you have gotten the letter of ' Epigrams' — I am 
 glad of it.* You will not be so, for I shall send you more. 
 Here is one I w rote for the endorsement of ' the Deed of 
 Separation' in 1816 ; but the lawj'ers objected to it, as 
 superfluous. It was written as we were getting up the 
 signing and sealing. * * has the original. 
 ^Endorsement to the Deed of Separation, in the April of 
 1816. 
 
 " A year ago you swore, fond she I 
 
 ' To love, to honour,' and so forth : 
 Such was the vow you pledged to me, 
 
 And here 's exactly what 't is worth. 
 
 Letter 413. 
 
1B4 
 
 LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 " For the anniversary of January 2, 1821, 1 have a small 
 grateful anticipation, which, in case of accident, I add — 
 « To Penelope^ January 2, 1821. 
 
 "This day, of all our days, haa done 
 
 The worst for me and you : — 
 'T is just six years since we were one, 
 
 And five since we were two. 
 
 « Pray, excuse all this nonsense; for I must talk non- 
 sense just now, for fear of wandering to more serious 
 topics, which, in the present state of things, is not safe by 
 a foreign post. 
 
 « I told you, in my last, that I had been going on with 
 the ' Memoirs,' and have got as far as twelve more sheets. 
 But I suspect they will be interrupted. In that case I 
 will send them on by post, though I feel remorse at mak- 
 ing a friend pay so much for postage, for we can't frank 
 here beyond the frontier. 
 
 « I shall be glad to hear of the event of the Clueen's 
 concern. As to the ultimate effect, the most inevitable 
 one to you and me (if they and we live so long) will be 
 that the Miss Moores and INIiss Byrons will present us 
 with a great variety of grandchildren by different fathers. 
 
 " Pray, where did you get hold of Goethe's Florentine 
 husband-killing story ? upon such matters, in general, I 
 may say, with Beau Clincher, in reply to Errand's wife — 
 
 « ' Oh the villain, he hath murdered my poor Timotliy ! 
 
 « ' Clincher. Damn your Timothy !— I tell you, woman, 
 your husband has murdered me— he has carried away my 
 fine jubilee clothes.' 
 
 « So Bowles has been telling a story, too, ('t is in the 
 duarterly,) about the woods of 'Madeira,' and so forth. 
 I shall be at Bowles again, if he is not quiet. He mis- 
 states, or mistakes, in a point or two. The paper is 
 finished, and so is the letter. 
 
 « Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXIIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, 9t"-e 9, 1820. 
 " The talent you approve of is an amiable one, and 
 might prove a ' national service,' but unfortunately I must 
 be angry with a man before I draw his real portrait ; and 
 J can't deal in '■generahl so that I trust never to have pro- 
 vocation enough to make a Gallery. If ' the parson' had 
 not by many little dirty sneaking traits provoked it, I 
 should have been silent, though I had observed him. Here 
 follows an alteration : put — 
 
 " Devil, with such delight in damning, 
 That if at tlie resurrection 
 Unto him the free election 
 Of his future could be given, 
 'T would be rather Hell than Heaven ; 
 
 that is to say, if these two new lines do not too much 
 lengthen out and weaken the amiability of the original 
 thought and expression. You have a discretionary power 
 about showing. I should think that Croker would not 
 disrelish a sight of these light little humorous things, and 
 may be indulged now and then. 
 
 " Why, I do like one or two vices, to be sure ; but I can 
 back a horse and fire a pistol ' without thinking or blink- 
 ing' like Major Sturgeon; I have fed at times for two 
 months together on sheer biscuit and water, (without me- 
 taphor ;) I can get over seventy or eighty miles a day 
 nding post, and swim Jive at a stretch, as at Venice, in 
 1818, or at least I could do, and have done it once. 
 
 « I know Henry Matthews ; he is the image, to the 
 very voice, of his brother Charles, only darker — his cough 
 his in particular. The first time I ever met him was in 
 Scrope Davies's rooms after his brother's death, and I 
 nearly dropped, thinlting that it was his ghost. I have 
 also dined with him in his rooms at King's College. 
 Hobhouse once purposed a similar Memoir ; but I am 
 
 afraid the letters of Charles's correspondence with me 
 (which are at Whitton with my other papers) would 
 hardly do for the public ; for our lives were not over strict, 
 and our letters somewhat lax upon most subjects. 
 + * + * * 
 
 "Last week I sent you a correspondence with Galig- 
 nani, and some documents on your property. You have 
 now, I thmk, an opportimity of checking, or at least limit- 
 ing, those French republications. You may let all your 
 authors publish what they please against me and mine. 
 A publisher is not, and cannot be, responsible for all the 
 works that issue from his printer's. 
 
 « The 'White Lady of Avenel,' is not quite so good as 
 a real weU authenticated (' Donna Bianca') White Lady 
 of Colalto, or spectre in the Marca Trivigiana, who has 
 been repeatedly seen. There is a man (a huntsman) 
 now alive who saw her also. Hoppner could tell you all 
 about her, and so can Rose, perhaps. I myself have no 
 doubt of the fact, historical and spectral. She always 
 appeared on particular occasions, before the deaths of the 
 family, &e. &c. I heard Madame Benzoni say, that she 
 knew a gentleman who had seen her cross his room at 
 Colalto Castle. Hoppner saw and spoke with the hunts- 
 man, who met her at the chase, and never hunted after- 
 ward. She was a girl attendant, who, one day dressing 
 the hair of a Countess Colalto, was seen by her mistress 
 to smile upon her husband in the glass. The Countess 
 had her shut up in the wall of the castle, like Constance 
 de Beverly. Ever after, she haunted them and all the 
 Colaltos. She is described as very beautiful and fair. 
 It is well authenticated. 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MtTRRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, 9'"-e 18, 1820. 
 " The death of Waite* is a shock to the — ^teeth, as well 
 as to the feelings of all who knew him. Good God, he 
 and Blake^ both gone ! I left them both in the most ro- 
 bust health, and little thought of the national loss in so 
 short a time as five years. They were both as much 
 superior to Wellington in rational greatness, as he who 
 preserves the hair and the teeth is preferable to 'the 
 bloody blustering warrior' who gains a name by breaking 
 heads and knocking out grinders. Who succeeds him ? 
 Where is tooth-powder, mild, and yet efficacious — ^where 
 is tincture — where are clearing-roote and brushes now to 
 be obtained? Pray obtain what information you can 
 upon these ' Tusculan questions.' My jaws ache to think 
 on 't. Poor fellows ! I anticipated seeing both again ; 
 and yet they are gone to that place where both teeth and 
 hair last longer than they do in this life. I have seen a 
 thousand graves opened, and always perceived, that what- 
 ever was gone, the teeth and hair remain with those who 
 had died with them. Is not this odd ? They go the very 
 first things in youth, and yet last the longest in the dust, 
 if people will but die to preserve them ! It is a queer life, 
 and a queer death, that of mortals. 
 
 " I knew that Waite had married, but httle thought that 
 the other decease was so soon to overtake him. Then 
 he was such a delight, such a coxcomb, such a jewel of a 
 man! There is a tailor at Bologna so lilce him I and 
 also at the top of his profession. Do not neglect this 
 commission. Who or what can replace him? What 
 says the public ? 
 
 "I remand you the Preface. JDo n't forget that the 
 Italian extract from the Chronicle must be translated. 
 With regard to what you say of retouching the Juans and 
 the Hints, it is all very well ; but I can't furbish. I am 
 like the tiger, (in poesy,) if I miss the first spring I go 
 
 t A celebrated hair-dresser. 
 
LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 165 
 
 growling back to my jungle. There is no second : I can't 
 correct 5 I can't, and I won't. Nobody ever succeeds in 
 it, great or small. Tasso remade the whole of his Jeru- 
 salem ; but who ever reads that version ? all the world 
 goes to the first. Pope added to ' The Rape of the Lock,' 
 but did not reduce it. You must take my things as they 
 happen to be. If they are not likely to suit, reduce their 
 estimate accordingly. I would rather give them away 
 than hack and hew them. I do n't say that you are not 
 right ; I merely repeat that I cannot better them. I must 
 ' either make a spoon or spoil a horn ;' and there 's an 
 end. " Yours. 
 
 " P. S. Of the praises of that little * * + Keats, I 
 shall observe, as Johnson did when Sheridan the actor 
 got 2, pension, ' What ! has he got a pension ? Then it is 
 time that I should give up mine'.'' Nobody could be 
 prouder of the praise of the Edinburgh than I was, or 
 more alive to their censure, as I showed in English Bards 
 and Scotch Reviewers. At present, all the mm they have 
 ever praised are degraded by that insane article. Why 
 do n't they review and praise ' Solomon's Guide to 
 Health ?' it is better sense and as much poetry as Johnny 
 Keats. 
 
 " Bowles must be howled down. 'T is a sad match at 
 cricket if he can get any notches at Pope's expense. If 
 he once get into ' Lord's ground,' (to continue the pun, be- 
 cause it is foolish,) I thuik I could beat him in one inn- 
 ings. You did not laiow, perhaps, that I was once (not 
 metaphorically, but realli/) a good cricketer, particularly in 
 batting, and I played in tlie Harrow match against the 
 Etonians in 1805, gaining more notches (as one of our 
 chosen eleven) than any, except Lord Ipswich and Brook- 
 man, on our side." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAr. 
 
 "Ravenna, gbre 12, 1820. 
 " What you said of the late Charles Skinner Matthews 
 has set me to my recollections ; but I have not been able 
 to turn up any thing which would do for the purposed Me- 
 moir of lus brother, even if he had previously done enough 
 during his life to sanction the introduction of anec- 
 dotes so merely personal. He was, however, a very ex- 
 traordinary man, and would have been a great one. No 
 one ever succeeded in a more surpassing degree than he 
 did, as far as he went. He was indolent too ; but when- 
 ever he stripped, he overthrew all antagonists. His con- 
 quests will be found registered at Cambridge, particularly 
 his Douming one, which was hotly and highly contested, 
 and yet easily won. Hobhouse was his most intimate 
 friend, and can tell you more of him than any man. Wil- 
 liam Bankes also a great deal. I myself recollect more 
 of his oddities than of his academical qualities, for we lived 
 most together at a very idle period of my life. When I 
 went up to Trinity in 1805, at the age of seventeen and a 
 half, I was miserable and untoward to a degree. T was 
 wretched at leaving Harrow, to which I had become at- 
 tached during the last two years of my stay there ; wretched 
 at going to Cambridge instead of Oxford, (there were no 
 rooms vacant atChristchurch,) wretched from some private 
 domestic circumstances of different Idrids, and consequently 
 about as unsocial as a wolf taken from the troop. So that, 
 although I knew Matthews, and met him often then at 
 Bankes's, (who was my collegiate pastor, and master, and 
 patron,) and at Rhode's, Milne's, Price's, Dick's, Mac- 
 namara's, Farrell's, G alley Knight's, and others of that set 
 of contemporaries, yet I was neither intimate with him nor 
 with any else, except my old schoolfellow Edward Long, 
 (with whom I used to pass the day in riding and swrm- 
 imng,) and William Bankes, who was good-naturedly 
 tolerant of my ferocities. 
 " Tt was not till 1807, after I had been upwards of a year 
 
 away from Cambridge, to which I had returned again to 
 reside for my degree, that I became one of Matthews's 
 fanjiliars, by means of Hobhouse, who, after hating me for 
 two years, because I ' wore a white hat and a gray coat, 
 and rode a gray horse,' (as he says himself^) took me into 
 his good graces because I had written some poetry. I 
 had always lived a good deal, and got drunk occasionally, 
 in their company ; but now we became really friends in a 
 morning. Matthews, however, was not at this period re- 
 sident in college. I met him chiefly in London, and at 
 uncertain periods at Cambridge. Hobhouse, in the mean 
 time, did great things : he founded the Cambridge ' Whig 
 Club,' (which he seems to have forgotten,) and the 'Ami- 
 cable Society,' which was dissolved in consequence of the 
 members constantly quarrelling, and made himself very 
 popular with 'us youth,' and no less formidable to all 
 tutors, professors, and heads of colleges. William Bankes 
 was gone ; while he stayed, he ruled the roast, or rather the 
 roasting, and was father of aU mischiefs. 
 
 " Matthews and I, meeting in London, and elsewhere, 
 became great cronies. He was not good-tempered — nor 
 am I — but with a little tact his temper was manageable, 
 and I thought him so superior a man, that I was willing to 
 sacrifice something to his humours, which were often, at 
 the same time, amusing and provoking. What became of 
 his papers, (and he certainly had many,) at the time of his 
 death, was never known. I mention this by the way fear- 
 ing to skip it over, and as he wrote remarkably well, both 
 in Latin and English. We went down to Newstead to- 
 gether, where I had got a famous cellar, and monk^ 
 dresses from a masquerade warehouse. We were a com- 
 pany of some seven or eight, with an occasional neighbour 
 or so for visiters, and used to sit up late in our friars' 
 dresses, drinking Burgundy, claret, champagne, and what 
 not, out of the skull-cup, and all sorts of glasses, and buf^ 
 fooning all round the house, in our conventual garments. 
 Matthews always denominated me 'the Abbot,' and never 
 called me by any other name in his good humours, to the 
 day of his death. The harmony of these our symposia 
 was somewhat interrupted, a few days after our assembling, 
 by Matthews's threatening to throw ^bold Webster,' (as he 
 was called, from winning a foot-match, and a horse-match, 
 the first from Ips\vich to London, and the second from 
 Brighthelmstone,) by threatening to throw 'bold Web- 
 ster ' out of a window, in consequence of I know not what 
 commerce of jokes ending in this epigram. Webster came 
 to me and said, that ' his respect and regard for me as host 
 would not permit him to call out any of my guests, and 
 that he should go to town next morning.' He did. It was 
 in vain that I represented to him that the window was not 
 high, and that the turf under it was particularly soft. 
 Away he went. 
 
 "Matthews and myself had travelled down from Lon- 
 don together, talking all the way incessantly upon one 
 single topic. When we got to Loughborough, I know 
 not what chasm had made us diverge for a moment to 
 some other subject, at which he was indignant. ' Come,' 
 said he, ' don't let us break through — ^let us go on as we 
 began, to our journey's end ;' and so he continued, and was 
 entertaining as ever to the very end. He had previously 
 occupied, during my year's absence from Cambridge, my 
 rooms in Trinity, with the furniture ; and Jones the tutor, 
 in his odd way, had said on putting him in, ' Mr. Mat- 
 thews, I recommend to your attention not to damage any 
 of the moveables, for Lord Byron, sir, is a young man of 
 tumultuous passions.'' Matthews was delighted with this ; 
 and whenever any body came to visit him, begged them to 
 handle the very door with caution ; and used to repeat 
 Jones's admonition, in his tone and manner. There was 
 a large mirror in the room, on which he remarked, 'that he 
 thought his friends were grown uncommonly assiduous in 
 coming to see him, but he soon discovered that they only 
 came to see themselves.' Jones's phrase of ' tumultuous 
 passions,' and the whole scene had put him into such good 
 
166 
 
 LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 humour, that I verily believe, that I owed to it a portion of 
 his good graces. 
 
 "When at Newstead, somebody by accident rubbed 
 against one of his white silk stockings, one day before 
 dinner ; of course the gentleman apologized. ' Sir,' an- 
 swered Matthews, ' it may be all very well for you, who 
 have a great many silk stockings, to dirty other people's ; 
 but to me, who have only this one pair, which I have put 
 on in honour of the Abbot here, no apology can compen- 
 sate for such carelessness ; besides the expense of wash- 
 ing.' He had the same sort of droll sardonic way about 
 every thing. A wild Irishman, named F * * , one even- 
 ing begirming to say something at a large supper at Cam- 
 bridge, Matthews roared out ' Silence !' and then, pointing 
 to F * * , cried out, in the words of the oracle, ' Orson is 
 endowed with reason' You may easily suppose that Or- 
 son lost what reason he had acquired, on hearing tlus 
 compliment. When Hobhouse published his volume of 
 poems, the Miscellany (which Matthews ivould call the 
 ' Miss-seU-any^) all that could be drav^Ti from hmi was, 
 that the preface was 'extremely like WaMi^ Hobhouse 
 thought this at first a compliment ; but we never could 
 make out what it was, for all we know of Walsh is his 
 Ode to King William, and Pope's epithet of ' knowing 
 Walsh.' When the Newstead party broke up for Lon- 
 don, Hobhouse and Matthews, who were the greatest 
 friends possible, agreed, for a whim, to walk together to 
 town. They quarrelled by the way, and actually walked 
 the latter half of their journey, occasionally passing and 
 repassing, without speaking. When Matthews had got 
 to Highgate, he had spent all his money but threepence 
 halfpermy, and determined to spend that also in a pint of 
 beer, which I believe he was drinking before a public 
 house, as Hobhouse passed hirh (still without speaking) 
 for the last time on their route. They were reconciled in 
 London again. 
 
 "One of Matthews's passions was the 'the Fancy;' and 
 he sparred uncommonly well. But he always got beaten 
 in rows, or combats with the bare fist. In swimming too, 
 he swam well ; but with effort and labour, and too high out 
 of the water; so that ScropeDavies and myself of whom 
 he was therein somewhat emulous, always told him that 
 he would be drowned if ever he came to a difficult pass 
 in the water. He was so ; but surely Scrope euid my- 
 self would have been most heartly glad that 
 
 " ' The Dean had lived, 
 And our prediction proved a lie.' 
 
 ^- His head was uncommonly handsome, very like what 
 Pope's was in his youth. 
 
 « His voice, and laugh, and features, are strongly re- 
 sembled by his brother Henry's, if Henry be he o^ King's 
 College. His passion for boxing was so great, that he ac- 
 tually wanted me to match him with Dogherty, (whom I 
 had backed and made the match for against Tom Bel- 
 cher,) and I saw them spar together at my outi lodgings 
 with the gloves on. As he was bent upon it, I would have 
 backed Dogherty to please him, but the match went off. 
 It was of course to have been a private fight in a private 
 room. 
 
 " On one occasion, being too late to go home and dress, 
 he was equipped by a friend, (Mr. Bailey, I believe,) in a 
 magnificently fashionable and somewhat exaggerated shirt 
 and neckcloth. He proceeded to the OpercL, and took his 
 station in Fop's Alley. During the interval between the 
 opera and the ballet, an acquaintance took his station by 
 him, and saluted him; 'Come round,' said Matthews, 
 'come round.' 'Why should I come round?' said the 
 other ; ' you have only to turn your head — I am close by 
 jou.' 'That is exactly what I cannot do,' answered 
 Matthews: 'don't you see the state I am in?' pointing to 
 his buckram shirt-collar, and inflexible cravat ; and there 
 he stood with his head always in the same perpendicular 
 position during the whole spectacle. 
 
 " One evening, cifter dining together, as we were going 
 
 to the Opera, I happened to have a spare Opera ticket, 
 (els subscriber to a box,) and presented it to Matthews. 
 'Now, sir,' said he to Hobhouse afterward, 'this I call 
 courteous in the Abbot — another man would never have 
 thought that I might do better with half a guinea than 
 throw it to a doorkeeper; but here is a man not only 
 asks me to dinner, but gives me a ticket for the theatre. 
 These were only his oddities, for no man was more hberal, 
 or more honourable in all his doings and dealings than 
 Matdiews. He gave Hobhouse and me, before we set 
 out for Constantinople, a most splendid entertainment, to 
 which we did ample justice. One of his fancies was dining 
 at all sorts of out of the way places. Somebody popped upon 
 him, in I know not what coffee-house in the Strand — and 
 what do you think was the attraction? Why, that he 
 paid a shilling (I think) to dine with his hat on. This he 
 called his 'kat house,' and used to boast of the comfort of 
 being covered at meal-times. 
 
 " When Sir Henry Smith was expelled from Cambridge 
 for a row with a tradesman named 'Hiron,' Matthews 
 solaced himself with shouting under Hiron's windows 
 eveiy evening, 
 
 ' Ah me ! Wliat perils ilo environ 
 The man who meddles with hot Hiron,' 
 
 " He was also of that band of profane scoffers, who, 
 under the auspices of * * * * , used to rouse Lort Man- 
 sel (late bishop of Bristol) from his slumbers in the lodge 
 of Trinity, and when he appeared at the window foaming 
 with wrath, and crying out, ' I know you, gentlemen, I 
 know you!' were wont to reply, 'We beseech thee to 
 hear us, good JLort — good Lart, deliver us ! ' (Lort was 
 his Christian name.) As he was very fi*ee in his specu- 
 lations upon all kinds of subjects, although by no means 
 either dissolute or intemperate in his conduct, and as I 
 was no less independent, our conversation and correspon- 
 dence used to alarm our friend Hobhouse to a considerable 
 degree. 
 
 ******* 
 
 " You must be almost tired of my packets, which will 
 have cost a mint of postage. 
 
 " Salute Gifford and all my friends. 
 
 " Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXVI. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Ravenna, S^re 23, 1820, 
 " The ' Hints,' Hobhouse says, Wl require a good deal 
 of slashing to suit the times, which will be a work of time, 
 for I do n't feel at all laborious just now. Whatever 
 effect they are to have would perhaps be greater in a 
 separate form, and they also must have my name to them. 
 Now, if you publish them in the same volume with Don 
 Juan, they identify Don Juan as mine, which I do n't think 
 worth a chancery suit about my daughter's guardianship, 
 as in your present code a facetious poem is sufficient to 
 take away a man's right over his family. 
 
 " Of the state of things here it would be difficult and 
 not very pmdent to speak at large, the Huns opening all 
 letters. I wonder if they can read them when they have 
 opened them ; if so, they may see, in my most legible 
 
 HAND, THAT I THINK THEM DAMNED SCOUNDRELS AND 
 
 BARBARIANS, and THEIR EMPEROR a FOOL, and them- 
 selves more fools than he ; all which they may send to 
 Vienna for any thing I care. They have got themselves 
 masters of the Papal police, and are bullying away : but 
 some day or other they will pay for all : it may not be very 
 soon, because these unhappy Italians have no consistency 
 among themselves ; but I suppose that Providence will 
 get tired of them at last, ****** 
 
 « Yours, &c.» 
 
LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 167 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXVII. . 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 «Raverma,Dec. 9, 1820. 
 
 " Besides this letter, you w-ill receive three packets, con- 
 taining, in all, 18 more sheets of Memoranda, which, I 
 fear, \vill cost you more in postage than they will ever pro- 
 duce by being printed in the next century. Instead of 
 waiting so long, if you could make any thing of them 
 now in the way of reversion^ (that is, after my death,) I 
 should be very glad, — as, vnth all due regard to your 
 progeny, I prefer you to your grandchildren. Would not 
 Longman or Murray advance you a certain sum noxo, 
 pledging themselves not to have them published till after 
 my decease, think you ? — and what say you ? 
 
 " Over these latter sheets I would leave you a discre- 
 tionary power ; because they contain, perhaps, a thing or 
 two which is too sincere for the public. If I consent to 
 your disposing of the reversion noio, where would be the 
 harm? Tastes may change. I would, in your case, 
 make my essay to dispose of them, not publish, now ; and 
 if you (as is most likely) survive me, add what you please 
 from your own knowledge, and, above all, contradict any 
 thing, if I have 772fs-stated ; for my first object is the 
 truth, even at my own expense. 
 
 " I have some knowledge of your countryman, Muley 
 Moloch, the lecturer. He vsrote to me several letters 
 upon Christianity, to convert me ; and, if I had not been 
 a Christian already, I should probably have been now, in 
 consequence. I thought there was something of vvild 
 talent in him, mixed with a due leaven of absurdity, — as 
 there must be in all talent let loose upon the world with- 
 out a martingale. 
 
 '= The ministers seem still to persecute the dueen * 
 + 4= + * ♦ + + but they won't go out, the sons 
 of b— es. Damn reform — ^I want a place — what say 
 you ? You must applaud the honesty of the declaration, 
 whatever you may thiak of the intention. 
 
 " I have quantities of paper in England, original and 
 translated — tragedy, &c. &c. ; and am now copying out a 
 Fifth Canto of Don Juan, 149 stanzas. So that there 
 wiU be near three thin Albemarle, or two thick volumes of 
 all sorts of my Muses. I mean to plunge thick, too, into 
 the contest upon Pope, and to lay about me like a dragon 
 till I make manure of * * * for the top of Parnassus. 
 
 " Those rogues are right — we do laugh at <' others — eh ? 
 — do n't we ?* You shall see — you shall see what things 
 I '11 say, 'an it pleases Providence to leave us leisure. 
 But in these parts they are all going to war ; and there is 
 to be liberty, and a row, and a constitution — when they 
 can get them. But I won't talk politics — it is low. Let 
 us talk of the Q,ueen, and her bath, and her bottle — that 's 
 the only motley now-a-days. 
 
 " If there are any acquaintances of mine, salute them. 
 The priests here are trymg to persecute me, — but no 
 matter. " Yours, &c." 
 
 exclaiming that a man was murdered. I immediately ran 
 down, calling on Tita (the bravest of diem) to follow me. 
 The rest wanted to hinder us from going, as it is the custom 
 for every body here, it seems, to run away from ' the 
 stricken deer.' 
 
 "However, down we ran, and found liim lying on his 
 back, almost, if not quite, dead, with five wounds, one in 
 the heart, two in the stomach, one in the finger, and the 
 other in the arm. Some soldiers cocked their guns, and 
 wanted to hinder me from passing. However, we passed, 
 and I found Diego, the adjutant, crying over him like a 
 child — a surgeon, who said nothbg of his profession — a 
 priest, sobbing a frightened prayer — and the commandant, 
 all this time, on his back, on the hard, cold pavement, with- 
 out light or assistance, or any tiling around him but confu- 
 sion and dismay, 
 
 "As nobody could, or would, do any thing but howl and 
 pray, and as no one would stir a finger to move him, for 
 fear of consequences, I lost my patience — made my 
 servant and a couple of the mob take up the body — sent 
 off two soldiers to the guard — despatched Diego to the 
 Cardinal with the news, and had the commandant carried 
 up stairs into my own quarter. But it was too late, he was 
 gone — not at all disfigui-ed — bled inv*ardly — not above an 
 ounce or two came out. 
 
 "I had him partly stripped — made the surgeon exanune 
 him, and examined him myself. He had. been shot by cut 
 balls, or slugs. I felt one of the slugs, which had gone 
 through him, all but the skin. Every body conjectures 
 why he was killed, but no one knows how. The gun was 
 found close by him — an old gun, half filed do^'vn. 
 
 "He only said,' O Dio!' and ' Gesu !' two or three times, 
 and appeared to have suffered Uttle. Poor fellow ! he was 
 a brave officer, but had made himself much disliked by 
 the people. I knew him personally, and had met him often 
 at conversazioni and elsewhere. My house is full of 
 soldiers, dragoons, doctors, priests, and all kinds of per- 
 sons, — though I have now cleared it, and clapped senti- 
 nels at the doors. To-morrow the body is to be moved. 
 The town is in the greatest confusion, els you may suppose. 
 
 "You are to know that, if I had not had the body 
 moved, they would have left him there till morning in the 
 street, for fear of consequences. I would not choose to 
 let even a dog die in such a manner, vv^thout succour ; — 
 and, as for consequences, I care for none in a duty. 
 
 " Yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. The heutenant on duty by the body is smoking 
 his pipe with great composure. — A queer people this." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXVm. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 «Ravenna,Dec. 9, 1820, 
 " I open my letter to tell you a fact, which will show the 
 state of this country better than I can. The comman 
 dantf of the troops is now lying dead in my house. He 
 was shot at a Uttle past eight o'clock, about two hundred 
 paces from my door. I was putting on my great-coat to 
 visit Madame la Contessa G. when I heard the shot. On 
 coming into the hall, I found all my servants on the balcony, 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 • He here alludes to a humorous article, of which I had told him, in 
 Blackwood's Magazine, where the poets of the day were all grouped 
 together in a variety of fantastic shapes, with" Lord Byron and little 
 Moore laughing behind, as if they would split," at the rest of the frater- 
 nity. — Moore. 
 
 ^SeeDonJuaa CtintoY SUnza33. 
 
 « Ravenna, Dec. 25, 1820. 
 
 " You will or ought to have received the packet and let- 
 ters which I remitted to your address a fortnight ago, (or it 
 may be more days,) and I shall be slad of an answer, as, in 
 these times and places, packets per post are in some risk of 
 not reaching their destination. 
 
 "I have been thinking of a project for you and me, in 
 case we both get to London again, which (if a Neapolitan 
 war do n't suscitate) mav be calculated as possible for one 
 of us about the spring of 1821. I presume that you, too, 
 will be back by that time, or never ; but on that you will 
 give me some index. The project, then, is for you and me 
 to set up jointly a newspaper — ^nothing more nor less — 
 weeklv, or so, with some improvement or modifications 
 upon the plan of the present scoundrels, who dejjrade that 
 department, — ^but a newspaper, which we will edit in due 
 form, and, nevertheless, with some attention. 
 
 " There must always be in it a piece of poesy from one 
 or other of us two, leaving room, however, for such dilet- 
 tanti rhymers as may be deemed worthy of appearing in the 
 same column ; but this must be a sine (fiA no7i ; and also 
 
168 
 
 LETTERS, 1820. 
 
 as much prose as we can compass. We will take an 
 office — our names not announcedj but suspected — and, by 
 the blessing of Providence, give the age some new lights 
 upon policy, poesy, biography, criticism, morality, theology, 
 and all other ism, ality^ and ology whatsoever. 
 
 " Why, man, if we were to take to this in good earnest, 
 your debts would be paid off in a twelvemonth, and by dint 
 of a little diligence and practice, I doubt not that we could 
 distance the commonplace blackguards, who have so long 
 disgraced common sense and the common reader. They 
 have no merit but practice and impudence, both of which 
 we may acquire, and, as for talent and culture, the devil 's 
 in 't if such proofs as we have given of both can't furnish 
 out something better than the ' funeral baked meats' which 
 have coldly set forth the brealcfast table of all Great Britain 
 for so many years. Now, what think you? Let me 
 know ; and recollect that, if we take to such an enterprise, 
 we must do so in good earnest. Here is a hmt, — do you 
 make it a plan. We will modify it into as literary and 
 classical a concern as you please, only let us put out our 
 powers upon it, and it will most likely succeed. But you 
 must live in London, and I also, to bring it to bear, and we 
 must keep it a secret. 
 
 «As for the Uving in London, I would make tliat not 
 difficult to you, (if you would allow me,) until we could see 
 whether one means or other (the success of the plan, for 
 instance) would not make it quite easy for you, as well as 
 your farnily ; and, in any case, we should have some fun, 
 composing, correcting, supposing, inspecting, and supping 
 together over our lucubrations . If you think this worth a 
 thought, let me know, and I will begin to lay in a small 
 literary capital of composition for the occasion. 
 
 " Yours ever affectionately, 
 «B. 
 
 « P. S. If you thought of a middle plan between a Spec- 
 tator and a newspaper, why not'/ — only not on a Sunday. 
 Not that Sunday is not an excellent day, but it is engaged 
 already. We will call it the ' Tenda Rossa,' the name 
 Tassoni gave an answer of his in a controversy, in allu 
 sion to the delicate hint of Timour the Lame, to his ene- 
 mies, by a ' Tenda' of that colour, before he gave battle 
 Or we \vill call it 'Gli,' or 'I Carbonari,' if it so please 
 you — or any other name full of ' pastime and prodigality 
 which you may prefer. **** + *Letme 
 have an answer. I conclude poetically, with the beUman, 
 A merry Christmas to you !' " 
 
 ADDRESS 
 
 TO THE NEAPOLITAN GOVERNMENT. 
 
 \_Translation from the original Italian.'] 
 « An Englishman, a friend to liberty, having understood 
 that the Neapolitans permit even foreigners to contribute 
 to the good cause, is desu-ous that they should do him the 
 honour of accepting a thousand louis, which he takes the 
 liberty of offering. Having already, not long since, been 
 an ocular wtness of the despotism of the Barbarians in 
 the States occupied by them in Italy, he sees, with the 
 enthusiasm natural to a cultivated man, the generous deter- 
 mination of the Neapolitans to assert their well-won 
 independence. As a member of the English House of 
 Peers, he would be a traitor to the principles which placed 
 the reigning family of England on the throne, if he were 
 not grateful for the noble lesson so lately given both to 
 people and to kings. The offer which he desires to make 
 is small in itself, as must always be that presented from an 
 nidi\'idual to a nation ; but he trusts that it will not be the 
 last they will receive from his countrymen. His distance 
 from the frontier, and the feeling of his personal incapacity 
 to contribute efficaciously to the service of the nation, 
 |)revents him from proposing himself as worthy of the 
 lowest commission, for which experience and talent might 
 be requisite. But il^ as a mere volunteer, his presence 
 
 were not a burden to whomsoever he might serve under 
 he would repair to whatever place the NeapoUtan govern- 
 ment might point out, there to obey the orders and parti- 
 cipate in the dangers of his commanding officer, without 
 any other motive than that of sharing the destmy of a 
 brave nation, defending itself against the self-called Holy 
 Alliance, which but combines the vice of hypocrisy with 
 despotism." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Ravenna, Jan. 2, 182L^ 
 
 "Your entering into my project for the Memoir is 
 pleasant to me. But I doubt (contrary to my dear Made 
 MacF * *, whom I always loved, and always shall — not 
 only because I really did feel attached to her personaUy, 
 but because she and about a dozen others of that se.\ 
 were all who stuck by me in the grand conflict of 1815) 
 —but I doubt, I say, whether the Memoir could appear 
 in my lifetime; — and, indeed, I had rather it did not, 
 for a man always looks dead after his Life has appeared, 
 and I should certes not survive the appearance of mine. 
 The first part I cannot consent to alter, even although 
 Made de Stael's opmion of Benjamin Constant, and my 
 remarks upon Lady Caroline's beauty, (which is surely 
 great, and I suppose that I have said so — at least, I 
 ought,) should go down to our grandchildren in unsoplus- 
 ticated nakedness. 
 
 " As to Madame de Stael, I am by no means bound to 
 be her beadsman — she was always more civil to me in 
 person than during my absence . Our dear defimct friend, 
 Matthew Lewis, who was too great a bore ever to lie, 
 assured me, upon his tiresome word of honour, that, at 
 Florence, the said Madame de Stael was open-moiUhed 
 against me ; and, when asked, ui Switzerland, why she had 
 changed her opinion, replied, with laudable sincerity, 
 that I had named her in a sonnet with Voltaire, Rous- 
 seau, &c. &c. and that she could not help it, through 
 decency. Now, I have not forgotten this, but I have 
 been generous, — as mine acquaintance, the late Captain 
 Whitby of the navy, used to say to his seamen (when 
 'married to the gunner's daughtei-') — 'two dozen, and 
 let you off easy.' The ' two dozen' were with the cat-'- 
 nine-tails ; — the ' let you off easy' was rather his own 
 opinion than that of the patient. 
 
 "My acquaintance with these terms and practices 
 arises from my having been much conversant with ships 
 of war and naval heroes in the years of my voyages in 
 the Mediterranean. Whitby was in the gallant action 
 offLissa in 1811. He was brave, but a disciplinarian. 
 When he left his frigate, he left Siparrot, which was taught 
 by the crew the following sovmds — (It must be remarked 
 that Captam Whitby was the image of Fawcett the actor, 
 in voice, face, and figure, and that he squinted.) 
 " The Parrot loquitur. 
 
 " ' Whitby ! Whitby ! funny eye ! funny eye ! two do- 
 zen, and let you off easy. Oh you !' 
 
 "Now, if Madame de B. has a parrot, it had better be 
 taught a French parody of the same sounds. 
 
 " With regard to our purposed Journal, I will call it 
 what you please, but it should be a newspaper, to make 
 itpay. We can call it ' The Harp,' if you like— or any 
 thing. 
 
 " I feel exactly as you do about our ' art,' but it comes 
 over me in a kind of rage every now and then, like * 
 
 * * * and then, if I don't write to empty 
 my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted 
 love of writing, which you describe in yoiu- friend, I do 
 not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must 
 get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I 
 think composition a great pain. 
 
 " I wish you to think seriously of the Journal scheme — 
 for I am as serious as one can be, in this world, about 
 
LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 169 
 
 any thing. As to matters here, they are high and mighty 
 — but not for paper. It is much about the state of things 
 between Cain and Abel. There is, in fact, no law or 
 government at all ; and it is wonderful how well things 
 go on without them. Excepting a few occasional mur- 
 ders, (every body killing whomsoever he pleases, and 
 being killed, in turn, by a friend, or relative, of the de- 
 funct,) there is as quiet a society and as merry a Carni- 
 val as can be met with in a tour through Europe. There 
 is nothing like habit in these things. 
 
 "I shall remain here till May or Jiine, and, unless 
 * honour comes unlooked-for,' we may perhaps meet, in 
 France or England, within the year. 
 
 " Yours, &c. 
 
 "Of course, I cannot explain to you existing circum- 
 stances, as they open all letters. 
 
 " Will you set me right about your cursed ' Champs 
 Elysees ?' — are they « es' or ' ees' for the adjective ? I 
 know nothing of French, being all Italian. Though I 
 can read and understand French, I never attempt to 
 speak it ; for I hate it. From the second part of the 
 Memoirs cut what you please." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, January 4, 1821. 
 " I just see, by the papers of Galignani, that there is a 
 new tragedy of great expectation by Barry Cornwall.* 
 Of what I have read of his works I liked the Dramatic 
 Sketches, but thought his Sicilian story and Marcian 
 Colonna, in rhyme, quite spoiled, by I luiow not wliat 
 affectation of Wordsworth, and Moore, and myselfj — all 
 mixed up into a kind of chaos. I think him very likely 
 to produce a good tragedy, if he keep to a natural style, 
 and not play tricks to form harlequinades for an audience. 
 As he (Barry Cornwall is not his true name) was a 
 schoolfellow of mine, I take more than common interest 
 in his success, and shall be glad to hear of it speedily. 
 If I had been aware that he was in that line, I should 
 have spoken of him in the preface to Marino Faliero. 
 He will do a world's w^onder if he produce a great tragedy. 
 I am, however, persuaded, that this is not to be done by 
 following the old dramatists, — who are full of gross faults, 
 pardoned only for the beauty of their language, — but by 
 writing naturally and regularly^ and producing regular 
 tragedies, lilie the Greeks ; but not in imitation, — merely 
 the outline of their conduct, adapted to our own times 
 and circumstances, and of course no chorus. 
 
 " You will laugh, and say, ' Why do n't you do so ?' I 
 have, you see, tried a sketch in Marino Faliero ; but 
 many people think my talent ' essentially undramatic.'' and 
 I am not at all clear that they are not right. If Marino 
 Faliero do n't fall — in the perusal — I shall, perhaps, try 
 again, (but not for the stage ;) and as I think that love is 
 not the principal passion for tragedy, (and yet most of 
 ours turn upon it,) you will not find me a popular writer. 
 Unless it is love,_/t^rioMS, criminal, and hapless, it ought 
 not to make a tragic subject. When it is melting and 
 maudlin, it does, but it ought not to do ; it is then for the 
 gallery and second-price boxes. 
 
 " If you want to have a notion of what I am trying, 
 take up a translation of any of the Greek tragedians. If 
 I said the original, it would be an impudent presumption 
 of mine ; but the translations are so inferior to the origi- 
 nals that I think I may risk it. Then judge of the ' sim- 
 plicity of plot,' &c. and do not judge me by your old mad 
 dramatists, which is like drinking usquebaugh and then 
 proving a fountain. Yet, after all, I suppose that you 
 do not mean that spirits is a nobler element than a clear 
 
 spring bubbUng in the sun ? and this I take to be the dif- 
 ference between the Greeks and those turbid mounte- 
 banks — always exceptmg Ben Jonson, v^^ho was a scho- 
 lar and a classic. Or, take up a translation of Alfieri, 
 and try the interest, &c. of these my new attempts in 
 the old hne, by him in English ; and then tell me fairly 
 your opinion. But do n't measure me by your own old 
 or new tailors' yards. Nothing so easy as intricate con- 
 fusion of plot and rant. Mrs. Centlivre, in comedy, has 
 ten times the btistle of Congreve ; but are they to be com- 
 pared ? and yet she drove Congreve from the theatre." 
 
 See Don Juan, Canto XI. Stanza 59. 
 
 22 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, January 19, 1821, 
 
 « Yours of the 29 th uUimo hath arrived . I must really 
 and seriously request that you will beg of Messrs. Harris 
 or Elhston to let the Doge alone : it is not an actmg 
 play ; it will not serve their purpose ; it will des troy ^/owr*, 
 (the sale ;) and it will distress me. It is not courteous, 
 it is hardly even gentlemanly, to persist in this appropria- 
 tion of a man's writings to their mountebanks. 
 
 " I have already sent you by last post a short protest 
 to the public, (against this proceeding ;) in case that they 
 persist, which I trust that they will not, you must then 
 publish it in the newspapers. I shall not let them off 
 with that only, if they go on ; but make a longer appeal 
 on tliat subject, and state what I think the injustice of 
 their mode of behaviour. It is hard that I should have 
 all the buffoons in Britain to deal with— pirates who will 
 publish, and players who will act — when there are thou- 
 sands of worthy men who can neither get bookseller nor 
 manager for love nor money. 
 
 " You never answered me a word about Galignani. 
 If you mean to use the two documents, do ; if not, burn 
 them. I do not choose to leave them in any one's pos- 
 session ; suppose some one found them without the let- 
 ters, what would they tJmik ? why, that /had been domg 
 the opposite of what I have done, to wit, referred the whole 
 thmg to you — an act of civility, at least, which required 
 saying, ' I have received your letter.' I thought that you 
 might have some hold upon those pubUcations by this 
 means ; to m.e it can be no interest one way or the other. 
 
 " The third canto of Don Juan is ' dull,' but you must 
 really put up with it : if the first two and the two follow- 
 ing are tolerable, what do you expect ? particularly as I 
 neither dispute with you on it as a matter of criticism or 
 as a matter of business. 
 
 " Besides, what am I to understand ? you, and Dou- 
 glas Kinnaird, and others, write to me, that the first two 
 pubhshed cantos are among the best that I ever wrote, 
 and are reckoned so ; Augusta writes that they are 
 thought '•execxabW (bitter word that for an author — eh, 
 Murray?) as a composition even, and that she had heard 
 so much against them that she would never read them, 
 and never has. Be that as it may, I can't alter ; that is 
 not my forte. If you pubUsh the three new ones without 
 ostentation, they may perhaps succeed. 
 
 " Pray publish the Dante and the Pulci, (the Prophecy 
 of Dante, I mean.) I look upon the Pulci as my grand 
 performance. The remainder of the ' Hints,' where be 
 they ? Now, bring them all out about the same time, 
 otherwise ' the variety^ you wot of v\t11 be less obvious. 
 
 " I am in bad humour : — some obstructions in business 
 with those plaguy trustees, who object to an advantageous 
 loan which I was to furnish to a nobleman on mortgage 
 because his property is in Ireland, have shovm me how a 
 man is treated in his absence. Oh, if I do come back, 
 will make some of those who little dream of it spin,— or 
 they or I shall go down." + * + + 
 
 * + *** + 
 
170 
 
 LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXni. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "January 20, 1821. 
 «I did not think to have troubled you with the plague 
 and postage of a double letter this time, but I have just read 
 in an Italian paper, ' That Lord Byron has a tragedy com- 
 ing out,' &c. &c. &c. and that the Courier and Morning 
 Chronicle, &c. &c. are pulling one another to pieces about 
 him, &c. . 
 
 « Now I do reiterate and desire, that every thmg may 
 be done to prevent it from coming out on any theatre, (or 
 which it never was designed, and on which (in the present 
 state of the stage of London) it could never succeed. I 
 have sent you my appeal by last post, which you must pub- 
 lish in ca^e of need ; and I require you even m your own 
 name (if my honour is dear to you) to declare that such re- 
 presentation would be contrary to my wish and to my judg- 
 ment. If you do not wish to drive me mad altogether, you 
 will hit upon some way to prevent tlus. 
 
 « Yours, &c. 
 «P. S. I cannot conceive how Harris or EUiston should 
 be so insane as to think of acting Marino Faliero; they 
 might as well act the Prometheus of ^schylus. I speak 
 of course humbly, and with the greatest sense of the dis- 
 tance of time and merit between the two perfonnances ; 
 but merely to show the absurdity of the attempt. 
 
 « The Italian paper speaks of a ' party against it :' to be 
 sure there would be a party. Can you imagine, that after 
 having never flattered man, nor beast, nor opinion, nor po- 
 Utics, there would not be a party against a man, who is also 
 apoj3w/ar writer— at least a successful? Why, all parties 
 would be a party against." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXIV. 
 
 TO M». MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, January 20, 182L 
 
 «If Harris or Elliston persist, after the remonstrance 
 which I desired you and Mr. Kinnaird to make on my be- 
 half, and which I hope vAW be sufficient— but if, I say, they 
 do persist, then I pray you to present in person the enclosed 
 letter to the Lord Chamberlain: I have said in person, be- 
 cause otherwise I shall have neither answer nor know- 
 ledge that it has reached its address, owing to the ' inso- 
 solence of office.' 
 
 « I wish you would speak to Lord Holland, and to all my 
 friends and yours, to interest themselves in preventing 
 this cursed attempt at representation. 
 
 «God help me! at this distance, I am treated like a 
 corpse or a fool by the few people that I thought I could 
 rely upon ; and I was a fool to think any better of them 
 than of the rest of mankind. 
 
 "Pray write. "Yours, &c. 
 
 « P. S. I have nothing more at heart (that is, in litera- 
 ture) than to prevent this drama from gobg upon the 
 sta<^e: in short, rather than permit it, it must be sup- 
 pressed altogether, and ovly forty copies struck off privately for 
 presents to my friends. What cursed fools those specu- 
 lating buffoons must be not to see that it is unfit for their 
 fair— or their booth !" 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 'Ravenna, January 22,1821. 
 "Pray get well. I do not like your complaint. So, 
 let me have aline to say you are up and doing again. To- 
 day I am 33 years of age. 
 
 ' Through life's road,' &C.&C.* 
 
 "Have you heard that the 'Braziers' Company' have, or 
 * GiTen in his Journal, page 253. 
 
 mean to present an address at Brandenburgh-house, 'in 
 armour,' and with all possible variety and splendour of 
 brazen apparel? 
 
 " The Braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass 
 An address, and present it themselves all in brass— 
 A superfluous pageant— for, by the Lord Harry, 
 They '11 find where they 're going much more than they carry. 
 
 There's an Ode for you, is it not ?— worthy 
 
 " Of * * * *, the grand metaquizzical poet, 
 A man of vast merit, though few people know it ; 
 The perusal of whom (as I told you at Mestri) 
 I owe, in great part, to my passion for pastry. 
 
 "Mestri and Fusina are the ' trajects, or common fer- 
 ries,' to Venice ; but it was from Fusina that you and I 
 embarked, though ' the wicked necessity of rhyming' has 
 made me press Mestri into the voyage. 
 
 "So, you have had a book dedicated to you? I am 
 glad of it, and shall be very happy to see the volume. 
 
 "I am in a peck of troubles about a tragedy of mine, 
 which is fit only for the (* * * * *) closet, and which it 
 seems that the managers, assuming a right over published 
 poetry, are determined to enact, whether I wiUor no, with 
 their owa alterations by Mr. Dibdin, I presume. I have 
 written to Murray, to the Lord Chamberlain, and to others, 
 to interfere and preserve me from such an exhibition. _ I 
 want neither the impertinence of their liisses nor the in- 
 solence of their applause. I v/rite only for the reader, and 
 care for nothing but the silent approbation of those who 
 close one's book with good-humour and quiet contentment. 
 
 " Now if you would also write to our friend Perry, to 
 beg of him to meditate with Harris and Elliston io for- 
 bear this intent, you will greatly oblige me. The play is 
 quite unfit for the stage, as a single glance will show them, 
 and, I hope, has shovm them ; and, if it were ever so fit, I 
 will never have any thing, to do willingly with the theatres. 
 "Yours ever, in haste, &c," 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXVL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, January 27, 182L 
 
 " I differ from you about the Dante, which I think should 
 be published with the tragedy. But do as you please : 
 you must be the best judge of your own craft. I agree 
 with you about the title. The play may be good or bad, 
 but I flatter myself that it is original as a picture o^ihal 
 kind of passion, which to my mind is so natural, that I am 
 convinced that I should have done precisely what the Doge 
 did on those provocations. 
 
 "I am glad of Foscolo's approbation. 
 
 "Excuse haste. I believe I mentioned to you that— — 
 I forget what it was ; but no matter. 
 
 " Thanks for your compliments of the year. I hope 
 that it will be pleasanter than the last. I speak with re- 
 ference to England only, as far as regards myselfj where I 
 had every kind of disappointment — lost an important law- 
 suit — and the trustees of Lady Byron refusing to allow of 
 an advantageous loan to be made from my property to 
 Lord Blessington, &c. &c. by way of closing the four sea- 
 sons. These, and a hundred other such things, made a 
 year of bitter business forme in England. Luckily, things 
 were aUttle pleasanter for me here, else I should have taken 
 the hberty of Hannibal's ring. 
 
 "Pray thank Gifford for all his goodnesses. The win- 
 ter is as cold here as Parry's polarities. I must now take 
 a canter in the forest ; my horses are waiting. 
 
 " Yours ever and truly. 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXVn. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Ravenna, February 2, 182L 
 " Your letter of excuses has arrived. I receive the let- 
 ter, but do not admit the excuses, except m courtesy as 
 
LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 171 
 
 when a man treads on your toes and begs your pardon the 
 pardon is granted, but the joint aches, especially if there be 
 a corn upon it. However, I shall scold you presently. 
 
 " In the last speech of the Doge, there occurs (I think 
 from memory) the phrase — 
 
 ' And Thou who makest and unmakest suns : ' 
 
 change this to — 
 
 ' And Thou who kmdiest and who quenchest suns ;' 
 
 that is to say, if the verse runs equally well, and Mr. Gif- 
 ford thinks the expression improved. Pray have the bounty 
 to attend to this. You are grown quite a minister of state. 
 Mind if some of these days you are not thrown out. * * 
 will not be always a Tory, though Johnson says the first 
 Whig was the Devil. 
 
 "You have learned one secret from Mr. Galignani' 
 (somewhat tardily acknowledged) correspondence: this 
 is, that an English author may dispose of his exclusive 
 copyright in Prance^ — a fact of some consequence (in time 
 of peace) in the case of a popular writer. Now I will tell 
 you what you shall do, and take no advantage of you, though 
 you were scurvy enough never to acknowledge my letter 
 for three months. Offer GaUgnani the refusal of the copy- 
 right in France ; if he refuses, appoint any bookseller in 
 France you please, and I will sign any assignment you 
 please, and it shall never cost you a sou on my account. 
 
 "Recollect that I will have nothing to do with it, except 
 as far as it may secure the copyright to yourself. I will 
 have no bargain but with the Enghsh booksellers, and I 
 desire no interest out of that country. 
 
 " Now, that 's fair and open, and a little handsomer than 
 your dodging silence, to see what would come of it. You 
 are an excellent fellow, mio caro Moray, but there is still 
 a.Uttle leaven of Fleet-street about you now and then — a 
 crum of tlie old loaf. You have no right to act suspiciously 
 with me, for I have given you no reason. I shall always 
 be frank with you ; as, for instance, whenever you talk 
 with the votaries of Apollo arithmetically, it should be in 
 guineas, not pounds — to poets, as weU as physicians, and 
 bidders at auctions. 
 
 " I shall say no more at this present, save that I am 
 
 "Yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. If you venture, as you say, to Ravenna this year, 
 I will exercise the rites of hospitality while you live, and 
 bury you handsomely, (though not in holy ground,) if you 
 get ' shot or slashed in a creagh or splore,' which are rather 
 frequent here of late among the native parties. But per- 
 haps your visit may be anticipated ; I may probably come 
 to your country ; in which case write to her ladyship the 
 duphcate of the epistle Uie king of France wrote to Prince 
 John." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXVIII. 
 
 TO MR, MURRAY. 
 
 « Ravenna, Feb. 16, 182L 
 « In the month of March will arrive from Barcelona 
 Signor Curioni, engaged for the Opera, He is an ac- 
 quaintance of mine, and a gentlemanly young man, high 
 in his profession. I must request your personal kindness 
 and patronage in his favour. Pray introduce him to such 
 of the theatrical people, editors of papers, and others, as 
 may be useful to him in liis profession, publicly and pri- 
 vately. 
 
 « The fifth is so far from being the last of Don Juan, 
 that it is hardly the beginning. I meant to take him the 
 tour of Europe, with a proper mixture of siege, battle, and 
 adventure, and to make him finish as Anacharsis Cloots, 
 in the French Revolution. To how many cantos this may 
 extend, I know not, nor whether (even if 1 live) I shall 
 complete it ; but this was my notion. I meant to have 
 made him a cavalier servente in Italy, and a cause for a 
 divorce in England, and a sentimental ' Wcrther-faced 
 man' in Germany, so as to show the different ridicules of 
 
 the society in each of those countries, and to have display- 
 ed him gradually gdt^ and blasd as he grew older, as is 
 natural. But I had not quite fixed whether to make him 
 end in hell, or in an unliappy marriage, not knowing which 
 would be the severest: the Spanish tradition says hell ; 
 but it is probably only an allegory of the other state. You 
 are now in possession of my notions on the subject. 
 
 "You say the Doge wiU not be popular: did I ever 
 write for popularity ? I defy you to show a work of mine 
 (except a tale or two) of a popular style or complexion. 
 It appears to me that there is room for a different style of 
 the drama ; neither a servile following of the old drama, 
 which is a grossly erroneous one, nor yet too Frenc\ like 
 those who succeeded the older writers. It appears to me 
 that good English, and a severer approach to the rules, 
 might combine something not dishonourable to our litera- 
 ture. I have also attempted to make a play without love ; 
 and there are neither rings, nor mistakes, nor starts, nor 
 outrageous ranting villains, nor melodrame in it. All this 
 will prevent its popularity, but does not persuade me that 
 it is therefore faulty. Whatever faults it has will arise 
 from deficiency hi the conduct, rather than in the concep- 
 tion, which is simple and severe. 
 
 " So ymi epigrammatize upon my epigram ? I will pay 
 you for that, mind if I do n't, some day. I never let any 
 one off in the long run, (who first begins.) Remember 
 * * *, and see if I do n't do you as good a turn. You un- 
 natural publisher ! what ! quiz your own authors ? you 
 are a paper cannibal ! 
 
 " In the letter on Bowles, (which I sent by Tuesday's 
 post,) after the words ' attempts had been made' (alluding 
 to the repubUcation of ' English Bards',) add the words, 
 ' in Ireland ;' for I believe that English pirates did not 
 begin their attempts tiU after I had left England the second 
 time. Pray attend to tliis. Let me know what you and 
 your s3Tiod think on Bowles. 
 
 "I did not think the second seat so bad ; surely it is far 
 better than the Saracen's head with which you have 
 sealed your last letter; the larger, in profile, was surely 
 much better than that. 
 
 " So Foscolo says he will get you a seal cut better in 
 Italy ? he means a throat — tliat is the only thing they do 
 dexterously. The Arts — all but Canova's, and Mor- 
 ghen's, and Ovid^s (I do n't mean poetry) — are as low as 
 need be: look at the seal which I gave to William 
 Bankes, and own it. How came George Bankes to quota 
 'English Bards' in the House of Commons? All the 
 world keep flinging that poem in my face, 
 
 " Belzoni is a grand traveller, and his English is very 
 prettily broken. 
 
 " As for news, the Barbarians are marching on Naples, 
 and if they lose a single battle, all Italy will be up. It will 
 be like the Spanish row, if they have any bottom. 
 
 " ' Letters opened ?' — to be sure they are, and that 's the 
 reason why I always put in my opinion of the German 
 Austrian scoundrels. There is not an Italian who 
 loathes them more than I do ; and whatever I could do to 
 scour Italy and the earth of their infamous oppression 
 would be done con amore. 
 
 "Yours, fee." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Ravenna, Feb. 21, 1821.* 
 « In the forty-fourth page, volume first, of Turner's Tra- 
 vels, (which you lately sent me,) it is stated that ' Lord 
 Byron, when he expressed such confidence of its practi- 
 cability, seems to have forgotten that Leander swam both 
 ways, with and against the tide ; whereas he (Lord Byron) 
 I only performed the easiest part of the task by swimming 
 I with it from Europe to Asia.' I certainly could not have 
 
 j * See —Don Juan, Canto IT, Stanza 105, &c. 
 
172 
 
 LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 forgotten, what is known to every schoolboy, that Leander 
 crossed in the night, and returned towards the morning. 
 My object was, to ascertain that the Hellespont could be 
 crossed <it all by swimming, and in this Mr. Ekenhead 
 and myself bodi succeeded, the one in an hour and ten 
 minutes, and tlie other in an hour and five minutes. The 
 tide was riot in our favour ; on the contrary, the great dif- 
 ficulty was to bear up against the current, which, so far 
 from helping us into the Asiatic side, set us down right to- 
 wards tlie Archipelago. Ncitlier Mr. Ekenhead, myself, 
 nor, I will venture to add, any person on board the frigate, 
 from Captain Bathurst downv.ards, had any notion of a 
 dilFcrcnce of the current on tlie Asiatic side, of which Mr. 
 Turner speaks. I never heard of it till this moment, or I 
 would have taken the other coiii-se. Lieutenant Eken- 
 head's sole motive, and mine also for setting out from the 
 European side was, that the UtJe cape above Sestos was 
 a more prominent starling- place, and the frigate, which 
 lay below, close under the Asiatic castle, fonned a better 
 point of view for us us to swim towards ; and, in fact, we 
 landed immediately below it. 
 
 "JNIr. Turner says, '"Whatever is thrown into the 
 stream on tliis part of the Eiu-opean bank, miist arrive at 
 the Asiatic shore.' This is so far from being the case, 
 that it 7nust arrive in the Archipelago, if left to the current, 
 altliough a strong wind in the Asiatic direction might have 
 such an effect occasionally. 
 
 " Mr. Turner attempted the passage from the Asiatic 
 side, and failed : ' After five-and-twenty minutes, in which 
 he did not advance a hundred yards, he gave it up from 
 complete exhaustion.' This is very possible, and might 
 have occurred to him just as readily on the European 
 side. He should have set out a couple of miles higher, 
 and could then have corne out below tlie European castle. 
 I particularly stated, and Mr. Hobhouse has done so also, 
 that we were obliged to make the real passsage of one 
 mile extend to between three andfour^ owing to the force of 
 the stream, I can assure Mr. Turner, that his success 
 would have given me gi-eat pleasure, as it would have 
 added one more instance to the proofs of the probability. 
 It is not quite fair in him to infer, that because he failed, 
 Leander could not succeed. There are still four in- 
 stances on record : a Neapolitan, a young Jew, Mr. Eken- 
 head, and myself ; tlie two last done in the presence of 
 hundreds of English witnesses. 
 
 " With regard to the difference of the current I perceived 
 none \ it is favourable to the swimmer on neither side, but 
 may be stemmed by plunging into the sea, a considerable 
 way above the opposite point of the coast w-hich the 
 swimmer wishes to make, but still bearing up against it ; 
 it is strong, but if you calculate weU,you may reach land. 
 My own experience and that of others bids me pronounce 
 the passage of Leander perfectly practicable. Any young 
 man, in good and tolerable sldll in swimming, might suc- 
 ceed in it from either side, I was three hours in swim- 
 ming across the Tagus, which is much more hEizardous, 
 being two hours longer than the Hellespont. Of what 
 may be done in swimming, I will mention one more 
 instance. In 1818, the Chevalier Mengaldo, (a gentleman 
 of Bassano,) a good swimmer, wished to swim with my 
 friend Mr. Alexander Scott and myself. As he seemed 
 particularly anxious on the subject, we indulged him. We 
 all three started from the island of the Lido and swam to 
 Venice. At the entrance of the Grand Canal, Scott and 
 I were a good way ahead, and we saw no more of our 
 foreign friend, which, however, was of no consequence, as 
 there was a gondola to hold his clothes and pick him up. 
 Scott swam on till past the Rialto, where he got out, less 
 from fatigue than from chill, having been four hours in the 
 water, without rest or stay, except what is to be obtained 
 by floating on one's back — this being the condition of our 
 performance. I continued my course on to Santa Chiara, 
 comprising the whole of the Grand Canal, (besides the 
 distance from the Lido,) and got out where the Laguna 
 
 once more opens to Fusina. I had been in the water, by 
 my w atch, without help or rest, and never touching ground 
 or boat, four hours and tw<nity minutes. To this match, 
 and during the greater part of its performance, Mr. 
 Hoppner, the consul-general, was witness, and it is well 
 known to many others. Mr, Turner can easily verify 
 the fact, if he thinks it worth while, by referring to Mr. 
 Hoppner. The distance we could not accurately ascer- 
 tain ; it was of course considerable. 
 
 " I crossed the Hellespont in one hour and ten minutes 
 only. I am now ten years older in time, and twenty in 
 constitution, than I was when I passed the Dardanelles, 
 and yet two years ago I was capable of swimming four 
 hours and twenty minutes ; and I am sure that I could 
 have continued two hours longer, though I had on a pair 
 of trowsers, an accoutrement which by no means assists 
 the performance. My two companions were also f&ur 
 hours in the water. Mengaldo might be about thirty 
 years of age ; Scott about six- and- twenty. 
 
 "With this experience in swimming at different periods 
 of life, not only upon the spot, but elsewhere, of various 
 persons, what is there to make me doubt that Leander's 
 exploit was perfectly practicable? If three individuals 
 did more than the passage of the Hellespont, why should 
 he have done less ? But Mr. Turner failed, and, natu- 
 rally seeking a plausible reason for his failure, lays the 
 blame on the Asiatic side of the strait. He tried to swim 
 directly across, instead of going higher up to take the 
 vantage : he might as well have tried to Jly over Mount 
 Athos. 
 
 " That a young Greek of the heroic times, in love, and 
 with his limbs in full vigour, might have succeeded in such 
 an attempt is neitlier wonderful nor doubtful. Whether 
 he attempted it or not is another question, because he might 
 have had a small boat to save him the trouble. 
 
 "I am yours very truly, 
 
 " Byron. 
 
 "P. S. Mr. Turner says that the swunming from 
 Europe to Asia was ' the easiest part of the task.' I doubt 
 whether Leander found it so, as it was the return ; how- 
 ever, he had several hours between the intervals. The 
 argument of Mr. Turner ' that higher up, or lower down, 
 the strait widens so considerably that he could save little 
 labour by his starting,' is only good for indifferent swim- 
 mers ; a man of any practice or skill will always consider 
 the distance less than the strength of the stream, ii 
 Ekenhead and myself had thought of crossing at the 
 narrowest point, instead of going up to the Cape above it, 
 we should have been swept down to Tenedos. The 
 strait, however, is not so extremely wide even where it 
 broadens above and below the forts. As the frigate was 
 stationed some time in the Dardanelles waiting for the fir- 
 man, I bathed often in the straits subsequently to our tra- 
 ject, and generally on the Asiatic side, without perceiving 
 the greater strength of the opposite stream by which the 
 diplomatic traveller palliates his own failure. Our amuse- 
 ment in the small bay which opens immediately below the 
 Asiatic fort was to dive for the land tortoises, which we 
 flung in on purpose, as they amphibiously crawled along 
 the bottom. This does not argue any greater violence of 
 current than on the European shore. With regard to the 
 modest insinuation that w-e chose the European side as 
 ' easier,' I appeal to Mr. Hobhouse and Captain Bathurst 
 if it be true or no, (poor Ekenhead being since dead.) 
 Had we been aware of any such difference of current as 
 is asserted, we would at least have proved it, and were 
 not likely to have given it up in the twenty-five minutes 
 of Mr. Turner's owti experiment. The secret of all this 
 is, that Mr, Turner failed, and that we succeeded; and 
 he is consequently disappointed, and seems not unwilling 
 to overshadow whatever little merit there might be in our 
 success. Why did he not try the European side ? If he 
 had succeeded there, after failing on the Asiatic, his plea 
 would have been more giaceful and gracious. Mr. Tur- 
 
LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 173 
 
 ner may find what fault he pleases with my poetry, or my 
 pohtics ; but I recommend him to leave aquatic reflec- 
 tions till he is able to swim ' five-and-twenty mmutes' 
 without being • exhausted,' though I believe he is the first 
 modem Tory who ever swam ' against the stream' for half 
 the time." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Ravenna, Feb. 22,1821, 
 " As I wish the soul of the late Antoine Galignani to 
 rest in peace, (you will have read his death pubhshed by 
 himself, in his own newspaper,) you are requested parti- 
 cularly to infoi-m his children and heirs, that of their 
 ' Literary Gazette,' to which I subscribed more than two 
 months ago, I have only received one number, notwith- 
 standing I have written to them repeatedly. If they have 
 no regard for me, a subscriber, they ought to have some 
 for their deceased parent, who is undoubtedly no better 
 off in his present residence for this total want of atten- 
 tion. If not, let me have my francs. They were paid by 
 MissiagUa, the TVeneha.n bookseller. You may also hint 
 to them that when a gentleman writes a letter, it is usual 
 to send an answer. If not, I shall make them ' a speech,' 
 which will comprise an eulogy on the deceased. 
 
 " We are here full of war, and within two days of the 
 seat of it, expecting intelligence momently. We shall 
 now see if our ItaUan friends are good for any thing but 
 ' shooting round a corner,' like the Irishman's gun. Excuse 
 haste, — I write with my spurs putting on. My horses 
 are at the door, and an Italian Count waiting to accom- 
 pany me in my ride. " Yours, &c. 
 
 " P. S. Pray, among my letters, did you get one detail- 
 ing the death of the commandant here ? He was killed 
 near my door, and died in my house. 
 
 "BOWLES AND CAMPBELL. 
 " To the air of ' Hoio nov), Madame Flirt,'' in the Beg- 
 gar's Opera. 
 
 " Boicles. 
 " Why, how now, saucy Tom, 
 If you thus must ramble, 
 I will publish some 
 Remarks on Mr. Campbell. 
 
 " Campbell. 
 " Why, how now, Billy Bowles, 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXXL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "March 2, 1821. 
 " This was the beginning of a letter which I meant for 
 Perry, but stopped short hoping that you would be able to 
 prevent the theatres. Of course you need not send it ; 
 but it explains to you my feelings on the subject. You 
 say that ' there is nothing to fear, let them do what they 
 please ,' that is to say, that you would see me damned 
 with great tranquillity. You are a fine fellow." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXXII. 
 
 TO MR. PERRV. 
 
 « Ravenna, Jan. 22, 1821. 
 
 *DEAR SIR, 
 
 " I have received a strange piece of news, which can- 
 not be more disagreeable to your pub he than it is to me. 
 Letters and the gazettes do me the honour to say, that it 
 is the intention of some of the London managers to bring 
 forward on their stage the poem of 'Marino Faliero,' &c. 
 
 which was never intended for such an exhibition, and I 
 trust will never undergo it. It is certainly unfit for it. I 
 have never written but for the sohtary reader, and require 
 no experiments for applause beyond his silent approbation. 
 Since such an attempt to drag me forth as a gladiator in 
 the theatrical arena is a violation of all the courtesies of 
 literature, I trust that the impartial part of the press will 
 step between me and this pollution. I say pollution, 
 because every violation of a right is such, and I claim my 
 right as an author to prevent what I have written from 
 being turned into a stage-play, I have too much respect 
 for the pubUc to permit this of my own free will. Had I 
 sought their favour, it would have been by a pantomime. 
 
 " I have said that I write only for the reader. Beyond 
 this I cannot consent to any pubUcation, or to the abuse of 
 any publication of mine to the purposes of histrionism. 
 The applauses of an audience would give me no pleasure ; 
 their disapprobation might, however, give me pain. The 
 wager is therefore not equal. You may, perhaps, say, 
 ' How can this be ? if their disapprobation gives pain, 
 their praise might afford pleasure V By no means : the 
 kick of an ass or the sting of a wasp may be painful to 
 those who would find nothing agreeable in the braying of 
 the one or the buzzing of the other. 
 
 " This may not seem a courteous comparison, but I 
 have no other ready ; and it occurs naturally. 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXXIII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Ravenna, Marzo, 1 821 . 
 
 " DEAR MORAY, 
 
 " In my packet of the 12th instant, in the last sheet, 
 (not the half* sheet,) last page, omit the sentence which 
 (defining, or attempting to define, what and who are gen- 
 tlemen) begins ' I should say at least in hfe that most 
 military men have it, and few naval ; that several men of 
 rank have it, and few lawyers,' &c. &c. I say, omit the 
 whole of that sentence, because, like the ' cosmogony, or 
 creation of the world,' in the ' Vicar of Wakefield,' it is 
 not much to the purpose. 
 
 " In the sentence above, too, almost at the top of the 
 same page, after the words ' that there ever was, or can 
 be, an aristocracy of poets,' add and insert these words — 
 ' I do not mean that they should write in the style of the 
 song by a person of quality, or park euphuism ; but there 
 is a nobility of thought and expression to be found no less 
 in Shakspeare, Pope, and Burns, than in Dante, Alfieri, 
 &c. &c. and so on. Or, if you please, perhaps you had 
 better omit the whole of the latter digression on the rml- 
 g-ar poets, and insert only as far as the end of the sen- 
 tence on Pope's Homer, where I prefer it to Cowper's and 
 quote Dr. Clarke in favour of its accuracy. 
 
 " Upon all these points, take an opinion ; take the sense 
 (or nonsense) of your learned visitants, and act thereby. 
 I am very tractable — in prose. 
 
 " Whether I have made out the case for Pope, I loiow 
 not ; but I am very sure that I have been zealous in the 
 attempt. If it comes to the proofs, we shall beat the 
 blackguards. I will show more imagery in twenty lines 
 of Pope than in any equal length of quotation in English 
 poesy, and that in places where they least expect it. For 
 instance, in his lines on Sporus, — now, do just read them 
 over — the subject is of no consequence (^whether it be 
 satire or epic) — we are talking of poetry and imagery from 
 nature and art. Now mark the images separately and 
 arithmetically: — 
 
 «1. The thing of si7A:. 
 
 2 . Curd of ass's milk . 
 
 3. Thebutterfly. 
 
 4. The wheel. 
 
 Second letter in aniwer to Bowie*. 
 
174 
 
 LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 5. Bug with gilded wings. 
 
 6. Pa/Hied child of dirt. 
 
 7. Whose 6j^2z. 
 
 8. Well-bred spanitZs. 
 
 9. Shalloiv streams run dimpling. 
 
 10. Florid impotence. 
 
 11. Prompter. Puppet squeaks. 
 
 12. The ear of Eve. 
 
 13. Familiar toad. 
 
 14. HalfJioth,halfvenom,spitsh.imse\f abroad. 
 
 15. Fop at the toilet. 
 
 16. Flatterer at the board. 
 
 17. Amphibious thing. 
 
 18. Now trips alaiiy. 
 
 19. Now struts a lord. 
 
 20. A cherub's face. 
 
 21. A reptile all the rest. 
 
 22. The Rabbins. 
 
 23. Pride that licks the dust— 
 
 ' Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, 
 Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.' 
 
 "Now, is there a line of all the passage without the 
 most forcible imagery, (for his purpose ?) Look at the 
 variety — at the poetry of the passage — at the imagina- 
 tion: there is hardly a line from w^hich a painting might 
 not be made, and is. But this is nothing in comparison 
 with his higher passages in the Essay on Man, and many 
 of his other poems, serious and comic. There never 
 was such an unjust outcry in this world as that which 
 these fellows are trying against Pope. 
 
 " Ask Mr. Gifford if, in the fifth act of the Doge,' you 
 could not contrive (where the sentence of the Veil is 
 passed) to insert the following lines in Marino Faliero's 
 answer ? 
 
 ' But let it be so. It will be in vain : 
 The veil which blackens o'er this blighted name, 
 And hides, or seems to hide, these lineaments, 
 Shall draw more gazers than the thousand portraits 
 Which glitter round it in their painted trappings, 
 Your delegated slaves — the people's tyrants." 
 
 "Yours truly, &c, 
 "P. S. Upon public matters here I say httle : you 
 will all hear soon enough of a general row throughout 
 Italy. There never was a more foohsh step than the 
 expedition to Naples by these fellows. 
 
 " I %vish to propose to Holmes, the miniature painter, to 
 come out to me this spring. I will pay his expenses, and 
 any sum in reason. I wish him to take my daughter's 
 picture, (who is in a convent,) and the Countess G.'s, and 
 the head of a peasant girl, which latter would make a 
 study forRaphael. It is a complete jaeosani face, but an 
 Italian peasant's, and quite in the Raphael Fomarina 
 style. Her figure is tall, but rather large, and not at all 
 comparable to her face, which is really superb. She is 
 not seventeen, and I am anxious to have her face while it 
 lasts. Madame G. is also very handsome, but 't is quite 
 in a different style — completely blonde and fair — very 
 uncommon in Italy ; yet not an English fairness, but 
 more likely a Swede or a Norwegian. Her figure, too, 
 particularly the bust, is uncommonly good. It must be 
 Holmes : I like him because he takes such inveterate like- 
 nesses. There is a war here ; but a solitary traveller, 
 with Uttle baggage, and nothing to do with politics, has 
 nothing to fear. Pack him up in the DiUgence. Do n't 
 forget." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. HOPPjNTER. 
 
 " Ravenna, April 3, 1821. 
 " Thanks for the translation. I have sent you some 
 books, which I do not know whether you have read or no 
 — you need not return them, in any case. I enclose you 
 
 These lines 
 
 never inserted in the Tragedy 
 
 also a letter from Pisa. I have neither spared trouble nor 
 expense in the care of the child ; and as she was now 
 four years old complete, and quite above the control of the 
 senants — and as a man living without any woman at the 
 head of his house cannot much attend to a nursery — I 
 had no resource but to place her for a time (at a high 
 pension too) in the convent of Bagna-Cavalli, (twelve 
 miles off.) where the air is good, and where she will, at 
 least, have her learning advanced, and her morals and 
 religion inculcated. I had also another reason ; — things 
 were and are in such a state here, that I had no reason to 
 look upon my own personal safety as particularly ensura- 
 ble ; and I thought the infant best out of harm's way for 
 the present. 
 
 " It is also fit that I should add that 1 by no means 
 intended, nor intend, to give a natural child an English 
 education, because with the disadvantages of her birth, 
 her after-settlement would be doubly difficult. Abroad, 
 with a fair foreign education and a portion of five or six 
 diousand pounds, she might and may marry very respec- 
 tably. In England such a dowry would be a pittance, 
 while elsewhere it is a fortune. It is, besides, my wish 
 that she should be a Roman Catholic, which I look upon 
 as the best reUgion, as it is assuredly the oldest of the 
 various branches of Cliristianity. I have now explained 
 my notions as to the place where she now is — it is the 
 best I could find for the present \ but I have no prejudices 
 in its favour. 
 
 " I do not speak of politics, because it seems k hopeless 
 subject, as long as those scoundrels are to be permitted to 
 buUy states out of their independence. BeUeve me 
 
 " Yours ever and truly. 
 
 " P. S. There is a report here of a cliange in France ; 
 but with what truth is not yet known. 
 
 "P. S. My respects to Mrs. H. I have the 'best 
 opinion' of her countrywomen ; and at my time of life, 
 (three-and- thirty, 22d January, 1821,) that is to say, after 
 the Ufe I have led, a good opinion is the only rational one 
 which a man should entertain of the whole sex : — up to 
 thirty, the worst possible opinion a man can have of them 
 in general, the better for himself. Afterward, it is a 
 matter of no importance to them, nor to him either, what 
 opinion he entertains — his day is over, oi-, at least 
 should be. 
 
 " You see how sober I am become." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Ravenna, April 21, 1821 , 
 " I enclose you another letter on Bowles. But I pre- 
 mise that it is not like the former, and that 1 am not at all 
 sure how much, \{any, of it should be published. Upon 
 this point you can consult with Mr. GifFord, and think 
 twice before you pubhsh it at all. 
 
 "Yours truly, 
 "B. 
 " P. S. You may make my subscription for Mr. Scott's 
 widow, &c. thirty instead of the proposed ten poimds : but 
 do not put Ao\\n my name ; put down N. N. only. The 
 reason is, that, as I have mentioned him in the enclosed 
 pamphlet, it would look indelicate. I would give more, 
 but my disappointments last year about Rochdale and' 
 the transfer from the funds render me more economical 
 for the present." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXXVI. 
 
 TO MR. SHELLEY. 
 
 " Ravenna, April 26, 1821. 
 « The chUd contmues doing well, and the accounts 
 are regular and favourable. It is gratifying to me that 
 
LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 176 
 
 you and Mrs. Shelley do not disapprove of the step 
 which I have taken, which is merely temporar}'. 
 
 " I am very sorry to hear what you sa.y of Keats — is it 
 aaiuiUy true ? I did not think criticism had been so 
 killing. Though I differ from you essentially in your 
 estimate of his performances, I so much abhor all unne- 
 cessary pain, that I would rather he had been seated on 
 the highest peak of Parnassus than have perished in such 
 a maimer. Poor fellow I though -n-ith such inordinate 
 self-love he would probably have not been very happv. 
 I read the review of ' Endymion' in the Quarterly. It 
 was severe, — but surely not so severe as my reviews in 
 that and other journals upon others. 
 
 " 1 recollect the effect on me of the Edinburgh on mv 
 first poem ; it was rage, and resistance, and redress — but 
 not despondency nor despair. I grant that those are not 
 amiable feelings ; but, in this world of bustle and broil, 
 and especially in the career of ^ATiting, a man should 
 calculate upon his powers of resistance before he goes 
 into tlae arena. 
 
 ' Expect not life from pain nor danger free, 
 Nor deem the doom of man reversed for thee.' 
 
 " You know my opinion of that second-hand school of 
 poetry. You also know my high opinion of your own 
 poetry, — ^because it is of no school. I read Cenci — ^but, 
 besides that I think the subject essentially undramatic, I 
 am not an admirer of our old dramatists, as models. I 
 deny that the English have hitherto had a drama at all. 
 Your Cenci, however, was a work of power and poetry. 
 As to my drama, pray revenge yourself upon it, by being 
 as free as I have been with yours. 
 
 " I have not yet got your Prometheus, which I long to 
 see. I have heard nothing of mine, and do not know 
 that it is yet published. I have published a pamphlet on 
 the Pope controversy, which you \%-iIl not like. Had I 
 known that Keats was dead — or that he was alive and 
 so sensitive — I should have omitted some remarks upon 
 his poetry, to which I was provoked by his attack upon 
 Pope, and my disapprobation of his own style of u-riting. 
 
 " You want me to undertake a great Poem — I have not 
 the inclination nor the power. As I grow older, the indif- 
 ference — not to life, for we love it by instinct — but to the 
 stimuli of life, increases. Besides, this late failure of the 
 Italians has latterly disappointed me for many reasons, — 
 some pubhc, some personal. My respects to Mrs. S. 
 
 "Yours ever. 
 
 "P. S. Could not you and I contrive to meet this 
 summer ? Could not you take a run here alone ?''' 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXXVn. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Ravenna, April 26, 182L 
 " I sent you by lastposiis a large packet, which will not 
 do for pubUcation, (I suspect,) being, as the apprentices 
 say, ' damned low.' I put off also for a week or two 
 sending the Italian scrawl which will form a note to it. 
 The reason is, that letters being opened, I wish to 'bide 
 a wee.' 
 
 " Well, have you published the Tragedy ? and does 
 the Letter take ? 
 
 " Is it true what Shelley writes me, that poor John 
 Keats died at Rome of the (Quarterly Review ? I am 
 very sorry for it, though I think he took the wTong line as 
 a poet, and was spoiled by Cockneyfying, and suburbing. 
 and versifying Tooke's Pantheon and Lempriere's Dic- 
 tionary. I know, by experience, that a savage review is 
 hemlock to a sucking author ; and the one on me (which 
 produced the English Bards, &c.) knocked me dovs-n — 
 but I got up again. Instead of bursting a blood-vessel, 
 I drank three bottles of claret, and begim an answer, 
 finding that there was nothing in the article for which I 
 
 could lawfully knock Jeffrey on the head, in an honourable 
 way. However, I would not be the person who WTole 
 the homicidal article for all the honour and glory in the 
 world, though I by no means approve of tliat school of 
 scribblmg which it treats upon. 
 
 " You see the Italians have made a sad business of it, 
 — all OT^-ing to treacher\' and disimion among themselves. 
 It has given me great vexation. The execrations heaped 
 upon the NeapoHtans by the other Italians are quite in 
 imison with those of the rest of Etirope. 
 
 « Yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. Your latest packet of books is on its way 
 here, but not arrived. Kenilworth excellent. Thanks 
 for the pocket-books, of which I have made presents to 
 those ladies who hke cuts, and landscapes, and all that. 
 I have got an Italian book or two which I should hke to 
 send you if J had an opportunity. 
 
 " I am not at present in the \e.ry highest health, — spring, 
 probably ; so I have lowered my diet and taken to Epsom 
 salts. 
 
 "As you say my prose is good, why do n't you treat 
 with Moore for the reversion of the JNIemoirs ? — condi- 
 tionally, recollect; not to be pubhshed before decease. He 
 has the permission to dispose of them, and I advised liim 
 to do so." 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXXVm. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 " Ravenna, April 28, 1821. • 
 
 " You catmot have been more disappointed than myself, 
 nor so much deceived. I have been so at some personal 
 risk also, which is not yet done away with. However, 
 no time nor circumstances shall alter my tone nor my 
 feelings of indignation against tjTaimy triumphant. The 
 present business has been as much a work of treachery 
 as of cowardice, — though both may have done their part. 
 If ever you and I meet again, I will have a talk -n-ith you 
 upon the subject. At present, for ob%-ious reasons, I can 
 write but httle, as all letters are opened. In mine they 
 shall always find my sentiments, but nothing that can 
 lead to the oppression of others. 
 
 " You will please to recollect that the Neapolitans are 
 nowhere now more execrated than m Italy, and not blame 
 a whole people for the vices of a province. That would 
 be like condenming Great Britain because they pltmder 
 \vrecks in Cornwall. 
 
 " And now let us be literary ; — a sad falling off, but it is 
 always a consolation. If ' Odiello's occupation be gone,' 
 let us take to the next best ; and, if we cannot contribute 
 to make mankind more free and wise, we may amuse 
 otu-selves and those who like it. "VMiat are you -svriting ? 
 I have been scribbUng at intervals, and Mtirray will be 
 publishing about now. 
 
 "Lady Noel has, as you say, been dangerously ill 5 but 
 it may console you to learn that she is dangerotisly well 
 again. 
 
 " I have written a sheet or two more of IMemoranda 
 for you ; and I kept a httle Journal for about a month or 
 two, tin I had filled tlie paper-book. I then left it off, as 
 things grew busy, and, aiterv\"ard, too gloomy to set do^vn 
 without a painful feeling. This I shotild be glad to send 
 you, if I had an opporttmity 5 but a volume, however 
 small, do n't go well by such posts as exist in this Inquisi- 
 tion of a country. 
 
 '•' I have no news. As a very pretty woman said to me 
 a few nights ago, with the tears in her eyes, as she sat at 
 the harpsichord, ' Alas I the Italians must now return to 
 making operas.' I fear that and maccaroni are their forte, 
 and 'modey their only wear.' However, there are some 
 high spirits among them still. Pray \vrite. 
 
 " And beheve me, Sec." 
 
173 
 
 LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 LETTER CCCCLXXXIX. 
 
 TO MR, MOORE. 
 
 « Ravenna, May 3, 182L 
 
 " Though I wrote to you on the 28lh uhimo, I must 
 acknowledge yours of this day, with the Unes.* They 
 are sublime, as well as beautiful, and in your very best 
 mood and manner. They are also but too true. How- 
 ever, do not confound the scoundrels at the heel of the 
 boot with their betters at the top of it. I assure you that 
 there are some loftier spirits. 
 
 "Nothing, however, can be better than your poem, or 
 more deserved by the Lazzaroni. They are now abhor- 
 red and disclaimed nowhere more than here. "We will 
 talk over these tilings (if we meet) some day, and I will 
 recount my o%\-n adventures, some of which have been a 
 little hazardous, perhaps. 
 
 "So you have got the letter on Bowles? I do not 
 recollect to have said any thing of you that could offend, — 
 certainly, nothing intentionally. As for * *, I meant 
 him a com})liment, I wrote the whole off-hand, without 
 copy or correction, and expecting then every day to be 
 called into the field. What have I said of you ? I am 
 sure I forget. It must be something of regret for your 
 approbation of Bowles. And did you not approve, as he 
 says ? Would I had known that before ! I would have 
 given him some more gruel. My intention was to make 
 fun of all these fellows ; but how I succeeded, I do n't 
 know. 
 
 " As to Pope, [ have always regarded him as the great- 
 est name in our poetry. Depend upon it, the rest are 
 barbarians. He is a Greek Temple, with a Gothic Cathe- 
 dral on one hand, and a Turkish Mosque and all sorts of 
 fantastic pagodas and conventicles about him. You may 
 call Shakspeare and Milton pyramids, if you please, but I 
 prefer the Temple of Theseus or the Parthenon to a 
 mountain of burnt brickwork. 
 
 " The Murray has written to me but once, the day of its 
 publication, when it seemed prosperous. But I have 
 heard of late from England but rarely. Of Murray's 
 other publications (of mine) I know nothing, — nor whe- 
 ther he has published. He was to have done so a month 
 ago. I wish you would do something, or that we were 
 together. 
 
 * Ever yours and affectionately, 
 
 "B." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXG 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, May 10, 1821. 
 I have just got your packet. I am obliged to Mr. 
 Bowles, and Mr. Bowles is obliged to me, for having 
 restored him to good-humour. He is to write, and you to 
 publish, what you please, — motto and subject. I desire 
 nothing but fair play for all parties. Of course, after the 
 new tone of Mr. Bowles, you will not publish my defence 
 of Gilchrist : it would be brutal to do so after his urbanity, 
 for it is rather too rough, like his own attack upon Gil- 
 christ. You may tell him what I say there of his Mis- 
 sionary, (it is praised, as it deserves.) However, and if 
 there are any passages not personal to Bowles, and yet 
 bearing upon the question, you may add them to the 
 reprint (if it is reprinted) of my first Letter to you. Upon 
 this consult Gifford ; and, above all, do n't let any thing be 
 added which can personally affect Mr, Bowles. 
 
 " In the enclosed notes, of course, what I say of the 
 democracy of poetry cannot apply to Mr. Bowles, but to 
 the Cockney and water washing-tub schools. 
 
 " I hope and trust that Elliston won't be permitted to 
 act the drama ? Surely he might have the grace to wait 
 
 for Kean's return before he attempted it ; though, even 
 then^ I should be as much against the attempt as ever. 
 
 " I have got a small packet of books, but neither Walde- 
 grave, Oxford, nor Scott's novels among them. Why 
 don't you republish Hodgson's ChUde Harold's Monitor 
 and Latino-mastix ? they are excellent. Think of lliis, — 
 they are all for Pope. " Yours, &c.'' 
 
 LETTER CCCCXCL 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 A>-, down to ths dust with them', slaves as they are," &c. &c. 
 
 "Ravenna, May 11, 1821. 
 
 "If I had but known your notion about Switzerland 
 before, I should have adopted it at once. As it is, I shaD 
 let the child remain in her convent, where she seems 
 healthy and happy, for the present ; but I shall feel much 
 obliged if you will inquire, when you are in the cantons, 
 about the usual and better modes of education there for 
 females, and let me know the result of your opinions. It 
 is some consolation that botli Mr. and Mrs. Shelley have 
 written to approve entirely my placing the child with the 
 nuns for the present. I can refer to my whole conduct, as 
 having neither spared care, kindness, nor expense, since 
 the child was sent to me. The people may say what 
 they please, I must content myself with not deservbg (in 
 this instance) that they should speak ill. 
 
 " The place is a country town, in a good air, where 
 there is a large establishment for education, and many 
 children, some of considerable rank, placed in it. As a 
 country town, it is less liable to objections of every kind. 
 It has always appeared to me, that the moral defect in 
 Italy does not proceed from a conventual education, — 
 because, to my certab knowledge, they came out of their 
 convents innocent even to ignorance of moral evil, — but to 
 the state of society into which they are directly plunged 
 on coming out of it. It is like educating an infant on a 
 mountain-top, and theri taking him to the sea and throwing 
 him into it and desiring him to swim. The evil, however, 
 though still too general, is partly wearing away, as the 
 women are more permitted to marry from attachment; 
 this is, I believe, the case also in France. And, after all, 
 what is the higher society of England? According to 
 my own experience, and to all that I have seen and heard, 
 (and I have lived there in the very highest and what is 
 called the best,) no way of life can be more corrupt. In 
 Italy, however, it is, or rather was, more systematized , 
 but now, they themselves are ashamed of regular Serven- 
 tism. In England, the only homage which they pay to 
 virtue is hypocrisy. T speak of course, of the tone of high 
 life, — the middle ranks may be very virtuous. 
 
 "I have not got any copy (nor have yet had) of the 
 letter on Bowles ; of course I should be delighted to send 
 it to you. How is Mrs. H. ? well again, 1 hope. Let me 
 know when you set out. I regret that I cannot meet you 
 in the Bernese Alps this summer, as I once hoped and 
 intended. With my best respects to Madam, 
 
 "I am ever, &c. 
 
 " P. S. I gave to a musicianer a letter for you sometime 
 ago — has he presented himself? Perhaps you could 
 introduce him to the Ingrams and other dilettanti. He is 
 simple and unassuming — two strange things in his profes- 
 sion — and he fiddles like Orpheus himself or Amphion : 
 't is a pity that he can't make Venice dance away from 
 the brutal tyrant who tramples upon it." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXCIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « May 14, 1821. 
 
 "A Milan paper states that the play has been repre- 
 sented and universally condemned. As remonstrance 
 
LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 177 
 
 has been vain, complaint would be useless. I presume, 
 however, for your own sake, (if not for mine,) that you 
 and my other friends will have at least published my dif- 
 ferent protests against its being brought upon the slage at 
 all ; and have shown that Elliston (in spite of the v/riter) 
 forced it upon the theatre. It would be nonsense to say 
 that this has not vexed me a good deal, but I am not 
 dejected, and I shall not take the usual resource of bla- 
 ming the public, (which was in the right,) or my friends for 
 not preventing — what they could not help, nor I neither — 
 Q. forced representation by a speculating manager. It is 
 a pity, that you did not show them its uvfitntss for the 
 stage before the play was published^ and exact a promise 
 from the managers not to act it. In case of their refusal, 
 we would not have published it at all. But this is too 
 late. "Yours. 
 
 "P. S. I enclose Mr. Bowles's letters; thank him in 
 my name for their candour and kindness. — Also a letter 
 for Hodgson, which pray forward. The Milan paper 
 states that 1 ' brought forioard the play ! ! .'' This is 
 pleasanter still. But don't let yourself be worried about 
 it; and if (as is likely') the folly of Elliston checks the 
 sale, I am ready to make any deduction, or the entu-e 
 cancel of your agreement. 
 
 " You will of course not publish ray defence of Gilchrist, 
 as, after Bowles's good humour upon the subject, it would 
 be too savage. 
 
 " Let me hear from you the particulars ; for, as yet, I 
 have only the simple fact. 
 
 " If you knew what I have had to go through here, on 
 account of the failure of these rascally Neapolitans, you 
 would be amused : but it is now apparently over. They 
 seemed disposed to throw the whole project and plans 
 of these parts upon me chiefly." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXCIIL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "May 14,1821. 
 " If any part of the letter to Bowles has (unintention- 
 ally, as far as I remember the contents) vexed you, you 
 are fully avenged ; for I see by an Italian paper that, not- 
 withstanding all my remonstrances through all my friends, 
 (and yourself among the rest,) the managers persisted in 
 attempting the tragedy, and that it has been ' unanimously 
 hissed ! !' This is the consolatory phrase of the Milan 
 paper, (which detests me cordially, and abuses me, on all 
 occasions, as a Liberal,) with the addition, that I 'brought 
 the play out' of my own good-will. 
 
 " All this is vexatious enough, and seems a sort of dra- 
 matic Calvinism — predestined damnation, without a sin- 
 ner's o\vn fault. I took all the pains poor mortal could to 
 prevent this inevitable catastrophe — partly by appeals of 
 all kinds up to the Lord Chamberlain, and partly to the 
 fellows themselves. But, as remonstrance was vain, com- 
 plaint is useless. I do not understand it — for Murray's 
 letter of the 24th, and all his preceding ones, gave me the 
 strongest hopes that there would be no representation. 
 As yet, I know nothing but the fact, which I presume to 
 be true, as the date is Paris, and the 30th. They must 
 have been in a hell of a hurry for tliis damnation, since I 
 did not even know that it was published ; and, without its 
 being first published, the histrions could not have got hold 
 of it. Any one might have seen, at a glance, that it was 
 utterly impracticable for the stage ; and this Uttle accident 
 will by no means enhance its merit in the closet. 
 
 " Well, patience is a virtue, and. I suppose, practice will 
 make it perfect. Since last year (spring, that is) I have 
 lost a lawsuit, of great importance, on Rochdale collieries 
 have occasioned a divorce — have had my poesy dis- 
 paraged by Murray and the critics — my fortune refused 
 to be placed on an advantageous settlement (in Ireland) 
 23 
 
 by the trustees — my life threatened last month (they put 
 about a paper here to excite an attempt at my assassina- 
 tion, on account of politics, and a notion which the priests 
 dissemuiated that I was in a league against the Germans) 
 — and, finally, my mother-in-law recovered last fortnight, 
 and my play was damned last week !* These are lilie 
 'the eight-and-twenty misfortunes of Harlequin.' But 
 they must be borne. If I give in, it shall be after keeping 
 up a spirit at least. I should not have cared so much 
 about it, if our southern neighbours had not bungled us all 
 out of freedom for these five hundred years to come. 
 
 '■ Did you know John Keats ? They say that he was 
 killed by a review of him in the Q,uarterly — if he be dead, 
 which I really don't know.f I don't understand that 
 yielding sensitiveness. What I feel (as at this present) is 
 an immense rage for eight-and-forty hours, and then, as 
 usual — unless this time it should last longer. I must get 
 on horseback to quiet me. " Yours, &c. 
 
 " Francis I. wrote, after the batde of Pavia, ' All is lost 
 except our honour.' A hissed author may reverse it— 
 '■Nothing is lost, except our honour.' But the horses 
 are waiting, and the paper full. I wrote last week to 
 you." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXCIV. 
 
 TO MR. aiURRAY. 
 
 * Ravenna, May 19, 1821. 
 
 " By the papers of Thursday, and two letters of Mr. 
 Kinnaird,! perceive that the Italian Gazette had lied most 
 Italically, and that the drama had not been hissed, and 
 that my friends had interfered to prevent the representa- 
 tion. So it seems they continue to act it, in spite of us 
 all : for this we must ' trouble them at 'size.' Let it by all 
 means be brought to a plea: I am determined to. try the 
 right, and wU meet the expenses. The reason of the 
 Lombard lie was that the Austrians — who keep up an 
 Inquisition throughout Italy, and a list o^ names of all who 
 think or speak of any thing but in favour of their despo- 
 tism — have for five vears past abused me in every form 
 in the Gazette of Milan, &c. I wrote to you a week ago 
 on the subject. 
 
 " Now, I should be glad to know what compensation 
 Mr. Elliston would make me, not only for dragging my 
 writings on the stage in^i-'e days, but for being the cause 
 that I was kept for four days (from Sunday to Thursday 
 morning, the only post days) in the belief thaX the tragedy 
 had been acted and ' unanimously hissed ;' and this with 
 the addition that / ' had brought it upon the stage,' and 
 consequently that none of my friends had attended to my 
 request to the contrary. Suppose that I had burst a blood- 
 vessel, like John Keats, or blown my brains out in a fit of 
 rage, — neither of which would have been unlikely a few 
 years ago. At present I am, luckily, calmer than I used 
 to be, and yet I would not pass those four days over again 
 for — I know not what. 
 
 " I wrote to you to keep up your spirits, for reproach is 
 useless always, and irritating— but my feelings were very 
 much hurt, to be dragged like'a gladiator to the fate of a gla- 
 diator by that ' retiarms,^ Mr. Elliston. As to his defence 
 and offers of compensation, what is all this to the pur- 
 pose ? It is like Louis the XIV. who insisted upon buy- 
 ing at any price Algernon Sydney's horse, and, on his 
 refusal, on taking it by force, Sydney shot his horse. I 
 could not shoot my tragedy, but I would have flung it into 
 the fire rather than have had it represented. 
 
 " I have now written nearly three acts of another, (in- 
 tending to complete it in five,) and am more anxious than 
 ever to be preserved from such a breach of all literary 
 courtesy and gentlemanly consideration. 
 
 See Letter 4&9, T See Don Juan, Catito XI. Stanza 60. 
 
178 
 
 LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 « If we succeed, well ; ifnot, previous to any future publi- 
 cation we will request a. promise not to be acted, which I 
 would even pay for, (as money is their object.) or 1 will 
 not publish— which, however, you will probably not much 
 regret. 
 
 « The Chancellor has behaved nobly. You have also 
 conducted yourself in the most satisfactory maimer ; and 
 I havo no fault to find with any body but the stageplayers 
 and their proprietor. I was always so civil to EUiston 
 personally that he ought to have been the last to attempt 
 to injure me. 
 
 « There is a most rattling thunder-storm pelting away 
 at this present writing ; so that I write neither by day, nor 
 by candle, nor torchlight, but by lightning Ught : the flashes 
 are as brilliant as the most gaseous glow of the gas-light 
 company. My chimney board has just been thrown down 
 by a gust of wind : 1 thought it was the ' Bold Thunder 
 and 'Brisk Lightning' in person.— T/tree of us would be 
 too many. There it goes— flash again ! but 
 
 ' 1 tax not you , ye elements, with unkindness ; 
 I never gave ye franks, nor caWd upon you :' 
 
 as I have done by and upon Mr. EUiston. 
 
 " Why do you not write ? You should at least send 
 me a line of particulars : I know nothing yet but by Galig 
 nani and the Honourable Douglas. 
 
 « Well, and how does our Pope controversy go on ? and 
 the pamphlet ? It is impossible to write any news : the 
 Austrian scoundrels rummage all letters. 
 
 «P. S. I could have sent you a good deal of gossip and 
 some real information, were it not that all letters p 
 through the Barbarians' inspection, and I have no wish to 
 inform them of any thing but my utter abhorrence of them 
 and theirs. They have only conquered by treachery, 
 however." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXCV. 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 
 
 " You will see here confirmation of what I told you the 
 other day ! I am sacrificed in every way, without know- 
 ing the why or the wherefore. The tragedy in question is 
 not (nor ever was) written for, or adapted to, the stage ; 
 nevertheless, the plan is not romantic ; it is rather regular 
 than otherwise ; — in point of unity of time, indeed, per- 
 fectly regular, and failing but slightly in unity of place. 
 You well know whether it was ever my intention to have 
 it acted, since it was written at your side, and at a period 
 assuredly rather more tragical to me as a man than as an 
 author ; for you were in affliction and peril. In the mean 
 time, I learn from your Gazette that a cabal and party 
 has been formed, while I myself have never taken the 
 slightest step in the business. It is said that the author 
 read it aloud!!! — here, probably, at Ravenna? — and to 
 whom? perhaps to Fletcher!!! — that illustrious literary 
 character, &c. &c." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXCVL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Ravenna, May 20, 1821. 
 "Smce I wrote to you last week I have received Eng- 
 lish letters and papers, by which I perceive that what I 
 took for an Italian truth is, after all, a French lie of the 
 Gazette de France. It contains two ultra-falsehoods in 
 as many lines. In the first place, Lord B. did not bring 
 forward his play, but opposed the same ; and, sccondl}', it 
 was not condemned, but is continued to be acted, in de- 
 spite of publisher, author. Lord Chancellor, and (for aught 
 I know to the contrary) of audience, up to the first of 
 May, at least — the latest date of my letters. 
 
 « You will oblige me, then, by causing Mr. Gazette of 
 France to contradict himself, which, I suppose, he is used 
 to. I never answer a foreign criticism; but this is a mere 
 matter of /ad, and not of opinions. I presume that you 
 have English and French interest enough to do this 
 for me — though, to be sure, as it is nothing but the truth 
 which we wish to state, the insertion may be more difficult. 
 
 " As I have written to you often lately at some length, I 
 won't bore you farther now, tlian by begging you to com- 
 ply with my request ; and I presume the ' esprit du corps,' 
 (is it ' du' or ' de ?' for this is more than I know) will suffi- 
 ciently urge you, as one of ' ours,^ to set this affair in its 
 real aspect. BeUeve me always yours ever^ and most 
 affectionately. 
 
 " Byron." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXCVII. 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 "Ravenna, May 25, 1821. 
 
 " I am very much pleased with what you say of Swit- 
 zerland, and will ponder upon it. I would rather she 
 married there than here for that matter. For fortune, 1 
 shall make it all that I can spare, (if I live and she is cor- 
 rect in her conduct,) and if I die before she is settled, I 
 have left her by will five thousand pounds, which is a fair 
 provision out of England for a natural child. I shall 
 increase it all I can, if circumstances permit me ; but, of 
 course (like all other human things) this is very uncertain. 
 
 " You will oblige me very much by interfering to havo 
 the FACTS of the play-acting stated, as these scoundrels 
 appear to be organizing a system of abuse against me 
 because I am in their ' listJ I care nothing for their cri- 
 ticism, but the matter of fact. I have written four acta 
 of another tragedy, so you see they can^t bully me. 
 
 " You l<now, I suppose, that they actually keep a list 
 of all individuals in Italy who dislike them — it must be 
 numerous. Their suspicions and actual alarms, about 
 my conduct and presumed intentions in the late row, 
 were truly ludicrous — though, riot to bore you, I touched 
 upon them lightly. They believed, and still believe here, 
 or affect to believe it, that the whole plan and project of 
 rising vvas settled by me, and the means furnished, &c. 
 &c. All this was more fomented by the barbarian agents, 
 who are numerous here, (one of them was stabbed yes- 
 terday, by-the-way, but not dangerously :) — and although, 
 when the Commandant was shot here before my door 
 in December, I took him into my house, where he had 
 every assistance till he died on Fletcher's bed ; and 
 although not one of them dared to receive him into their 
 houses but myself, they leaving him to perish in the night 
 in the streets, they put up a paper about three months 
 ago, denouncing me as the Chief of the Liberals, and 
 stirring up persons to assassinate me. But this shall 
 never silence nor bully my opinions. All this came from 
 the German Iparbarians." 
 
 LETTER CCCCXCVIIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Ravenna, May 25, 1821. 
 
 " MR. MORAY, 
 
 " Since I wrote the enclosed a week ago, and for some 
 weeks before, I have not had a line from you : now, I 
 should be glad to know upon what principle of common 
 or ?<r?common leeiing, you leave me without any informa 
 fion but what I derive from garbled gazettes in English, 
 and abusive ones in Italian, (the Germans hating rne, as a 
 coal-heaver,) while all this kick-up has been going on about 
 the play ? You shabby fellow ! ! ! Were it not for two 
 letters from Douglas Kinnaird, I should have been as 
 ignorant as you are negligent. 
 
LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 179 
 
 "So, I hear Bowles has been abusing Hobhouse? if 
 that 's the case, he has broken the truce, lilie Morillo's 
 successor, and I will cut him out, as Cochrane did the 
 Esmeralda. 
 
 " Since I wrote the enclosed packet I have completed 
 (but not copied out) four acts of a new tragedy. When 
 I have finished the fifth I will copy it out. It is on the 
 subject of ' Sardanapalus,' the last lung of the Assyrians. 
 The words Queen and Pavilion occur, but it is not an 
 allusion to his Britannic Majesty, as you may tremulously 
 imagine. This you will one day see, (if I finish it.) as 1 
 have made Sardanapalus brave, (though voluptuous, as 
 history represents him,) and also as amiable as my poor 
 powers could render him : — so that it could neither be 
 truth nor satire on any hving monarch. I have strictly 
 preserved all the unities hitherto, and mean to continue 
 them in the fifth, if possible; but not for the stage. Yours, 
 in haste and hatred, you shabby correspondent ! 
 
 LETTER CGCCXCIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Ravenna, May 28, 1821. 
 
 "Since my last of the 26th or 25th, I have dashed 
 off my fifth act of the tragedy called 'Sardanapalus.' 
 But now comes the copying over, which may prove heavy 
 work — heavy to the writer as to the reader. I have 
 written to you at least six times sans answer, which 
 proves you to be a — bookseller. I pray you to send 
 me a copy of Mr. JVranghani's reformation of ' Lang- 
 home's Plutarch.' I have the Greek, which is somewhat 
 small of print, and the Italian, which is too heavy in style, 
 ind as false as a Neapolitan patriot proclamation. I pray 
 you also to send me a Life, published some years a»go, of 
 the Magician Apollonius of Tyana. It is in English, 
 and I think edited or written by what Martin Marprelate 
 calls 'a bouncing priest.'' I shall trouble you no farther 
 vitr. this sheet than with the postage. 
 
 " Yours, &c. 
 "N. 
 
 "P. S. Since I wrote this, I determined to enclose it (as 
 a half sheet) to Mr. Kinnaird, who will have the goodness 
 to forward it. Besides, it saves sealing-wax." 
 
 LETTER D. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, May 30, 1821. 
 
 " DEAR MORAY, 
 
 "You say you have written often: I have only re- 
 ceived yours of the eleventh, which is very short. By 
 this post, in^re packets, I send you the tragedy of Sar- 
 danapalus, which is written in a rough hand: perhaps 
 Mrs. Leigh can help you to decipher it. You will please 
 to acknowledge it by return of post. You will remark 
 that the unities are all strictly observed. The scene 
 passes in the same hall always: the time, a sununer^s 
 night, about nine hours, or less, though it begins before 
 sunset and ends after sunrise. In the third act, when 
 Sardanapalus calls for a mirror to look at himself in his 
 armour, recollect to quote the Latin passage from Juvenal 
 upon Otho, (a similar character, who did the same thing :) 
 Gilford will help you to it. The trait is perhaps too 
 familiar, but it is historical, (of Otho, at least,) and natural 
 in an effeminate character." 
 
 LETTER DI. 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 "Ravenna, May 31, 1821. 
 «1 enclose you another letter, which will only confin 
 wlvit I have said to you. 
 
 " About Allegra — I will take some decisive step in the 
 course of the year ; at present, she is so happy where 
 she .is, that perhaps she had better have her alphabet im- 
 parted in her convent. 
 
 " What you say of the Dante is the first I have heard 
 of it — all seeming to be merged in the row about tiie 
 tragedy. Continue it ! — Alas ! Vv'hat could Dante him- 
 self 710W prophesy about Italy ? I am glad you lilte it, 
 however, but doubt that you will be singular in your 
 opinion. My new tragedy is completed. 
 
 " The Benzoni is right, — I ought to have mentioned 
 her humour and amiability, but 1 thought at her sixty 
 beauty would be most agreeable or least likely. How- 
 ever, it shall be rectified in a new edition ; and if any 
 of the parties have either looks or qualities which they 
 wish to be noticed, let me have a minute of them. I 
 have no private nor personal dislike to Venice, rather the 
 contrary, but I merely speak of what is the subject of 
 all remarks and all v.'riters upon her present state. Let 
 me hear from you before you start. Believe me, 
 
 " Ever, &c. 
 
 " P. S. Did you receive two letters of Douglas Kin- 
 naird's in an endorse from me ? Remember me to Men- 
 galdo, Soranzo, and all who care that T should remember 
 them. The letter alluded to in the enclosed, ' to tlie 
 Cardinal^ was in answer to some queries of the govern- 
 ment, about a poor devil of a Neapolitan, arrested at 
 Sinigaglia on suspicion, who came to beg of me here ; 
 being v^ithout breeches, and consequently without pockets 
 for halfpence, I relieved and forwarded him to his country 
 and they arrested him at Pesaro on suspicion, and have 
 since interrogated me (civilly and politely, however,) 
 about him. I sent them the poor man's petition, and such 
 information as I had about him, which, I trust, will get 
 him out again, that is to say, if they give him a fair 
 hearing. 
 
 "I am content with the article. Pray, did you receive, 
 some posts ago, Moore's lines, which I enclosed to you, 
 written at Paris ?" 
 
 LETTER DII. 
 
 TO MH MOORE. 
 
 "Ravenna, June 4, 182L 
 You have not written lately, as is the usual custom 
 with literary gentlemen to console their friends with their 
 observations in cases of magnitude. I do not know 
 whether I sent you my ' Elegy on the recovery of Lady 
 Noel ;'— 
 
 " Behold the blessings of a lucky lot— 
 My play Is dama'd, and Lady Noel not. 
 
 * The papers (and perhaps your letters) will have put 
 you in possession of Muster Elliston's dramatic behaviour, 
 it is to be presumed that the play was Jitied for the stage 
 by Mr. Dibdin, who is the tailor upon such occasions, and 
 mil have taken measure with his usual accuracy. I hear 
 that it is still continued to be performed — a piece of ob- 
 stinacy for which it is some consolation to think that the 
 discourteous histrio will be out of pocket. 
 
 " You will be surprised to hear that I have finished 
 another ti-agedy in Jive acts, observing all the unities 
 strictly. It is called 'Sardanapalus,' and was sent by 
 last post to England. It is not for the stage, any more 
 than the other was intended for it, — and I shall take better 
 care this time that they do n't get hold on 't. 
 
 " I have also sent, two months ago, a farther letter on 
 Bowles, &c. ; but he seems to be so taken up widi my 
 'respect' (as he calls it) towards him in the former case, 
 that I am not sure that it will be published being some- 
 what too full of ' pastime and prodigality.' I learn from 
 some private letters of Bowles's, that you were ' the gen- 
 tleman in asterisks.' Who would have dreamed it? you 
 
180 
 
 LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 see what mischief that clergyman has done by prmtmg 
 notes without names. How the deuse was I to suppose 
 that the first four asterisks meant ' Campbell' and not 
 '-Pave', and diat the blank signature meant Thomas 
 Moore. You see what comes of being familiar with 
 parsons. His answers have not yet reached me, but I 
 understand from Hobhouse that /ie (H.) is attacked m 
 them. If that be the case, Bowles has biokcn tlie truce, 
 (which he himself proclaimed, by-the-way,) and I must 
 have at him again. 
 
 "Did you receive my letters with the two or three con- 
 cluding sheets of Memoranda ? , a r^ 
 
 « There are no news here to mterest much. A Uer- 
 man spy {boasting himself such) was stabbed last week, 
 but not mortally. The moment I heard that he went 
 about bullying and boasting, it was easy for me, or any 
 one else, to foretell what would occur to him, which I did, 
 and it came to pass in two days after. He has got off, 
 however, for a slight incision. 
 
 «A row the other night, about a lady of the place, 
 between Iwr various lovers, occasioned a midmght dis- 
 charge of pistols, but nobody wounded. Great scandal, 
 however— planted by her lover— io he thrashed by her 
 husband ; for inconstancy to her regular Servente, who 
 is coming home post about it, and she herself retired m 
 confusion into the country, although it is the acme of the 
 opera season. All the women furious against her (she 
 herself having been censorious) for hemg found out. She 
 is a pretty woman— a Countess + * * *— a fine old 
 Visigoth name, or Ostrogoth. 
 
 "The Greeks', what think you? They are my old 
 acquaintances— but what to think I know not. Let us 
 hope, howsomever. "Yours, 
 
 LETTER DHL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Ravenna, June 22, 182L 
 'Your dwarf of a letter came yesterday. That is 
 right ;— keep to your ' magnum opus'— magnoperate away 
 Now, if we were but together a litde to combine our 
 'Journal of Trevoux!' But it is useless to sigh, and yet 
 very natural, — for I think you and I draw better togeth 
 in the social line, than any two other living authors. 
 
 " I forgot to ask you, if you had seen your own pane- 
 gyric in the correspondence of Mrs. Waterhouse and 
 Colonel Berkeley? To be sure, their moral is not quite 
 exact; but t/owr passion is fully effective; and all poetry 
 of the Asiatic kind — I mean Asiatic, as the Romans 
 called 'Asiatic oratory,' and not because the scenery is 
 Oriental— must be tried by that test only. I am not 
 quite sure that I shall allow the Miss Byrons (legitimate 
 or illegitimate) to read Lalla Rookh — in the first place, 
 on account of this said passion ; and, in the second, that 
 they may n't discover that there was a better poet than 
 papa. 
 
 " You say nothing of politics — but alas ! what can be 
 i^aid? 
 
 " The world is a bundle of hay, 
 Mankind are the asses \vho pull, 
 Each tugs !l a different way,— 
 And the greatest of all is Joha Bull ! 
 
 "How do you call your new project? I have sent to 
 Murray a new tragedy, ycleped ' Sardanapalus,' writ ac- 
 cording to Aristotle — all, save the chorus — I could not 
 reconcile me to that. I have begun another, and am in 
 the second act ; — so you see I saunter on as usual. 
 
 " Bowles's answers have reached me ; but I can't go 
 on disputing for ever, — particularly in a polite manner. 1 
 suppose he will take being sileiit for silenced.. He has 
 been so civil that I can't find it in my liver to be facetious 
 
 with him,— else 1 had a savage joke or two at his service. 
 
 + * + + * * * 
 
 " I can't send you the little journal, because it is in 
 boards, and I can't trust it per post. Do n't suppose it is 
 any thing particular ; but it will show the intentions of 
 the natives at that time— and one or two other things, 
 chiefly personal, like the former one. 
 
 "So, Longman don't bite.— it was my wish to have 
 made that work of use. Could you not raise a sum upon 
 it, (however small,) reserving the power of redeeming it 
 on repayment? 
 
 "Are vou in Paris, or a villaging? If you are in the 
 city, you \viU never resist die Anglo-invasion you speak 
 of." I do not see an Englishman in half a year; and, 
 when I do, I turn my horse's head the other way. The 
 fact, which you will find in the last note to the Doge, has 
 given me a good excuse for quite dropping the least con- 
 nexion with travellers. 
 
 I do not recollect the speech you speak of, but suspect 
 it is not the Doge's, but one of Israel Bertuccio to Calen- 
 daro. I hope you think that Elliston behaved shamefully 
 
 it is my only consolation. I made the Milanese fel- 
 lows contradict their he, which they did with the grace of 
 people used to it. " Yours, &c. 
 
 " B." 
 
 LETTER DIV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 " Ravenna, July 5, 1821. 
 "How could you suppose that I ever would allow any 
 thing that could be said on your account to weigh with 
 me ? I only regret that Bowles had not said that you 
 were the writer of that note until afterward, when out he 
 comes wth it, in a private letter to Murray, which Murray 
 sends to me. D— n the controversy ! 
 
 " D— n Twizzle, 
 D— n the bell, 
 And d — n the fool who rung it — Well ! 
 From all such plagues I'll quickly be delivered. 
 
 "I have had a friend of your Mr. Irving's* — a very 
 pretty lad — a Mr. Coolidge, of Boston — only somewhat 
 too full of poesy and ' entusymusy.' I was very civil to 
 him during his few hours' stay, and talked with him much 
 of Irving, whose writings are my delight. But I suspect 
 that he did not take quite so much to me, from his having 
 expected to meet a rmsanthropical gentleman, in wolf- 
 skin breeches, and answering in fierce monosyllables, 
 instead of a man of this world. I can never get people 
 to understand that poetry is the expression of excited pas- 
 sirni, and that there is no such thing as a life of passion 
 any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal 
 fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such 
 a state ? 
 
 " I have had a curious letter to-day from a girl in Eng- 
 land, (1 never saw her,) who says she is given over of a 
 decline, but could not go out of the world without thank- 
 ing me for the deUght which my poesy for several years, 
 &c. &c. &c. It is signed simply N. N. A. and has not 
 a word of ' cant' or preachment in it upon any opinions. 
 She merely says that she is dying, and that as I had 
 contributed so highly to her existing pleasure, she thought 
 that she might say so, begging me to burn her letter — 
 which, by-the-way, I can not do, as I look upon such a 
 letter, in such circumstances, as better than a diploma 
 from Gottingen. I once had a letter from Drontheim, in 
 Nortvay, (but not from a dying woman,) in verse, on the 
 same score of gratulation. These are the things which 
 make one at times believe one's self a poet.f But if I 
 must believe that * * * * * *^ and such follows, are 
 poets also, it is better to be out of the corps. 
 
 * See IMemorandums, page 268. \ See do. 267. 
 
LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 181 
 
 "I am now in the fifth act of 'Foscari,' being the third 
 tragedy in twelve months, besides proses; so you perceive 
 that I am not at all idle. And are you, too, busy? I 
 doubt that your life at Paris draws too much upon your 
 time, which is a pity. Can't you divide your day, so as 
 to combine both ? I have had plenty of all sorts of 
 worldly business on my hands last year, — and yet it is 
 not so difficult to give a few hours to the Muses. This 
 
 sentence is so like * + * * that 
 
 " Ever, &c, 
 
 "If we were together, I should publish both my plays 
 (periodically) in our joint journal. It should be our plan 
 to publish all our best things in that way." 
 
 LETTER DVII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 LETTER DV. 
 
 TO MR. MTTRRAV. 
 
 "Ravenna, July 6, 182L 
 "In agreement with a wish expressed by Mr. Hob- 
 house, it is my determination to omit the stanza upon the 
 horse of Semiramis* in the Fifth Canto of Don Juan. I 
 mention this, in case you are, or intend to be, the publisher 
 of the remaining Cantos. 
 
 "At the particular request of the Contessa G. I have 
 promised not to continue Don Juan. You will therefore 
 look upon these three Cantos as the last of the poem. 
 She had read the first two in the French translation, and 
 never ceased beseeching me to write no more of it. The 
 reason of this is not at first obvious to a superficial 
 observer of foreign manners; but it arises from the 
 wish of all women to exalt the sentiment of the pas- 
 sions, and to keep up the illusion which is their empire. 
 Now Don Juan strips off this illusion, and laughs at that 
 and most other things. I never knew a woman who did 
 not protect Rousseau, nor one who did not dislike De 
 Grammont, Gil Bias, and all the comedy of the passions, 
 when brought out naturally. But ' kings' blood must keep 
 word,' as Serjeant Bothwell says." 
 
 LETTER DVI. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "July 14, 1821. 
 
 * I trust that Sardanapalus will not be mistaken for a 
 political play, which was so far from my intention, that [ 
 thought of nothing but Asiatic history. The Venetian 
 play, too, is rigidly historical. My object has been to 
 dramatise, like the Greeks, (a modest phrase,) striking 
 passages of liistory, as they did of history and mythology. 
 Vou will find all this very wnlike Shakspeare ; and so 
 much the better in one sense, for I look upon him to be 
 the worst of models, though the most extraordinary of 
 writers. It has been my object to be as simple and 
 severe as Alfieri, and I have broken down the poetry as 
 nearly as T could lo common language. The hardship 
 is., that in these times one can neither speak of kings or 
 queens without suspicion of politics or personahties. I 
 mtended neither. 
 
 " I am not very well, and I write in the midst of un- 
 pleasant scenes here : they have, without trial or process, 
 banished several of the first inhabitants of the cities — here 
 and all around the Roman states — among them many of 
 my personal friends — so that every thing is in confusion 
 and grief: it is a kind of thing which cannot be described 
 without an equal pain as in beholding it. 
 
 " You are very niggardly in your letters. 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 «B." 
 
 "Ravenna, July 22, 1821. 
 " The printer has done wonders ;— he has read what I 
 cannot — my own handwriting. 
 
 "I oppose the 'delay till winter.-' I am particularly 
 anxious to print while the winter theatres are closed, to gain 
 time, in case they try their former piece of politeness. 
 Any loss shall be considered in our contract, whether 
 occasioned by the season or other causes ; but print away 
 and publish. 
 
 " I think they must own that I have more styles than 
 one. ' Sardanapalus' is, however, almost a comic charac- 
 ter: but for that matter, so is Richard the Third. Mind 
 the unities, which are my great object of research. I am 
 glad that Gifford likes it : as for ' the million,' you see I 
 have carefully consulted any thing but the taste of the day 
 for extravagant ' coups de threatre.' Any probable loss, 
 as I said before, will be allowed for in our accompts. 
 The reviews (except one or two, Blackwood's, for in- 
 stance) are cold enough; but never miad those fellows: 
 I shall send them to the right about, if I take it into my 
 head. I always found the English baser in some tilings 
 than any other nation. You stare, but it 's true as to 
 gratitude,— ^erhdcps, because they are prouder, and proud 
 people hate obligations. 
 
 " The tyranny of the Government here is breaking out. 
 They have exiled about a thousand people of the best 
 families all over the Roman states. As many of my 
 friends are among them, I think of moving too, but not till 
 I have had your answers. Continue your address to me 
 here, as usual, and quickly. What you will not be sorry 
 to hear is, that the poor of the place, hearing that 1 meant 
 to go, got together a petition to the Cardinal to request 
 that he would request me to remain. I only heard of it a 
 day or two ago, and it is no dishonour to them nor to me ; 
 but it vs'ill have displeased the higher powers, who look 
 upon me as a Chief of the Coal-heavers. They arrested 
 a servant of mine for a street-quarrel with an officer, (they 
 drew upon one another knives and pistols,) but as the 
 officer was out of uniform, and in the wrong besides, on 
 my protesting stoutly, he was released. I was not pre- 
 sent at the affray, which happened by night near my 
 stables. My man, (an Italian,) a very stout and not over- 
 patient personage, would have taken a fatal revenge afl;er- 
 wards, if I had not prevented him. As it was, he drew 
 his stiletto, and, but for passengers, would have carbonadoed 
 the captain, who, I understand, made but a poor figure in 
 the quarrel, except by beginning it. He applied to me, 
 and I offered him any satisfaction, either by turning away 
 the man, or otherwise, because he had drawn a knife. He 
 answered that a reproof would be sufficient. I reproved 
 him ; and yet, after this, the shabby dog complained to 
 the Government,— after being quite satisfied, as he said. 
 This roused me, and I gave them a remonstrance, which 
 had some effect. The captain has been reprimanded, 
 the servant released, and the business at present rests 
 there." 
 
 LETTER DVIII. 
 
 TO MR. HOPPNER. 
 
 " Ravenna, July 23, 1821. 
 This country being in a state of proscription, and all 
 my friends exiled or arrested — the whole family of Gamba 
 obliged to go to Florence for the present — the father and 
 son for politics — (and the Guiccioh because menaced 
 with a convent, as her father is not here,) I have deter- 
 mined to remove to Switzerland, and they also. Indeed 
 my life here is not supposed to be particularly safe— but 
 that has been the case for this twelvemonth past, and is 
 therefore not the primary consideration. 
 
182 
 
 LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 " I have written by this post to Mr. Hentsch, junior, the 
 banker of Geneva, to provide (if possible) a house for 
 me, and another for Gamba's family, (the father, son, and 
 daughter,) on the Jura side of the lake of Geneva, furnish- 
 ed, and with stabling (for vie at least) for eight horses. I 
 shall bring Allegra widi me. Could you assist me or 
 Hentsch in his researches ? The Gambas are at Flo- 
 rence, but have authorized me to treat for them. You 
 know, or do not know, tliat they are great patriots — and 
 both — but the son in particular — very fine fellows. Tiiia 
 I know, for I have seen them lately in very awkward 
 situations — not pecuniary, but personal — and they be- 
 haved like heroes, neither yielding nor retracting. 
 
 "You have no idea what a state of oppression this 
 country is in — they arrested above a thousand of high and 
 low throughout Roraagna — banished some and confined 
 others, without trial, process, or even accusation I! Every 
 body says they would have done the same by me if tliey 
 dared proceed openly. My motive, however, for remain- 
 ing, is because every one of my acquaintance, to the 
 amount of hundreds almost, have been exiled. 
 
 '• Will you do what you can in looking out for a couple 
 
 of houses furnished, and conferring with Hentsch for us ? 
 
 We care nothing about society, and are only anxious for 
 
 a temporary and tranquil asylum and individual freedom. 
 
 " Believe me, &c. 
 
 "P. S. Can you give me an idea of the comparative 
 expenses of Switzerland and Italy ? which I have for- 
 gotten. . I speak merely of those of decent living, horses, 
 &c. and not of luxuries or high hving. Do not, however, 
 decide any tiling positively till I have your answer, as I 
 can then know how to think upon these topics of trans- 
 migration, &c. &c. &c." 
 
 LETTER DIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, July 30, 182L 
 
 "Enclosed is the best account of the Doge Faliero, 
 which was only sent to me from an old MS. the othe 
 day. Get it translated, and append it as a note to the 
 next edition. You will perhaps be pleased to see that my 
 conceptions of his character were correct, though I regret 
 not having met with this extract before. You will perceive 
 that he himself said exactly what he is made to say about 
 the Bishop of Treviso. You will see also that ' he spoke 
 ver}' little, and those only w^ords of rage and disdain,' after 
 his arrest, which is the case in the play, except when he 
 breaks out at the close of Act Fifth. But liis speech to 
 the conspirators is better in the MS. than in the play. 1 
 wish that I had met with it in time. Do not forget this 
 note, with a translation. 
 
 " In a former note to the Juans, speaking of Voltaire, I 
 have quoted his famous ' Zaire, tu pleures,' which is an 
 error ; it should be ' Zaire,^ vous pkurez.' Recollect this. 
 
 " I am so busy here about those poor proscribed exiles, 
 who are scattered about, and with trying to get some of 
 tliem recalled, that I have hardly time or patience to write 
 a short preface, which will be proper for the two plays. 
 However, I will make it out on receiving the next proofs. 
 " Yours ever, &c. 
 
 "P. S. Please to append the letter about the HeUespojit 
 as a note to your next opportunity of the verses on Lean- 
 der, &c. &c. &c. in Childe Harold. Do n't lorget it amid 
 your multitudinous avocations, which I think of celebrating 
 in a Dithyrambic Ode to Albemarle-street. 
 
 "Are you aware that Shelly has written an Elegy on 
 Keats,f and accuses the Quarterly of kiOing him ? 
 
 ' Who kill 'd John Koals?' 
 
 ' I,' says the (Quarterly, 
 
 So savage and Tarterly ; 
 ' 'T was one of my feats.' 
 
 ' Who shot the arrow .' 
 ' The poet-priest Milman, 
 (So ready to kill man,) 
 Or Soutbey orBarixiw.' 
 
 " You Imow very well that I did not approve of 
 Keats's poetry, or principles of poetry, or of his abuse 
 of Pope ; but, as he is dead, omit all that is said about 
 him in any MSS. of mine, or pubUcation. His Hype- 
 rion is a fine monument, and will keep his name. I 
 do not envy the man who wrote the article ; — you Re- 
 view-people have no more right to kill than any other 
 footpads. However, he who would die of an article in a 
 Review would probably have died of something else 
 equally trivial. The same thing nearly happened to Kirke 
 White, who died afterward of a consumption." 
 
 LETTER DX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 I 
 
 See Letter 490 
 
 t This note was omitted, 
 
 "Ravenna, August 2, 1821. 
 "I had certainly answered your last letter, though but 
 briefly, to the part to which you refer, merely saying, 
 ' damn the controversy :' and quoting some verses of 
 George Colman's, not as allusive to you, but to the dis- 
 putants. Did you receive this letter ? It imports me 
 to know that our letters are not intercepted or mislaid. 
 
 "Your Berlin drama* is an honour, unknown since the 
 days of Elkanah Settle, whose ' Emperor of Morocco' 
 was represented by the Court ladies, which was, as John- 
 son says, ' the last blast of inflammation' to poor Dryden, 
 who could not bear it, and fell foul of Settle without 
 mercy or moderation, on account of that and a frontispiece, 
 which he dared to put before his play. 
 
 " Was not your showing the Memoranda to * * some- 
 what perilous ? Is there not a facetious allusion or two 
 which might as well be reserved for posterity ? 
 
 "I know Schegel well — that is to say, I have met him 
 occasionally at Copet. Is he not also touched lightly in 
 the Memoranda? In a review of Childe Harold, Canto 
 4th, three years ago, in Blackwood's Magazine, they quote 
 some stanzas of an eleg}' of Schegel's on Rome, from which 
 they say that I might have taken some ideas. I give you 
 my honour that I never saw it except in that criticism, 
 which gives, I think, three or four stanzas, sent them (they 
 say) for the nonce by a correspondent — perhaps himself^ 
 The fact is easily proved ; for I do n't understand German, 
 and there was, I believe, no translation — at least, it was 
 the fii-st time that I ever heard of, or saw, eitlier transla- 
 tion or original. 
 
 "I remember havmg some talk with Schegel about 
 Alfieri, whose merit he denies. He was also WTOth about 
 the Edinburgh Review of Goethe, which was sharp 
 enough, to be sure. He went about saying, too, of the 
 French — 'I meditate a terrible vengeance against the 
 French — I will prove that Moliere is no poet.' * * 
 "I do n't see why you should talk of 'declining.' W^hen 
 I saw you, you looked thinner, and yet younger, than you 
 did when we parted several years before. You may rely 
 upon this as fact. If it were not, I should say nothing 
 for I would rather not say unpleasant personal thijigs to 
 any one — but, as it was the pleasant truth, I tell it you . 
 If you had led my life, indeed, changing climates and con- 
 nexions — thinning yourself with fasting and purgatives — 
 besides the wear and tear of the vulture passions, and a 
 very bad temper besides, you might talk in this way — but 
 you ! I know no man who looks so well for his years, or 
 who deserves to look better and to be better, in all re- 
 spects. You are a * * *, and, what is perhaps better for 
 
 * There had been, a short time before, performed at the Court of 
 Berlin, a spectacle founded on the Peom of Lalla Rookh, in which the 
 present Emperor of Russia personated Feramorz, and the Eranresa 
 LaUa Rookh. 
 
LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 183 
 
 your friends, a good fellow. So, don't talk of decay, but 
 put in for eighty, as you well may. 
 
 "I am, at present, occupied principally about these 
 unhappy proscriptions and exiles, wliich have taken place 
 here on account of politics. It has been a miserable 
 sight to see the general desolation in families. I am doing 
 what I can for them, high and low, by such interest and 
 means as I possess or can bring to bear. There have 
 been thousands of these proscriptions within the last 
 month in the Exarchate, or (to speak modemly) the 
 Legations. Yesterday, too, a man got his back broken, in 
 extricating a dog of mine from under a mill-wheel. The 
 dog was killed, and the man is in the greatest danger. I 
 was not present — it happened before I was up, owing to 
 a stupid boy taking the dog to bathe in a dangerous spot. 
 I must, of course, provide for the poor fellow while he 
 lives, and his family, if he dies. I would gladly have given 
 a much greater sum than that will come to that he had 
 never been hurt. Pray, let me hear from you, and 
 excuse haste and hot weather. 
 
 * Yours, &c. 
 ****** 
 
 " You may have probably seen all sorts of attacks upon 
 me in some gazettes in England some months ago. I 
 only saw them, by Murray's bounty, the other day. They 
 call me ' Plagiary,' and what not. I think I now, in my 
 time, have been accused of every thing. 
 
 " I have not given you details of little events here ; but 
 they have been trying to make me out to be the chief of a 
 conspiracy, and nothing but their want of proofs for an 
 English investigation has stopped them. Had it been a 
 poor native, the suspicion were enough, as it has been for 
 hundreds. 
 
 "Why don't you wTite on Napoleon? I have no 
 spirits, nor 'estro' to do so. His overthrow, from the 
 beginning, was a blow on the head to me. Since that 
 period, we have been the slaves of fools. Excuse this 
 long letter. Ecco a translation literal of a French epi- 
 gram. 
 
 " Egle, beauty and poet, has too little crimes, 
 She makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes. 
 " I am going to ride, ha\dng been warned not to ride in 
 a particular part of the forest, on account of the ultra- 
 politicians. 
 
 " Is there no chance of your return to England, and of 
 our Journal ? I would have published tlie two plays in it 
 — two or three scenes per number — and, indeed, dl of 
 mine in it. If you went to England, I would do so still." 
 
 LETTER DXI. 
 
 TO ftlR. MtTRRAY. 
 
 " Ravenna, August 10, 1821. 
 
 " Your conduct to Mr. Moore is certainly very hand- 
 some; and I would not say so if I could help it, for you 
 are not at present by any means in my good graces. 
 
 "With regard to additions, &c. there is a Journal which 
 I kept in 1814 which you may ask him for ; also a Jour- 
 nal which you must get from Mrs. Leigh, of my journey 
 in the Alps, which contains all the germs of Manfred. I 
 have also kept a small Diary here for a few months last 
 winter, which I would send you, ai'd any continuation. 
 You would find easy access to all my papers and letters, 
 and do not neglect this (in case of accidents,) on account 
 of the mass of confusion in which they are ; for out of 
 that chaos of papers you will find some curious ones of 
 mine and others, if not lost or destroyed; If circum 
 stances, however (which is almost impossible,) made me 
 ever consent to a publication in my lifetime, you would in 
 that case, I suppose, make Moore some advance, in pro- 
 portion to the hkelihood or non-likelihood of success. You 
 are both sure to survive rae, however. 
 
 "You must also have from Mr. Moore the correspond- 
 ence between me and Lady Byron, to whom I offered tlie 
 sight of all which regards herself in these papers. This 
 is important. He has her letter, and a copy of my answer. 
 I would rather Moore edited me than another. 
 
 "I sent you Valpy's letter to decide for yourself and 
 Stockdale's to amuse you. / am always loyal with you, 
 as I was in Galignani's affair, and you with me — now and 
 then. 
 
 " I return you Moore's letter, which is very creditable 
 to him, and you, and me. "Yours ever." 
 
 LETTER DXn. 
 
 TO MK. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, August 16, 1821. 
 
 " I regret that Holmes can't or won't come : it is rather 
 shabby, as I was always very civil and punctual with him. 
 But he is but one * * more. One meets witli none else 
 among the English. 
 
 "I wait the proofe of the MSS. with proper impa- 
 tience. 
 
 " So you have published, or mean to publish, the new 
 Juans ? Ar* n't you afriad of the Constitutional Assas- 
 sination of Bridge-street ? When first I saw the name 
 of Murray I thought it had been yours ; but was solaced 
 by seeing that your synonyme is an attorneo, and that you 
 are not one of that atrocious crew. 
 
 . "I am in a great discomfort about the probable war, 
 and with my trustees not getting me out of the funds. If 
 the funds break, it is my intention to go upon the highway. 
 All the other English professions are at present so ungen- 
 tlemanly by the conduct of those who follow them, that 
 open robbing is the only fair resource left to a man of any 
 principles ; it is even honest, in compai-ison, by being un- 
 disguised. 
 
 " I wrote to you by last post, to say that you had done 
 the handsome thing by Moore and the Memoranda. You 
 are very good as times go, and would probably be still 
 better but for the ' march of events,' (as Napoleon called 
 it,) which won't permit any body to be better than they 
 should be. 
 
 " Love to Gifford. Believe me, &c. 
 
 "P. S. I restore Smith's letter, whom thank for his good 
 opinion. Is the bust by Thorvvaldsen arrived ''" 
 
 LETTER DXIIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " Ravenna, August 23, 1821. 
 "Enclosed are the two acts corrected. With re- 
 gard to the charges* about the shipwreck, I thinli that I 
 told both you and Mr. Hobhouse, years ago, that there 
 was not a single circumstance of it not talven from fact; 
 not, indeed, from any single shipwreck, but all from actual 
 facts of different wrecks. Almost all Don Juan is real life, 
 either of my own, or from people I knew. By-the-way, 
 much of the description of the furniture, m Canto Third, 
 is taken from TuUy''s Tripoli^ (pray note this,) and the rest 
 from my own observation. Remember, I never meant to 
 conceal this at all, and have only not stated it, because 
 Don Juan had no preface nor name to it. If you think 
 it W'orth while to make this statement, do so in your own 
 way. / laugh at such charges, convinced that no writer 
 ever borrowed less, or made his materials more his own.f 
 Much is coincidence; for instance, Lady Morgan (in a 
 really excellent book, I assure you, on Italy) calls Venice an 
 ocean Rome: I have the veiy same expression in Foscari, 
 and vet you know that the play was wTitten months ago, 
 
 * Some critics had acoised him of plagiarism, 
 t See Appendix to the " Two Foscari.'' 
 
184 
 
 LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 and sent to England : the ' Italy' I received only on the 
 IGih inst. 
 
 " Your friend, like the public, is not aware, that my dra- 
 matic simplicity is studiously Greek, and must continue so : 
 no reform ever succeeded at first. I admire tlie old 
 English dramatists ; but this is quite another field, and has 
 nothing to do with theirs. I want to make a regular 
 English drama, no matter whether for tlie stage or not, 
 which is not my object, — but a menial tJieatre. 
 
 "Yours. 
 
 "P.S. Can't accept your courteous offer. 
 
 " For Orford and for Waldegrave 
 You give much more than me you gave ; 
 Which is not fairly to behave, 
 
 My Murray. 
 
 " Because if a live dog, 't is said, 
 Be worth a lion fairly sped, 
 A live lord must be worth two dead, 
 My Murray. 
 
 " And if, as the opinion goes, 
 Verse hath a better sale than prose— 
 Certes, I should have more than those, 
 My Murray. 
 
 But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd, 
 So, [{you will, /sha' n't be shamm'd, 
 And if you won't, you may be damn'd, 
 My Murray. 
 
 « These matters must be arranged with Mr. Douglas 
 Kinnaird. He is m3Mrustee, and a man of honour. To 
 him you can state all your mercantile reasons, which you 
 might not lilie to state to me personally, such as, ' heavy 
 season' — 'flat public' — 'don't go off' — 'lordship writes 
 too much' — ' won't tal^e advice' — 'declining popularity' — 
 deduction for the trade' — ' make very little' — ' generally 
 lose by him' — ' pirated edition' — ' foreign edition'—' severe 
 criticisms,' &c., with other hints and howls for an oration, 
 which I leave Douglas, who is an orator, to answer. 
 
 " You can also state them more freely to a third per- 
 son, as between you and me they could only produce 
 some smart postscripts, which would not adorn our mu 
 tual arcliives. 
 
 " I am sorry for the Queen, and that's more than you 
 are." 
 
 LETTER DXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Raverma, August 24, 182L 
 " Yours of the 5th only yesterday, while I had letters 
 ofthe 8th from London. Doth the post dabble into our 
 letters ? Whatever agreement you make with Murray, 
 if satisfactory to you, must be so to me. There need be 
 no scruple, because, though I used sometimes to buffoon 
 to myself, loving a quibble as well as the barbarian him- 
 self^ (Shakspeare, to wit) — 'that, like a Spartan, I v/ould 
 sell my life as dearly as possible' — it never was my inten- 
 tion to turn it to personal, pecuniary account, but to be- 
 queath it to a friend — yourself — in the event of survivor- 
 ship. I anticipated that period, because we happened to 
 meet, and I urged you to malie what was possible now by 
 it, for reasons which are obvious. It has been no possi- 
 ble privation to me, and dierefore does not require the 
 acknowledgments you mention. So, for God's sake, do n't 
 consider it like +* + + + + 
 
 "By-the-way, when you write to Lady Morgan, will 
 you thank her for her handsome speeches in her book 
 about my books ? I do not know her address. Her work 
 is fearless and excellent on the subject of Italy — pray tell 
 her so — and I know the country. I wish she had fallen 
 in with me, I could have told her a thing or two that would 
 have confirmed her positions. 
 
 " I am glad that you are satisfied with Murray, who 
 seems to value dead lords more than live ones. I have 
 
 just sent him the following answer to a proposition of 
 
 his:— 
 
 " For Orford and for Waldegrave, &c. 
 
 "The argument of the above is, that he wanted to 
 'stint me of my sizings,' as Lear says — that is to say, not 
 to propose an extravagant price for an extravagant poem, 
 as is becoming. Pray take his guineas by all means — / 
 taught him that. He made me a filthy offer of pounds 
 once, but I told him that, like physicians, poets must be 
 dealt with in guineas, as being the only advantage poets 
 could have in the association witli them, as votaries of 
 Apollo. I write to you in hurry and bustle, which I will 
 expound in my next. " Yours, ever, &c. 
 
 " P. S. You mention something of an attorney on his 
 way to me on legal business. I have had no warning of 
 such an apparition. "What can the fellow want ? I have 
 some lawsuits and business, but have not heard of any 
 thing to put me to the expense of a travelling lawyer. 
 They do enough, in that way, at home. 
 
 " Ah, poor Queen ! but perhaps it is for the best, if 
 Herodotus's anecdote is to be believed * * 
 
 " Remember me to any friendly Angles of our mutual 
 acquaintance. What are you doing ? Here I have had 
 my hands full of tyrants and their victims. There never 
 was such oppression, even in Ireland, scarcely !" 
 
 LETTER DXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, August 31, 182L 
 " I have received the Juans, which are printed so care- 
 lessly, especially the fifth canto, as to be disgraceful to me, 
 and not creditable to you. It really must be gone over 
 again with the manuscript, the errors are so gross; — 
 words added — changed — so as to make cacophony and 
 nonsense. You have been careless of this poem because 
 some of your squad do n't approve of it ; but I teU you 
 that it will be long before you see any thing half so good 
 as poetry or writing. Upon what principle have you 
 omitted the note on Bacon and Voltaire ? and one of the 
 concluding stanzas sent as an addition? — because it ended, 
 I suppose, with — 
 
 " And do not link two virtuous souls for life 
 Into that moral centaur, man and wife ? 
 
 " Now, I must say, once for all, that I will not permit 
 any human being to take such liberties with my writings 
 because I am absent. I desire the omissions to be re- 
 placed (exeept the stanza on Semiramis,) — particularly 
 the stanza upon the Turkish marriages; and I request 
 that the whole be carefully gone over with the MS. 
 
 " I never saw such stuff as is printed ; — GuZZeyaz in- 
 stead of GuZieyaz, &c. Are you aware that Gulbeyaz 
 is a real name and the other nonsense? I copied the 
 cantos out carefully, so that there is no excuse, as the 
 printer read, or at least priTiis, the MS. of the plays with- 
 out error, 
 
 " If you have no feeling for your own reputation, pray 
 have some httle for mine. I have read over the poem 
 carefully, and I tell you, it is poetry. Your little envious 
 knot of parson-poets may say what they please : time 
 will show that I am not in this instance mistaken. 
 
 "Desire my friend Hobhouse to correct the press, 
 especially of tlie last canto, from the manuscript as it is. 
 It is enough to drive one out of one's reason to see the 
 infernal torture of words from the original. For instance 
 the line — 
 
 " And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves—* 
 
 is printed — 
 
 " And praise their rhymes, &c. 
 Also ^precariaui for ^precocious f and this line, stanza 133, 
 
 " ATid this strong extreme effect to tire no longer. 
 
 Corrected in this edition. 
 
LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 185 
 
 Now do turn to the manuscript and see if I ever wrote 
 
 such a Une; it is not verse. 
 
 " No wonder the poem should fail, (which, however, it 
 
 won t you will see,) with such tilings allowed to creep 
 
 about it. Replace what is omitted, and correct what is 
 
 so shamefully misprinted, and let the poem have fair 
 
 Dlay ; and I fear nothing. 
 " I see in the last two numbers of the Q-uarterly a 
 
 strong itching to assail me, (see the review of ' The Eto- 
 nian ;') let it, and see if they sha' n't have enough of it. 1 
 do not allude to Gifford, who has always been my friend, 
 and whom I do not consider as responsible for the articles 
 written by others. 
 
 "You will publish the plays when ready. I am in such 
 a humour about this printing of Don Juan so inaccurately 
 that I must close this. « Yours. 
 
 " P. S. I presume that you have not lost the stanza to 
 which I allude ? It was sent afterward : look over my 
 letters and find it." 
 
 ** + * * * +* 
 
 *♦ * * * * ** 
 
 LETTER DXVI.* 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 " The enclosed letter is written in bad humour, but not 
 without provocation. However, let it (that is, the bad 
 homour) go for litde ; but I must request your serious 
 attention to the abuses of the printer, which ought never 
 to have been permitted. You forget that all the fools in 
 London (the chief purchasers of your publications) will 
 condemn in me the stupidity of your printer. For instance, 
 in the notes to Canto Fifth, ' the Adriatic shore of the 
 Bosphorus' instead of the Asiatic ! ! All this may seem 
 Uttle to you, so fine a gentleman with your ministerial 
 connexions, but it is serious to me, who am thousands of 
 miles off, and have no opportunity of not proving myself 
 the fool your printer makes me, except your |)leasure and 
 leisure, forsooth. 
 
 " The gods prosper you, and forgive you, for I can't." 
 * ****** 
 
 LETTER DXVIL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 «Ravenna,Sept. 3, 1821. 
 " By Mr. Mawman, (a paymaster in the corps, in which 
 you and I are privates,) I yesterday expedited to your 
 address, under cover one, two paper-books, containing the 
 Giac«r-nal, and a thing or two. It won't all do — even 
 for the posthumous public — but extracts from it may. It 
 is a brief and faithful chronicle of a month or so — parts 
 of it not very discreet, but sufficiently sincere. Mr. Maw- 
 man saith that he will, in person or per friend, have it 
 delivered to you in your Elysian fields. 
 
 "If you have got the new Juans, recollect ihat there are 
 some very gross printer's blunders, particularly in the 
 Fifth Canto, — such as ' praise' for ' pair' — ' precarious' for 
 precocious' — ' Adriatic' for ' Asiatic' — ' case' for ' chase' — 
 besides gifts of additional words and syllables, which make 
 but a cacophonous rhythmus. Put the pen through the 
 said, as I would mine through Murray's ears if 1 were 
 alongside of him. As it is, I have sent him a rattling 
 letter, as abusive as possible. Though he is pubUsher to 
 the ' Board of Longitude,^ he is in no danger of discover- 
 ing it. 
 
 "1 am packing for Pisa — but direct your letters here, 
 till farther notice. " Yours ever, &c." 
 
 [One of the " paper-books" mentioned in this letter as 
 
 intrusted to Mr. Mawman for me, contained a portion, 
 to the amount of nearly a hundred pages, of a prose story, 
 relating the adventures of a young Andalusian nobleman, 
 which had been begun by him, at Venice, in 1817, of 
 which the following is an extract. — Moore.] 
 
 " A few hours afterward we were very good friends, 
 and a few days after she set out for Arragon, with my 
 son, on a visit to her father and mother. I did not ac- 
 company her immediately, having been in Arragon before, 
 but was to join tlie family in their Moorish chateau within 
 a few weeks. 
 
 "During her journey T received a very affectionate 
 letter from Donna Josepha, apprizing me of the welfare 
 of herself and my son. On her arrival at the chateau, I 
 received another still more affectionate, pressing me, in 
 very fond, and rather foolish terms, to join her immedi- 
 ately. As 1 was preparing to set out from Seville. I 
 received a third — this was from her father, Don Jose di 
 Cardozo, who requested me, in the politest manner, to 
 dissolve my marriage. I answered him with equal polite- 
 ness, that I would do no such thing. A fourth letter 
 arrived — it \vas from Donna Josepha, in which she in- 
 formed me that her father's letter was written by her 
 particular desire. I requested die reason by return of 
 post — she replied, by express, that as reason had nothing 
 
 to do with the matter, it w 
 
 as unnecessary to give any- 
 
 but that she was an injured and excellent woman. I then 
 inquired why she had written to me the two preceding 
 affectionate letters, requesting me to come to Arrat^on. 
 She answered, that was because she believed me out of 
 my senses — that, being unfit to take care of myself] I had 
 only to set out on this journey alone, and make my way 
 without difficulty to Don Jose di Cardozo's, I should there 
 have found the tenderest of wives and — a straight waist- 
 coat. 
 
 "I had nothing to reply to this piece of affection but a 
 reiteration of my request for some lights upon the subject. 
 I was answered that they would only be related to the 
 Inquisition. In the mean time, our domestic discrepancy 
 had become a public topic of discussion ; and the world, 
 which always decides justly, not only in Arragon but in 
 Andalusia, determined that I was not only to blame, but 
 that all Spain could produce nobody so blameable. My 
 case was supposed to comprise all the crimes which could, 
 and several which could not, be committed, and little less 
 than an auto-da-fe was anticipated as the result. But 
 let no man say that we are abandoned by our friends in 
 adversity — it was just the reverse. Mine thronged around 
 me to condenm, advise, and console me with their disap- 
 probation. — They told me all that was, would, or could be 
 said on the subject. They shook their heads — they ex- 
 horted me — deplored me, wth tears in their eyes, and — 
 went to dinner." 
 
 LETTER DXVIII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 Written in the envelope of the preceding Letter. 
 
 24 
 
 "Ravenna, Sept. 4, 1821. 
 
 " By Saturday's post, I sent you a fierce and furibund 
 letter upon the subject of the printer's blunders in Don 
 Juan. I must solicit your attention to the topic, though 
 my wrath hath subsided into sullenness. 
 
 "Yesterday I received Mr. , a friend of yours, 
 
 and because he is a friend of yours ; and that's more than 
 I would do in an English case, except for those whom I 
 honour. I was as civil as I could be among packages 
 even to the very chairs and tables, for I am gohig to Pisa 
 in a few weeks, and have sent and am sending off my 
 chattels. It regretted me that, my books and every thing 
 being packed, I could not send you a few things I meant 
 for you ; but they were all sealed and baggaged, so as to 
 jliave made it a month's work to get at them again. I 
 
188 
 
 LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 gave him an envelope, vv^ith the ItaUan scrap in it,* allud- 
 ed to in my Gilchrist defence. Hobhouse wiU make it 
 out for you, and it will make you laugh, and him too, the 
 fpelling particularly. The ' Mericani,' of whom they call 
 me the 'Capo,' (or Chief,) mean ' Americans,' which is 
 the name given in Romagna to a part of the Carbonari ; 
 that is to say, to the popular part, the troops of the Carbo- 
 nari. They are originally a society of hunters in the 
 forest, who took the name of Americans, but at present 
 comprise some thousands, &c. ; but I sha' n't let you far- 
 ther into the secret, which may be participated with the 
 postmasters. Why they thought me their Chief, I know 
 not : their Chiefs are like ' Legion, being many.' How- 
 ever, it is a post of more honour than profit, for, now that 
 they are persecuted, it is fit that I should aid them; and 
 so I have done, as far as my means would permit. They 
 will rise again some day, for these fools of the government 
 are blundering : they actually seem to know rwihing, for 
 they have arrested and banished many of their own party, 
 and let others escape who are not their friends. 
 
 " What think'st thou of Greece ? 
 
 " Address to me here as usual, till you hear farther from 
 me. 
 
 " By Mawman I have sent a Journal to Moore ; but it 
 won t do for the public, — at least a great deal of it won't ; 
 —parts may. 
 
 " I read over the Juans, which are excellent. Your 
 squad are quite wrong ; and so you will find by-and-by. 
 I regret that I do not go on with it, for I had all the plan 
 for several cantos, and different countries and climes. 
 You say nothing of the note I enclosed to you, which will 
 explain why I agreed to discontinue it, (at Madame Guic 
 cioii's request ;) but you are so grand, and subhme, and 
 occupied, that one would think, instead of publishing for 
 ' the Board of Longitude,' that you were trying to dis- 
 cover it. 
 
 " Let me hear that Gifford is better. He can't be spared 
 either by you or me." 
 
 side of you ; nothing is ever done in a man's absence ; 
 every body runs counter, because they can. If ever I 
 do return to England, (which I sha' n't, though,) I will 
 write a poem to which ' English Bards,' &c. shall be new 
 milk, in comparison. Your present literary world of 
 mountebanks stands in need of such an Avatar. But I 
 am not yet quite bilious enough : a season or two more, 
 and a provocation or two, will wind me up to the point, 
 and then have at the whole set ! 
 
 "I have no patience with the sort of trash you send me 
 out by way of books ; except Scott's novels, and three or 
 four other things, I never saw such work, or works. Camp- 
 bell is lecturing — Moore idling — Southey twaddling — 
 Wordsworth drivelling — Coleridge muddling — * * pid- 
 dling — Bowles quibbUng, squabbling, and snivelling. 
 * * will do, if he do n't cant too much, nor imitate Southey ; 
 the fellow has poesy in him ; but he is envious and unhappy, 
 as all the envious are. Still he is among the best of the 
 day. Barry Cornwall will do better by-and-by, I dare say, 
 if he don't get spoiled by green tea, and the praises of Pen- 
 tonvUle and Paradise-row. The pity of these men is, that 
 they never lived in high life, nor in solitude : there is no 
 medium for the knowledge of the busy or the still world. If 
 admitted into high life for a season, it is merely as specta- 
 tors — they form no part of the mechanism thereof. Now, 
 Moore and I, the one by circiunstances, and the other by 
 birth, happened to be free of the corporation, and to have 
 entered into its pulses and passions, quarum partes fuimus. 
 Both of us have learned by this much which nothing else 
 could have taught us. " Yours. 
 
 "P. S. I saw one of your brethren, another of the allied 
 sovereigns of Grub-street, the other day, Mawman the 
 Great, by whom I sent due homage to your imperial self. 
 To-morrow's post may perhaps bring a letter from you, 
 but you are the most ungrateful and ungracious of corre- 
 spondents. But there is some excuse for you, with your 
 perpetual levee of politicians, parsons, scribblers, and loun- 
 gers. Some day I will give you a poetical catalogue of 
 3iem." 
 
 LETTER DXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, Sept. 12, 1821 
 " By Tuesday's post, I forwarded, in three packets, the 
 drama of Cain in three acts, of which I request the 
 acknowledgment when arrived. To the last speech of 
 Eve, in the last act, (i. e. where she curses Cain,) add 
 these three lines to the concluding ones — 
 
 "May the grass wither from thy foot ! the woods 
 Deuy thee shelter ! earth a home ! the dust 
 A grave 1 the sun his light ! and Heaven her God I 
 
 " There 's as pretty a piece of imprecation for you, 
 when joined to the hues already sent, as you may wish 
 lo meet with in the course of your business. But do n't 
 forget the addition of the above three lines, which are 
 clinchers to Eve's speech. 
 
 "Let me know what Gifford thinks, (if the play arrives 
 in safety ;) for I have a good opinion of the piece, as 
 poetry ; it is in my gay metaphysical style, and in the 
 Manfred line. 
 
 " You must at least commend my facility and variety, 
 when you consider what I have done within the last fifteen 
 months, with my head, too, full of other and of mundane 
 matters. But no doubt you will avoid saying any good 
 of it, for fear I should raise the price upon you : that 's 
 right : stick to business. Let me know what your other 
 ragamuffins are wTiting, for I suppose you do n't like start- 
 ing too many of your vagabonds at once. You may give 
 them the start for any thing I care. 
 
 " Why do n't you publish my Pulci — the very best thing 
 I ever wrote, — with the Italian to it ? I wish I was along- 
 
 4n anonymous letter which he had received, threatening hira with 
 assassination. 
 
 LETTER DXX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Ravenna, Sept. 17,1821. 
 
 " The enclosed lines,* as you vrill directly perceive, are 
 written by the Rev. W. L. Bowles. Of course it is for 
 him to deny them if they are not. 
 
 "Believe me yours ever and most affectionately, 
 
 «B. 
 
 " P. S. Can you forgive this ? It is only a reply to your 
 lines against my Italians, Of course I will stand by my 
 lines against aU men ; but it is heart-breaking to see such 
 things in a people as the reception of that unredeemed 
 * * * * * * in an oppressed country. Your apotheosis is 
 now reduced to a level v^-ith his welcome, and their grati- 
 tude to Grattan is cancelled by their atrocious adulation of 
 this, &c. &c. &c." 
 
 LETTER DXXI. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 « Ravenna, Sept. 19, 1821. 
 "I am in all the sweat, dust, and blasphemy of a uni- 
 versal packing of all my things, furniture, &c. for Pisa, 
 whether I go for the winter. The cause has been the 
 exile of all my fellow Carbonics, and, among them, of the 
 
 * " The Irish Avatar," Poems, p. 485. In this copy the following sen- 
 tence (taken from aLetterofCurran,iii the able Life of that true Irish- 
 man, by his son) is prefixed as a motto to the Poem—" And Ireland, liks 
 a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to receive the paltry rider."— Z,e«ero/ 
 Curran, Life, vol. ii. page 336. At the end of the verses are these words : 
 " (Signed) W. L. B * *, M. A., and written with a view to a Bishop 
 nek,'— Afoore. 
 
LETTERS,1821. 
 
 1S7 
 
 whole family of Madame G. who, you know, was divorced 
 from her husband last week, ' on account of P. P. clerk of 
 this parish,' and who Is obliged to join her father and rela- 
 tives, now in exile there, to avoid being shut up in a mo- 
 nastery, because the Pope's decree of separation required 
 her to reside in casa pcitema^ or else, for decorum's sake, 
 in a convent. As I could not say, with Hamlet, ' Get tliee 
 to a nunnerv-,' I am preparing to follow them. 
 
 " It is awful work, this love, and prevents all a man's 
 projects of good or glory, t wanted to go to Greece lately 
 (as every thing seems up here) with her brother, who is 
 a very fine, brave fellow, {I have seen him put to the 
 proofj) and wild about liberty. But the tears of a woman 
 who has left a husband for a man, and the weakness of 
 one's own heart, are paramount to these projects, and I 
 can hardly indulge them. 
 
 " We were di\ided in choice between Switzerland and 
 Tuscany, and I give my vote for Pisa, as nearer the 
 Mediterranean, which I love for the sake of the shores 
 which it washes and for my young recollections of 1809. 
 Switzerland is a cursed, selfish, suinish country of brutes, 
 placed in the most romantic region of the world. I never 
 could bear the inhabitants, and still less their English 
 visiters ; for which reason, after writing for some informa- 
 tion about houses, upon hearing that there was a colony 
 of English all over the cantons of Geneva. &c. I imme- 
 diately gave up the thought, and persuaded the Ganibas 
 to do the same. 
 
 "By last post I sent you 'the Irish Avatar,' — what 
 think you ? The last line — ' a name never spoke but 
 with curses or jeers' — must run either ' a name only 
 uttered with curses or jeers,' or, ' a wretch never named 
 but with curses or jeer?.' Becose as howy ' spoke' is not 
 grammar, except in the House of Commons ; and I doubt 
 whether we can say ' a name spoken.,^ for mentioned. I 
 have some doubts, too. about 'repay,' — 'and for murder 
 repay with a shout and a smile.' Should it not be, ' and 
 for murder repay him with shouts and a smile,' or ' reward 
 him uith shouts and a smile ?' 
 
 " So, pray put your poeliral pen through the MS. and 
 take the least bad of tlie emendations. Also, if there be 
 any farther breaking of Priscian's head, will you apply a 
 plaster? I wrote in the greatest hurry and fury, and sent 
 it to you the day after ; so, doubtless, there will be some 
 awful constructions, and a rather lawless conception of 
 rhythmus. 
 
 " With respect to what Anna Seward calls ' the liberty 
 of transcript,' — when complaining of Miss Matilda Rlug- 
 gleton, the accomplished daughter of a choral vicar of 
 Worcester Cathedral, who had abused tlie said 'liberty 
 of transcript,' by inserting in die Malvern Mercury, INliss 
 Seward's ' Elegy on the South Pole,' as her own produc- 
 tion, with her oicn signature, two years after having taken 
 a copy, by pemiission of the authoress — with regard, I 
 say, to the 'liberty of transcript,' I by no means oppose an 
 occasional copy to the benevolent few, provided it does 
 not degenerate into such licentiousness of Verb and Noun 
 as may tend to ' disparage my parts of speech' by the 
 carelessness of the transcnbblers. 
 
 " I do not think that there is much danger of the ' King's 
 Press being abused' upon the occasion, if the publishers 
 of journals have any regard for their remaining liberty of 
 person. It is as pretty a piece of invective as ever put 
 publisher in the way to 'Botany.' Therefore, if they 
 meddle with it, it is at their peril. As for myself, I will 
 answer any jontleman — though I by no means recognise 
 a ' right of search' into an unpubhshed production and 
 unavowed poem. The same appUes to things published 
 sam consent. I hope you like, at least, the concluding 
 lines of the Porne ? 
 
 " What are you doing, and where are you ? in England ? 
 Nail Murray — nail him to his own counter, till he shells 
 out the thirteens. Since I wrote to you, 1 have sent hini 
 another tragedy—' Cain' by name — making three in MS 
 
 now in his hands, or in the printer's. It is in the Man- 
 fi-ed, metaphysical style, and full of some Titanic decla- 
 riiation; — Lucifer being one of the dram. pers. who takes 
 Cain a vovage among the stars, and, afterwards, to ' Hades,' 
 where he shows him the phantoms of a fonner world, and 
 its inhabitants. I have gone upon the notion ofCuvier, 
 that the world has been destroyed three or four times, and 
 was inhabited by mammoths, behemoths, and what not ; 
 but not by man till the Mosaic period, as, indeed, is proved 
 by the strata of bones found ; — those of all unknown 
 animals, and known, bemg dug out, but none of mankind. 
 I have, therefore, supposed Cain to be shown, in the 
 rational Preadamites, beinas endowed with a higher in- 
 telligence than man, but totally unlike him in form, and 
 with much greater strength of mind and person. You 
 may suppose the small talk which takes place between 
 him and Lucifer upon these matters is not quite canonical. 
 " The consequence is. tiiat Cain comes back and kills 
 Abel in a fit of dissatisfaction, partly with the politics of 
 Paradise, which had driven them all out of it, and partly 
 because (as it is written in Genesis) Abel's sacrifice was 
 the more acceptable to the Deity. I trust that the 
 Rhapsody has arrived — it is in three acts, and entitled 
 ' A Mystery,' according to the firmer Christian custom, 
 and in honour of what it probably will remain to the 
 
 reader. 
 
 "Yours, &c.' 
 
 LETTER DXXIL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "September 20, 1821. 
 "After the stanza on Grattan, concluding with 'His 
 soul o'er tlie freedom implored and denied,' will it please 
 ou to cause insert the following 'Addenda,' which I 
 dreamed of durmg tc-day's Siesta : 
 
 " Ever glorious Gi-atlan ! &c. &c. &c. 
 
 I will tell you what to do. Get me twenty copies of the 
 whole carefully and privately printed off, as your lines 
 were on the Naples affair. Send me six^ and distribute 
 the rest according to your o^^•n pleasure. 
 
 * I am in a fine vein, ' so full of pastime and prodiga- 
 lity !' — So, here 's to your health in a glass of grog. Pray 
 wTite, that I may know by return of post — address to me 
 at Pisa. The gods give you joy ! 
 
 "Where are you? in Paris? Let us hear. You will 
 take care that there be no printer's name, nor autlior's, as 
 in the Naples stanzas, at least for the present." 
 
 LETTER DXXin. 
 
 TO MR. JVITRRAT. 
 
 " Ravenna, Sept. 20, 1821. 
 
 " You need not send ' the Blues,' which is a mere buf- 
 foonery, never meant for publication.* 
 
 * The papers to which 1 allude, in case of survivorship, 
 are collections of letters, &c. since I was sixteen years 
 old, contained in the trunks in the care of Mr. Hobhouse, 
 This collection is at least doubled by those I have now 
 here, all received since my last ostracism. To these I 
 should wish the editor to have access, not for the purpose 
 of abusing confidences^ nor of hurting the feelings of cor- 
 respondents living, nor the memories of the dead; but 
 there are things which would do neither, that I have lefl 
 unnoticed or unexplained, and which (like all such things) 
 time only can permit to be noticed or explained, though 
 some are to my credit. The task will of course require 
 delicacv ; but that will not be wanting, if Moore and Hob- 
 house sur\ive me, and, I may add, yourself; and that you 
 
 ' See Poems, p. 467. 
 
188 
 
 LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 may all three do so is, I assure you, my very sincere wish. 
 I am not sure that long life is desirable for one of my 
 temper and constitutional depression of spirits, which of 
 course I suppress in society ; but which breaks out when 
 alone, and in my writings, in spite of myself. It has been 
 deepened, perhaps, by some long-past events, (I do not 
 allude to my marriage, &c. — on the contrary, that raised 
 them by the persecution giving a fillip to my spirits ;) but 
 I call it constitutional, as I have reason to think it. You 
 know, or you do not know, that my maternal grandfather, 
 (a very clever man, and amiable, I am told,) was strongly 
 suspected of suicide, (he was found drowned in the Avon 
 at Bath,) and that another very near relative of the same 
 branch took poison, and was merely saved by antidotes. 
 For the first of these events there was no apparent cause, 
 as he was rich, respected, and of considerable intellectual 
 resources, hardly forty years of age, and not at all addicted 
 to any unhinging vice. It was, however, but a strong 
 suspicion, owing to the manner of his death and his melan- 
 choly temper. The secoiul had a cause, but it does not 
 become me to touch upon it : it happened when I vi-as far 
 too young to be aware of it, and I never heard of it till 
 after the death of that relative, many years afterward. I 
 think, then, that I may call this dejection constitutional. I 
 had alwavs been told diat I resembled more my maternal 
 giandfather than any of my father's family — that is, in 
 the gloomier part of his temper, for he was what you call 
 a good-natured man, and I am not. 
 
 " The Journal here I sent to Moore the other day ; but 
 as it is a mere diary, only parts of it would ever do for 
 publication. The other Journal of the Tour in 1816, 1 
 should think Augusta might let you have a copy of. 
 
 " I am much mortified that Gifford do n't take to my 
 new dramas. To be sure, they are as opposite to tlie 
 Enghsh drama as one thmg can be to another ; but I have 
 a notion that, if understood, they will in time find favour 
 (though Twt on the stage) with the reader. The simpli- 
 city of plot is intentional, and the avoidance of rant also, 
 as also the compression of the speeches in the more se- 
 vere situations. What I seek to show in ' the Foscaris' 
 is the suppressed passions, rather than tlie rant of the pre- 
 sent day. For that matter — 
 
 ' Nay, if thou 'It mouth, 
 I '11 rant as well as thou — ' 
 
 would not be difficult, as I think I have shown in my 
 younger productions, — not dramatic ones, to be sure. 
 But, as I said before, I am mortified that Gifford do n't 
 like them ; but I see no remedy, our notions on that subject 
 being so different. How is he ? — well, I hope ; — let me 
 know. I regret his demur the more that he has been 
 always my grand patron, and I know no praise which 
 would compensate me in my own mind for his censure. I 
 do not mind Reviews, as I can work them at their own 
 weapons. " Yours, &c. 
 
 "Address to me at Pisa, whither I am going. The 
 reason is, that all my Italian friends here have been exiled, 
 and are met there for the present, and I go to join them, 
 as agreed upon, for the winter." 
 
 LETTER DXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MtJKRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, Sept. 24, 1821. 
 
 " 1 have been thinking over our late correspondence, 
 and wish to propose to you the following articles for our 
 future : 
 
 "Istly, That you shall write to me of yourself of the 
 health, wealtli, and welfare of all friends; but of me 
 {quoad me) little or nothing. 
 
 2dly. That you shall send me soda-powders, tooth- 
 powder, tooth-brushes, or any such anti-odontalgic or 
 
 chemical articles, as heretofore 'ad libitum,' upon being 
 reimbursed for the same. 
 
 "3dly. That you shall not send me any modem, or (as 
 they are called) new publications, in English, whatsoever, 
 save and excepting any writing, prose or verse, of (or 
 reasonably presumed to be of) Walter Scott, Crabbe, 
 Moore, Campbell, Rogers, Giftbrd, Joanna Baillie, Irving, 
 (the American,) Hogg, Wilson, (the Isle of Palms man,) 
 or any especial single work of fancy which is thought to 
 be of considerable merit ; Voyages and TVavels, provided 
 that they are neither in Greece, Spain, Asia Minor, Al- 
 bania, nor Italy, will be welcome. Having travelled the 
 countries mentioned, I know that what is said of them can 
 convey nothing farther which I desire to know about 
 them. — No other English works whatsoever. 
 
 "4thly. That you send me no periodical works what- 
 soever — 720 Edinburgh, Quarterly, Monthly, nor any 
 review, magazine, or newspaper, English or foreign, ot 
 any description. 
 
 "othly. That you send me no opinions whatsoever, 
 either goofl, bad, or indiff'erent, of yourself^ or your friends, 
 or others, concerning any work, or works, of mine, past, 
 present, or to come. 
 
 "6thly. That all negotiations in matters of business 
 between you and me pass through the medium of the 
 Hon. Douglas Ennaird, my friend and trustee, or Mr. 
 Hobhouse, as ' Alter ego,' and tantamount to myself dur- 
 ing my absence — or presence. 
 
 "Some of these propositions may at first seem strange, 
 but they are founded. The quantity of trash I have 
 received as books is incalculable, and neither amused nor 
 instructed. Reviews and magazines are at the best but 
 ephemeral and superficial reading : — who thinks of the 
 grand article of last year in any given Review ? In the 
 next place, if they regard myself, they tend to increase 
 egotism. If favourable, I do not deny that the praise 
 elates, and if unfavourable, that the abuse irritates. The 
 latter may conduct me to inflict a species of satire, which 
 would neither do good to you nor to your friends : they 
 may smile noiv, and so may you ; but if I took you all 
 in hand, it would not be difficult to cut you up like 
 gourds. I did as much by as powerful people at nine- 
 teen years old, and I know litde as yet, in three-and- 
 thirty, which should prevent me from making all your 
 ribs gridirons for your hearts, if such were my pro- 
 pensity: but it is not; therefore let me hear none of 
 your provocations. If any thing occurs so very gross 
 as to require my notice, 1 shall hear of it from my legal 
 friends. For the rest, I merely request to be left in 
 ignorance. 
 
 " The same applies to opinions, good, bad, or indifferent, 
 of persons in conversation or correspondence. These 
 do not interrupt, but they soil, the current of my mirui. 
 I am sensitive enough, but not till I am troubled; and 
 here I am beyond the touch of the short arms of literary 
 England, except the few feelers of the polypus that crawl 
 over the channels in the way of extract. 
 
 "All these precautions in England would be useless ; 
 the libeller or the flatterer would there reach me in spite 
 of all ; but in Italy we know little of literary England, 
 and think less, except what reaches us through some 
 garbled and brief extract in some miserable gazette. 
 For two years (excepting two or three articles cut out 
 and sent to you by the post) I never read a newspaper 
 which was not forced upon me by some accident, and 
 know, upon the whole, as little of England as you do of 
 Italy, and God knows that is httle enough, with all your 
 travels, &c. &c. &c. The English travellers know Italy 
 as you know Guernsey : how much is that ? 
 
 " If any thing occurs so violently gross or personal as 
 requires notice, Mr. Douglas Kinnaird will let me know ; 
 but of praise, I desire to hear nothing. 
 
 " You will say, < to what tends all this T I will answer 
 THAT ; — to keep my mnd free and unbiased by all paltry 
 
LETTERS, 1821, 
 
 189 
 
 and personal irritabilities of praise or censure — to let 
 my genius take its natural direction, while my feelings 
 are like the dead, who know nothing and feel nothing of 
 all or aught that is said or done in their regard. 
 
 * If you can observe these conditions, you \\-ill spare 
 yourself and others some pain ; let me not be Avorked 
 upon to rise up ; for if I do, it will not be for a little. 
 If you caxinot observe these conditions, we shall cease 
 to be correspondents, — but noifrieiids, for I shall always 
 be yours and ever truly, " Byron. 
 
 " P. S. I have taken these resolutions not from any 
 irritation against you or yours, but simply upon reflection 
 that all reading, either praise or censure, of myself has 
 done me hann. When I was in Switzerland and Greece. 
 [ was out of the way of hearing either, and how I tvrote 
 there .'—In Italy I am out of the way of it too ; but lat- 
 terly, pardy through my fault, and partly through your 
 kindness in wishing to send me the newest and most 
 periodical publications, I have had a crowd of Reviews, 
 &c. thrust upon me, which have bored me with their 
 jargon, of one kind or another, and taken off my atten- 
 tion from greater objects. You have also sent me a 
 parcel of trash of poetry, for no reason that I can con- 
 ceive, unless to provoke me to write a new 'English 
 Bards.' Now tids I wish to avoid : for if ever I do, it 
 will be a strong production ; and I desire peace as long 
 as the fools will keep their nonsense out of my way." 
 
 LETTER DXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 « September 27, 1821. 
 
 " It was not Murray's fault. I did not send the MS. 
 overture, but I send it now,* and it may be restored ; — 
 or, at any rate, you may keep the original, and give 
 any copies you please. I send it, as written, and as I 
 read it to you — I have no other copy. 
 
 " By last week's two posts, in two packets, I sent to 
 your address, at Paris, a longish poem upon the late 
 Irishism of your countrymen in their reception of * * *. 
 Pray, have you received it ? It is in ' the high Roman 
 fashion,' and full of ferocious fantasy. As you could not 
 well take up the matter with Paddy, (being of the same 
 nest,) I have ; — but I hope still that I have done justice 
 to his great men and his good heart. As for * * +, you 
 will find it laid on with a trowel. I dehght in your 'fact 
 historical' — is it a fact ? " Yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. You have not answered me about Schlegel — 
 why not ? Address to me at Pisa, whither I am going, 
 to join the exiles — a pretty numerous body, at present. 
 Let me hear how you are, and what you mean to do. Is 
 there no chance of your recrossing the Alps ? If the G. 
 Rex marries again, let him not want an Epithalamium 
 — suppose a joint concern of you and me, like Sternhold 
 and Hopkins l" 
 
 LETTER DXXVI. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "September 28, 1821 
 «I add another cover to request you to ask Moore to 
 obtain (if possible) my letters to the late Lady Mel- 
 bourne from Lady Cowper. They are very numerous, 
 and ought to have been restored long ago, as I was ready 
 to give back Lady Melbourne's in exchange. These 
 latter are in Mr. Hobhouse's custody with my other 
 papers, and shall be punctually restored if required. I 
 
 • The lilies "Oh Wellington," Don Juan, Canto IX. StanM 1, 
 &c. which I had missed in their original place at the opening of the 
 Third Canto, and took for granted that they had becu suppressed by - 
 publisher.— Moore. 
 
 did not choose before to apply to Lady Cowper, as her 
 mother's death naturally kept me from intruding upon 
 her feehngs at the time of its occurrence. Some years 
 have now elapsed, and it is essential that I should have 
 my own epistles. They are essential as confirming that 
 part of the 'Memoranda' which refers to die two periods 
 (1812 and 1814) when my marriage with her niece was 
 in contemplation, and will tend to show what my real 
 views and feehngs were upon that subject. 
 
 "You need not be alarmed ; the ' fourteen years'* will 
 hardly elapse without some mortality among us : it is a 
 long lease of life to speculate upon. So your calculation 
 will not be in so much peril, as the 'argosie' will sink 
 before that time, and 'the pound of flesh' be withered 
 previously to your being so long out of a return. 
 
 " I also wish to give you a hint or two, (as you have 
 really behaved very handsomely to Moore in the busi- 
 ness, and are a fine fellow in your line,) for your advan- 
 tage. i/"by your own management you can extract any 
 
 of my epistles from Lady (* * * + + + #:^^ 
 
 they might be of use in your collection, (sinking of course 
 the names, and all such circumstances as might hurt living 
 feelings, or those of survivors;) they treat of more topics 
 than love occasionally. 
 
 + + * + ** 
 
 " I will tell you w ho may happen to have some letters 
 of mine in their possession : Lord Powerscourt, some to 
 his late brotlier ; Mr. Long of — (I forget his place) — 
 but the father of Edward Long of the Guards, who was 
 drowned in going to Lisbon early in 1809 ; Miss Eliza- 
 beth Pigot, of Southwell, Notts, (she may be Mistress 
 by this time, for she had a year or two more than I :) 
 they were not love-letters, so that you might have them 
 without scruple. There are, or might be, some to the 
 late Rev. J. C. Tattersall, in the hands of his brother 
 (half-brother) ISlr. Wheatley, who resides near Canter- 
 bury, I think. There are some of Charles Gordon, now 
 of Dulwich ; and some few to Mrs. Chaworth ; but 
 these latter are probably destroyed or inaccessible. 
 ***** 
 
 "I mention these people and particulars merely as 
 chances. Most of them have probably destroyed the 
 letters, which in fact are of httle import, many of diem 
 written when very young, and several at school and 
 college. 
 
 "Peel (the second brother of the Secretary) was a cor- 
 respondent of mine, and also Porter, the son of the Bishop 
 of Clogher ; Lord Clare a very voluminous one ; William 
 Harness (a friend of Milman's) another ; Charles Drum- 
 mond, (son of the banker :) William Bankes (the voyager) 
 your friend; R. C. Dallas, Esq.; Hodgson; Henry 
 Drury ; Hobhouse you were already aware of. 
 
 " I have gone through this long Ust of 
 
 ' The cold, the faithless, and the dead,' 
 
 because I know that, like ' the curious in fish-sauce,' you 
 are a researcher of such things. 
 
 " Besides these, there are other occasional ones to lite- 
 rary men and so forth, complimentary, &c. &c. &c. not 
 worth much more than the rest. There are some hun- 
 dreds, too, of Italian notes of mine, scribbled with a noble 
 contempt of die grammar and dictionary, in very English 
 Etruscan ; for I speak Italian very fluendy, but write it 
 carelessly and incorrectly to a degree." 
 
 LETTER DXXVIL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "September 29, 1821. 
 " I send you two rough things, prose and verse, not 
 
 * He here adverts to a passing remark in one of Mr. Murray's letters, 
 that as his lordship's " Memoi-anda" were not to be published in his 
 lifetime, the sum now paid for the work, i2100Z. would most probably, 
 upon a reasonable calculation of surviTorship, amount ultimately to no 
 less than 8000L— Moore. 
 
190 
 
 LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 much in themselves, but wliich will show, one of them 
 the state of the country, and the other of your friend's 
 mind, when they were written. Neither of them were 
 sent to the person concerned, but you will see, by the 
 style of them, that they were smcere, as I am in signing 
 myself " Yours ever and truly, 
 
 «B." 
 
 [Of the two enclosures, mentioned in the foregoing 
 note, one was a letter intended to be sent to Lady Byron, 
 relative to his money invested in the funds, of which the 
 following are extracts.] 
 
 " Ravenna, Marza Imo, 1821. 
 
 "I have received your message, through my sister's 
 letter about English security, &c. &c. It is considerate, 
 (and true, even,) that such is to be found — but not that I 
 shall find it. Mr. + *, for his own views and purposes, 
 will thwart all such attempts till he has accomplished his 
 own, viz. to make me lend my fortune to some chent of 
 his choosing. 
 
 "At this distance — after this absence, and with my 
 utter ignorance of affairs and business — with my temper 
 and impatience, I have neither the means nor the mind to 
 resist. * + * + * ' 
 
 Thmking of the funds as I do, and wisliing to secure a 
 rervesion to my sister and her children, I should jump at 
 most expedients. 
 
 " What I told you is come to pass — the Neapolitan 
 war is declared. Your funds will fall, and I shall be in 
 consequence ruined. That 's nothing — but my blood 
 relations will be so. You and your child are provided 
 for. Live and prosper — I wish so much to both. Live 
 and prosper — you have the means. I thmk but of my 
 real kin and Idndred, who may be the victuns of tliis ac' 
 cursed bubble. 
 
 " You neither know nor dream of the consequences of 
 this war. It is a war of rnen with monarchs, and will 
 spread like a spark on the dry, rank grass of the vegeta- 
 ble desert. What it is with you and your English, you 
 do not know, for ye sleep. What it is with us here, I 
 know, for it is before, and around, and within us. 
 
 "Judge of my detestation of England and of all that it 
 inherits, when I avoid returning to your country at a time 
 when not only my pecuniary interest, but, it may be, even 
 my personal security require it. . I can say no more, for 
 all letters are opened. A short time will decide upon 
 what is to be done here, and then you will learn it without 
 being more troubled with me or my correspondence 
 Whatever happens an individual is httle, so that the 
 cause is for^varded. 
 
 "I have no more to say to you on the score of affairs or 
 on any odier subject." 
 
 [The second enclosure in the note consisted of some 
 verses, written by him, December 10th, 1820, on seeing 
 the following paragraph in a newspaper. " Lady Byron 
 is this year the lady patroness at the annual Charity Ball 
 given at the Town Hall at Hinckly, Leicestershire, and 
 Sir G. Crewe, Bart, the principal steward." These 
 verses are full of strong and indignant feeling, — every 
 stanza concluding pointedly with the words "Charity 
 Ball," — .and the thought that predominates through the 
 whole may be collected from a few of the opening lixies. — 
 Moore.] 
 
 " What matter the pangs of a husband and father, 
 
 If his sorrows in exile be great or be small, 
 
 So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather, 
 
 And the Saint patronises her ' Charity Ball.' 
 
 What matters — a heart, which though faulty was feeling, 
 Be driven to excesses which once could appal — 
 
 That the Sinner should suffer is only fair dealing, 
 Ab the Saint keeps her charity back for ' the Bttll.' &c. &c." 
 
 LETTER DXXVIIL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 « September — no — October 1, 182L 
 
 « I have written to you lately, both in prose and verse, 
 at great length, to Paris and London. I presume diat 
 Mrs. Moore, or whoever is your Paris deputy, will for- 
 ward my packets to you in London. 
 
 « I am setting off for Pisa, if a slight mcipient intermit- 
 tent fever do not prevent me. 1 fear it is not strong 
 enough to give Murray much chance of reahzing his thir- 
 teens again. I hardly should regret it, I thmk, provided 
 you raised your price upon him — as what Lady Holder- 
 ness (my sister 's grandmother, a Dutchwoman) used to 
 call Augusta, her Residee Legaioo — so as to provide for 
 us all 5 my bones with a splendid and larmoyante edition, 
 and you v.ith double what is extractable during my 
 Ufetime. 
 
 " I have a strong presentiment that (bating some out- 
 of-the-way accident) you \vill survive me. The differ- 
 ence of eight years, or whatever it is between our ages is 
 nothing. I do not feel (nor am, indeed anxious to feel) 
 the principles of life in me tend to longevity. My father 
 cind mother died, the one at thiity--five or six, and the other 
 at forty-five ; and Doctor Rush, or somebody else, says 
 tliat nobody lives long, without having one parent^ at least, 
 an old stager. 
 
 " I should^ to be sure, hke to see out my eternal mother- 
 in-law, not so much for her heritage, but from my natural 
 antipathy. But the indulgence of this natural desire is 
 too much to expect from the Providence who presides 
 over old women. I bore you with all this about lives, 
 because it has been put in my wa)' by a calculation of 
 ensurances which Murray has sent me. I really think 
 you should have more, if I evaporate within a reason- 
 able time. 
 
 "I wonder if my 'Cain' has got safe to England. I 
 have written since about sixty stanzas of a poem, m octave 
 stanzas,* (in the Pulci style, which the fools in England 
 think was invented by Whistlecraft — it is as old as the 
 hills in Italy,) called ' The Vision of Judgment, by Q,ue- 
 vedo Redivivus,' with this motto — 
 
 ' A Daniel come to judgment, yea, aDaniel : 
 I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.' 
 
 " In this it is my intent to put the said George's Apo- 
 theosis in a Whig point of view, not forgetting the Poet 
 Laureate for his preface and his other demerits. 
 
 " I am just got to the pass where Saint Peter, hearing 
 that the royal defunct had opposed Calhohc Emanci- 
 pation, rises up and, interrupting Satan's oration, de- 
 clares he will change places with Cerbeinis sooner than 
 let him into heaven, while he has the keys thereof. 
 
 " I must go and ride, though rather feverish and chilly. 
 It is the ague season ; but tlie agues do me rather good 
 than harm. The feel after the ^t is as if one had got rid 
 of one's body for good and all . 
 
 "The gods go with you! — ^Address to Pisa. 
 
 "Ever yours. 
 
 " P. S. Since I came back I feel better, though I stayed 
 out too late for this malaria season, under the thin cres- 
 cent of a very young moon, and got off my horse to walk 
 in an avenue with a Signora for an hour, I thought of 
 you and 
 
 ' When at eve thou rovest 
 By the star thou lovest.' 
 
 But it was not in a romantic mood, as I should have been 
 once; and yet it was a new woman, (tliat is, new to 
 me,) and, of course, expected to be made love to. But 
 I merely made a few commonplace speeches. I feel 
 as your poor friend Curran said, before his death,' a 
 mountain of lead upon my heart,' which I believe to be 
 
 • See Don Juan, Canto IV. StftuHi6. 
 
LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 191 
 
 constitutional, and that nothing will remove it but the 
 same remedy." 
 
 LETTER DXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOOBE. 
 
 October 6, 1821. 
 
 "By this post I have sent my nightmare to balance the 
 incubus of Southey's impudent anticipation of the Apo- 
 theosis of George the Third. I should like you to take a 
 look over it, as I think there are two or three things in it 
 which might please ' our puir hill folk.' 
 
 " By the last two or three posts I have written to you 
 at length. My ague bows to me every two or tliree days, 
 but we are not as yet upon intimate speaking terms. I 
 have an intermittent generally every two years, when the 
 climate is favourable, (as it is here,) but it does me no 
 harm. What I find worse, and cannnot get rid ofj is the 
 growing depression of my spirits, without sufficierit cause. 
 I ride — I am not intemperate in eating or drinking — and 
 my general health is as usual, except a slight ague, which 
 rather does good than not. It must be constitutional \ for 
 I know nothing more than usual to depress me to that 
 degree. 
 
 " How do you manage 1 I think you told me, at Ve- 
 nice, that your spirits did not keep up without a httle 
 claret. I can drink and bear a good deal of wine, (as 
 you may recollect in England ;) but it don't exhilarate — 
 it makes me savage and suspicious, and even quarrel- 
 some. Laudanum has a similar effect ; but I can take 
 much of it without any effect at all. The thing that gives 
 me the highest spirits (it seems absurd, but true) is a dose 
 of salts — I mean in the afternoon, after their effect. But 
 one can't take them hke champagne. 
 
 " Excuse this old woman's letter ; but my lemancholy 
 don't depend upon health, for it is just the same, well or 
 ill, or here or there. " Yours, &c." 
 
 the Old Testament, for the New struck men as a task' 
 but the otlier as a pleasure. I speak as a boy from the re- 
 collected impression of that period at Aberdeen in 1796. 
 "Any novels of Scott, or poetry of the same. Ditto of 
 Crabbe, Moore, and the Elect ; but none of your cursed 
 commonplace trash, — unless something starts up of actual 
 merit, which may very well be, for 't is time it should." 
 
 LETTER DXXX. 
 
 TO MH. MURRAY. 
 
 "Ravenna, October 9, 1821. 
 "You will please to present or convey the enclosed 
 poem to Mr. Moore. 1 sent him another copy to Paris : 
 but he has probably left that city. 
 
 " Do n't forget to send me my first act of ' Werner' (if 
 Hobhouse can find it among my papers) — send it by the 
 post to (Pisa ;) and also cut out Sophia Lee's ' German's 
 Tale' from the 'Canterbury Tales,' and send it in a letter 
 also. I began that tragedy m 1815. 
 
 " By-the-way, you have a good deal of my prose tracts 
 in MS. ? Let me have proofs of them all again — I mean 
 ihe controversial ones, including the last two or three 
 years of time. Another question I — The Epistle of St. 
 Paul, which I translated from the Armenian, for what 
 reason have you kept it back, though you published that 
 stuff which gave rise to the ' Vampire ?' Is it because 
 you are afraid to print any thing in opposition to the cant 
 of the duarterly about Manicheism? Let me have a 
 proof of that Epistle directly. I am a better Christian 
 than those parsons of yours, though not paid for being so. 
 " Send — Faber's Treatise on the Cabiri. 
 " Sainte Croix's Mysteres du Paganisme, (scarce, per- 
 haps, but to be found, as Mitford refers to his work fre- 
 quently.) 
 
 "A common Bible, of good legible print, (bound in rus- 
 sia.) I have one ; but as it was the last gift of my sister, 
 (whom I shall probably never see again,) I can only use 
 it carefully, and less frequently, because I like to keep it 
 in good order. Do n't forget this, for I am a great reader 
 and admirer of those books, and had read them through 
 and through before I was eight years old,-^that is to say. 
 
 LETTER DXXXL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "October 20, 1821. 
 
 " If the errors are in the MS. write me down an ass : 
 they are not^ and I am content to undergo any penalty if 
 they be. Besides, the omitted stanza, (last but one or 
 two,) sent afterward^ was that in the MS. too ? 
 
 " As to ' honour,' I will trust no man's honour in affairs 
 of barter. I will tell you why: a state of bargain is 
 Hobbes's ' state of nature — a state of war.' It is so with 
 all men. If 1 come to a friend, and say, 'Friend, lend me 
 five hundred pounds,' — he either does it, or says that he 
 can't or won't; but if I come to ditto, and say, 'Ditto, I 
 have an excellent house, or horse, or carriage, or MSS. or 
 books, or pictures, or &c. &c. &c. &c. honestly worth a 
 thousand pounds, you shall have them for five hundred, 
 what does Ditto say? why, he looks at them, he hums, ho 
 lias, — he humbugs, if he can, to get a bargain as cheaply 
 as he can, because it is a bargain. — This is in the blood 
 and bone of mankind ; and the same man who would 
 lend another a thousand pounds without interest, would 
 not buy a horse of him for half its value if he could help 
 it. It is so : there 's no denying it ; and therefore I will 
 have as much as I can, and you will give as little ; and 
 there 's an end. All men are intrinsical rascals, and I am 
 only sorry that, not being a dog, I can't bite them. 
 
 " I am filling another book for you with little anecdotes, 
 to my own knowledge, or well authenticated, of Sheridan, 
 Curran, &c. and such other public men as I recollect to 
 have been acquainted with, for I knew most of them more 
 or less. I will do what I can to prevent your losing by 
 my obsequies. " Yours &c.'' 
 
 LETTER DXXXII. 
 
 TO MR. ROGERS. 
 
 " Ravenna, October 21, 1821. 
 " I shall be (the gods willing) in Bologna on Saturday 
 next. This is a curious answer to your letter ; but I have 
 taken a house m Pisa for the winter, to which all my chat- 
 tels, furniture, horses, carriages, and live stock are already 
 removed, and I am preparing to follow. 
 
 " The cause of this removal is, shortly, the exile or pro- 
 scription of all my friends' relations and connexions here 
 into Tuscany, on account of our late politics ; and where 
 they go, I accompany them. I merely remained till now 
 to settle some arrangements about my daughter, and to 
 give time for my furniture, &c. to precede me. I liave 
 not here a seat or a bed hardly, except some jury chairs, 
 and tables, and a mattress for the week to come. 
 
 " If you will go on with me to Pisa, I can lodge you for 
 as long as you like, (they write that the house, the Palazzo 
 Lanfranchi, is spacious : it is on the Amo ;) and I have 
 four carriages, and as many saddle horses, (such as they 
 are in these parts,) with all other conveniences at your 
 command, as also their owner. If you could do this, we 
 may, at least, cross the Apennines together ; or if you 
 are going by another road, we shall meet at Bologna, I 
 hope. I address this to the post-office, (as you desire,) 
 and you will probably find me at the Albergo di San 
 Marco. If you arrive first, wait till I come up, which 
 will be (barring accidents) on Saturday or Sunday at 
 farthest. 
 
192 
 
 LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 • I presume you arc alone in your voyages. Moore is 
 in London incog. , according to my latest advices from 
 diose climates. 
 
 " It is better than a lustre (five years and six months 
 and some days, more or less,) since me met ; and, like 
 the man from Tadcaster in the farce, ('Love laughs at 
 Locksmiths,') whose acquaintances, including the cat and 
 the terrier, ' who caught a halfpenny in his mouth,' were 
 all ' gone dead,' but too many of our acquaintances have 
 taken the same path. Lady Melbourne, Graltan, Sheri- 
 dan, Curran, &c. &c. almost every body of much name 
 of the old school. But ' so am not I, said the foolish fat 
 scullion,' therefore let us make the most of our remainder. 
 
 " Let me find two lines from you at ' the hostel or inn.' 
 " Yours ever, &c. 
 
 «B." 
 
 LETTER DXXXIIL 
 
 TO MR. MOOKE. 
 
 "RavennajOct. 28, 1821. 
 « ''T is the middle of night by the castle clock,' and in 
 three hours more I have to set out on my way to Pisa — 
 sitting up all night to be sure of rising. I have just made 
 them take off my bed-clothes — blankets inclusive — in case 
 of temptation from the apparel of sheets to my eyelids. 
 
 " Samuel Rogers is — or is to be — at Bologna, as he 
 writes from Venice. 
 
 "I thought our Magnifico would 'pound you,' if possi- 
 ble. He is trying to 'pound' me, too; but I'll specie the 
 rogue — or, at least, I '11 have the odd shillings out of him 
 in keen iambics. 
 
 " Your approbation of ' Sardanapalus' is agreeable, for 
 more reasons than one. Hobhouse is pleased to think as 
 you do of it, and so do some others — but the ' Arimaspian,' 
 whom, like ' a Gryphon in the wilderness,' I will ' follow 
 for his gold,' (as I exhorted you to do before,) did or doth 
 disparage it — ^'stinting me in my sizings.' His notable 
 opinions on die ' Foscari' and ' Cain' he hath not as yet 
 forwarded ; or, at least, I have not yet received them, nor 
 the proofs thereof; though promised by last post. 
 
 " I see the way that he and his Q,uarterly people are 
 tending — they want a row with me, and they shall have it. 
 I only regret that I am not in England for the nonce ; as, 
 here, it is hardly fair ground for me, isolated and out of 
 the way of prompt rejoinder and information, as I am. 
 But, though backed by all the corruption, and infamy, and 
 patronage of their master rogues and slave renegadoes, 
 if they do once rouse me up, 
 
 ' They had better gall the devil, Salisbury.' 
 " I have that for two or three of them, which they had 
 better not move me to put in motion ; — and yet, after all, 
 what a fool I am to disquiet myself about such fellows ! 
 It was all very well ten or twelve years ago, when I was 
 a ' curled darling,' and minded such things. At present, I 
 rate them at their true value ; but, from natural temper 
 and bile, am not able to keep quiet. 
 
 "Let me hear from you on your return from Ireland, 
 which ought to be ashamed to see you, after her Bruns- 
 vidck blarney. I am of Longman's opinion, that you 
 should allow your friends to liquidate the Bermuda claim. 
 Why should you throw away the two thousand pounds 
 (of the non-guinea Murray) upon that cursed piece of 
 treacherous inveiglement ? I think you carry the matter 
 a little too far and scrupulously. When we see patriots 
 begging publicly, and know that Grattan received a for- 
 tune from his country, I really do not see why a man, in 
 no whit inferior to any or all of them, should shrink from 
 accepting that assistance from his private friends, which 
 every tradesman receives from his connexions upon much 
 less occasions. For, after all, it was not your debt — it 
 was a piece of swindling against you. As to * * * *, 
 and the * what noble creatures !' &c. &c. it is all very fine 
 
 and very well, but till you can persuade me that there is 
 no credit and no self-applause to be obtained by being of 
 use to a celebrated man, I must retain the same opinion 
 of the human species, which I do of our friend M*. Specie." 
 
 LETTER DXXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Pisa, November 3, 1821. 
 " The two passages cannot be altered without making 
 Lucifer talk like the Bishop of Lincoln, which would not 
 be in the character of the former. The notion is from 
 Cuvier, (that of the old worlds^) as I have explained in 
 an additional note to the preface. The other passage is 
 also in character : \^ nonsense, so much the better, because 
 then it can do no harm, and the sillier Satan is made, the 
 safer for every body. As to ' alarms,' &c. do you really 
 think such things ever led any body astray ? Are these 
 people more impious than Milton's Satan ? or the Pro- 
 metheus of .iEschylus ? or even than the Sadducees of 
 Milman, the ' Fall of Jerusalem' * * ? Are not Adam, 
 Eve, Adah, and Abel, as pious as the catechism? 
 
 " Gifford is too wise a man to think that such tilings can 
 have any serious effect : who was ever altered by a poem ? 
 I beg leave to observe, that there is no creed nor personal 
 hypothesis of mine in all this ; but I was obliged to 
 make Cain and Lucifer talk consistently, and surely this 
 has always been permitted to poesy. Cain is a proud 
 man : if Lucifer promised him kingdom, &c. it would ehxte 
 him : the object of the Demon is to depress him still farther 
 in his own estimation than he was before, by showing him 
 infinite things, and his own abasement, till he falls into the 
 frame of mind that leads to the catastrophe, from mere 
 internal irritation, not premeditation, or envy of Abel, 
 (which would have made him contemptible,) but from 
 rage and fury against the inadequacy of his state to his 
 conceptions, and which discharges itself rather against 
 life, and the Author of Ufe, than the mere living. 
 
 " His subsequent remorse is the natural effect of looking 
 on his sudden deed. Had the deed been premeditated, his 
 repentance would have been tardier. 
 
 " Either dedicate it to Walter Scott, or, if you think he 
 would like the dedication of ' the Foscaris' better, put the 
 dedication to ' the Foscaris.' Ask him which. 
 
 "Your first note was queer enough ; but your two other 
 letters, with Moore's and Gilford's opinions, set all right 
 again. I told you before that I can never recast any thing. 
 I am like the tiger : if I miss the first spring, I go grumbling 
 back to my jungle again ; but if I do hit, it is crushing. 
 * * * You disparaged the last three cantos 
 
 to me, and kept them back above a year ; but 1 have 
 heard from England that (notwithstanding the errors of the 
 press,) they are well thought of; for instance, by Ameri- 
 can Irving, which last is a feather in my (fool's) cap. 
 
 " You have received my letter (open) through Mr. 
 Kinnaird, and so, pray, send me no more reviews of any 
 kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. 
 Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thir- 
 teen years. 
 
 "The bust is not my property, but Hobhouse' s. I 
 addressed it to you as an Admiralty man, great at the 
 custom-house. Pray deduct the expenses of the same, 
 and all others. « Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER DXXXV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Pisa,Nov. 9, 1821. 
 
 " I never read the Memoirs at all, not even since they 
 
 were written ; and I never will : the pain of writing thera 
 
 was enough ; you may spare me that of a perusal. Mr. 
 
 Moore has (or may have) a discretionary power to omit 
 
LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 193 
 
 any repetition, or expressions which do not seem good to 
 him, who is a better judge than you or I. 
 
 "Enclosed is a lyrical drama, (entitled 'a Mystery,' 
 from its subject,) which, perhaps, may arrive in time for 
 the volume. You will find it pious enough, I trust — at 
 least some of the Chorus might have been written by 
 Stemhold and Hopkins themselves for that, and perhaps 
 for melody. As it is longer, and more lyrical and Greek 
 than I intended at tirst, I have not di\'ided it into acts, but 
 called what I have sent Part First, as there is a suspen- 
 sion of the action, which may either close there without 
 impropriety, or be continued in a way that I have in view. 
 I wish the first part to be pubhshed before the second, 
 because, if it do n't succeed, it is better to stop there than 
 to go on in a fruidess experiment. 
 
 " I desire you to acknowledge the arrival of this packet 
 by return of post, if you can conveniently, v,-ith a proof. 
 " Your obedient, &c. 
 
 "P. S. My wish is to have it published at the same 
 time, and, if possible, in the same volume, witli the others, 
 because, whatever the merhs or demerits of these pieces 
 may be, it \vill perhaps be allowed that each is of a dilFer- 
 ent kind, and in a different style ; so that, including the 
 prose and the Don Juans, &c. I have at least sent you 
 variety during the last year or two." 
 
 LETTER DXXXVI. 
 
 TO MS. MOORE. 
 
 «Pisa,Nov.l6,182L 
 " There is here Mr. Taafe, an Irish genius, with whom 
 we are acquainted. He hath written a really excellent 
 Commentary on Dante, full of new and ti-ue information, 
 and much ingenuity. But his verse is such as it hath 
 pleased God to endue him mthal. Nevertheless, he is so 
 firmly persuaded of its equal excellence, that he vron't 
 divorce the Commentary from the traduction, as I ventured 
 delicately to hint, — not having the fear of Ireland before 
 my eyes, and upon the presumption of having shotten very 
 well in his presence (with common pistols too, not widi my 
 Manton's) the day before. 
 
 " But he is eager to pubhsh all, and must be gratified, 
 though the Reviewers will make him suffer more tortures 
 than there are in liis original. Indeed, the JVotes are well 
 worth pubhcation ; but he insists upon the translation for 
 company, so that they wUl come out together, like Lady 
 C * * t chaperoning Miss * *. I read a letter of yours 
 to him yesterday, and he begs me to wTite to you about his 
 Poeshie. He is really a good fellow, apparently, and I 
 dare say that his verse is very good Irish. 
 
 " Now, what shall we do for him ? He says that he 
 will risk part of the expense with the publisher. He wiU 
 never rest till he is published and abused — for he has a 
 high opinion of himself— and I see nothing left but to 
 gratify him so as to have him abused as httle as possible ; 
 for I "think it would lull him. You must write, then, to 
 Jeffrey to beg him not to review him, and I will do the 
 same to Gifford, through Murray. Perhaps they might 
 notice the Comment without touching the text. But I 
 doubt the dogs — the text is too tempting, * * 
 
 * + * 
 
 « I have to thank you again, as I believe I did before, 
 for your opinion of ' Cain,' &c. 
 
 "You are right to allow to settle the claim ; but 
 
 I io not see why you should repay him out of your legacy — 
 at least not yet. If you/eeZ about it, (as you are ticklish 
 on such points,) pay him the interest now, and the princi- 
 pal when you are strong in cash ; or pay him by instal- 
 ments ; or pay him as I do my creditors — that is, not till 
 they make me. 
 
 « I address this to you at Paris, as you desire. Reply 
 soon, and believe me ever. &c. 
 25 
 
 "P. S. "WHiat I wrote to you about low spirits is, how- 
 ever, very true. At present, owing to the chmate, &c. (I 
 can wallc down into my garden, and pluck my o\mi oranges; 
 and, by-the-way, have got a dicirrhoea in consequence of 
 indulging in this meridian liLxury of proprietorship,) my 
 spirits are much better. You seem to think that I could 
 not have written the 'Vision.' &c. imder the influence of 
 low spirits 5 — but I tliink there you err. A man's poetry 
 is a distinct faculty, or Soul, and has no more to do wth 
 the every'-day individual than the Inspiration %vith the 
 Pythoness when removed from her tripod." 
 
 To Lord Byron. 
 
 " Frome, Somerset, Nov. 21, I82L 
 
 " MY LOUD, 
 
 " More than two years since, a lovely and beloved wife 
 was taken from me, by lingering disease, after a very short 
 imion. She possessed unvarying gentleness and fortitude, 
 and a piety so retiring as rarely to disclose itself in words, 
 but so influential as to produce miiform benevolence of 
 conduct. In tiie last hour of life, after a farewell look on 
 a lately born and only infant, for whom she had evinced 
 inexpressible affection, her last whispers were, 'God's 
 happiness ! God's happiness !' Since the second anni- 
 versary of her decease, I have read some papers which no 
 one had seen during her life, and which contain her most 
 secret thoughts. I am induced to communicate to youi 
 lordship a passage from these papers, which, there is no 
 doubt, refers to yourself ; as I have more than once heard 
 the writer mention your agility on the rocks at Hastings. 
 
 " ' Oh, my God, I take encouragement from the assur- 
 ance of thy Word, to pray to Thee in behalf of one for 
 whom I have lately been much interested. May the 
 person to whom I allude (and who is now, we fear, as 
 much distinguished for his neglect of Thee as for the 
 transcendent talents thou hast bestowed on him) be 
 awakened to a sense of his o\mi danger, and led to seek 
 that peace of mind, in a proper sense of relijion, which 
 he has found this world's enjoyments unable to procure ! 
 Do thou grant that his future example mav be productive 
 of far more extensive benefit than his past conduct and 
 writings have been of evil ; and may the Sun of righteous- 
 ness, which, we trust, ^^^ll, at some fiatm-e period, arise on 
 him, be bright in proportion to the darkness of those 
 clouds which guilt has raised aromid him, and the balm 
 which it bestows, healing and soothing in proportion to the 
 keeimess of that agony which the punishment of his vices 
 has inflicted on him ! May the hope that the smcerity 
 of my o\^■n efforts for the attainment of holiness, and the 
 approval of my ovm love to the great Author of rehgion, 
 \'\-ill render this prayer, and every other for the welfare 
 of manlcind, more efficacious. — Cheer me in the path of 
 duty ; — but let me not forget, that, while we are permitted 
 to animate ourselves to exertion by every innocent motive, 
 these are but the lesser streams which may serve to 
 increase the current, but which, deprived of the grand 
 fountain of good, (a deep conviction of inborn sin, and 
 firm belief in the efficacy of Christ's death for the salva- 
 tion of those who trust in him, and really \Aish to serve 
 him,) would soon dry up, and leave us barren of every 
 virtue as before. 
 
 "'July 31st, 1814. 
 '" Hastings.' " 
 
 " There is nothing, my lord, in this extract, which, in a 
 Hteraiy sense, can at all interest you •, but it may, per- 
 haps, appear to you worthy of reflection how deep and 
 expansive a concern for the happiness of others the 
 Christian faith can avvaken in the midst of youth and 
 prosperity. Here is nothing poetical and splendid, as in 
 the expostulatory homage of M. Delamartine ? but here 
 is the sublime, my lord ; for this intercession was offered, 
 on your account, to the supreme Source of happiness. It 
 sprang from a faith more confirmed than that of the 
 French poet ; and from a charity which, in combination 
 
194 
 
 LETTERS, 1821. 
 
 with faith, showed its power unimpaired amid the lan- 
 guors and pains of approaching dissolution. I ^^'ill hope 
 that a prayer, which, I am sure, was deeply sincere, may 
 not be always imavailing. 
 
 " It would add nothing, my lord, to the fame \vith which 
 your genius has surrounded you, for an unknown and 
 obscure indi\-idual to express his admiration of it. I had 
 rather be numbered with those who wish and pray, that 
 'wisdom from above,' and 'peace,' and 'joy,' may enter 
 such a mind. " John Sheppard." 
 
 LETTER DXXXVn. 
 
 TO MR. SHEPPARD. 
 
 Pisa, December 8, 1821. 
 "sir, 
 " I have received your letter. I need not say, that the 
 extract which it contains has affected me, because it would 
 imply a want of all feeling to have read it with indifference. 
 Though I am not quite sure that it was intended by the 
 writer for me, yet the date, the place where it was written, 
 with some other circimistances tliat you mention, render 
 the allusion probable. But for whomever it was meant, I 
 have read it with all the pleasure which can arise from so 
 melancholy a topic. I say pleasure — because your brief 
 and simple picture of the life and demeanour of the ex- 
 cellent person whom I trust you will again meet, cannot 
 be contemplated without the admiration due to her virtues 
 and her pure and impretending piety. Her last moments 
 were particularly striking ; and I do not know that, in the 
 course of reading the story of mankind, and still less in my 
 obsei-vations upon the existing portion, I ever met with any 
 tiling so unostentatiously beautiful. Indisputably, the firm 
 beUevers in the Gospel have a great advantage over all 
 others, — for this simple reason, that, if true, they will 
 have their reward hereafter 5 and if there be no here- 
 after, they can be but with the infidel in his eternal sleep, 
 having had the assistance of an exalted hope, through 
 life, without subsequent disappointment, since (at the 
 worst for them) ' out of nothing, nothing can arise,' not 
 even sorrow. But a man's creed does not depend upon 
 himself: who can say, I will beUeve this, that, or the other ? 
 and, least of all, that which he least can comprehend. I 
 have, however, observed, that those who have begun life 
 with extreme faith, have in the end greatly narrowed it, as 
 Chillingworth, Clarke, (who ended as an Arian,) Bayle, 
 and Gibbon, (once a CathoUc,) and some others ; while, 
 on the other hand, nothing is more common than for the 
 early skeptic to end in a firm belief, like Maupertuis and 
 Henry Kirk White. 
 
 " But my business is to acknowledge your letter, and 
 not to make a dissertation. I am obliged to you for your 
 good wishes, and more dian obliged by the extract from 
 the papers of the beloved object whose qualities you have 
 so well described in a few words. I can assure you, that 
 all the fame which ever cheated humanity into higher no- 
 tions of its o^vn importance would never weigh m my mind 
 against the pure and pious interest which a virtuous being 
 may be pleased to take in my welfare. In this pomt of 
 view, I would not exchange the prayer of the deceased in 
 my behalf for the united glory of Homer, Caesar, and Na- 
 poleon, could such be accumulated upon a Uving head. Do 
 me at least the justice to suppose, that 
 ' Video melloraproboque,' 
 
 however the ' deteriora sequor,' may have been applied to 
 my conduct. 
 
 " I have the honour to be 
 
 "your obUged and obedient servant, 
 " Byrox. 
 
 who has so well explained, and deeply felt the doctrines of 
 rehgion, will excuse the error which led me to beheve him 
 its minister." 
 
 LETTER DXXXVIII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 Pisa, December 4, 1821. 
 
 " By extracts in the English papers, — in your holy ally, 
 Gahgnani's ' Messenger,' — I perceive that ' the two great- 
 est examples of human vanity in the present age' are 
 firstly, ' the ex-emperor Napoleon,' and, secondly,' his lord- 
 ship, &c. the noble poet,' meaning your humble servant, 
 ' poor guiltless I.' 
 
 " Poor Napoleon! he Uttle dreamed to what vile com- 
 parisons the turn of the wheel would reduce him ! 
 
 " I have got here into a famous old feudal palazzo, on 
 the Arno, large enough for a garrison, with dungeons be- 
 low and cells in the walls, and so full of ghosts that the 
 learned Fletcher (my valet) has begged leave to change 
 his room, and then refused to occupy his new room, be- 
 cause there were more ghosts there than in the other. It 
 is quite true that there are most extraordinary noises, (as 
 in all old buildings,) which have terrified the servants so 
 as to incommode me extremely. There is one place 
 where people were evidently luo^ed up, for there is but one 
 possible passage, broken through the wall, and then meant 
 to be closed again upon the irmiate. The house belonged 
 to the Lanfranchi family, (the same mentioned by Ugolino 
 in his dream, as his persecutor with Sismondi,) and has 
 had a fierce o%vner or two in its time. The staircase, &c. 
 is said to have been built by Michel Agnolo. It is not yet 
 cold enough for a fire. What a chmate ! 
 
 " I am, however, bothered about these spectres, (as they 
 say the last occupants were, too,) ofwhomlhave as yet 
 seen nothing, nor, indeed, heard (myself) ; but all the other 
 ears have been regaled by all kinds of supernatural sounds. 
 The first night I thought I heard an odd noise, but it has 
 not been repeated. I have now been here more than a 
 
 month. 
 
 'Yours, ^ic." 
 
 LETTER DXXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. JtURRAY. 
 
 "P. S. I do not know that Jam addressing a clergy- 
 man ; but I presume that you will not be affronted by the 
 (if it is one) on the address of this letter. One 
 
 "Pisa, December 10, I82I. 
 
 "This day and this hour, (one, on the clock,) my daugh- 
 ter is six years old. I wonder when I shall see her again, 
 or if ever I shall see her at all. 
 
 "I have remarked a curious coincidence,* which almost 
 looks like a fatahty. 
 
 «My mother, my idfe, my daughter^ my half-sister, my 
 sister's mother, my natural daughter, (as far at least as / 
 am concerned,) and myself, are all only children. 
 
 " My father, by his first marriage with Lady Conyers, (an 
 only child,) had only my sister ; and by his second mar- 
 riage with an only child, an only child again. Lady Byron, 
 as you know, was one also, and so is my daughter, &c. 
 
 "Is not this rather odd — such a compUcation of only 
 children? By-the-way, send me my daughter Ada's 
 miniature. I have only the print, which gives little or 
 no idea of her complexion. 
 
 "Yours, &c. 
 
 B." 
 
 LETTER DXL. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Pisa, December 12, I82L 
 What you say about Gahgnani's two biographies is 
 very amusing ; and, if I were not lazy, I would certainly 
 
 • See Memorandums, page 261. 
 
LETTERS, 1821 
 
 195 
 
 do what you desire. But I doubt my present stock of 
 facetiousness — that is, of good serious humour, so as not 
 to let the cat out of the bag.* I wish you would under- 
 take It. I will forgive and indulge you (like a pope) before- 
 hand, for any thing ludicrous, that might keep those fools 
 in their own dear belief that a man is a loup garou. 
 
 "I suppose I told you that the Giaour story had actually 
 some foundation on facts ; or, if I did not, you \vill one day 
 find it in a letter of Lord Sligo's, written to me after the 
 publication of the poem. I should not like marvels to rest 
 upon any account of my own, and shall say nothing about 
 it. However, the real incident is still remote enough from 
 the poetical one, being just such as, happening to a man 
 of any imagination, might suggest such a composition. 
 The worst of any reed adventures is that they involve 
 
 living people — else Mrs. 's 's, &c. are as ' german 
 
 to the matter' as Mr. Maturin could desire for his novels. 
 ***** 
 
 " The consummation you mentioned for poor Taafe was 
 near taking place yesterday. Riding pretty sharply after 
 Mr. Medv\Tn and myself^ in turning the corner of a lane 
 between Pisa and the hills, he was spilt, — and, besides 
 losing some claret on the spot, bruised himself a good deal, 
 but is in no danger. He was bled, and keeps his room. 
 As I was a-head of him some hundred yards, I did not see 
 the accident ; but my servant, who was behind, did, and, 
 says the horse did not fall — the usual excuse of floored 
 equestrians. As Taafe piques himself upon his horse- 
 manship, and his horse is really a pretty horse enough, I 
 long for his personal narrative, — as I never yet met the 
 man who wovld fairly claim a tumble as his own property 
 
 "Could not you send me a printed copy of the 'Irish 
 Avatar ?' — I do not know what has become of Rogers since 
 we parted at Florence. 
 
 " Do n't let the Angles keep you from writing. Sam 
 told me that you were somewhat dissipated in Paris, which 
 I can easily beUeve. Let me hear from you at your best 
 leisure. " Ever and truly, &c, 
 
 "P.S. December 13. 
 
 " I enclose you some lines, written not long ago, winch 
 you may do what you like with, as they are very harm- 
 less.f Only, if copied, or printed, or set, I could wish it 
 more correctly than in the usual way, in wliich one's 
 'nothings are monstered,' as Coriolanus says. 
 
 "You must really get Taafe published — he never will 
 rest till he is so. He is just gone mth his broken head to 
 Luccea, at my desire, to try to save a man from being 
 burnt. The Spanish * * *, that has her petticoats over 
 Lucca, had actually condemned a poor devil to the stake, 
 for stealing the wafer-box out of a church. Shelley and 
 I, of course, were up in arras against this piece of piety, 
 and have been disturbing every body to get the sentence 
 chano-ed, Taafe is gone to see what can be done. 
 ° « B." 
 
 strance, is of course out of the question ; but I do not see 
 why a temperate remonstrance should hurt any one. Lord 
 Guilford is the man, if he wou-d imdertake it. He Imows 
 the Grand Duke personally, and might, perhaps, prevail 
 upon him to inteifere. But, as he goes to-morrow, you 
 must be quick or it will be useless. Make any use of 
 my name that you please. 
 
 " Yours ever, &c," 
 
 LETTER DXLH. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 " I send you the two notes, which will tell you the story 
 I allude to of the Auto da F6. Shelley's allusion to his 
 'fellow-serpent' is a buffoonery of mine. Goethe's 
 Mephistofilus calls the serpent w^ho tempted Eve ' my 
 aunt, the reno%Tned snake ;' and I always insist that 
 Shelley is nothing but one of her nephews, walking about 
 on the tip of his tail." 
 
 To Lord Byron. 
 
 " 2 o'clock, Tuesday Mornin*. 
 "my dear lord, 
 " Although strongly persuaded that the story must be 
 either an entire fabrication, or so gross an exaggeration 
 as to be nearly so ; yet, in order to be able to discover 
 the truth beyond all dovibt, and to set your mind quite at 
 rest, I have taken the determination to go myself to Lucca 
 this morning. Should it prove less false than I am con- 
 vinced it is, I shall not fail to exert myself in every way 
 that I can imagine may have any success. Be assured 
 of tliis. " Your lordship's most truly, 
 
 «* +. 
 
 "P. S. To prevent bavardage, I prefer going in person 
 to sending my servant with a letter. It is better for you 
 to mention nothing (except, of course, to Shelley) of my 
 excursion. The person I visit there is one on whom I 
 can have every dependence in every way, both as to au- 
 thority and truth. 
 
 To Iy)rd Byron. 
 
 " Thursday Morning. 
 
 " MY DEAR LORD BYRON, 
 
 « I hear this morning that the design, which certainly 
 had been in contemplation, of burning my fellow-serpent, 
 has been abandoned, and that he has been condenmed to 
 the calleys. Lord Guilford is at Leghorn ; and as your 
 courier appHed to me to know whether he ought to leave 
 your letter for him or not, I have thought it best since this 
 information to tell him to take it back. 
 
 " Ever faithfully yours, 
 "P.B.Shelley. 
 
 LETTER DXLI. 
 
 TO MR. SHELLEY. 
 
 "December 12, 1821. 
 
 "my dear SHELLEY, 
 
 « Enclosed is a note for you from . His reasons 
 
 are all very true, I dare say, and it might and may be of 
 personal inconvenience to us. But that does not appear 
 to me to be a reason to allow a being to be burnt without 
 trying to save him. To save him by any means butreTnon- 
 
 * Mr. Galignani having expressed a wish to be furnished with a short 
 Memoir of Lord Bvron, for the purpose of prefixing it to the French 
 edition of his works, I had said jestingly in a preceding letter to his lord- 
 ship that it would be but a fair satire on the disposition of the world to 
 " bemonster his features," if he would write for the public, English as well 
 as French a sort of mock-heroic account of himself, outdoing, in horrors 
 SLnd wonders, all that had been yet related or believed of him, and leavin- 
 eyen Goethe's story of the double murder at Florence far behind. 
 
 Moore. 
 t Stanzas written on the road between Florence and Pisa, page 487, 
 
 LETTER DXLIIL 
 
 TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 "Pisa, January 12, 1822. 
 
 " MY DEAR SIR WALTER, 
 
 " I need not say how grateful I am for yotir letter, but 
 I must own my ingratitude in not having written to you 
 again long ago. Since I left England, (and it is not for 
 afl the usuaUerm of transportation,) I have scribbled to 
 five hundred blocldieads on business, &c. wdthout difficul- 
 ty, though with no great pleasure ; and yet, with the no- 
 tion of addressing you a hundred times, in my head, and 
 always in my heart, I have not done what I ought to have 
 done. I can only account for it on the same prmciple of 
 tremulous anxiety with which one sometimes makes love 
 to a beautiful woman of our own degree, with whom one 
 is enamoured in good earnest; whereas, we attack a fresh- 
 coloured housemaid without (I speak, of course, of earlier 
 
196 
 
 LETTERS, 1822. 
 
 times) any sentimental remorse or mitigation of our vir- 
 tuous purpose. 
 
 « I owe to you far more than the usual obligation for 
 the courtesies of literature and common friendship, for you 
 went out of your way in 1817 to do me a service, when it 
 requii-ed not merely kindness, but courage to do so ; to 
 have been recorded by you in such a manner would have 
 been a proud memorial at any time, but at such a time 
 when ' all the world and his wife,' as the proverb goes, 
 were trying to trample upon me, was something still higher 
 to myself-esteem, — I allude to the Q,uarterly Review of 
 the Third Canto of Childe Harold, which Murray told me 
 was written by you, — and, indeed, I should have known 
 it without his information, as there could not be two who 
 could and would have done this at the time. Had it been 
 a common criticism, however eloquent or panegyrical, I 
 should have felt pleased, imdoubtedly, and grateful, but 
 not to the extent which the extraordinary good-hearted- 
 ness of the whole proceeding must induce in any mind 
 capable of such sensations. The very tardiness of this 
 acknowledgment wnll, at least, show that I have not for- 
 gotten the obligation ; and I can assure you that my sense 
 of it has been out at compound interest during the delay. 
 I sliall only add one word upon the subject, which is, that 
 I think that you, and Jeffrey, and Leigh Hunt, were the 
 only literary men, of numbers whom I know, (and some of 
 whom I have served,) who dared venture even an anony- 
 mous word in my favour just then ; and that of those three, 
 I had never seen one at all — of the second much less than 
 I desired — and that the third was vmder no kind of obli- 
 gation to me whatever ; while the other two had been ac- 
 tually attacked by me on a former occasion ; one, indeed, 
 with some provocation, but the other wantonly enough. 
 So you see you have been heaping ' coals of fire,' &c. in 
 the true Gospel maimer, and I can assm-e you that they 
 have burnt down to my very heart. 
 
 " I am glad that you accepted the Inscription. I meant 
 to have inscribed ' the Foscarini ' to you instead ; but 
 first, I heard that 'Cain' was thought the least bad of th 
 two as a composition ; and, 2dly, I have abused Southey 
 like a pickpocket, in a note to tlie Foscarini, and I recol 
 lected that he is a friend of yours, (though not of mine,) 
 and that it would not be the handsome thing to dedicate 
 to one friend any thing containing such matters about 
 another. However, I '11 work the Laureate before I have 
 done with him, as soon as I can muster Billmgsgale there 
 for. I like a row, and always did from a boy, in tlie course 
 of which propensitv, I must needs say, that I have found 
 it the most easy of all to be gratified, personally and poeli 
 cally. You disclaim 'jealousies ;' but I would ask, as 
 Boswell did of Johnson, 'of whom could you he jealous,^ — 
 of none of the living, certainly, and (taking all and all into 
 consideration) of wliich of the dead ? I don't hke to bore 
 you about the Scotch novels, (as they call them., though 
 two of them are w^holly English, and the rest half so,) but 
 nothing can or could ever persuade me, since I was the 
 first ten minutes in your company, that you are not the 
 man. To mo those novels have so much of ' Auld lang 
 syne, (I was bred a caimy Scot till ten years old,) that I 
 never move without thera; and when I removed fro 
 Ravenna to Pisa, the other day, and sent on my library 
 before, they Avere the only books that I kept by me, al- 
 though I already have them by heart. 
 
 « January 27, 1822. 
 "I delayed till now concluding, in the hope tliat I should 
 have got ' the Pirate,' w^ho is now under way for me, but 
 has not yet hove in sight. I hear that your daughter is 
 married, and I suppose by this time you are half a grand 
 father — a young one, by-the-way. I have heard great 
 tilings of Mrs. Lockhart's persona! and mental charms, and 
 much good of her lord : that you may hve to see as many 
 novel Scotts as there are Scots' novels, is the very bad 
 punj but sincere wish of 
 
 * Yours ever most affecticaiately, &c. 
 
 "P. S. Why do n't you take a turn in Italy ? You 
 would find yourself as v/ell known and as welcome as in 
 the Highlands among the natives. As for the English, 
 you would be with them as in London ; and I need not 
 add, that I should be delighted to see you again, which is 
 far more than I shall ever feel or say for England, or (with 
 a few exceptions 'of kith, kin, and alhes') any thing tliat it 
 contains. But my 'heart warms to the tartan,' or to any 
 thing of Scotland, which reminds me of Aberdeen and 
 other parts, not so far from the Highlands * as that town, 
 about Invercauld and Braemar, where I was sent to drink 
 goat's fey in 1795-6, in consequence of a threatened de- 
 cline after the scarlet fever. But I am gossiping •, so, good 
 night — and the gods be with your dreams ! 
 
 " Pray, present my respects to Lady Scott, who may 
 perhaps recollect having seen me in town in 1815. 
 
 I see that one of your supporters (for, like Sir Hilde- 
 brand, I am fond of Gmllin) is a mermaid; it is my crest 
 too, and with precisely the same curl of tail. There 's 
 concatenation for you ! — I am building a httle cutter at 
 Genoa, to go a-cruising in the summer. I know yau Uko 
 the sea too." 
 
 LETTER DXLIV. 
 
 TO DOUGLAS KINNAIRD. 
 
 "Pisa, February, 6, 1822. 
 
 " ' Try back the deep lane,' till we find a pubhsher for 
 ' the Vision ;' and if none such is to be foimd, pi-int fifty 
 copies at my expense, distribute them among my acqtiainl- 
 ance, and you will soon see that the booksellers vnU pub- 
 lish them, even if we oppose them. That they are now 
 afraid is natural ; but I do not see that I ought to give way 
 on that account. I know nothing of Rivington's 'Remon- 
 strance' by the 'eminent Churchman;' but I suppose he 
 wants a hving. I once heard of a preacher at Kentish 
 TowTi against 'Cain.' The same outcry was raised 
 against Priesdey, Hume, Gibbon, Voltaire, and all the 
 men who dared to put tithes to the question. 
 
 * [ have got Southey's pretended reply, to which I am 
 surprised that you do not allude. What remains to be 
 done is, to call him out. The question is, would he come ? 
 for, if he would not, the whole thing would appear ridicu- 
 lous, if I were to take a long and expensive journey to no 
 purpose. 
 
 " You must be my second, and, as such, I wish to con- 
 sult you. 
 
 "I apply to you as one well versed in the duello, or 
 monomachie. Of course I shall come to England as pri- 
 vately as possible, and leave it (supposing that I was the 
 survivor) in the same manner ; having no otlier object 
 which could bring me to that country except to settle 
 quarrels accumulated during my absence. 
 
 " By the last post I transmitted to you a letter upon 
 some Rochdale toU business, from which there are moneys 
 in prospect. My agent says iiuo thousand pounds, but sup- 
 posing it to be only one, or even one hundred, still they be 
 moneys ; and I have hvedlong enough to have an exceed- 
 ing respect for the smallest current coin of any realm, or 
 the least sum, which, although I may not want it myself, 
 may do something for others who may need it more tlian I. 
 
 " They say that ' lOiowledge is Power ;' — I used to 
 thinlt so ; but I now know that they meant 'money ;' and 
 when Socrates declared, ' that all he knew was, that he 
 knew nothing,' he merely intended to declare, that he had 
 not a drachm in the Athenian world, 
 
 " The circulars are arrived, and circulating like the vor- 
 tices (or vortexes) of Descartes. Still I have a due care 
 of the needful, and keep a look out a-head, as my notions 
 upon the score of moneys coincide with yours, and with 
 all men's who have lived to see that every guinea is a 
 philosopher's stone, or at least his touch-sione. You will 
 
 ' Sm Note to " The Island. 
 
LETTERS, 
 
 1822. 
 
 197 
 
 doubt me the less, when I pronounce my firm belief, that 
 Cash is Virtue. 
 
 " I caimot reproach myself wdth much expenditure : my 
 only extra expense (and it is more than I have spent upon 
 myself) being a loan of two hundred and fifty pounds to 
 Hunt: and fifty pounds' worth of furniture which I have 
 bought for him ; and a boat which I am building for myself 
 at Genoa, which ^\ill cost about a himdred pounds more. 
 
 " But to return. I am determined to have all the mo- 
 neys I can, whether by my os\Ta funds, or succession, or 
 lawsuit, or MSS., or any lawful means whatever. 
 
 "I will pay (though with the sincerest reluctance) my 
 remaining creditors, and every man of law, by instalments 
 from the award of the arbitrators. 
 
 "I recommend to you the notice in Mr. Hanson's letter, 
 on the demand of moneys for the Rochdale tolls. 
 
 " Above all, I recommend my interests to your honoura- 
 ble worship. 
 
 "Recollect, too, that I expect some moneys for the 
 various MSS., (no matter what;) and, in short, 'Rem, 
 quocunque modo, Rem!' — the noble feeling of cupidity 
 grows upon us with our years. 
 
 " Yours ever, fee." 
 
 LETTER DXLV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Pisa,Feb. 8, 1822. 
 " Attaclcs upon me were to be expected, but I perceive 
 one upon you in the papers, which I confess that I did not 
 expect. How, or in what manner,3/ou can be considered 
 resposible for what / pubUsh, I am at a loss to conceive. 
 
 "If 'Cain" be ' blasphemous,' Paradise Lost is blasphe- 
 mous ; and the very words of the Oxford gendeman, ' Evil, 
 be thou my good,' are from that very poem, from the 
 mouth of Satan ; and is there any tiling more in that of 
 Lucifer in the Mystery? Cain is nothing more than a 
 Irama, not a piece of argument. If Lucifer and Cain 
 ipeak as tlie first murderer and the first rebel may be 
 supposed to speak, surely all the rest of the personages 
 talk also accordins to their characters — and the stronger 
 passions have ever been permitted to the drama. 
 
 " I have even avoided introducing the Deity as in Scrip- 
 ture, (though Milton does, and not very wisely either,") 
 but have adopted his angel as sent to Cain instead, on 
 purpose to avoid shocking any feelings on the subject by 
 falling short of what all uninspired men must fall short in, 
 viz. givins an adequate notion of the effect of the presence 
 of Jehovah. The old Mysteries mtroduced him hberaUy 
 enough, and all this is avoided in the new one. 
 
 " The attempt to buUy you, because they think it won't 
 succeed with me, seems to me as atrocious an attempt as 
 ever disgraced the times . What ! when Gibbon's, Hume's, 
 Priestley's, and Drummond's pubUshers have been allowed 
 to rest in peace for seventy years, are you to be singled 
 jut for a work o^ fiction, not of history or argument? 
 There must be something at the bottom of this — some 
 /jrivate enemy of your own: it is otherwise mcredible. 
 
 "I can only say, 'Me, me; en adsum qui feci;' — that 
 any proceedings directed against you, I beg, may be trans- 
 ferred to me, who am willing, and ougJU, to endure them 
 all ; that if you have lost money by the publication, I wtU 
 refund any or all of the copyright ; that I desire you will 
 say that both you and Mr. G{ffbrd remonstrated against 
 the publication, as also Mr. Hobhouse ; that / alone oc- 
 casioned it, and I alone am the person who, either legally 
 or otherwise, should bear the burden. If they prosecute, 
 I will come to England — that is, ]£, by meeting it in my 
 own person, I can save yours. Let me know. You sha' n't 
 suffer for me, if I can help it. Make any use of this letter 
 you please. " Yours ever, &c." 
 
 "P. S. I write to you about all this row of bad passions 
 and absurdities, with the summer moon (for here our win- 
 
 ter is clearer than your dog-days) lightmg llie winding 
 Amo, with aU her buildings and bridges, — so quiet and 
 still ! — What nothings are we before the least of these 
 stars!" 
 
 LETTER DXLVL 
 
 TO MR, MOORE. 
 
 «Pisa,Feb. 19, 1822. 
 
 " I am rather surprised not to have had an answer to 
 my letter and packets. Lady Noel is dead, and it is not 
 imjjossible that I may have to go to England to settle the 
 division of the Wentwordi property, and what portion 
 Lady B. is to have out of it ; all which was left undecided 
 by the articles of separation. But I hope not, if it can be 
 done without, — and I have written to Sir Francis Burdett 
 to be my referee, as he knows the property. 
 
 " Continue to address here, as I shall not go if I can 
 avoid it — at least, not on that account. But I may on 
 another ; for I wrote to Douglas Eannaird to convey a 
 message of invitation to Mr. Southey to meet me, either 
 in England, or (as less liable to interruption) on the coast 
 of France. This was about a fortnight ago, and I have 
 not yet had time to have the answer. However, you shall 
 have due notice ; therefore continue to address to Pisa. 
 
 " My agents and trustees have written to me to desire 
 that I would take the name directly, so that I am yours 
 very truly and affectionately, 
 
 "Noel Bvron. 
 
 "P. S. I have had no news fi-om England except on 
 business; and merely know, from some abuse in that 
 faithful ex and (Ze-tractor, Gahgnani, that the clergy are 
 up against ' Cain.' There is (if I am not mistaken) some 
 good church preferment on the Wentworth estates ; and 
 I will show them v. hat a good Christian I am by patronis- 
 mg and preferring the most pious of their order, should 
 opportunity occur. 
 
 "M. and I are but little m correspondence, and I know 
 nothing of hterary matters at present. I have been ^vri- 
 ting on business only lately. What are you about ? Be 
 assured that there is no such coalition as you apprehend." 
 
 LETTER DXLVn. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE, 
 
 «Pisa,Feb.20, 1822.* 
 
 " Your letter arrived smce I wrote the enclosed. It is 
 not hliely, as I have appointed agents and arbitrators for 
 the Noel estates, that I should proceed to England on 
 that account, — though I may upon another, witliin stated. 
 At any rate, continue you to address here till you hear 
 further from nae. I could wish you still to arrange for me, 
 either with a London or Paris publisher, for the things, 
 &c. I shall not quarrel with any arrangement you may 
 please to make. 
 
 " I have appointed Sir Francis Burdett my arbitrator 
 to decide on Lady Byron's allowance out of the Noel 
 estates, which are estimated at seven thousand a-year, 
 and reiits very well paid, — a rare thing at this time. It 
 is, however, owing to their consisting chiefly in pasture 
 lands, and therefore less affected by corn bills, &c. than 
 properties in tillage. 
 
 " Believe me yours ever most affectionately, 
 "Noel Byrox. 
 
 " Between my o^vn property in the funds, and my wife's 
 in land, I do not know which side to cry out on in poUtics. 
 
 " There is nothing against the immortality of the soul 
 in 'Cain' that I recollect. I hold no such opinions;— 
 but, in a drama, the first rebel and the first murderer must 
 be made to talk according to their characters. However, 
 
 • The precediug letter came eoclosed in ihig. 
 
198 
 
 LETTERS, 1822. 
 
 the parsons are all preaching at it, from Kentish Town 
 and Oxford to Pisa ; — the scoundrels of priests, who do 
 more harm to religion than all the infidels that ever forgot 
 their catechism ! 
 
 "I have not seen Lady Noel's death announced in 
 Galiiinani.— How is that?" 
 
 LETTER DXLVIIL 
 
 TO MR MOORE. 
 
 "Pisa, Feb. 28, 1822. 
 
 " I begin to think that the packet (a heavy one) of five 
 acts of ' Werner,' &c. can hardly have reached you, for 
 your letter of last week (which I answered) did not al- 
 lude to it, and yet I ensured it at the postoffice here. 
 
 '•'I have no direct news from England, except on the 
 Noel business, which is proceeding quietly, as I have ap- 
 pointed a gentleman (Sir F. Burdett) for my arbitrator. 
 Thev, too, have said that they will recall the lawyer whom 
 they had chosen, and will name a gentleman too. This 
 is better, as the aiTangement of the estates and of Lady 
 B.'s allowance will thus be settled without quibbling. 
 My lawyers are taking out a license for the name and 
 arms, which it seems T am to endue. 
 
 "By another, and indirect quarter, I hear that 'Cain 
 has been pirated, and that the Chancellor has refused to 
 give Murray any redress. Also, that G. R ,* {your friend 
 'Ben,') has expressed great personal indignation at the 
 said poem. All this is curious enough, I think, — after 
 allowing Priestly, Hume, and Gibbon, and Bolingbroke 
 and Voltaire to be published, without depriving the book- 
 sellers of their rights. I heard from Rome a day or two 
 ago, and, with what truth I know not, that * * * . 
 
 « Yours, &c. 
 
 LETTER DXLIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Pisa, March 1,1822 
 "As I still have no news of my ' Werner,' &c. packet, 
 sent to you on the 29th of Januar}', I continue to bore you, 
 (for the fifth time, I believe,) to know whether it has not 
 miscarried. As it was fairly copied out, it will be vex- 
 atious if it be lost. Indeed, I ensured it at the postoffice 
 to make them take more care, and directed it regularly to 
 you at Paris. 
 
 " In the impartial Galignani I perceive an extract from 
 Blaclcvvood's Magazine, in which it is said that there are 
 people who have discovered that you and I are no poets. 
 With regard to one of us, I know that this northwest 
 passage to my magnetic pole had been long discovered 
 by some sages, and I leave them the full benefit of their 
 penetration. I think, as Gibbon says of his History, ' that, 
 perhaps, a hundred years hence it may still continue to be 
 abused.' However, I am far from pretending to compete 
 or compare with that illustrious literary character. 
 
 " But, with regard to you, I thought that you had al- 
 ways been allowed to be a poet, even by the stupid as 
 well as the envious — a bad one, to be sure — immoral, 
 florid, Asiatic, and diabolically popular, — but still always 
 a poet, nem. con. This discovery, therefore, has to me all 
 the grace of novelty, as well as of consolation (according 
 to Rochefoucault) to find myself no-poetized in such good 
 company. I am content to 'err with Plato ;' and can 
 assure you very sincerely, that I would rather be received 
 a no7i-poet with you, than be crowned with all the bays 
 of (the ye^uncrowned) Lakers in their society. I believe 
 you think better of those worthies than I do. I know 
 them ***** 
 
 "As for Southey, the answer to my proposition of a 
 
 'The King. 
 
 meeting is not yet come. I sent the message, with a 
 short note, to him through Douglas Kinnaird, and Dou- 
 glas's response is not arrived. If he accepts, I shall 
 have to go to England ; but if not, I do not think the Noel 
 affairs will take me there, as the arbitrators can settle 
 them without my presence, and there do not seem to be 
 any difficulties. The license for the new name and ar- 
 morial bearings will be taken out by the regular applica- 
 tion, in such cases, to the Crown, and sent to me. 
 
 "Is there a hope of seeing you in Italy again ever? 
 What are you doing ? — horred by me, I know ; but I have 
 explained why before. I have no correspondence now 
 with London, except through relations and lawyers and 
 one or two friends. My greatest friend, Lord Clare, is 
 at Rome : we met on the road, and our meeting was quite 
 sentimental — really pathetic on both sides. I have al- 
 ways loved him better than any male thing m the world." 
 
 The preceding was enclosed in that which follows. 
 
 LETTER DL. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Pisa, March 4, 1822. 
 " Since I wrote the enclosed, I have waited another 
 post, and now have your answ^er acknowledging the arrival 
 of the packet — a troublesome one, I fear, to you in more 
 ways than one, both from weight external and internal. 
 
 " The unpublished things in your hands, in Douglas 
 K.'s, and Mr. John Murray's, are, ' Heaven and Earth, a 
 Ivrical kind of Drama upon the Deluge, &c. ;' — 'Werner,' 
 now with you ; — a translation of the first Canto of the 
 Morgante Maggiore ; — ditto of an Episode in Dante ; — 
 some stanzas to the Po, June 1st, 1819 ; — Hints from 
 Horace, written in 1811, but a good deal, since, to be 
 omitted ; — several prose things, which may, perhaps, as 
 well remain unpublished ; — ' The Vision, &c. of Q,uevedo 
 Redivivus' in verse. 
 
 "Here you see is 'more matter for a May morning;' 
 but how much of this can be published is for considera- 
 tion. The Q,uevedo (one of ray best in that line) has 
 appalled the Row already, and must take its chance at 
 Paris, if at all. The new Mystery is less speculative 
 than ' Cain,' and very pious ; besides, it is chiefly lyrical. 
 The Morgante is the best translation that ever was or 
 will be made ; and the rest are — whatever you please 
 to think them. 
 
 " I am sorry you think Werner even approaching to any 
 fitness for the stage, which, with my notions upon it, is 
 very far from my present object. With regard to the 
 publication, 1 have already explained that I have no exor- 
 bitant expectations of either fame or profit in the present 
 instances ; but wish them pubhshed because they are 
 written ; which is the common feeling of all scribblers. 
 
 " With respect to ' ReUgion,' can I never convince you 
 that / have no such opinions as the characters in that 
 drama, which seems to have frightened everybody ? Yet 
 they are nothing to the expressions in Goethe's Faust, 
 (which are ten times hardier,) and not a whit more bold 
 than those of Milton's Satan. My ideas of a character 
 may run away wdth me : like all imaginative men, I, of 
 course, imbody myself with the character while I draw 
 it, but not a moment after the pen is from off the paper. 
 
 " I am no enemy to religion, but the contrary. As a 
 proof, I am educating my natural daughter a strict Catholic 
 in a convent of Romagna, for I think people can never 
 have enough of religion, if they are to have any. I 
 incline, myself, very much to the Catholic doctrines ; but 
 if I am to write a drama, I must make my characters 
 speak as I conceive them likely to argue. 
 
 " As to poor Shelley, who is another bugbear to you 
 and the world, he is, to my knowledge, the least selfish and 
 the mildest of men — a man who has made more sacrifices 
 of his fortune and feelings for others than any I ever heard 
 
LETTERS, 1822. 
 
 199 
 
 of. With his speculative opinions I have nothing in com- 
 mon, nor desire to have. 
 
 "The truth is, my dear Moore, you live near the stove 
 of society, where you are unavoidably influenced by its 
 heat and its vapours. I did so once — and too much — and 
 enough to give a colour to my whole future existence. As 
 my success in society was not inconsiderable, I am surely 
 not a prejudiced judge upon the subject, unless in its 
 favour ; but I think it, as now constituted,/atoi to all great 
 original undertakings of every kind. I never courted it 
 iheri^ when I was young and high in blood, and one of its 
 * curled darlings ;' and do you think I would do so now, 
 when I am hving in a clearer atmosphere ? One thing 
 only might lead me back to it, and that is, to try once more 
 if I could do any good in politics; hninot in the petty 
 poUtics I see now preying upon our miserable country. 
 
 " Do not let me be misunderstood, however. If you 
 speak your ovm opinions, they ever had, and will have, the 
 greatest weight with me. But if you merely echo the 
 monde,' (and it is difficult not to do so, being m its favour 
 and its ferment,) I can only regret that you should ever 
 repeat any thing to which I cannot pay attention. 
 
 " But I am prosing. The gods go with you, and as 
 much immortahty of all kinds as may suit your present 
 and all other existence. 
 
 « Yours, &c.'' 
 
 LETTER DLL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 « Pisa, March 6, 1822. 
 
 " The enclosed letter from Murray hath melted me ; 
 though I think it is against his own interest to wish that 
 I should continue his connexion. You may, therefore, 
 send him the packet of ' Werner,' which will save you all 
 further trouble. And pray, can you forgive me for the 
 bore and expense I have already put upon you? At 
 least, say so — for I feel ashamed of having given you so 
 much for such nonsense. 
 
 " The fact is, I cannot keep my resentments, though vio- 
 lent enough in their onset. Besides, now that all the 
 world are at Murray on my account, I neither can nor 
 ought to leave him ; unless, as I really thought, it were 
 better for Um that I should. 
 
 " I have had no other news from England, except a 
 fetter from Barry Cornwall, the bard, and my old school- 
 fellow. Though I have sickened you with letters lately, 
 believe me "Youra, &c. 
 
 "P. S. In your last letter you say, speaking of Shelley, 
 that you would almost prefer the ' damning bigot' to the 
 'annihilating infidel.' SheUey beUeves in immortahty, 
 however— but this by-the-way. Do you remember 
 Frederick the Great's answer to the remonstrance of the 
 villagers whose curate preached against the eternity of 
 hell's torments? It was thus:— 'If my faithful subjects 
 of Schrausenhaussen prefer being eternally damned, let 
 them !' 
 
 «0f the two, I should think the long sleep better than 
 the agonized vigil. But men, miserable as they are, cling 
 so to any thing like life, that they probably would prefer 
 damnation to quiet. Besides, they think themselves so 
 important in the creation, that nothing less can satisfy 
 their pride — the insects !" 
 
 peace with you, though our war was for other reasons 
 than this same controversy. I have written to Moore by 
 this post to forward to you the tragedy of ' Werner.' I 
 shall not make or propose any present bargain about it or 
 the new Mystery till we see if they succeed. If they 
 do n't sell, (which is not unlikely,) you sha' n't pay ; and I 
 suppose this is fair play, if you choose to risk it. 
 
 " Bartolini, the celebrated sculptor, wrote to me to desire 
 to talie my bust : I consented, on condition that he also 
 took that of the Countess Guiccioh. He has taken both, 
 and I think it will be allowed that hers is beautiful. I shall 
 make you a present of them both, to show that I don't 
 bear malice, and as a compensation for the trouble and 
 squabble you had about Thorwaldsen's. Of my own I 
 can hardly speak, except that it is thought very like what 
 I now am, which is different from what I was, of course, 
 since you saw me. The sculptor is a famous one; and 
 as it was done by his oivn particular request, will be done 
 well, probably. 
 
 " What is to be done about Taafe and his Commen- 
 tary ? He will die, if he is not published ; he will be 
 damned if he is ; but that he do n't mind. We must 
 pubhsh him. 
 
 " All the row about me has no otherwise affected me 
 than by the attack upon yourself, which is ungenerous in 
 Church and State : but as all violence must in time have 
 its proportionate reaction, you will do better by-and-by. 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 Noel ByRON." 
 
 LETTER DLIII. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 LETTER DLII. 
 
 I. MURRAY, 
 
 "Pisa, March 6, 1822, 
 « You will long ago have received a letter from me, (or 
 should,) declaring my opinion of the treatment you have 
 met with about the recent pubUcation. I think it dis- 
 graceful to those who have persecuted you. I make 
 
 "Pisa, March 8, 1822. 
 " You will have had enough of my letters by this time — 
 yet one word in answer to your present missive. You 
 are quite wrong in thinking that your ' advice'' had offended 
 me ; but I have already replied (if not answered) on 
 that point. 
 
 "With regard to Murray, as I really am the meekest 
 and mildest of men since Moses, (though the public and 
 mine ' excellent wife' cannot find it out,) I had aheady 
 pacified myself and subsided back to Albemarle-street, as 
 my yesterday's yepistle will have informed you. But I 
 thought that I had explained my causes of biJe — at least 
 to you. 
 
 " Some instances of vacillation, occasional neglect, and 
 troublesome sincerity, real or imagined, are sufficient to 
 put your truly great author and man into a passion. But 
 reflection, with some aid from hellebore, hath already 
 cured me ' pro tempore ;' and, if it had not, a request from 
 you and Hobhouse would have come upon me hke two 
 out of the 'tribus Anticyris,' — with which, however, 
 Horace despairs of purging a poet. I really feel ashamed 
 of having bored you so frequently and fully of late. But 
 what could I do? You are a friend — an absent one, 
 alas ! — and as I trust no one more, I trouble you in pro- 
 portion. 
 
 " This war of 'Church and State' has astonished me 
 more than it disturbs ; for I really thought « Cain' a specu- 
 lative and hardy, but still a harmless production. As I 
 said before, I am really a great admirer of tangible reU- 
 gion ; and am breeding one of my daughters a Catholic, 
 that she may have her hands full. It is by far the most 
 elegant worship, hardly excepting the Greek mythology. 
 What with mcence, pictures, statues, alUrs, shrines, reUcs, 
 and the real presence, confession, absolution, — there is 
 something sensible to grasp at. Besides, it leaves no 
 possibility of doubt ; for those who swallow their Deity, 
 really and truly, in transubstantiation, can hardly find any 
 thing else otherwise than easy of digestion. 
 
 " I am afraid that this sounds flippant, but I do n't mean 
 it to be so ; only my turn of mind is so given to taking 
 
200 
 
 LETTERS, 1822. 
 
 things in the absurd point of view, that it breaks out in 
 spite of me every now and then. Still, I do assure you 
 that I am a very good Christian. Whether you will 
 believe me in this, I do not know ; but I trust you will 
 take my word for being 
 
 " Very truly and affectionately yours, &c. 
 ••P. S. Do tell Murray that one of the conditions of 
 peace is, that he publisheth (or obtaineth a publisher for) 
 Taafe's Commentary on Dante, against which there 
 appears hi the trade an unaccountable repugnance. It 
 will make the man so exuberantly happy. He dines with 
 me and half a dozen English to-day ; and I have not the 
 heart to tell lam how ihe bibliopolar world shrink from his 
 Commentary ; — and yet it is full of the most orthodox 
 religion and morality. In short, I make it a point that he 
 shall be in print. He is such a good-natured, heavy * * 
 Christian, that we must give him a shove through the 
 press. He naturally thirsts to be an author, and has been 
 the happiest of men for these two months, printing, cor- 
 recting, collating, dating, anticipating, and adding to his 
 treasures of learnmg. Besides, he has had another fall 
 from his horse into a ditch the other day, while riding out 
 with me in to the country." 
 
 LETTER DLIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Pisa, March 15, 1822. 
 
 "1 am glad that you and your friends approve of my 
 letter of the 8th ultimo. You may give it what publicity 
 you think proper in the circumstances. I have since 
 written to you twice or thrice. 
 
 " As to ' a Poem in the old way,' I shall attempt of that 
 kind nothing further. I follow the bias of my own mind, 
 without considering whether women or men are or are not 
 to be pleased : but this is nothing to my publisher, who 
 must judge and act according to popularity. 
 
 " Therefore let the things take their chance : if they 
 pay, you will pay me in proportion ; and if they do n't, I 
 must. 
 
 " The Noel affairs,! hope, will not take me to England. 
 I have no desire to revisit that country, unless it be to 
 keep you out of a prison, (if this can be effected by my 
 taking your place,) or perhaps to get myself into one, by 
 exacting satisfaction from one or two persons who take 
 advantage of my absence to abuse me. Further than 
 this, I have no business nor connexion with England, nor 
 desire to have, oid of my ovra family and friends, to whom 
 I wish all prosperity. Indeed, I have lived upon the 
 whole so little in England, (about five years since I was 
 one-and- twenty,) that my habits are too continental, and 
 your climate would please me as little as the society. 
 
 "I saw the Chsmcellor's Report in a French paper. 
 Pray, why do n't they prosecute the translation of Lucre- 
 tius ? or the original with its 
 
 ' Primus io orbe Decs fecit Timor,' 
 ' Tantum Religio potuit Buadere malorum ?' 
 
 « You must really gel something done for Mr. Taafe's 
 Commentary ; what can I say to him ? 
 
 "Yours, ate." 
 
 LETTER DLV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Pisa,AprUl3, 1822. 
 
 "Mr. Kinnaird writes that there has been an 'excel- 
 lent Defence' of 'Cain,' against ' Oxoniensis :' you have 
 sent me nothing but a not very excellent of-fence of the 
 same poem. If there be such a 'Defender of the Faith,' 
 you may send me his thirty-nine articles, as a counter- 
 balance to some of your late conununications. 
 
 "Are you to publish, or not, what Moore and Mr. I£in- 
 
 naird have in hand, and the ' Vision of Judgment ?' if 
 you publish the latter in a very cheap edition, so as to 
 baffle the pirates by a low price, you will find that it will 
 do. The ' Mystery' I look upon as good, and ' Werner' 
 too, and I expect that you will publish them speedily. 
 You need not put your name to Quevedoy but publish it as 
 a foreign edition, and let it make its way. Douglas Kin- 
 naird has it still, with the preface, I believe. 
 
 " I refer you to him for documents on the late row here. 
 I sent them a week ago. 
 
 « Yours, fee." 
 
 LETTER DLVI. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Pisa, April 18, 1822. 
 
 "I have received the Defence of 'Cain.' Who is my 
 Warburton ? — for he has done for me what the bishop did 
 for the poet against Crousaz. His reply seems to me 
 conclusive : and if you understood your own interest, you 
 would print it together with the poem. 
 
 " It is very odd that I do not hear from you. I have 
 forwarded to Mr. Douglas Kinnaird the documents on a 
 squabble here, which occurred about a month ago. The 
 affair is still going on ; but they make nothing of it hith- 
 erto. I think, what with home and abroad, there has been 
 hot water enough for one while. Mr. Dawkins, the 
 English minister, has behaved in the handsomest and 
 most gentlemanly mamier throughout the whole business. 
 " Yours ever, &c. 
 
 "P. S. I have got Lord Glenbervie's book, wliich is 
 very amusing and able upon the topics which he touches 
 upon, and part of the preface pathetic. Write soon." 
 
 LETTER DLVII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Pisa, April 22, 1822. 
 
 " You will regret to hear that I have received intelli- 
 gence of the death of my daughter Allegra of a fever, in 
 the convent of Bagna Cavallo, where she was placed for 
 the last year, to commence her education. It is a heavy 
 blow for many reasons, but must be borne, with time. 
 
 "It is my present intention to send her remains to 
 England for sepulture in Harrow church, (where I once 
 hoped to have laid my own,) and this is my reason for 
 troubling you with this notice. I wish the funeral to be 
 very private. The body is embalmed, and in lead. It 
 will be embarked from Leghorn. Would you have any 
 objection to give the proper directions on its arrival ? 
 
 "I am yours, &c. 
 "N.B. 
 
 "P. S. You are aware that Protestants are not allowed 
 holy ground in Catholic countries." 
 
 LETTER DLVIII. 
 
 TO MR. SHELLEY. 
 
 "April 23, 1822. 
 " The blow was stunning and unexpected ; for I thought 
 the danger over, by the long interval between her stated 
 amelioration and the arrival of the express. But I have 
 borne up against it as I best can, and so far successfully, 
 that I can go about the usual business of life with the 
 same appearance of composure, and even greater. There 
 is nothing to prevent your coming to-morrow ; but, per- 
 haps, to-day, and yester-evening, it was better not to have 
 met. I do not know that I have any thing to reproach in 
 my conduct, and certainly nothing in my feelings and 
 intentions towards the dead. But it is a moment when 
 
LETTERS, 1822. 
 
 201 
 
 we are apt to think that, if this or that had been done, 
 such event might have been prevented ; though every day 
 and hoar shows us that they are the most natural and 
 inevitable. I suppose that Time will do his usual work — 
 Death has done his. 
 
 "Yours ever, 
 
 «N. B.' 
 
 LETTER DLIX. 
 
 TO SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 "Pisa, May 4, 1822. 
 
 "my dear sir WALTER, 
 
 "Your account of your family is very pleasing: would 
 that I 'could answer this comfort with the hke!' but I 
 have just lost my natural daughter, Allegra, by a fever. 
 The only consolation, save time, is the reflection, that she 
 is either at rest or happy ; for her few years (only five) 
 prevented her from having mcm-red any sin, except what 
 we inherit from Adam. 
 
 ' Whom the gods love, die young.' 
 
 " I need not say that your letters are particularly wel- 
 come, when they do not tax your time and patience ; and 
 now that our correspondence is resumed, I trust it will 
 continue. 
 
 "I have lately had some anxiety, rather than trouble 
 about an awkward affair here, which you may perhaps 
 have heard of: but our minister has behaved very hand- 
 somely, and the Tuscan Government as well as it is pos- 
 sible for such a government to behave, which is notsayincr 
 much for the latter. Some other English, and Scots, and 
 myself, had a brawl with a dragoon, who insulted one of 
 the party, and whom we mistook for an officer, as he was 
 medalled and well mounted, &c. ; but he turned out to be 
 a sergeant-major. He called out the guard at the gates 
 to arrest us, (we bemg unarmed ;) upon which I and 
 another (an Italian) rode through the said guard ; but 
 they succeeded in detaining others of the party. I rode 
 to my house, and sent my secretary to give an account of 
 the attempted and illegal arrest to the authorities, and 
 then, without dismounting, rode back towards the gates, 
 which are near my present mansion. Half way I met 
 my man, vapouring away, and threatening to draw upon 
 me, (who had a cane in my hand, and no other arms.) I, 
 still believing him an officer, demanded his name and 
 address, and gave him my hand and glove thereupon. A 
 servant of mine thrust in between us, (totally without 
 orders,) but let him go on my command. He then rode 
 off at full speed ; but about forty paces further was stab- 
 bed, and very dangerously, (so as to be in peril,) by some 
 Galium Beg or other of my people, • (for I have some 
 rough-handed folks about me,) I need hardly say without 
 my direction or approval. The said dragoon had been 
 sabring our unarmed countrymen, however, at the gate, 
 after they were in arrest, and held by the guards, and 
 wounded one, Captain Hay, very severely. However, he 
 got his paiks, having acted Uke an assassin, and being 
 treated like one. Who wounded him, though it was done 
 before thousands of people, they have never been able to 
 ascertain, or prove, nor even the weapon ; some said a 
 pistol, an air-gun, a stiletto, a sword, a lance, a pitchfork, 
 and what not. They have arrested and examined ser- 
 vants and people of all descriptions, but can make out 
 nothing. Mr. Dawldns, our minister, assures me, that no 
 suspicion is entertained of the man who wounded him 
 having been instigated by me, or any of the party. I 
 enclose you copies of the depositions of those with us, 
 and Dr. Craufurd, a canny Scot, {not an acquaintance,) 
 who saw the latter part of the affair. They are in 
 Italian. 
 
 " These are the only literary matters in which I have 
 been en^acfed since the publication and row about ' Cain ;' 
 but Mr. Murray has several things of mine in his obste- 
 
 26 
 
 trical hands. Another Mystery — a Vision — a Drama — 
 and the like. But you wonH tell me what you are doino- ; 
 however, I shall find you out, write what you will. You 
 say that I should like your son-in-law ; it would be very 
 difficult for me to dishke any one connected with you ; 
 but I have no doubt that his own qualities are all that you 
 describe. 
 
 " I am sorry you do n't like Lord Orford's new work. 
 My aristocracy, which is very fierce, make? him a favour- 
 ite of mine. Recollect that those 'Utde factions' com- 
 prised Lord Chatham and Fox, the father, and that we 
 Uve in gigantic and exaggerated times, which make all 
 under Gog and Magog appear pigmean. After having 
 seen Napoleon begin like Tamerlane and end like Bajazet 
 in our own time, v>'e have not the same interest in what 
 would otherwise have appeared important history. But 
 I mustconclu.de. 
 
 "Believe me ever and most truly yours, 
 
 "Noel Byron." 
 
 LETTER DLX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Pisa,May, 17, 1822. 
 
 "I hear that the Edinburgh has attacked the three 
 dramas, which is a bad business for you; and I don't 
 wonder that it discourages you. Hovv-ever, that volume 
 may be trusted to iltme,— depend upon it. I read it over 
 whh some attention since it was published, and I think 
 the time will come when it will be preferred to my other 
 ^vri1ings, though not immediately. I say this without irri- 
 tation against the critics or criticism, whatever they may 
 be, (for I have not seen them ;) and nothmg that has or 
 may appear in Jeffrey's Review can make me forget that 
 he stood by me for ten good years without any motive to 
 do so but his own good-will. 
 
 " I hear Moore is in town ; remember me to him, and 
 believe me « Yours truly, 
 
 «N. B. 
 
 "P. S. If you think it necessary, you may send me the 
 Edinburgh. Should there be any tiling that requires an 
 answer, I will reply, but tempei-ately and technically ; that 
 is to say, merely with respect to the principles of the criti- 
 cism, and not personally or offensively as to its literary 
 merits." 
 
 LETTER DLXI. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Pisa, May 17,1822. 
 
 "I hear you are hi London. You will have heard from 
 Douglas Kinnaird (who tells me you have dined with 
 him) as much as you desire to know of my affairs at home 
 and abroad. I have lately lost my little girl Allegra by 
 a fever, which has been a serious blow to me. 
 
 " I did not write to you lately, (except one letter lo 
 Murray's,) not knowing exactly your 'whereabouts. 
 Douglas K. refused to forward my message to Mr. 
 Southey — why, he himself can explain. 
 
 " You will have seen the statement of a squabble, &c. 
 &c.* What are you about ? Let me hear from you at 
 your leisure, and believe me ever yours, 
 
 «N. B." 
 
 « The body 
 
 LETTER DLXIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 «Montenero,f May 26, 1822. 
 " Near Leghorn, 
 embarked, in what ship I know not, nei- 
 
 * Here follows a repetition of the details given on this subject to Sir 
 Walter Scott and others. 
 
 t A hill, three or four miles from Leghor 
 of residence during the summer months. 
 
 much resorted to as a place 
 
202 
 
 LET TERS,1822. 
 
 ther could I enler into the details; but the Countess G. 
 G. has had the goodness to give the necessary orders to 
 Mr. Dunn, who superintends the embarkation, and will 
 »vrite to you. I wish it to be buried in Harrow church. 
 
 " There is a spot in the churchyard, near the foot path, 
 on the brow of the hill looking towards Windsor, and a 
 tomb under a large tree, (bearing the name of Peachie, 
 or Peachey,) where I used to sit for hours and hours 
 when a boy. This was my favourite spot ; but as I wish 
 to erect a tablet to her memory, the body had better be 
 deposited in the church. Near the door, on the left hand 
 as you enter, there is a monument with a tablet contain- 
 ing these words : — 
 
 ' When Sorrow weeps o'er Virtue's sacred dust, 
 Our tears bocome us, and our grief is just : 
 Such were the tears she shed, who grateful pays 
 This last sad tribute of her love and praise.' 
 
 I recollect them, (after seventeen years,) not from any 
 thing remarkable in them, but because from my seat in 
 the gallery I had generally my eyes turned towards that 
 monument. As near it as convenient I could wish AUe- 
 gra to be buried, and on the wall a marble tablet placed, 
 with these words : — 
 
 " In Memory of 
 
 Allegra, 
 
 Daughter of G. G. Lord BjTon, 
 
 who died at Bagna Cavallo, 
 
 in Italy, April 20th, 1822, 
 
 aged five years and three months. 
 
 ' I shall go to her, but she shall not return tome.' 
 
 2d Samuel, xii. 23. 
 
 " The funeral I wish to be as private as is consistent 
 with decency ; and I could hope that Henry Drury will, 
 perhaps, read the service over her. If he should decline 
 it, it can be done by the usual minister for the time being. 
 I do not know that I need add more just now. 
 
 " Since I came here, I have been invited by the Ameri- 
 cans on board their squadron, where I was received with 
 all the kindness which I could wish, and with more cere- 
 mony than I am fond of. I found them finer ships than 
 your own of the same class, well manned and officered. 
 A number of American gentlemen also were on board at 
 tlie time, and some ladies. As I was taking leave, an 
 American lady asked me for a rose which I wore, for the 
 purpose, she said, of sending to America something which 
 I had about me, as a memorial. I need not add tliat I 
 felt the compliment properly. Captain Chauncey showed 
 me an American and very pretty edition of my poems, 
 and offered me a passage to the United States, if I would 
 go there. Commodore Jones was also not less kind and 
 attentive. I have since received the enclosed letter, de- 
 siring me to sit for my picture for some Americans. It 
 is singular that, in the same year that Lady Noel leaves 
 by will an interdiction for my daughter to see her father's 
 portrait for many years, the individuals of a nation not 
 remarkable for their liking to the Enghsh in particular, 
 nor for flattermg men in general, request me to sit for my 
 * pourtraicture,' as Baron Bradwardine calls it. I am 
 also told of considerable literary honours in Germany. 
 Goethe, I am told, is my professed patron and protector. 
 At Leipsic, this year, the highest prize was proposed for 
 a translation of two cantos of Childe Harold. I am not 
 sure that this was at Leipsic, but Mr. Rowcroft was my 
 authority — a good German scholar, (a young American,) 
 and an acquaintance of Goethe's. 
 
 "Goethe and the Germans are particularly fond of 
 Don Juan, which they judge of as a work of art. I had 
 heard something of this before through Baron Lutzerode. 
 The translations have been very frequent of several of 
 the works, and Goethe made a comparison between 
 Faust and Manfred. 
 
 " All this is some compensation for your English native 
 brutality, so fu lly displayed this year to its highest extent. 
 
 " I forgot to mention a little anecdote of a different kind. 
 
 I went over the Constitution, (the Commodore's flag-ship,) 
 and saw, among other things worthy of remark, a little 
 boy bom on board of her by a sailor's wife. They had 
 christened him ' Constitution Jones.' I, of course, ap- 
 proved the name ; and the woman added, ' Ah, sir, if he 
 turns out but half as good as his name !' 
 
 "Yours ever, fee." 
 
 LETTER DLXIII. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Montenero, near Leghorn, May 29, 1822. 
 
 " I return you the proofs* revised. Your printer has 
 made one odd mistake : — ' poor as a mouse, instead of 
 * poor as a miser.'' The expression may seem strange, 
 but it is only a translation of ' semper avarus eget.' You 
 will add the Mystery, and publish as soon as you can. 
 I care nothing for your ' season,' nor the blue approbations 
 or disapprobations. All that is to be considered by you 
 on the subject is as a matter of business ; and if I square 
 that to your notions, (even to the running the risk entirely 
 myself,) you may permit me to choose my own time and 
 mode of publication. With regard to the late volume, 
 the present run against it or me may impede it for a time, 
 but it has the vital principle of permanency within it, as 
 you may perhaps one day discover. I wrote to you on 
 another subject a few days ago, "Yours, 
 
 "N. B. 
 
 "P. S. Please to send me the Dedication of Sardana- 
 palus to Goethe. I shall prefix it to Werner, unless you 
 prefer my putting another, stating that the former had 
 been omitted by the pubhsher. 
 
 " On the titlepage of the present volume, put ' Published 
 for the Author by J. M.'" 
 
 LETTER DLXIV. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAV. 
 
 " Montenero, Leghorn, June 6, 1822. 
 
 " I return you the revise of Werner, and expect the rest. 
 With regard to the Lines to the Po, perhaps you had 
 better put them quietly in a second edition (if you reach 
 one, that is to say) than in the first ; because, though they 
 have been reckoned fine, and I wish them to be preserved, 
 I do not wish them to attract immediate observation, 
 on account of the relationship of the lady to whom tliey 
 are addressed with the first families in Romagna and the 
 Marches. 
 
 "The defender of 'Cain' may or may not be, as you 
 term him, 'a tyro in literature :' however, I think both you 
 and I are under great obligation to him. I have read the 
 Edinburgh Review in Galignani's Magazine, and have 
 not yet decided whether to answer them or not; for, if I 
 do, it will be difiicult for me not 'to make sport for the 
 Phihstines' by pulling down a house or two; since, when 
 I once take pen in hand, I must say what comes upper- 
 most, or fling it away. I have not the hypocrisy to pre- 
 tend impartiality, nor the temper (as it is called) to keep 
 always from saying what may not be pleasing to the 
 hearer or reader. What do they mean by ' elabaraie ?' 
 Why, you know that they were written as fast as I could 
 put pen to paper, and printed from the original MSS., 
 and never revised but in tlie proofs : look at the dates and 
 the MSS. themselves. Whatever faults they have must 
 spring from carelessness, and not from labour. They said 
 the same of 'Lara,' which I wrote while undressing, after 
 coming home from balls and masquerades in the year of 
 revelry, 1814. "Yours. 
 
 "June 8, 1822. 
 " You give me no explanation of your intention as to the 
 
LETTERS, 1822. 
 
 203 
 
 I Vision of Quevedo Redivivus,' one of my best things : 
 indeed, you are altogether so abstruse and undecided 
 lately, that I suppose you mean me to write ' John Mur- 
 ray, Esq. a Mystery,' — a composition which would not 
 displease the clergy nor the trade. I by no means wish 
 you to do what you do n't hke, but merely to say what you 
 will do. The Vision must be pubUshed by some one. 
 As to « clamours,' the die is cast^ and, 'come one, come 
 all,' we will fight it out — at least one of us." 
 
 LETTER DLXV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Montenero, ViUa Dupoy, near Leghorn, 
 
 "Junes, 1822. 
 
 " I have written to you tmce through the medium of 
 Murray, and on one subject, trite enough, — the loss of 
 poor httle AUegra by a fever ; on which topic I shall say 
 no more — there is nothing but time. 
 
 " A few days ago, my earliest and dearest friend. Lord 
 Clare, came over from Geneva on purpose to see me be- 
 fore he returned to England. As I have always loved 
 him (since I was thirteen, at Harrow) belter than any 
 {male) thing in the world, I need hardly say what a me- 
 lancholy pleasure it was to see him for a day only ; for 
 he was obhged to resume his journey immediately. * 
 + * + + + * 
 
 I have heard, also, many other things of our acquaintances 
 v/hich I did not know ; among others, that * * 
 
 * * *. Do you recollect, in the year 
 
 of revelry, 1814, the pleasantest parties and balls all over 
 London ? and not the least so at * * 's. Do you recol- 
 lect your singing duets with Lady * *, and my flirtation 
 with Lady * *, and all the other fooleries of the time? 
 while * * was sighing, and Lady * * ogling him with 
 her clear hazel eyes. But eight years have passed, and 
 
 since that time, * * has * + + + **; has run 
 
 away with ** + **• and mysen (as my Nottingham- 
 shire friends call themselves) might as well have thrown 
 myself out of the window while you w^ere singing, as in- 
 lermarried where I did. You and ***** have come 
 off the best of us. I speak merely of my marriage, and 
 its consequences, distresses, and calumnies ; for I have 
 been much more happy, on the whole, since, than I ever 
 could have been with * * * * *. 
 
 I have read the recent article of Jeffrey in a faithful 
 transcription of the impartial Gahgnani. I suppose the 
 long and short of it is, that he wishes to provoke me to 
 reply. But I won't, for I owe him a good turn still for 
 his kindness by-gone. Indeed,! presume that the present 
 jpportunity of attacking me again was irresistable ; and I 
 can't blame him, knowing what human nature is. I shall 
 make but one remark : — what does he mean by elaborate ? 
 The whole volume was written with the greatest rapidity, 
 in the midst of evolutions and revolutions, and perse- 
 cutions, and proscriptions of all who interested me in 
 Italy. They said the same of ' Lara,' which, you know, 
 was written amid balls and fooleries, and after coming 
 home from masquerades and routs, in the summer of the 
 sovereigns. Of all I have ever written, they are perhaps 
 the most carelessly composed ; and their faults, whatever 
 they may be, are those of negligence, and not of labour. 
 \ do not think this a merit, but it is a fact. 
 
 " Yours ever and truly, 
 
 «N.B. 
 
 " P. S. You see the great advantage of my new signa- 
 ture: — it may either stand for 'Nota Bene' or 'Noel 
 Byron,' and, as such, will save much repetition, in writing 
 either books or letters. Since I came here, I have been 
 invited on board of the American squadron, and treated 
 with all possible honour and ceremony. They have asked 
 me to sit for my picture ; and, as I was going away. 
 
 an American lady took a rose from me, (which had been 
 given to me by a very pretty Italian lady that very morn- 
 ing,) because she said, ' She was determined to send or 
 take something which I had about me to America.' There 
 is a kind of Lalla Rookh incident for you ! However, all 
 these American honours arise, perhaps, not so much from 
 their enthusiasm for my 'Poeshie,' as their belief in my 
 dislike to the English, — in which I have the satisfaction 
 to coincide with them. I would rather, however, have a 
 nod from an American, than a snufF-box from an em- 
 peror." 
 
 LETTER DLXVI. 
 
 TO MR. ELLICE. 
 
 "Montenero, Leghorn, June 12, 1822. 
 
 " MY DEAR ELLICE, 
 
 "It is a long time since 1 have written to you, but I 
 have not forgotten your kindness, and I am now going to 
 tax it — I hope not too highly — but do nH be alarmed, it is 
 not a loan, but information which I am about to solicit. 
 By your extensive connexions, no one can have better 
 opportunities of hearing the real state of South America — 
 I mean Bolivar's country. I have many years had trans- 
 atlantic projects of settlement, and what 1 could wish 
 from you would be some information of the best course to 
 pursue, and some letters of recommendation in case I 
 should sail for Angostura. I am told that land is very 
 cheap there \ but though 1 have no great disposable funds to 
 vest in such purchases, yet my income, such as it is, would 
 be sufficient in any country, (except England,) for all the 
 comforts of life, and for most of its luxuries. The war 
 there is now over, and as 1 do not go there to speculate, 
 but to settle without any views but those of independence 
 and the enjoyment of the common civil rights, I should 
 presume such an arrival would not be unwelcome. 
 
 " All I request of you is, not to (discourage nor encou- 
 rage, but to give me such a statement as }ou think prudent 
 and proper. I do not address my other friends upon this 
 subject, who would only throw obstacles in my way, and 
 bore me to return to England ; which I never will do, 
 unless compelled by some insuperable cause. I have 
 a quantity of furniture, books, &c. &c. &c. which I could 
 easily ship from Leghorn; but I wish to 'look before I 
 leap' over the Atlantic. Is it true that for a few thousand 
 dollars a large tract of land may be obtained? I speak 
 of South America, recollect. I have read some publica- 
 tions on the subject, but they seemed violent and vulgar 
 party productions. Please to address your answer to me 
 at this place, and believe me ever and truly yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER DLXVIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 ''Pisa,July 6, 1822. 
 "I return you the revise.* I have softened the part 
 to which Gifford objected, and changed the name of 
 Michael to Raphael, who was an angel of gentler sym- 
 pathies. By-the-way, recollect to alter Michael to Ra- 
 phael in the scene itself throughout, for I have only had 
 time to do so in the list of the dramatis personae, and scratch 
 out all the pencil-marks, to avoid puzzling the printers. 
 I have given the ' Vision of Quevedo Redivivus^ to John 
 Hunt, which will reheve you from a dilenmia. He must 
 publish it at his own risk, as it is at his own desire. Give 
 him the corrected copy which Mr. Kinnaird had, as it is 
 mitigated partly, and also the preface. 
 
 « Yours, &c." 
 
 Of " Heaven and Earth.' 
 
204 
 
 LETTERS, 1822. 
 
 LETTER DLXVIIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 "Pisa, Julys, 1822. 
 
 "Last week I returned you the packet of proofs. You 
 had perhaps, better not pubhsh in the sanie volume the 
 Po and Rimini translation. 
 
 « I have consigned a letter to Mr. John Hunt for the 
 'Vision of Judgment,' which you v^ill hand over to him. 
 Also the ' Puici,' original and ilalian, and any prose tracts 
 of mine ; for JNlr. Leigh Hunt is arrived here, and thinks 
 of commencing a periodical work, to which I shall con- 
 tribute. 1 do not propose to you to be the publisher, 
 because I know that you are unfriends ; but all things in 
 your care, except the volume now in the press, and the 
 manuscript purchased of Mr. Moore, can be given for 
 this purpose, according as they are wanted. 
 
 "With regard to what you say about your ' want of 
 memorv,' I can only remark that you inserted the note to 
 Marino Faliero against my positive revocation, and that 
 you omitted the Dedication of Sardanapalus to Goethe, 
 (place it before the volume now in the press,) both of 
 which were things not very agreeable to me, and which I 
 could wish to be avoided in future, as they might be with 
 a very little care, or a simple memorandimi ui your pocket 
 book. 
 
 "It is not impossible that I may have three or four 
 cantos of Don Juan ready by autumn, or a little later, as 
 I obtained a permission from my dictatress to continue 
 it,— provided always it was to be more guarded and deco- 
 rous and sentimental in the continuation than in the com- 
 mencement. How far these conditions have been fulfilled 
 may be seen, perhaps, by-and-by ; but the embargo was 
 only taken off upon these stipulations- You can answer 
 at your leisure, " Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER DLXIX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Pisa, July 12, 1822 
 
 " I have written to you lately, but not in answer to your 
 last letter of about a fortnight ago. 1 wish to know (and 
 request an answer to that point) what became of the 
 stanzas to Wellington,* (intended to open a canto of Don 
 Juan with,) which I sent you several months ago. If 
 they have fallen into Murray's hands, he and the Tories 
 will suppress them, as those lines rate diat hero at his real 
 value. Pray be exphcit on this, as I have no other copy, 
 having sent you the original ; and if you have them, let 
 me have that again, or a copy correct, * * + 
 
 "I subscribed at Leghorn two hundred Tuscan crowns 
 to your Irishism committee : it is about a thousand francs, 
 more or less. As Sir C. S.. who receives thirteen thou- 
 sand a-year of the public money, could not afford more 
 than a thousand livres out of his enormous salary, it would 
 have appeared ostentatious in a private individual to pre- 
 tend to surpass him ; and therefore I have sent but the 
 above sum, as you will see by the enclosed receipt, 
 
 " Leigh Hunt is here, after a voyage of eight months, 
 during which he has, I presume, made the Periplus of 
 Hanno the Carthaginian, and with liiuch the same speed. 
 He is setting up a Journal, to which I have promised to 
 contribute ; and in the first number the ' Vision of Judg- 
 ment, by Ctuevedo Redivivus,' will probably appear, with 
 other articles. 
 
 "Can you give us any thing? He seems sanguine 
 about the matter, but (entre nous) I am not. I do not, 
 however, like to put him out of spirits by saying so ; for 
 he is bilious and unwell. Do, pray, answer this letter 
 immediately. 
 
 " Do send Hunt any thing, in prose or verse, of yours, 
 
 Canto IX. S;anza 1. 
 
 to Start him handsomely — any lyrical, tWcal, or what you 
 please, 
 
 "Has not your Potato Committee been blundering ? 
 Your advertisement says, that Mr. L. Callaghan (a queer 
 name for a banker) hadi been disposing of money in 
 Ireland 'sans authority of the Committee.' I suppose it 
 will end in Callaghan's calling out the Committee, the 
 chairman of which carries pistols in his pocket, of course. 
 
 " When you can spare time from duetting, coquetting 
 and claretinc; w ith your Hibernians of both sexes, let me 
 have a line from you. 1 doubt whether Paris is a good 
 place for the composition of your new poesy." 
 
 LETTER DLXX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 « Pisa, August 8, 1822. 
 
 " You will have heard by this time that Shelley and 
 another gendeman (Captain Williams) were drowned 
 about a month ago, (a month yesterday,) in a squall off 
 the Gulf of Spezia. There is thus another man gone, 
 about whom the world was ill-naturedly, and ignorantly, 
 and brutally mistaken. It will, perhaps, do him justice 
 noit), when he can be no better for it. ' You were all 
 mist alien about Shelley, who was, without exception, the 
 best and least selfish man I ever knew.' 
 
 "I have not seen the thing you mention,* and only 
 heard of it casually, nor have 1 any desire. The price 
 is, as I saw in some advertisements, fourteen shillings, 
 which is too much to pay for a libel on one's self. Some 
 one said in a letter, that it was a Doctor Watkins, who 
 deals in the life and libel line. It must have dimished your 
 natural pleasure, as a friend, (vide Rochefoucault,) to see 
 yourself in it. 
 
 " With regard to the Blackwood fellows, I never pub- 
 lished any thing against them; nor, indeed, have seen 
 their Magazine (except in Galignani's extracts) for these 
 three years past, I once wrote, a good while ago, some 
 remarksf on their review of Don Juan, but saying very 
 little about themselves, — and these were not published. 
 If you think that I ought to follow your example| (and I 
 like to be in your company when I can) in contradicting 
 their impudence, you may shape this declaration of mine 
 into a similar paragraph for me. It is possible that you 
 may have seen the Uttle I did write (and never published) 
 at Muiray's ; it contamed much more about Southey than 
 about the Blacks. 
 
 " If you think that I ought to do any thing about Wat- 
 kins's book, I should not care much about publishing my 
 Memoir now, should it be necessary to counteract the 
 fellow. But in thcd case, I should like to look over the 
 press myself. Let me know what you think, or whether 
 I had better not ; — at least, not the second part, which 
 touches on the actual confines of still existing matters. 
 
 " I have written three more Cantos of Don Juan, and 
 am hovering on the brink of another, (the ninth.) The 
 reason I want the stanzas again which I sent you is, that 
 as these cantos contain a full detail (like the storm in 
 Canto Second) of the siege and assault of Ismael with 
 much of sarcasm on those butchersH in large business, 
 your mercenary' soldiery, it is a good opportunity of grac- 
 ing the poem with * * * * +. With 
 these things and these fellows, it is necessary, in the pre- 
 sent clash of philosophy and tyranny, to throw away the 
 scabbard. I know it is against fearful odds ; but the batde 
 must be fought ; and it will be eventually for the good of 
 
 * A book which had just appeared, entitled " Memoirs of the Right 
 Hon. Lord Byron." 
 
 t See letter's to the editors of Blackwood's Magazine, page 292. 
 
 J It hud been asserted, in a late number of Blackwood, that both 
 Lord Byrou and rnyeelf were employed in writing satires against that 
 Magazine. 
 
 II Alluding to Wellington. See the beginning of Canto IX. 
 
LETTERS, 1822. 
 
 205 
 
 mankind, whatever it may be for the individual who risks 
 himself. 
 
 "What do you think of your Irish bishop? Do you 
 remember Swift s line, ' Let me have a barrack — a fig for 
 the clergy.^ This seems to have been his reverence's 
 motto. + + * =)= * 
 
 *** + + *>)< 
 
 « Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER DLXXI. 
 
 TO MR, MOORE. 
 
 "Pisa, August 27, 1822. 
 
 " It is boring to trouble you with ' such small gear ;' but 
 it must be owned that I should be glad if you would 
 inquire whether my Irish subscription ever reached the 
 Committee in Paris from Leghorn. My reasons, like 
 Vellum's, * are threefold :' First, 1 doubt the accuracy of 
 all almoners, or remitters of benevolent cash : second, I 
 do suspect that the said Committee, having in part served 
 its time to timeserving, may have kept back the acknow- 
 ledgment of an obnoxious politician's name in their lists ; 
 and, third, I feel pretty sure that I shall one day be twitted 
 by the government scribes for having been a professor of 
 love for Ireland, and not coming forward with the others 
 in her distresses. 
 
 " It is not, as you may opine, that I am ambitious of 
 having my name in the papers, as I can have that any 
 day in the week gratis. AH I want is, to know if the 
 Reverend Thomas Hall did or did not remit my subscrip- 
 tion (200 scudi of Tuscany, or about a thousand francs, 
 more or less) to the Conmiittee at Paris. 
 
 " The other day at Viareggio, I thought proper to swim 
 off to my schooner (the Bolivar) in the offing, and thence 
 to shore again — about three miles, or better, in all. As it 
 was at midday, under a broiling sun, the consequence has 
 been a feverish attack, and my whole skin's coming off, 
 after going through the process of one large continuous 
 blister, raised by the sun and sea together. I have suf- 
 fered much pain ; not being able to lie on my back, or 
 even side ; for my shoulders and arms were equally St. 
 Bartholomewed. But it is over, — and I have got a new 
 skin, and am as glossy as a snake in its new suit. 
 
 "We have been burning the bodies of Shelley and 
 Williams on the seashore, to render them fit for removal 
 and regular interment. You can have no idea what an 
 extraordinary effect such a funeral pile has, on a desolate 
 shore, with mountains in the back-ground and the sea 
 before, and the singular appearance the salt and frankin- 
 cense gave to the flame. All of Shelley was consumed, 
 except his heart, which would not take the flame, and is 
 now preserved in spirits of wine. 
 
 "Your old acquaintance, Londonderry, has quietly died 
 at North Cray ! and the virtuous De Witt was torn in 
 pieces by the populace ! What a lucky * * * 
 * * the Irishman has been in his life and end.* 
 In him your Irish Franklin est mort! 
 
 "Leigh Hunt is sweating articles for his new Journal ; 
 and both he and I think it somewhat shabby in you not 
 to contribute. Will you become one of the properrioters ? 
 Do, and we go snacks.' I recommend you to think twice 
 before you respond in the negative. 
 
 " I have nearly {quite three) four new cantos of Don 
 Juan ready. I obtained permission from the female 
 Censor Morum of my morals to continue it, provided it 
 were immaculate ; so I have been as decent as need be. 
 There is a deal of war — a siege, and ail that, in the style, 
 graphical and technical, of the shipwreck in Canto Se- 
 cond, which ' took,' as they say, in the Row. 
 
 "Yours, &c. 
 
 * The particulars of this event had, it is evideut, not yet reached 
 him.— Moore. 
 
 "P. S. That * * + Galignani has about ten lies 
 in one paragraph. It was not a Bible that was found in 
 Shelley's pocket, but John Keats's poems. However, 
 it would not have been strange, for he was a great 
 admirer of Scripture as a composition. / did not send 
 my bust to the academy of New- York ; but I sat for my 
 picture to young West, an American artist, at the request 
 of some members of that Academy to /ii?n that he would 
 take my portrait, — for the Academy. T believe. 
 
 " I had, and still have, thoughts of South America, but 
 am fluctuating between ii and Greece. 1 should have 
 gone, long ago, to one of them, but for my haison with 
 the Countess G'. ; for love, in these days, is little com- 
 patible with glory. She would be delighted to go too , 
 but I do not choose to expose her to a long voyage, and a 
 residence in an unsettled country, where I shall probably 
 take a part of some sort." 
 
 LETTER DLXXIL 
 
 TO MR. MURRAV. 
 
 "Genoa, October 9. 1822. 
 
 " I have received your letter, and as you explain it, I 
 have no objection, on your account, to omit those pas- 
 sages in the new Mystery, (which were marked in the 
 half-sheet sent the other day to Pisa,) or the passage in 
 Cain; — but why not be open, and say so ai^rst 7 You 
 should be more straight-forward on every account. 
 
 " I have been very unwell — four days confined to my 
 bed in ' the worst inn's worst room,' at Lerici, with a vio- 
 lent rheumatic and bilious attack,, constipation, and the 
 devil knows what : — no physician, except a young fellow, 
 who, however, was kind and cautious, and that's enough. 
 
 " At last I seized Thompson's book of prescriptions, 
 (a donation of yours,) and physicked myself with the first 
 dose I found in it ; and after undergoing the ravages of 
 all kinds of decoctions, sallied from bed on the fifdi day to 
 cross the Gulf to Sestri. The sea revived me instantly ; 
 and I ate the sailor's cold fish, and drank a gallon of coun- 
 try wine, and got to Genoa the same night after landing 
 at Sestri, and have ever since been keeping well, but thin- 
 ner, and with an occasional cough towards evening. 
 
 " I am afraid the Journal is a had business, and won't 
 do ; but in it I am sacrificing myself for others — / can 
 have no advantage in it. I believe the brothers Hunts to 
 be honest men ; I am sure that they are poor ones : they 
 have not a nap. They pressed me to engage in this work, 
 and in an evil hour I consented. Still I shall not repent, 
 if I can do them the least service. I have done all I can 
 for Leigh Hunt since he came here ; but it is almost use- 
 less : — his wife is ill, his six children not very tractable and 
 in the affairs of this world he himself is a child. The 
 death of Shelley left them totally aground ; and I could 
 not see them in such a state without using the common 
 feelings of humanity, and what means were in my power, 
 to set them afloat again. 
 
 " So Douglas Kinnaird is out of the way ? He was so 
 the last time I sent him a parcel, and he gives no previous 
 notice. When is he expected again ? 
 
 "Yours, &c. 
 
 "P. S. Will you say at once— do you publish Werner 
 and the Mystery, or not ? You never once allude to them. 
 
 " That cursed advertisement of Mr. J. Hunt is out of 
 the limits. I did not lend him my name to be hawked 
 about in this way. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "However, I believe — at least, hope — that after all you 
 may be a good fellow at bottom, and it is on this presump- 
 tion that I now write to you on the subject of a poor wo- 
 I man of the name of Fossi/, who is, or was, an author of 
 yours, as she says, and published a book on Switzerland 
 I in 1816, patronized by the ' Court and Colonel M'Mahon.' 
 
206 
 
 LETTERS, 1822. 
 
 But it seems that neither the Court nor the Colonel could 
 get over the portentous price of ' three pounds tliirteen 
 and sixpence,' wliich alarmed the too susceptible public ; 
 and, in sliort, ' the book died away,' and, what is worse, 
 the poor soul's husband died too, and she writes with the 
 man a corpse before her ; but instead of addressing the 
 6ishop or Mr. Wilberforce, she hath recourse to that 
 proscribed, atheistical, syUogislical, phlogistical person, 
 viysen^ as they say in Notts. It is strange enough, but 
 the rascaille English, who calumniate me in every direc- 
 tion and on every score, whenever they are in great dis- 
 tress recur to me for assistance. If I have had one ex- 
 ample of this, I have had letters from a thousand, and as 
 far as is in my power have tried to repay good for evil, 
 and purchase a shilling's worth of salvation as long as my 
 pocket can hold out. 
 
 " Now, I am willing to do what I can for this unfor- 
 tunate person; but her situation and her wishes (not 
 unreasonable, however) require more than can be ad- 
 vanced by one individual like myself; for I have many 
 claims of the same kind just at present, and also some 
 remnants of debt to pay in England — God, he knows, the 
 latter how reluctantly ! Can the Literary Fund do no- 
 thing for her ? By your interest, which is great among 
 the pious, I dare say that something might be collected. 
 Can you get any of her books pubUshed? Suppose you 
 took her as author in my place, now vacant among your 
 ragamuffins : she is a moral and pious person, and wiU 
 sliine upon your shelves. But, seriously, do what you 
 can for her." 
 
 LETTER DLXXni. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 « Genoa, 9bre 23, 1822. 
 
 " I have to thank you for a parcel of books, which are 
 very welcome, especially Sir Walter's gift of ' Halidon 
 Hill.' You have sent me a copy of ' Werner,' but with- 
 out the preface. If you have published it without, you 
 will have plunged me into a very disagreeable dilemma, 
 because I shall be accused of plagiarism from Miss Lee's 
 German's Tale, whereas I have fully and freely acknow- 
 ledged that the drama is entirely taken from the story. 
 
 "I return you the (Quarterly Review, uncut and un- 
 opened, not from disrespect, or disregard, or pique, but it 
 is a kind of reading which I have some time disused, as I 
 think the periodical style of writing hurtful to the habits 
 of the mind by presenting the superficies of too many 
 things at once. I do not know that it contains any thing 
 disagreeable to me — it may or it may not ; nor do I re- 
 turn it on account that there may be an article which you 
 hinted at in one of your late letters, but because I have 
 left off reading these kind of works, and should equally 
 have returned you any other number. 
 
 "I am obliged to take in one or two abroad because 
 solicited to do so. The Edinburgh came before me by 
 mere chance in Galignani's picnic sort of gazette, where 
 he had inserted a part of it. 
 
 " You will have received various letters from me lately, 
 in a style which I used with reluctance ; but you left me 
 no other choice by your absolute refusal to communicate 
 with a man you did not like upon the mere simple matter 
 of transfer of a few papers of little consequence, (except 
 to their author,) and which could be of no moment to 
 yourself. 
 
 "I hope that Mr. Kinnaird is better. It is strange 
 that you never alluded to his accident, if it be true, as 
 stated in the papers. 
 
 " I am yours, &c. &c. 
 
 "I hope that you have a milder winter than we have 
 had here. We have had inundations worthy of the Trent 
 or Po, and the conductor (Franklin's) of my house was 
 
 struck (or supposed to be stricken) by a thimderbolt. 1 
 was so near the window that I was dazzled and my eyes 
 hurt for several minutes, and everybody in the house felt 
 an electric shock at the moment. Madame Guiccioli was 
 frightened, as you may suppose. 
 
 "I have thought since that your bigots would have 
 'saddled me with a judgment,' (as Thwackum did Square 
 when he bit his tongue in talking metaphysics,) if any 
 thing had happened of consequence. These fellows al- 
 ways forget Christ in their Christianity, and what he said 
 when 'the tower of Siloam fell.' 
 
 " To-day is the 9th, and the 10th is my surviving daugh- 
 ter's birthday. I have ordered, as a regale, a mutton chop 
 and a bottle of ale. She is seven years old, I beheve. 
 Did I ever tell you that the day I came of age I dined on 
 eggs and bacon and a bottle of ale? For once in a way 
 they are my favourite dish and drinkable, but as neither 
 of them agree with me, I never use them but on great 
 jubilees — once in four or five years or so. 
 
 " I see somebody represents the Hunts and Mrs. Shel- 
 ley as Uving in my house ; it is a falsehood. They 
 reside at some distance, and I do not see them twice in a 
 month. I have not met Mr. Hunt a dozen times since 
 I came to Genoa, or near it. 
 
 " Yours ever, &c." 
 
 LETTER DLXXIV. 
 
 TO MR, MURRAY. 
 
 « Genoa, lO^re 250, 1822. 
 " I had sent you back the Q,uarterly without perusal, 
 having resolved to read no more reviews, good, bad, or 
 indifferent ; but ' who can control his fate ?' Galignani, 
 to whom my English studies are confined, has forwarded 
 a copy of at least one-half of it in his indefatigable catch- 
 penny weekly compilation ; and as, ' like honour, it came 
 unlocked for,' I have looked through it. I must say that, 
 upon the whole, that is, the whole of the Aa^ which I have 
 read, (for the other half is to be the segment of GaUgna- 
 ni's next week's circular,) it is extremely handsome, and 
 any thing but unliind or unfair. As I take the good in 
 good part, I must not, nor will not, quarrel with the bad. 
 What the writer says of Don Juan is harsh, but it is in- 
 evitable. He must follow, or at least not dii-ectly oppose, 
 the opinion of a prevailing and yet not very firmly seated 
 party. A review may and will direct and ' turn awry' the 
 currents of opinion, but it must not directly oppose them. 
 Don Juan will be known, by-and-by, for what it is in- 
 tended, a Satire on abuses of the present state of society, 
 and not an eulogy of vice.* It may be now and then 
 voluptuous : — I can't help that. Ariosto is worse ; Smol- 
 lett (see Lord Strutwell in vol. 2d of Roderick Random) 
 ten times worse ; and Fielding no better. No girl will 
 ever be seduced by reading Don Juan : — no, no ; she will 
 go to Little's poems and Rousseau's Romans for that, or 
 even to the immaculate De Stael. They will encourage 
 her, and not the Don, who laughs at that, and — and — most 
 other things. But never mind — ca ira ! 
 
 + + *** + 
 
 " Now, do you see what you and your friends do by 
 your injudicious rudeness? — actually cement a sort of 
 connexion which you strove to prevent, and which, had 
 the Hunts prospered, would not in all probability have con- 
 tinued. As it is, I will not quit them in their adversity, 
 though it should cost me character, fame, money, and the 
 usual et cetera. 
 
 " My original motives I already explained, (in the let- 
 ter which you thought proper to show:) they are the true 
 ones, and I abide by them, as I tell you, and I told Leigh 
 Hunt when he questioned me on the subject of that letter. 
 He was violently hurt, and never will forgive me at bot- 
 
 * Se« Don Juan, Canto IV, Stanzas 5, 98, &e. 
 
LETTERS, 1823. 
 
 torn ; but I can't help that. I never meant to make a 
 parade of it ; but if he chose to question me, I could only 
 answer the plain truth ; and I confess I did not see any 
 thing in the letter to hurt him, unless I said he was ' a 
 bore^^ which I do n't remember. Had their Journal gone 
 on well, and I could have aided to make it better for them, 
 I should then have left them, after my safe pilotage off a 
 lee shore, to make a prosperous voyage by themselves. 
 As it is, I can't, and would not if I could, leave them 
 among the breakers. 
 
 " As to any community of feeling, thought, or opinion 
 between Leigh Hunt and me, there is little or none. We 
 meet rarely, hardly ever ; but I think him a good-princi- 
 pled and able man, and must do as I would be done by. 
 I do not know what world he has lived in, but I have lived 
 in three or four ; but none ef them like his Keats and 
 kangaroo terra incognita. Alas I poor Shelley! how we 
 would have laughed had he lived, and how we used to 
 laugh now and then at various things which are grave in 
 the suburbs ! 
 
 "You are all mistaken about Shelley. You do not 
 Know how mild, how tolerant, how good he was in society ; 
 and as perfect a gentleman as ever crossed a drawing- 
 room, when he liked, and where liked. 
 
 " I have some thoughts of taking a run down to Naples 
 (soZms, or, at most, cum sold) this spring, and writing, 
 when I have studied the country, a Fifth and Sixth Canto 
 of Childe Harold ; but this is merely an idea for the pre- 
 sent, and I have other excursions and voyages in my 
 mmd. The busts* are finished: are you worthy of them? 
 
 "Yours, &c. 
 «N. B 
 
 "P. S. Mrs. Shelley is residing with the Hunts at 
 some distance from me. I see them very seldom, and 
 generally on account of their business. Mrs. Shelley, I 
 believe, will go to England in the spring. 
 
 " Count Gambia's family, the father and mother and 
 daughter, are residing with me by Mr. Hill (the minis- 
 ter's) recommendation, as a safer assylum from the politi- 
 cal persecutions than they could have in another resi- 
 dence ; but they occupy one part of a large house, and I 
 the other, and our establishments are quite separate. 
 
 " Since I have read the (Quarterly, I shall erase two 
 or three passages in the latter six or seven cantos, in 
 which I had lightly stroked over two or three of your 
 authors ; but I will not return evil for good. I lilted what 
 I read of the article much. 
 
 "Mr. J. Hunt is most likely the publisher of the new 
 Cantos ; with what prospects of success I know not, nor 
 does it very much matter, as far as I am concerned ; but 
 I hope it may be of use to him, for he is a stiff, sturdy, 
 conscientious man, and I hke him : he is such a one a 
 Prynne or Pym might be. I bear you no ill-will for de- 
 clining the Don Juans. 
 
 " Have you aided Madame de Yossy, as I requested ? 
 I sent her three hundred francs. Recommend her, will 
 you, to the Literary Fund, or to some benevolence within 
 vour circles." 
 
 207 
 
 LETTER DLXXV. 
 
 TO LADY • 
 
 "Albaro, Nov. 10, 1822. 
 
 * * * . * . * . * . 
 
 " The Chevalier persisted in declaring himself an ill- 
 used gentleman, and describing you as a kind of cold 
 Calypso, who lead astray people of an amatory disposition 
 without giving them any sort of compensation, contenting 
 
 * Of the bust of himself by Bartollini he says, in one of his letters to 
 Mr. Murray : — " The bust does not turn out a good one, — though it may 
 be like for aught I know, as it exactly resembles a superanuated Jesuit." 
 Again, " I assure you Bartollini's is dreadful, though my mind misgives 
 me that it is hideously like. If it is, I cannot be long for this world, for 
 it overlooks seventy." Moore. 
 
 yourself, it seems, with only making one fool instead of two, 
 which is the more approved method of proceeding on such 
 occasions. For my part, I think you are quite right , 
 and be assured from me that a woman (as society is con- 
 stituted in England,) who gives any advantage to a man 
 may expect a lover, but will sooner or later find a tyrant ; 
 and this is not the man's fault either, perhaps, but is the 
 necessary and natural result of the circumstances of 
 society which, in fact, tyrannize over the man equally witii 
 the women, that is to say, if either of them have any 
 feeling or honour. 
 
 " You can write to me at your leisure and inclination. 
 I have always laid it down as a maxim, and found it justi- 
 fied by experience, that a man and a woman make far 
 better friendships than can exist between two of the same 
 sex ; but these with this condition, that they never have 
 made, or are to make, love with each other. Lovers 
 may, and, mdeed, generally are enemies, but they never 
 can be friends ; because there must always be a spice of 
 jealousy and a something of self in all their speculations. 
 
 " Indeed. I rather look upon love altogether as a sort 
 of hostile transaction, very necessary to make or to break 
 matches, and keep the world going, but by no means a 
 sinecure to the parties concerned. 
 
 "Now, as my love-perUs are, I believe, pretty well 
 over, and yours, .by all accounts, are never to begin, we 
 shall be the best friends imaginable as far as both are 
 concerned, and with this advantage, that we may both 
 fall to loving right and left through all our acquaintance, 
 without either sullenness or sorrow from that amiable 
 passion which are its inseparable attendants. 
 
 " BeUeve me, &c." 
 
 LETTER DLXXVI 
 
 TO MR. PROCTOR. 
 
 "^Pisa, Jan. 1823. 
 " Had I been aware of your tragedy when I wrote my 
 note to ' Marino Faliero,' although it is a matter of no 
 consequence to you, I should certainly not have omitted 
 to insert your name with those of the other writers who 
 stiU do honour to the drama. My own notions on the 
 subject altogether are so different from the popular ideas 
 of the day, that we differ essentially, as indeed I do from 
 our whole English literati, upon that topic. But I do not 
 contend that I am right — I merely say that such is my 
 opinion, and as it is a sohtary one, it can do no great 
 harm. But it does not prevent me from doing justice to 
 the powers of those who adopt a different system." 
 
 LETTER DLXXVII. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Genoa, Feb. 20, 1823. 
 
 "my dear TOM, 
 
 " I must again refer you to those two letters addressed 
 to you at Passy before I read your speech in Galignani, 
 &c., and which you do not seem to have received. 
 
 " Of Hunt I see Uttle — once a month or so, and then 
 on his own business, generally. You may easily suppose 
 that I know too little of Hampstead and his satelhtes to 
 have much communion or community with him. My 
 whole present relation to him arose from Shelley's imex- 
 pected wreck. You would not have had me leave him 
 in the street with his family, would you ? and as to the 
 other plan you mention, you forget how it would humiliate 
 him — that his writings should be supposed to be dead 
 weight ! Think a moment — he is perhaps the vainest 
 man on earth, at least his own friends say so pretty 
 loudly ; and if he were in other circumstances, I might 
 be tempted to take him down a peg ; but not now, — it 
 would be cruel. It is a cursed business ; but neither the 
 
208 
 
 LETTERS, 1823. 
 
 motive nor the means rest upon my conscience, and it 
 happens that he and his brother have been so far benefited 
 by the publication in a pecuniaiy point of view. His 
 brother is a steady, bold fellow, such as Prynne, for exam- 
 ple, and full of moral, and, I hear, physical courage. 
 
 "And you are really recanting, or softening to the 
 clergy ! It will do Utile good for you — it is t/ow, not the 
 poein, they are at. They will say they frightened you — 
 forbid it, Ireland ! 
 
 "Yours ever, «N. B." 
 
 LETTER DLXXVIII. 
 
 TO MRS. 
 * * 
 
 ♦ + ****** 
 
 " I presume that you, at least, know enough of me to 
 be sure that I could have no intention to insult Himt's 
 poverty. On the contrary, I honour him for it 5 for I 
 know what it is, having been as much embarrassed as 
 ever he was, without perceiving aught m it to diminish an 
 honourable man's self-respect. If you mean to say that, 
 had he been a wealthy man, I would have joined in this 
 Journal, I answer in the negative. * * + I engaged in 
 the Journal from good-will towards him, added to respect 
 for his character, literary and personal ; and no less for 
 his political courage, as weU as regret for his present 
 circimistances : I did this in the hope that he might, %\-ith 
 the same aid from literary friends of hterary contribu- 
 tions, (which is requisite for all Journals of a mked 
 nature,) render himself independent. 
 
 ****** 
 
 •* I have always treated hhn,in our personal intercourse, 
 with such scrupulous deUcacy, that I have forebome in- 
 truding advice, which I thought might be disagreeable, 
 lest he should impute it to what is called ' taking advan- 
 tage- of a man's situation.' 
 
 « As to friendship, it is a propensity in which my genius 
 is very limited. I do not know the male human being, 
 except Lord Clare, the friend of my mfancy, for whom I 
 feel any thing that deserves the name. AH my others are 
 men of the world friendships. I did not even feel it for 
 Shelley, however much I admired and esteemed him ; so 
 that you see not even vanity could bribe me mto it, for, of 
 all men, Shelley thought highest of my talents,— and, per- 
 haps, of my disposition. 
 
 " I wiU do my duty by my intimates, upon the piinciple 
 of doing as you would be done by. I have done so, I 
 trust, in most instances. I may be pleased with their con- 
 versation — rejoice in their success — be glad to do them a 
 service, or to receive their counsel and assistance in re 
 turn. But, as for friends and friendship, I have (cis I al 
 ready said) named the only remaining male for whom I 
 feel iajiy tlimg of the kind, excepting, perhaps, Thomas 
 Moore. I have had, and may have still, a thousand 
 friends, as they are called, in life, who are hke one's part 
 ners in the waltz of this world, not much remembered 
 when the baJl is over, though very pleasant for the time 
 Habit, business, and companionship in pleasure or in pain, 
 are links of a similar kind, and the same faith in pohtics is 
 another." * * * 
 
 LETTER DLXXIX. 
 
 TO LADY + * *. 
 
 "Genoa, March, 28, 1823. 
 ***** 
 « Mr. Hill is here : I dined with him on Saturday be- 
 fore last ; and on leaving his house at S. P. d'Arena, my 
 carriac^e broke down. I walked home, about three miles, 
 — no very great feat of pedestrianism ; but either the 
 coming out of hot rooms into a bleak wind chilled me, or 
 the walking up-hill to Albaro heated me, or something or 
 other set me wrong, and next day I had an inflammatory 
 attack in the face, to which I have been subject tiiis win- 
 
 ter for the first time, and I suffered a good deal of pain, 
 but no peril. My health is now much as usual. Mr. 
 Hill is, I beheve, occupied with his diplomacy. I shall 
 give him your message when I see him again.* 
 
 " My name, I see in the papers, has been dragged into 
 the unhappy Portsmouth business, of wliich all that I know 
 is very succinet. Mr. Hanson is my solicitor. I found 
 him so when I was ten years old — at my uncle's death — 
 and he was continued in the management of my legal 
 business. He asked me, by a civil espistle, as an old ac- 
 quaintance of his family, to be present at the marriage of 
 Miss Hanson. I went very reluctantly, one misty morn- 
 ing (for I had been up at two balls all night,) to witness 
 the ceremony, which I could not very well refuse without 
 affronting a man who had never offended me. I saw 
 nothing particular in the marriage. Of course I could not 
 know the preliminaries, except from what he said, not having 
 been present at the wooing, nor after it, for I walked home, 
 and they went into the country as soon as they had promis- 
 ed and vowed. Out of this simple fact I hear the Debats de 
 Paris has quoted Miss H. as ' autrefois trfes hee avec le 
 cel&bre,' &c. &c. I am obhged to him for the celebrity, 
 but beg leave to decline the liaison, which is quite untrue; 
 my haison was with the father, in the unsentimental shape 
 of loner la^^Ters' bills, through the medium of which I have 
 had to pay him ten or t^velve thousand pounds within these 
 few years. She was not pretty, and I suspect that the in- 
 defatigable Mr. A was (hke aU her people) more 
 
 attracted by her tide than her charms. I regret very much 
 that I was present at the prologue to the happy state of 
 horsewhipping and black jobs, &c. &c., but I could not 
 foresee that a man was to turn out mad, who had gone 
 about the world for fifty years, as competent to vote, and 
 walk at large ; nor did he seem to me more insane than 
 any other person going to be married. 
 
 " I have no objection to be acquainted with the Marquis 
 Palavicini, if he wishes it. Lately, I have gone litde into 
 society, English or foreign, for I had seen all that was 
 worth seeing in the former before I left England, and at 
 the time of hfe when I was more disposed to like it ; and 
 of the latter I had a sufficiency in the first few years of 
 my residence in Switzerland, chiefly at Madame de 
 Stael's, where I went sometimes, till I grew tired of con- 
 versazioni and carnivals, with their appendages ; and the 
 bore is, that if you go once, you are expected to be there 
 daily, or rather nightly. I went the round of the most 
 noted soirees at "Venice or elsewhere (where I remained 
 not any time) to the Benzona, and the Albrizzi, and the 
 MichelU, &c. &c., and to the Cardinals and the various 
 potentates of the Legation in Romagna (that is, Ravenna,) 
 and only receded for the sake of quiet when I came into 
 Tuscany. Besides, if I go into society, I generally get, in 
 the long run, into some scrape of some kind or other, which 
 do n't occur in my solitude. However, I am pretty well 
 settled now, by time and temper, which is so far lucky as it 
 prevents restlessness ; but, as I said before, as an acquain- 
 tance of yours, I will be ready and willing to know your 
 friends. He may be a sort of connexion for aught I know ; 
 for a Palavicina, of Bologna, I beheve, married a distant 
 relative of mine half a century ago. I happen to know 
 the fact, as he and his spouse had an annuity of five hun- 
 dred pounds on my uncle's property, which ceased at his 
 demise, though I recollect hearing they attempted, natu- 
 rally enough, to make it survive him. If I can do any thing 
 for you here, or elsewhere, pray order, and be obeyed." 
 
 LETTER DLXXX. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Genoa, April 2, 1823. 
 " I have just seen some friends of yours, who paid me a 
 
 * The Earl of Portsmouth married Miss Hansou. AttempU were made 
 about this time in the English Courts to prove him insane. 
 
LETTERS, 1823. 
 
 209 
 
 visit yesterday, which, in honour of them and of you, I re- 
 turned to-day ; — as I reserve my bear-skin and teeth, and 
 paws and claws, for our enemies. 
 
 " I have also seen Henry Fox, Lord Holland's son, 
 whom I had not looked upon since I left him a pretty mild 
 boy, without a neckcloth, in a jacket, and in delicate 
 health, seven long years agone, at the period of mine 
 eclipse — the third, I believe, as I have generally one every 
 two or three years. I think that he has the softest and 
 most amiable expression of countenance I ever saw, and 
 manners correspondent. If to those he can add heredi- 
 tary talents, he will keep the name of Fox in all its fresh- 
 ness for half a century more, I hope. I speak from a 
 transient glimpse — but I love still to yield to such im- 
 pressions ; for I have ever found that those I liked longest 
 and best, I took to at first sight ; and I always liked that 
 boy ; perhaps, in part, from some resemblance in the less 
 fortunate part of our destinies ; I mean, to avoid mistakes, 
 his lameness. But there is this difference, that he appears 
 a halting angel, who has tripped against a star ; while I 
 am Le Diable Boiteux, — a soubriquet, which I marvel that, 
 among their various nominis umbrae, the Orthodox have not 
 hit upon. 
 
 " Your other allies, whom I have found very agreeable 
 personages, and Milor Blessington and dpouse, travelling 
 with a very handsome companion, in the shape of a 
 * French Count,' (to use Farquhar's phrase in the Beaux' 
 Stratagem,) who has all the air of a Cupidon dechaine, 
 and is one of the few specimens I have seen of our ideal 
 of a Frenchman before the Revolution — an old friend whh 
 a new face, upon whose like I never thought that we 
 should look again. Miladi seems highly literary, to which, 
 and your honour's acquaintance with the family, I attri- 
 bute die pleasure of having seen them. She is also very 
 pretty, even in a morning, — a species of beauty on which 
 the sun of Italy does not shine so frequently as the chan- 
 delier. Certainly, Enghshwomen wear better than their 
 continental neighbours of the same sex. M * * seems 
 very good-natured, but is much tamed, since I recol- 
 lect him in all the glory of gems and snuff-boxes, and 
 uniforms, and theatricals, and speeches in our house — 
 'I mean, of peers' (I must refer you to Pope — whom 
 you do n't read, and won't appreciate — for that quota- 
 tion, which you must allow to be poetical,) and sitting 
 to Stroeling, the painter (do you remember our visit, 
 with Leckie, to the German?) to be depicted as one of 
 the heroes of Agincourt,' with his long sword, saddle, 
 bridle, whack fal de,' &c. &c. 
 
 "I have been unwell — caught a cold and inflamma- 
 tion, which menanced a conflagration, after dining with 
 our ambassador. Monsieur Hill, — not owing to the dinner, 
 but my carriage broke down on the way home, and I had 
 to walk some miles, up-hill partly, after hot rooms, in 
 a very bleak wdndy evening, and over-hotted, or over- 
 colded myself I have not been so robustious as for- 
 merly, ever since the last summer, when I fell ill after 
 a long swim in the Mediterranean, and have never 
 been quite right up to this present writing. I am thin, 
 — perhaps thinner than you saw me, when I was nearly 
 transparent, in 1812,— and am obliged to be moderate of 
 my mouth, which, nevertheless, won't prevent me (the 
 gods willing) from dining with your friends the day after 
 to-morrow. 
 
 « They give me a very good account of you, and of 
 your nearly 'Emprisoned Angels.' But why did you 
 change your title ? — you will regret this some day. The 
 bigots are not to be conciliated , and, if they were, are 
 they worth it? I suspect that I am a more orthodox 
 Christian than you are; and, whenever I see a real 
 Christian, either in practice or in theory, (for I never yet 
 found the man who could produce either, when put to the 
 proof,) I am his disciple. But, till then, I cannot truckle 
 to tithe-mongers, — nor can I imagine what has made you 
 circumcise your Seraphs. 
 
 27 
 
 LETTER DLXXXI. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF BLESSINGTON. 
 
 "Aprils, 1823, 
 
 " MR. DEAR LORD, 
 
 How is your gout? or rather, how are you? I return 
 the Count * *'3 Journal, which is a very extraordinary 
 production,* and of a most melancholy truth in all that 
 gards high life in England. I know, or knew, per- 
 sonally, most of the personages and societies, which he 
 describes ; and after reading his remarks have the sensa- 
 tion fresh upon me as I had seen them yesterday. I 
 would however plead in behalf of some few exceptions, 
 which I will mention by-and-by. The most singular 
 thing is, hou) he should have penetrated not the fact, but 
 the mystery of the English ennui, at two-and-twenty. I 
 was about the same age when I made the same dis- 
 covery, in almost precisely the same circles — (for there is 
 scarcely a person mentioned whom I did not see nightly 
 or daily, and was acquainted more or less intimately with 
 most of them) — but I never could have described it so 
 well. Ilfaut etre Francais, to effect this. 
 
 " But he ought also to have been in the country during 
 the hunting season, with 'a select party of distinguished 
 guests,' as the papers term it. He ought to have seen 
 the gendemen after dinner, (on the hunting days,) and 
 the soiree ensuing thereupon — and the women looldng as 
 "f they had hunted, or rather been hunted; and I could 
 have wished that he had been at a dmner in town, which 
 I recollect at Lord C * *'s — small, but select, and com- 
 of the most amusing people. The dessert was 
 hardly on the table, when, out of twelve I counted five 
 : of that five, there were Tierney, Lord * *, and 
 Lord * * — I forget the other two, but they were either 
 wits or orators — perhaps poets. 
 
 "My residence in the East and in Italy has made me 
 somewhat indulgent of the siesta — but then they set 
 regularly about it in warm countries, and perform it in 
 solitude, (or at most in a tete-a-tete with a proper com- 
 panion,) and retire quietly to their rooms to get out of the 
 sun's way for an hour or two. 
 
 "Altogether, your friend's Journal is a very formidable 
 production. Alas ! our dearly-beloved countrymen have 
 only discovered that they are tired, and not that they are 
 tiresome ; and I suspect that the communication of the 
 latter unpleasant verity will not be better received than 
 truths usually are. I have read the whole with great 
 attention and instruction. I am too good a patriot to say 
 pleasure — at least I won't say so, whatever I may think. 
 I showed it (I hope no breach of confidence,) to a young 
 Italian lady of rank, iris instruite also ; and who passes, 
 Of passed, for being one of the three most celebrated belles 
 in the district of Italy, where her family and connexions 
 resided in less troublesome times as to politics, (which is 
 not Genoa, by-the-way,) and she was delighted with it, 
 and says that she has derived a better notion of EngUsh 
 society from it than from all Madame de Stael's meta- 
 physical disputations on the same subject, in her work on 
 the Revolution. I beg that you will thank the young 
 philosopher, and make my compliments to Lady B. and 
 her sister. 
 
 " Beheve me your very obliged and faithful 
 
 « N. B. 
 " P. S. There is a rumour in letters of some disturbance 
 or complot in the French Pyrenean army — generals sus- 
 pected or dismissed, and ministers of war travelling to see 
 what's the matter. 'Marry, (as David says,) this hath aO 
 angry favour.' 
 
 « Tell Count * * that some of the names are not 
 quite inteUigible, especially of the clubs ; he speaks of 
 
 * In another letter to Lord Blessington, he says of this gentleman, 
 "he seems to have all the Qualities requisite to have figured in his 
 brother-in-law's ancestor's Memoirs." 
 
210 
 
 LETTERS, 1823. 
 
 lyatts — perhaps he is right, but in my time JVatiers was 
 the Dandy Club, of which (though no dandy) 1 was a 
 member, at the time too of its greatest glory, when Brum- 
 mell and Mildmay, Alvanley and Pierrepoint, gave the 
 dandy balls; and we (the club, that is,) got up the famous 
 masquerade at Burlington House and Garden for Welling- 
 ton. He does not speak of the Alfred, which was the 
 most recherchd and most tiresome of any, as I know by 
 being a member of that too." 
 
 LETTER DLXXXII. 
 
 TO THK EAKL OF BLESSINGTON. 
 
 "April 6, 1823. 
 
 "It would be worse than idle, knowing, as I do, the 
 utter worthlessness of words on such occasions, in me to 
 attempt to express what I ought to feel, and do feel for 
 the loss you have sustained ;* and 1 must thus dismiss the 
 subject, for I dare not trust myself further with it for your 
 sake, or for my own. I shall endeavour to see you as soon 
 as it may not appear intrusive. Pray excuse the levity 
 of my yesterday's scrawl — I little thought under what 
 circumstances it would find you. 
 
 " I have received a very handsome and flattering note 
 from Count + *. He must excuse my apparent rude- 
 ness and real ignorance in replying to it in English, 
 through the medium of your kind interpretation. I would 
 not on any account deprive him of a production, of which 
 I really think more than I have even said, though you are 
 good enough not to be dissatisfied even with that ; but 
 whenever it is completed, it would give me the greatest 
 pleasure to have a copy — but how to keep it secret ! lite- 
 rary secrets are like others. By changing the names, or 
 at least omitting several, and altering the circumstances 
 indicative of the writer's real station, the author would 
 render it a most amusing publication. His countrymen 
 have not been treated either in a literary or personal point 
 of view with such deference in English recent works, as to 
 lay him under any very great national obligation of forbea- 
 rance ; and really the remarks are so true and so piquante 
 that I cannot bring myself to wish their suppression ; 
 though, as Dangle says, ' He is my friend,' many of these 
 personages ' were my friendSy but much such friends as 
 Dangle and his allies, 
 
 "I return you Dr. Parr's letter — I have met him at 
 Payne Knight's and elsewhere, and he did me the honou 
 once to be a patron of mine, although a great friend of 
 the other branch of the House of Atreus, and the Greek 
 teacher (I believe) of my moral Clytemnestra — I say 
 moral, because it is true, and so useful to the virtuous, 
 that it enables them to do any thing without the aid of an 
 iEgisthus. 
 
 "I beg my compliments to Lady B. Miss P. and to 
 your Alfred. I think, since his Majesty of the same 
 name, there has not been such a learned surveyor of our 
 Saxon society. 
 
 "Ever yours most truly, 
 
 "N. B." 
 
 «AprU9, 1823. 
 
 " MY DEAR LOKD, 
 ♦ + *♦* + 
 
 "P. S. I salute Miledi, Madamoiselle Mama, and the 
 illustrious Chevalier Count * *, who, I hope, will continue 
 his history of ' his own times.' There are some strange 
 coincidences between a part of his remarks and a certain 
 work of mine, now in MS. in England, (I do not mean 
 the hermetically sealed Memoirs, but a continuation of 
 certain Cantos of a certain poem,) especially in what a 
 
 man may do in London with impunity while he is ' li la 
 mode ;' which I think it well to state, thai he may not 
 suspect me of taking advantage of his confidence. The 
 observations are very general." 
 
 LETTER DLXXXIIL 
 
 TO THE EARL OF BLESSINGTON, 
 
 «Aprill4, 1823. 
 "I am truly sorry that I cannot accompany you in your 
 ride this morning, owing to a violent pain in my face, 
 arising from a wart to which I by medical advice applied 
 a caustic. Whether I put too much, I do not know, but 
 the consequence is, not only I have been put to some 
 pain, but the peccant part and its immediate environ are 
 as black as if the printer's devil had marked me for an 
 author. As I do not wish to frighten your horses, or their 
 riders, I shall postpone waiting upon you until six o'clock, 
 when I hope to have subsided into a more Christianlike 
 resemblance to my fellow-creatures. My infliction has 
 partially extended even to my fingers for on trying to get 
 the black from off" my upper lip at least, I have only 
 transfused a portion thereof to my right hand, and neither 
 lemon-juice nor eau de Cologne, nor any other eau, have 
 been able as yet to redeem it also from a more inlcy 
 appearance than is either proper or pleasant. But ' out 
 damn'd spot' — you may have perceived something of the 
 kind yesterday, for on my return, I saw that during my 
 visit it had increased, was increasing, and ought to be 
 diminished ; and I could not help laughing at the figure I 
 must have cut before you. At any rate, I shall be with 
 you at six, with the advantage of twilight. 
 
 " Ever most truly, &c. 
 
 « 11 o'clock. 
 "P. S. I wrote the above at three this morning. I 
 regret to say that the whole of the skin of about an inch 
 square above my upper lip has come offj so that I cannot 
 even shave or masticate, and I am equally unfit to appear 
 at your table, and to partake of its hospitality. Will you 
 therefore pardon me, and not mistake this rueful excuse 
 for a ' make-believe,' as you will soon recognise whenever 
 I have the pleasure of meeting you again, and [ will call 
 the moment I am, in the nursery phrase, ' fit to be seen.' 
 Tell Lady B, with my compliments, that I am rummag- 
 ing my papers for a MS. worthy of her acceptation. I 
 have just seen the younger Count Gamba, and ais I can- 
 not prevail on his infinite modesty to take the field without 
 me, I must take this piece of diffidence on my myself 
 also, and beg your indulgence for both." 
 
 * The death of Lord Blessington's soo, which had been long ex- 
 pected, but of which tha aeeount had just then arrived. 
 
 LETTER DLXXXrV. 
 
 TO THE COUNT * *. 
 
 « April 22, 1823. 
 
 "My dear Count * +, (if you will permit me to address 
 you so familiarly,) you should be content with writing in 
 your own language, like Grammont, and succeedmg in 
 London as nobody has succeeded since the days of 
 Charles the Second and the records of Antonio Hamil- 
 ton, without deviating into our barbarous language, 
 
 which you understand and write, however, much better 
 than it deserves. 
 
 " My ' approbation,' as you are plaased to term it, was 
 very sincere, but perhaps not very impartial; for though I 
 love my country, I do not love my countrymen— at least, 
 such as they now are. And besides the seduction of 
 talent and wit in your work, I fear that to me there was 
 the attraction of vengeance. I have seen and folt much 
 of what you have described so well, I have known the 
 persons, and the reunions so described — (many of them, 
 
LETTERS, 1823. 
 
 211 
 
 that is lo say,) — and the portraits are so like that I 
 cannot but admire the painter no less than his perform- 
 ance. 
 
 "But I am sorry for you; for if you are so well 
 acquainted with life at your age, what will become of 
 you when the illusion is still more dissipated ? but never 
 mind — en avant! — live while you can ; and that you may 
 have the full enjoyment of the many advantages of youth, 
 talent, and figure, wliich you possess, is the wish of an — 
 Englishman, — I suppose, — but it is no treason ; for my 
 mother was Scotch, and my name and my family are both 
 Norman ; and as for myself, I am of no country. As for 
 my 'Works,' which you are pleased to mention, let them 
 go to the devil, from whence (if you believe many per- 
 sons) they came. 
 
 " I have the honour to be your obliged, &c. &c." 
 
 LETTER DLXXXV. 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 
 
 "May 3, 1823. 
 
 DEAR LADV 
 
 " My request would be for a copy of the miniature of 
 Lady B., which I have seen in possession of the late 
 Lady Noel, as I have no picture, or indeed memorial of 
 any kind of Lady B., as all her letters were in her own 
 possession before I left England, and we have had no cor- 
 respondence since — at least on her part. 
 
 " My message, with regard to the infant, is simply to 
 this effect — that in the event of any accident occurring to 
 the mother, and my remaining the survivor, it would be 
 my wish to have her plans carried into effect, both with 
 regard to the education of the child, and the person or 
 persons under whose care Lady B. might be desirous that 
 she should be placed. It is not my intention to interfere 
 with her in any way on the subject during her life ; and I 
 presume that it would be some consolation to her to 
 know, (if she is in ill health, as I am given to understand,) 
 that in no case would any thing be done, as far as I am 
 concerned, but in strict conformity with Lady B.'s own 
 wishes and intentions — left in what manner she thought 
 proper. 
 
 "Believe me, dear Lady B., your obliged, &c." 
 
 LETTER DLXXXVI. 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS OF * * *. 
 
 «Albaro,May6, 1823. 
 
 « MV DEAR LADY + * *, 
 
 " I send you the letter which I had forgotten, and the 
 book,* which I ought to have remembered. It contains 
 (the book, I mean) some melancholy truths ; though I 
 beUeve that it is too triste a work ever to have been popu- 
 lar. The first time I ever read it, (not the edition I send 
 you, — for I got it since,) was at the desire of Madame de 
 Stael, who was supposed by the good-natured world to be 
 the heroine ; — which she was not, however, and was 
 furious at the supposition. This occurred in Switzerland, 
 in the summer of 1816, and the last season in which I 
 ever saw that celebrated person. 
 
 "I have a request to make to my friend Alfred, (smce 
 he has not disdained the title,) viz. that he would conde- 
 scend to add a cap to the gendeman in the jacket, — it 
 would complete his costume,-^and smooth his brow, which 
 is somewhat too inveterate a lilceness of the original, God 
 help me ! 
 
 « I did well to avoid the water-party, — why^ is a myste- 
 ry, which is not less to be wondered at than all my other 
 
 * Adolphe, by M. Benjamin Constant. 
 
 mysteries. Tell Milor that I am deep in liis MS., and 
 will do him justice by a diUgent perusal. 
 
 " The letter which I enclose I was prevented from 
 sending, by my despair of its doing any good. I was per- 
 fectly sincere when I wrote it, and am so still. But it is 
 difficult for me to withstand the thousand provocations on 
 that subject, which both friends and foes have for seven 
 years been throwing m the way of a man whose feelings 
 were once quick, and whose temper was never patient. 
 But ' returning were as tedious as go o'er.' I feel this as 
 much as ever Macbeth did ; and it is a dreary sensation, 
 which at least avenges the real or imaginary wrongs of 
 one of the two unfortunate persons whom it concerns. 
 
 "But I am going to be gloomy 5 — so, 'to bed, to bed.' 
 Good night, — or rather morning. One of the reasons 
 why I wish to avoid society is. that I can never sleep 
 after it, and the pleasanter it has been, the less I rest. 
 " Ever most truly, &c. &c." 
 
 LETTER DLXXXVIL* 
 
 TO LADY BYRON. 
 
 (To the care of the Hon. Mrs. Leigh, London. » 
 
 "Pisa, Nov. 17, 1821. 
 
 " I have to acknowledge the receipt of ' Ada's hair,' 
 which is very soft and pretty, and nearly as dark already 
 as mine was at twelve years old, if I may judge from 
 what I recollect of some in Augusta's possession, taken 
 at that age. But it do n't curl, — perhaps from its being 
 let grow. 
 
 "I also thank you for the mscription of the date and 
 name, and I will tell you why ; — I believe that they are 
 the only two or three words of your handwriting in my 
 possession. For your letters I returned, and except the 
 two words, or rather the one word, 'Household,' written 
 twice in an old account-book, I have no other. I burnt 
 your last note, for two reasons : — Istly, it was written in a 
 style not very agreeable ; and, 2dly, I wished to take your 
 word without documents, which are the worldly resources 
 of suspicious people. 
 
 "I suppose that this note will reach you somewhere 
 about Ada's birthday — the 10th of December, I believe. 
 She will then be six, so that in about twelve more I shall 
 have some chance of meeting her ; — perhaps sooner, if I 
 am obUged to go to England by business or otherwise. 
 Recollect, however, one thing, either in distance or near- 
 ness ; — everyday which keeps us asunder should, after so 
 long a period, rather soften our mutual feelings, which 
 must always have one rallying-point as lor>g as our child 
 exists, which I presume we both hope will be long after 
 either of her parents. 
 
 " The time which has elapsed since the separation, has 
 been considerably more than the whole brief period of 
 our union, and the not much longer one of our prior 
 acquaintance. We both made a bitter mistake ; but now 
 it is over, and irrevocably so. For, at thirty-three on my 
 part, and a few years less on yours, though it is no very 
 extended period of life, still it is one when the habits and 
 thought are generally so formed as to admit of no modifi- 
 cation ; and as we could not agree when younger, we 
 should with difficulty do so now, 
 
 " I say all this, because I own to you that, notwidi- 
 standing every thing, I considered our reunion as not 
 impossible for more than a year after the separation ; — 
 but then I gave up the hope entirely and for ever. But 
 this very impossibility of reunion seems to me at least a 
 reason why, on all the few points of discussion which can 
 arise between us, we should preserve the courtesies of 
 life, and as much of its kindness as people who are never 
 to meet may preserve, perhaps more easily than nearer 
 
 * Enclosed in Letter 582. 
 
212 
 
 LETTERS, 1823. 
 
 connexions. For my own part, I am violent, but not 
 malignant ; for only fresh provocations can awaken my 
 resentments. To you, who are colder and more concen- 
 trated, I would just hint, that you may sometimes mistake 
 the depth of a cold anger for dignity, and a worse feeling 
 for duty. I assure you that I bear you now (whatever I 
 may have done) no resentment whatever. Remember, 
 that if you have injured me in aught, this forgiveness is 
 something ; and that, if I have injured you.it is something 
 more still, if it be true, as the moralists say, that the most 
 offending are the least forgiving. 
 
 « Whether the offence has been solely on my side, or 
 reciprocal, or on yours chiefly, I have ceased to reflect 
 upon any but two things, — viz. that you are ihe mother of 
 my child, and that we shall never meet again. I think if 
 you also consider the two corresponding points with refer- 
 ence to myself, it vvill be better for all tliree. 
 
 "Yours ever, 
 
 " Noel Byron." 
 
 LETTER DLXXXVm. 
 
 TO MR. BLAQUIERE. 
 
 "Albaro, April 5, 1823. 
 
 " DEAR SIR, 
 
 "I shall be delighted to see you and your Greek friend ; 
 and the sooner the better. I have been expecting you 
 for some time, — you will find me at home. I carmot ex- 
 press to you how much I feel interested in the cause ; 
 and nothing but the hopes I entertained of witnessing the 
 liberation of Italy itself, prevented me long ago from re- 
 turning to do what little I could, as an individual, in iJiat 
 land which it is an honour even to have visited. 
 
 « Ever yours, truly, 
 « Noel Byron." 
 
 LETTER DLXXXTX. 
 
 TO MR. BOWRING. 
 
 "Genoa, May 12, 1823. 
 "sir, 
 
 " I have great pleasure in acknowledging your letter, 
 and the honour which the Committee have done me ; — I 
 shall endeavour to deserve their confidence by every 
 means in my power. My first wish is to go up into the 
 Levant in person, where I might be enabled to advance, 
 if not the cause, at least the means of obtaining informa- 
 tion which the Committee might be desirous of acting 
 upon •, and my former residence in the country, my fami- 
 liarity with the Italian language, (which is there univer- 
 sally spoken, or at least to the same extent as French in 
 the more polished parts of the continent,) and my not total 
 ignorance of the Romaic, would afford me some advan- 
 tages of experience. To this project the only objection 
 is of a domestic nature, and I shall try to get over it ; — 
 if I fail in this, I must do what I can where I am ; but it 
 will be always a source of regret to me, to think that I 
 might perhaps have done more for the cause on the spot. 
 
 "Our last information of Captain Blaquiere is from 
 Ancona, where he embarked with a fair wind for Corfu, 
 on the 15th ult. ; he is now probably at his destination. 
 My last letter /rom him personally was dated Rome ; he 
 had been refused a passport through the Neapolitan ter- 
 ritory, and returned to strilte up through Romagna for 
 Ancona : little time, however, appears to have been lost 
 by the delay. 
 
 " The principal material wanted by the Greeks appears 
 to be, first, a park of field artillery — light, and fit for moun- 
 tain-service ; secondly, gunpowder ; thirdly, hospital or 
 medical stores. The readiest mode of transmission is, I 
 hear, by Idra, addressed to Mr. Negri, the minister. I 
 
 meant to send up a certain quantity of the two latter 
 — no great deal — but enough for an individual to show 
 his good wishes for the Greek success ; but am pausing, 
 because, in case I should go myself, I can take them with 
 me. I do not want to limit my own contribution to this 
 merely, but more especially, if I can get to Greece my- 
 self, I should devote whatever resources I can muster of 
 my own, to advancing the great object. T am in corre- 
 spondence with Signor Nicolas Karrellas, (well knovvn to 
 Mr. Hobhouse,) who is now at Pisa ; but his latest ad- 
 vice merely stated, that the Greeks are at present em- 
 ployed in organizing their interned goverimient, and the 
 details of its administration ; this would seem to indicate 
 security, but the war is however far from being terminated. 
 " The Turks are an obstmate race, as all former wars 
 have proved them, and will return to the charge for years 
 to come, even if beaten, as it is to be hoped they will be. 
 But in no case can the labours of the Committee be said 
 to be in vain, for in the event even of the Greeks being 
 subdued and dispersed, the funds which could be em- 
 ployed in succouring and gathering together the remnant, 
 so as to alleviate in part their distresses, and enable them 
 to find or make a country, (as so many emigrants of other 
 nations have been compelled to do,) would bless 'both 
 those who gave and those who took,' as the bounty both 
 of justice and of mercy. 
 
 " With regard to the formation of a brigade, (which Mr. 
 Hobhouse hints at in his short letter of this day's receipt, 
 enclosing the one to wliich I have the honour to reply,) 
 I would presume to suggest — but merely as an opinion, 
 resulting rather from the melancholy experience of the 
 brigades embarked in the Columbian service, than from 
 any experiment yet fairly tried in Greece — that the at- 
 tention of the Committee had better perhaps be directed 
 to the employment o( officers of experience than the enrol- 
 ment of rati; British soldiers, which latter are apt to be 
 unruly, and not very serviceable, in irregular warfare, by 
 the side of foreigners. A small body of good officers, 
 especially artillery ; an engineer, with quantity (such as 
 the Committee might deem requisite) of stores, of the 
 nature which Captain Blaquiere indicated as most wanted, 
 would, I should conceive, be a highly useflil accession. 
 Officers, also, who had previously served in the Mediter- 
 ranean, would be preferable, as some knowledge of Italian 
 is nearly indispensable. 
 
 " It would also be as well that they should be aware 
 that they are not going ' to rough it on a beef-steak and 
 bottle of port,' — ^but that Greece — never, of late years, 
 very plentifully stocked for a mess — is at present the 
 country of all kinds of privations. This remark may seem 
 superfluous ; but I have been led to it, by observing that 
 many /oreig^n officers, Italian, French, and even Germans, 
 {hut fewer of the latter,) have returned in disgust, imagin- 
 ing either that they were going up to make a party ol 
 pleasure, or to enjoy full pay, speedy promotion, and a 
 very moderate degree of duty. They complain, too, of 
 having been ill received by the Government or inliabi- 
 tants ; but numbers of these complaints were mere adven- 
 turers, attracted by a hope of command and plunder, and 
 disappointed of both. Those Greeks I have seen stre- 
 nuously deny the charge of inhospitaUty, and declare that 
 they shared their pittance to the last crumb with their 
 foreign volunteers. 
 
 " I need not suggest to the Committee the very great 
 advantage which must accrue to Great Britain from the 
 success of the Greeks, and their probable commercial 
 relations with England in consequence ; because I feel 
 persuaded that the first object of the Committee is their 
 EMANCIPATION, without any interested views. But the 
 consideration might weigh with the English people in 
 general, in their present passion for every kind of specu- 
 lation, — they need not cross the American seas, for one 
 much better worth their while, and nearer home. The 
 resources, even for an emigiant population, in the Greek 
 
LETTERS, 1823. 
 
 213 
 
 island alone, are rarely to be paralleled ; and the cheap- 
 ness of every kind, of not only necessary^ but luxury, (that 
 is to say, luoniry denature,) fruits, wine, oil,&c. in a state 
 of peace, are far beyond those of the Cape, and Van Die- 
 man's Land, and the other places of refuge, which the 
 English population are searching for over the waters. 
 
 " I beg that the Committee will command me in any 
 and every way. If I am favoured with any instructions, 
 I shall endeavour to obey them to the letter, whether con- 
 formable to my own private opinion or not. I beg leave 
 to add, personally, my respect for the gentleman whom I 
 have the honour of addressing, 
 
 " And am, sir, your obliged, &c. 
 
 «P.S. The best refutation of Gell will be the active 
 exertions of the Committee ; — I am too warm a contro- 
 versialist ; and I suspect that if Mr. Hobhouse have talten 
 him in hand, there will be little occasion for me to ' en- 
 cumber him with help.' If I go up into the country, I 
 will endeavour to transmit as accurate and impartial an 
 account as circumstances will permit. 
 
 * I shall write to Mr. Karrellas. I expect intelligence 
 from Captain Blaquiere, who has promised me some early 
 intimation from the seat of the Provisional Government. 
 I gave him a letter of introduction to Lord Sidney Osborne, 
 at Corfu ; but as Lord S. is in the government service, of 
 course his reception could only be a cautious one." 
 
 LETTER DXC. 
 
 TO MR. BOWRING. 
 
 "Genoa, May 21, 1823. 
 "sir, 
 "I received yesterday the letter of the Committee, 
 dated the 14th of March. What has occasioned the de- 
 lay, I know not. It was forwarded by Mr. Galignani, 
 from Paris, who stated that he had only had it in his 
 charge four days, and that it was delivered to him by a 
 Mr. Grattan. I need hardly say that I gladly accede to 
 the proposition of the Committee, and hold myself highly 
 honoured by beuig deemed worthy to be a member. I 
 have also to return my thanks, particularly to yourself, for 
 the accompanying letter, which is extremely flattering. 
 
 "Since I last wrote to you, through the medium of Mr. 
 Hobhouse, I have received and forwarded a letter from 
 Captain Blaquiere to me, from Corfu, which will show 
 now he gets on. Yesterday I fell in with two young 
 Germans, survivors of General Nermann's band. They 
 arrived at Genoa in the most deplorable state — without 
 food — without a sou — without shoes. The Austrians 
 had sent them out of their territory on their landing at 
 Trieste : and they had been forced to come down to Flo- 
 rence, and had travelled from Leghorn here, with four 
 Tuscan limes (about three francs) in their pockets. I 
 have given them twenty Genoese scudi, (about a hundred 
 and thirty-three livres, French money,) and new shoes, 
 which wall enable them to get to Switzerland, where they 
 say that they have friends. All that they could raise in 
 Genoa, besides, was thirty smis. They do not complain 
 of the Greeks, but say that they have suffered more since 
 their landing in Italy. 
 
 "I tried their veracity, Istly, by their passports and 
 papers ; 2dly, by topography, cross-questioning them about 
 Arta, Argos, Athens, Missolonghi, Corinth, &c. ; and, 
 3dly, in Romaic, of which I found (one of them at least) 
 knew more than I do. One of them (they are both of 
 good families) is a fine, handsome young fellow of three- 
 and-twenty — a Wirtembergher, and has a look of Sandl 
 about him — the other a Bavarian, older, and flat- faced, and 
 less ideal, but a great, sturdy, soldier-Uke personage. The 
 Wirtembergher was in the action at Arta, where the 
 PhilheUenists were cut to pieces after killing six hundred 
 Turks, they themselves being only a hundred and fifty in 
 
 number, opposed to about six or seven thousand; only 
 eight escaped, and of them about three only survived; so 
 that General Nermann ' posted his ragamuffins where 
 they were well peppered — not three of the hundred and 
 fifty left alive — and they are for the town's end for hfe.' 
 
 " These two left Greece by the direction of the Greeks. 
 When Churschid Pacha overrun the Morea, the Greeks 
 seem to have behaved well, in wishing to save their allies, 
 when they thought that the game was up with themselves. 
 This was in September last, (1822:) they wandered from 
 island to island, and got from Milo to Smyrna, where the 
 French consul gave them a passport, and a charitable 
 captain a passage to Ancona, whence they got to Trieste, 
 and were tixrned back by the Austrians. They complain 
 only of the minister, (who has always been an indifferent 
 character ;) say that the Greeks fight very well in their 
 own way, but were at Jirst afraid to Jire their own carmon 
 — but mended with practice. 
 
 Adolphe (the younger) commanded at Navarino for 
 a short time ; the other, a more material person, ' the bold 
 Bavarian in a luckless hour,' seems chiefly to lament a fast 
 of three days at Argos, and the loss of twenty-five paras 
 a day of pay in arrear, and some baggage at Tripolitza ; 
 but takes his wounds, and marches, and battles in very 
 good part. Both are very simple, full of naivete, and 
 quite unpretending: they say the foreigners quarrelled 
 among themselves, particularly the French with the Ger- 
 mans, which produced duels. 
 
 The Greeks accept muskets, but throw away bayonets, 
 and will not be disciplined. When these lads saw two 
 Piedinontese regiments yesterday, they said, ' Ah, if we 
 had had but these two, we should have cleared the Morea :* 
 in that case the Piedmontese must have behaved better 
 than they did against the Austrians. They seem to lay 
 great stress upon a few regular troops — say that the 
 Greeks have arms and powder in plenty, but want 
 victuals, hospital stores, and lint and linen, &c. and 
 money, very much. Altogether, it would be difficult to 
 show more practical philosophy than this remnant of our 
 puir hill folk' have done ; they do not seem the least cast 
 down, and their way of presenting themselves was as 
 simple and natural as could be. They said, a Dane here 
 had told them that an Englishman, friendly to the Greek 
 cause, was here, and that, as they were reduced to beg 
 their way home, they thought they might as well begin 
 with me. I write in haste to snatch the post. — Believe 
 me, and truly, " Your obliged, &c. 
 
 "P. S. I have, since I wrote this, seen them again. 
 Count P. Garaba asked them to breakfast. One of them 
 means to publish his Journal of the campaign. The 
 Bavarian wonders a little that the Greeks are not quite 
 the same with them of the time of Themistocles, (they 
 were not then very tractable, by-the-by,) and at the diffi- 
 culty of disciplining them ; but he is a ' bon honune' and a 
 tacticia, and a little like Dugald Dalgetty, who would 
 insist upon the erection of ' a sconce on the hill of Dnim- 
 snab,' or whatever it was ; — ^the other seems to wonder at 
 nothing." 
 
 LETTER DXCL 
 
 TO MR. CHURCH, 
 
 Americaa Consul at Genoa. 
 
 "Genoa, May, 1823. 
 « The accounts are so contradictory, as to what mode 
 will be best for supplying the Greeks, that I have deemed 
 it better to take up, (with the exception of a few supplies,) 
 what cash and credit I can muster, rather than lay them 
 out in articles that might be deemed superfluous or unne- 
 cessary. Here we can learn nothing but from some of 
 the refugees, who appear chiefly interested for themselves. 
 My accounts from an agent of the Committee, an English 
 gentleman lately gone up to Greece, are hitherto favour- 
 
214 
 
 LETTERS, 1823. 
 
 able, but he had not yet reached the seat of the Pro\n 
 sional Grovemment, and I am anxiously expecting furthe 
 advice. 
 
 « An American has a better right than any other, to 
 suggest to other nations the mode of obtaining that liberty 
 wliich is the glory of his o\mi." 
 
 LETTER DXCIL 
 
 TO M. H. BEYLE, 
 Rue de Richelieu, Paris. 
 
 'Genoa, May 29, 1823. 
 
 'sir, 
 
 " At present, that I know to whom I am indebted for a 
 very flattering mention in the ' Rome, Naples, and Flo- 
 rence, in 1817, by Mons. Stendhal,' it is fit tliat I should 
 return my thanks (however undersired or undesirable) to 
 Mons. Beyle, with whom I had the honour of being ac 
 quainted at Milan in 1816. You only did me too much 
 honour in what you were pleased to say in that work; 
 but it has hardly given me less pleasure than tlie praise 
 itself to become at length aware (which I have done by 
 mere accident) that I am indebted for it to one of whose 
 good opinion I was really ambitious. So many changes 
 have taken place since that period in the Milan circle, 
 that I hardly dare recur to it ; — some dead, some banish- 
 ed, and some in the Austrian dungeons. Poor Pellico ! 
 I trust that, in his iron solitude, his IMuse is consoling 
 him in part — one day to delight us again, when both she 
 and her poet are restored to freedom. 
 
 " Of your works I have only seen ' Rome, &c.' the 
 Lives of Haydn and INIozart, and the brochure on Racine 
 and Shakspeare. The 'Histoire de la Peinture,' I have 
 not yet the good fortune to possess. 
 
 " There is one part of your obser\-ations in the pamphlet 
 which I shall venture to remark upon ; it regards Walter 
 Scott. You say that ' his character is hide worthy of 
 endiusiasm,' at the same time that you mention his pro- 
 ductions in the maimer they deserve. I have known 
 Walter Scott long and well, and in occasional situations 
 which call forth the real character — and I can assure you, 
 that his character is worUiy of admiration ; — that of all 
 men he is the most open, the most honourable, the most 
 amiable. With his politics, I have nothing to do ; they 
 differ from mine, which renders it difficult for me to speak 
 of them. But he is perfectly sincere in them ; and sin- 
 cerity may be humble, but she cannot be servile. I prav 
 you, therefore, to correct or soften that passage. You 
 may, perhaps, attribute this ofRciousness of mine to a 
 false affectation of candour, as I happen to be a writer 
 also. Attribute it to what motive you please, but believe 
 the truth. I say that Walter Scott is as nearly a thorough 
 good man as man can be, because I know it by experience 
 to be the case. 
 
 " If you do me the honour of an answer, may I request 
 a speedy one ? because it is possible (though not yet 
 decided) that circumstances may conduct me once more 
 to Greece. My present address is GenoEi, %vhere an 
 answer will reach me in a short time, or be forwarded to 
 me wherever I may be. 
 
 "I beg you to believe me, with a lively recollection 
 of our brief acquaintsuice, and the hope of one day re- 
 newing it. " Your ever obhged, 
 
 " and obedient humble servant, 
 "Noel Bfrox." 
 
 tions which some persons now in Greece on a private 
 mission may be pleased to send me. I am a member, 
 lately elected, of the said Committee ; and my object in 
 going up would be to do any little good in my power ; but 
 as there some pros and co?is on the subject, with regard to 
 how far the intervention of strangers may be advisable, I 
 know no more than I tell you ; but we shall probably hear 
 something soon from England and Greece, which may be 
 more decisive. 
 
 « With regard to the late person (Lord Londonderry) 
 whom you hear that I have attacked, I can only say that 
 a bad minister's memory is as much an object of inves- 
 tigation as his conduct while alive, — for his measures do 
 not die with him hke a private individual's notions. He 
 is matter of history ; and, wherever I find a tyrant or a 
 villain, I u-ill mark him. I attacked him no more than I 
 had been wont to do. As to the Liberal, — it was a pub- 
 lication set up for the advantage of a persecuted author 
 and a very wortiiy man. But it was foolish in me to 
 engage in it ; and so it has turned out — for I have hurt 
 myself without doing much good to those for whose bene- 
 fit it was intended. 
 
 "Do not defend me — it wUI never do— you \N-ill only 
 make yourself enemies. 
 
 " IMine are neither to be diminished nor softened, but 
 they may be overthrowTi ; and there are events which 
 may occur less improbable than those which have hap- 
 pened in our time, that may reverse the present state of 
 
 thine 
 
 -7201^8 verrons. 
 
 LETTER DXCm. 
 
 "May 17,1823. 
 " My voyage to Greece will depend upon the Greek 
 Committee (in England) partly, and pardy on the instruc- 
 
 "I send you this gossip that you may laugh at it, 
 which is all it is good for, if it is even good for so much. 
 I shall be delighted to see you again ; but it ^\-iU be melan- 
 choly, should it be only for a moment. 
 
 "Ever yours, 
 
 "N.B." 
 
 LETTER DXCIV. 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSIITGTON. 
 
 "Albaro, June2,1823. 
 
 " MT DEAR LACr B * *, 
 
 T am superstitious, and have recollected that memorials 
 with a point are of less fortunate augury : I will, there- 
 fore, request you to accept, instead of the pin,* the enclosed 
 chain, which is of so slight a value that you need not 
 hesitate. As you wished for something worn, I can only 
 say, that it has been worn oftener and longer than the 
 other. It is of Venetian manufacture; and the only 
 peculiarity about it is, that it could only be obtained at, or 
 from, Venice. At Genoa thej' have none of the same 
 kind. I also enclose a ring, which I would «-ish Alfred 
 to keep ; it is too large to wear ; hut is formed of lava, 
 and so far adapted to the fire of his years and character. 
 You will perhaps have the goodness to acknowledge the 
 receipt of this note, cuid send back the pin, (for good luck's 
 sake,) which I shall value much more for having been a 
 night in your custody. 
 
 " Ever and faithfully your obliged, &c. 
 
 "P. S. I hope your nerves are weU to-day, and will con- 
 tinue to flourish." 
 
 LETTER DXCV. 
 
 TO MR. BOWRIXG. 
 
 "July 7, 1823. 
 « We sail on the 12th for Greece. — I have had a letter 
 from Mr. Blaquiere, too long for present transcription 
 
 • He bad previously presented her wilh a breastpin cojUiniog 
 small cameo of Napoleon. " 
 
LETTERS, 1823. 
 
 215 
 
 but very satisfactory. The Greek government expects 
 me without delay. 
 
 " In conformity to the desires of Mr. B. and other cor- 
 respondents in Greece, I have to suggest, with all defer- 
 ence to the Committee, that a remittance of even 'ten 
 thousand pouTids only' (Mr. B.'s expression) would be of 
 the greatest service to the Greek Government at present. 
 I have also to recommend strongly the attempt of a loan, 
 for which there will be offered a sufficient security by 
 deputies now on their way to England. In the mean 
 time, I hope that the Committee will be enabled to do 
 something effectual. 
 
 "For my own part, I mean to carry up, in cash or 
 credits, above eight, and nearly nine thousand pounds 
 sterling, which I sun enabled to do by funds I have in Italv, 
 and credits in England. Of this sum I must necessarily 
 reserve a portion for the subsistence of myself and suite ; 
 the rest I am willing to apply in the manner which seems 
 most likely to be useful to the cause — having, of course, 
 some guarantee or assurance, that it will not be misap- 
 plied to any individual speculation. 
 
 " If I remain in Greece, which will mainly depend upon 
 the presumed probable utility of my presence there, ajid 
 of the opinion of the Greeks themselves as to its propri- 
 ety — in short, if I am welcome to them, I shall continue, 
 during my residence at least, to apply such portions of 
 my income, present and future, as may forward the object 
 — that is to say, what I can spare for that purpose. Pri- 
 vations I can, or at least could once, bear — abstinence I 
 am accustomed to — and, as to fatigue, I was once a toler- 
 able traveller. What I may be now, I cannot teU — but I 
 will try. 
 
 " I await the commands of the Committee. — Address 
 to Genoa — the letters will be forwarded to me, wherever 
 I may be, by my bankers, Messrs. "Webb and Barry. It 
 would have given me pleasure to have had some more 
 defined instructions before I went, but these, of course, 
 rest at the option of the Committee. 
 
 "I have the honour to be 
 
 " Your obedient, &c. 
 
 "P. S. Grreat anxiety is expressed for a printing press 
 And types, &c. I have not the time to provide them, but 
 recommend this to the notice of the Committee. I pre- 
 sume the t\-pes must, partly at least, be Cheek : they wish 
 to publish papers, and perhaps a Journal, probably in 
 Romaic, \\nh. Italian translations." 
 
 LETTER DXCVI. 
 
 TO GOETHE. 
 
 "Leghorn, July 24, 1823. 
 
 " ILLUSTRIOUS SIR, 
 
 " I cannot thanli you as you ought to be thanked for the 
 lines which my young friend, Mr. Sterling, sent me of 
 yours ; and it would but Ul become me to pretend to 
 exchange verses with him who, for fifty years, has been 
 the undisputed sovereign of European hterature. You 
 must therefore accept my most sbcere acknowledgments 
 in prose — and in hasty prose too ; for I am at present on 
 my voyage to Greece once more, and surrounded by hurry 
 and bustle, which hardly allow a moment even to grati 
 tude and admiration to express themselves. 
 
 " I sailed from Genoa some days ago, was driven back 
 by a gale of wind, and have since sailed again and arrived 
 here, 'Leghorn,' this morning, to receive on board some 
 Gcreek passengers for their struggling country. 
 
 "Here also I found your lines and Mr. Sterling's letter, 
 and I could not have had a more favourable omen, a more 
 agreeable surpiise, than a word of Goethe. WTitten by his 
 own hand. 
 
 " I am returning to Greece, to see if I can be of any 
 little use there : if ever I come back, I will pay a visit to 
 
 Weimar, to offer tlie sincere homage of one of the many 
 miUions of your admirers. I have the honour to be, ever 
 and most, " Your obliged, 
 
 " Noel Byron." 
 
 NOTES TO THE COUNTESS GtTICCIOLI. 
 
 "October?. 
 
 "Pietro has told you all the gossip of the island, — our 
 earthquakes, our politics, and present abode in a pretty 
 village. As his opinions and mine on the Greeks are 
 nearly similar, I need say httle on that subject. I was a 
 fool to come here ; but, being here, I must see what is to 
 be done." 
 
 "October 
 
 "We are still in Cephalonia, waiting for news of a 
 more accurate description ; for all is contradiction and 
 division in the reports of the state of the Greeks. 1 
 haU fulfil the object of my mission from the Committee, 
 and then return into Italy. For it does not seem likely 
 that, as an indi\-idual, I can be of use to them ; — at least 
 no other foreigner has yet appeared to be so, nor does it 
 seem likely that any will be at present. 
 
 Pray be as cheerfiil and tranquil as you can ; and be 
 assured that there is nothing here that can excite any 
 thing but a wish to be with you again, — though we are 
 very kindly treated by the English here of all descrip- 
 tions. Of the Greeks, I ca n't say much good hitherto, 
 and I do not like to speak ill of them, though they do of 
 one cmother." 
 
 "October 29. 
 
 "You may be sure that the moment I can join you 
 again will be as welcome to me as at any period of our 
 recollection. There is nothing very attractive here to 
 divide my attention ; but I must attend to the Greek 
 cause, both fi-om honour and inclination. Messrs. B. and 
 T. are both in the Morea, where they have been very 
 well received, and both of them write in good spirits and 
 hopes. I am anxious to hear how the Spanish cause wiU 
 be arranged, as I tiiink it may have an influence on the 
 Greek contest. I wish that both were fairly and favour- 
 ably settled, that I might return to Italy, and talk over 
 with you our, or rather Pielro's, adventures, some of %vhich 
 are rather amusing, as also some of the incidents of our 
 voyages and travels. But I reser\'e them, in the hope 
 that we may laugh over them together at no very distant 
 period." 
 
 LETTER DXOVn. 
 
 TO MR. BOWRING. 
 
 «9bre29, 1823. 
 " This letter will be presented to you by Mr. Hamilton 
 Browne, who precedes or accompanies the Greek depu- 
 ties. He is both capable and desirous of rendering any 
 service to the cause, and information to the Committee. 
 He hats already been of considerable advantage to both, 
 of my own knowledge. Lord Archibald Hamilton, to 
 whom he is related, will add a weightier recommendation 
 than mine. 
 
 Corinth is taken, and a Turkish squadron said to be 
 beaten in tiie Archipelago. The public progress of die 
 Greeks is considerable, but their internal dissensions still 
 continue. On arriving at the seat of Government, I shall 
 endeavour to mitigate or extinguish them — though neither 
 is an easy task. I have remained here till now, partly in 
 expectation of the squadron in relief of Missolonghi, 
 partly of Mr. Parrv^'s detachment, and partly to receive 
 fi-omMalta or Zante the simi of four thousand pounds 
 sterling, which I have advanced for the pajmaent of the 
 expected squadron. The bills are negotiating, and will 
 
216 
 
 LETTERS, 1823. 
 
 be cashed in a short time, as they would have been inune- 
 diately in any other mart; but the miserable Ionian 
 merchants have little money, and no great credit, and are 
 besides, politically shy on this occasion ; for, although I 
 had letters of Messrs. Webb, (one of the strongest 
 houses of the Mediterranean,) and also of Messrs. Ran- 
 som, there is no business to be done on fair terms except 
 through English merchants. These, however, have 
 proved both able and willing, — and upright, as usual. 
 
 " Colonel Stanhope has arrived, and Avill proceed imme- 
 diately ; he shall have my co-operation in all his endea- 
 vours ; but from every thing that I can learn, the forma- 
 tion of a brigade at present will be extremely difficult, to 
 say the least of it. With regard to the reception of 
 foreigners, — at least of foreign officers, — I refer you to a 
 passage in Prince Mavrocordato's recent letter, a copy of 
 which is enclosed in my packet sent to the Deputies. It 
 is my intention to proceed by sea to Napoli di Romania 
 as soon as I have arranged this business for the Greeks 
 themselves — I mean the advance of two hundred thou- 
 sand piastres for their fleet. 
 
 "My time here has not been entirely lost, — as you will 
 perceive by some former documents that any advantage 
 from my then proceeding to the Morea was doubtful. We 
 have at last moved the Deputies, and I have made a 
 strong remonstrance on their divisions to Mavrocordato, 
 which, I understand, was forwarded by the legislative to 
 the Prince. With a loan they may do much, which is all 
 that /, for particular reasons, can say on the subject. 
 
 "I regret to hear from Colonel Stanhope that the Com- 
 mittee have exhausted their funds. Is it supposed that a 
 brigade can be formed without tJiem ? or that three thou- 
 sand pounds would be sufficient ? It is true that money 
 will go farther in Greece than in most countries ; but the 
 regular force must be rendered a national concern, and paid 
 from a national fund ; and neither individuals nor com- 
 mittees, at least with the usual means of such as now 
 exist, wiUfind the experiment practicable. 
 
 "I beg once more to recommend my friend, Mr. 
 Hamilton Browne, to whom I have also personal obliga- 
 tions for his exertions in the common cause, and have the 
 honour to be 
 
 "Yours very truly." 
 
 LETTER DXCVm. 
 
 TO THE GENERAL GOVERNltfENT OF GREECE. 
 
 "Cephalonia, November 30, 1823. 
 
 " The affair of the loan, the expectation so long and 
 vainly bdulged of the arrival of the Greek fleet, and the 
 danger to which Missolonghi is stiU exposed, have 
 detained me here, and vnll still detain me till some of them 
 are removed. But when the money shall be advanced 
 for the fleet, I will start for the Morea, not knowing, how- 
 ever, of what use my presence can be in the present state 
 of things. We have heard some rumours of new dis- 
 sensions, nay, of the existence of a civil war. With all 
 my heart, I pray that these reports may be false or exag- 
 gerated ; for I can imagine no calamity more serious than 
 this ; and I must frankly confess, that unless union and 
 order are established, all hopes of a loan will be vain ; 
 and all the assistance which the Greeks could expect 
 from abroad — an assistance neither trifling nor worthless 
 — will be suspended or destroyed ; and, what is worse, 
 the great powers of Europe, of whom no one was an 
 enemy to Greece, but seemed to favour her establishment 
 of an independent power, will be persuaded that the 
 Greeks are unable to govern themselves, and will, per- 
 haps, themselves undertake to settle your disorders in 
 such a way as to blast the brightest hopes of yourselves 
 and of your friends. 
 
 " Allow me to add, once for all, — I desire the well-being 
 
 of Greece, and nothing else ; I will do all I can to secure it , 
 but I cannot consent, I never will consent, that the Eng- 
 lish public, or English individuals, should be deceived as 
 to the real state of Greek affairs. The rest, gentlemen, 
 depends on you. You have fought gloriously; — act 
 honourably towards your fellow-citizens and the world, 
 and it will then no more be said, as heis been repeated for 
 two thousand years with the Roman historians that Phi- 
 lopcemen was the last of the Grecians. Let not calumny 
 itself (and it is difficult, I own, to guard against it in so 
 arduous a struggle) compare the patriot Greek, when 
 resting from his labours, to the Turkish pacha, whom his 
 victories have exterminated. 
 
 "I pray you to accept these my sentiments as a sincere 
 proof of my attachment to your real interests, and to 
 beheve that I am, and always shall be, 
 
 "Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER DXCIX. 
 
 TO PRINCE MAVROCORDATO. 
 
 "Cephalonia, 2, Dec. 1823. 
 
 " PRINCE, 
 
 " The present will be put into your hands by Colonel 
 Stanhope, son of Major General the Earl of Harrington, 
 &c. &c. He has arrived from London in fifty days, after 
 having visited all the Committees of Germajiy. He is 
 charged by our Committee to act in concert with me for 
 the Uberation of Greece. I conceive that his name and 
 his mission will be a sufficient recommendation, without 
 the necessity of any other from a foreigner, although one 
 who, in common with all Europe, respects and admires 
 the courage, the talents, and above all, the probity of 
 Prince Mavrocordato. 
 
 ■ I am very uneasy at hearing that the dissensions of 
 Greece still continue, and at a moment when she might 
 triumph over every thing ia general, as she has already 
 triumphed in part. Greece is, at present, placed between 
 three measures : either to reconquer her liberty, to become 
 a dependence of the sovereigns of Europe, or to return to 
 a Turkish province. She has the choice only of these 
 three alternatives. Civil war is but a road which leads 
 to the two latter. If she is desirous of the fate of Wala- 
 chia and the Crimea, she may obtain it to-morrow; if of 
 that of Italy, the day after ; but if she wshes to become 
 truly Greece, free and independent, she must resolve 
 to-day, or she wiU never again have the opportunity. 
 " I am, with all respect, 
 " Your Highness's obedient servant, 
 «N. B. 
 
 "P. S. Your Highness will ah-eady have known that I 
 have sought to flilfil the wishes of the Greek Govern- 
 ment, as much as it lay in my power to do so : but I should 
 wish that the fleet so long and so vainly expected were 
 arrived, or, at least, that it were on the way ; and espe- 
 cially that your Highness should approach these parts 
 either on board the fleet, with a public mission, or in some 
 other maimer. 
 
 LETTER DC. 
 
 TO MR. BOWRING. 
 
 « lObre 7, 1823. 
 " I confirm the above ;* it is certainly my opinion that 
 Mr. Millingen is entitled to the same salary with Mr. 
 Tindall, and his service is likely to be harder. 
 
 • He here alludes to a letter, forwarded with his own, from Mr. Mil- 
 lingen, who was about to join, in his medical capacity, the Suliotes, near 
 Patras,and requested of the Committee an increase of pay. T hit gen- 
 tleman having mentioned m his letter " that the retreat of the Turks from 
 before Missolonghi had rendered unnecessary the appearance of the Greek 
 fleet," Lord Byron, in a note on this passage, says, " By the special pro- 
 
LETTERS, 1823. 
 
 217 
 
 " I have written to you (as to Mr. Hobhouse/or your 
 perusal) by various opportunities, mostly private ; also by 
 the Deputies, and by Mr. Hamilton Browne. 
 
 " The public success of the Greeks has been considera- 
 ble ; Corinth taken, Missolonghi nearly safe, and some 
 ships in the Archipelago taken from the Turks ; but 
 there is not only dissension in the Morea, but civil war, by 
 the latest accounts ;* to what extent we do not yet know, 
 but hope trifling. 
 
 " For six weeks I have oeen expecting the fleet, which 
 has not arrived, though I have, at the request of the 
 Greek Government, advanced — that is, prepared, and have 
 in hand, two hundred ihousand piastres (deducting the 
 commission and bankers' changes) of my own moneys to 
 forward their projects. The Suliotes (now in Acarna- 
 nia) are very anxious that I should take them under my 
 directions, and go over and put things to rights in the 
 Morea, which, without a force, seems impracticable ; and 
 really, though very reluctant (as my letters will have shown 
 you) to take such a measure, there seems hardly any 
 milder remedy. However, I will not do any thing rashly ; 
 and have only continued here so long in the hope of seeing 
 things reconciled, and have done all in my power thereto. 
 Had / gone sooner, they would have forced me into one party 
 or other, and I doubt as much now ; but we will do our best. 
 
 « Yours, &c." 
 
 fuss about them than Alexander in his cups, or Buona- 
 parte in a bulletin. Our friends have done sometlung in 
 the way of the Spartans — (though not one-tenth of what 
 is told) — but have not yet inherited their style. 
 
 " Beheve me yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER DCL 
 
 TO MR. BOWRING. 
 
 "October 10, 1823. 
 
 " Colonel Napier \vill present to you this letter. Of his 
 iniUtary character it were superfluous to speak ; of his 
 personal, I can say, from my own knowledge, as well as 
 from all pubUc rumour, or private report, that it is as ex- 
 cellent as his mihtary : in short, a better or a braver man 
 is not easily to be found. He is our man to lead a regu- 
 lar force, or to organize a national one for the Greeks. 
 Ask the army — ask any one. He is besides a personal 
 friend of both Prince Mavrocordato, Colonel Stanhope, 
 and myself, and in such concord with all three that we 
 should all put together — an indispensable, as well as a 
 rare point, especially in Greece at present. 
 
 " To enable a regular force to be properly organized, it 
 will be requisite for the loan-holders to set apart at least 
 50,000L sterling for that particular purpose — perhaps 
 more — but by so doing they will guaranty their own mo- 
 neys, 'and make assurance doubly sure.' They can ap- 
 point commissioners to see that part properly expended — 
 and I recommend a similar precaution for the whole. 
 
 "I hope that the Deputies have arrived, as well as 
 some of my various despatches (chiefly addressed to Mr. 
 Hobhouse) for the Committee. Colonel Napier will tell 
 you the recent special interposition of the gods in behalf 
 of the Greeks — who seem to have no enemies in heaven 
 or on earth to be dreaded, but their own tendency to dis- 
 cord among themselves. But these, too, it is to be hoped, 
 will be mitigated, and then we can take the field on the 
 offensive, instead of being reduced to the petite guerre of 
 defending the same fortresses year after year, and taking 
 a few ships, and starving out a castle, and making more 
 
 vidence of the Deity, the Mussulmans were seized with a panic, and fled ; 
 but no thanks to the fleet, which ought to have been here months ago, and 
 has no exc:ise to the contrary, lately— at least, since I had the money 
 
 ''^On another passage, in which Mr. Millingen complains that his hope 
 of any remuneration from the Greeks has " turned out perfectly cliimen- 
 cal "Lord Byron remarks, in a note, "and triZZ do so, till they obtain a 
 loan. Thevhave not a rap, nor credit (in the islands) to raise one A 
 medical man may succeed better than others ; but all these penniless 
 oflicers had better have staid at home. Much money may not be required, 
 butsome^usU^^_^^ and Executive bodies having been for some titne at 
 variance, the latter had at length resorted to violence, and some skirmishes 
 had already taken place between the factions. 
 28 
 
 LETTER DCIL 
 
 TO MR. BOWRING. 
 
 ''October 13, 1823. 
 
 " Since I wrote to you on the 10th instant, the long- 
 desired squadron has arrived in the waters of Missolonghi 
 and intercepted two Turkish corvettes — ditto transports 
 — destroying or taking all four — except some of the crews 
 escaped on shore in Ithaca — and an unarmed vessel, with 
 passengers, chased into a port on the opposite side of Ce- 
 phalonia. The Greeks had fourteen sail, the Turks four 
 — but the odds do n't matter — the victory will make a 
 very good puff", and be of some advantage besides. I ex- 
 pect momentarily advices from Prince Mavrocordato, 
 who is on board, and has (I understand) despatches from 
 the Legislative for me ; in consequence of which, after 
 paying the squadron, (for which I have prepared, and am 
 preparing,) I shall probably join him at sea or on shore. 
 
 " I add the above communication to my letter by Col. 
 Napier, who will inform the Committee of every thing in 
 detail much better than I can do. 
 
 " The mathematical, medical, and musical preparations 
 of the Committee have arrived, and in good condition, 
 abating some damage from wet, and some ditto from a 
 portion of the letter-press being spilt in landing — (I ought 
 not to have omitted the press — ^but forgot it a moment — 
 excuse the same) — they are excellent of their kind, but 
 till we have an engineer and a trumpeter (we have chirur- 
 eons already) mere 'pearls to swine,' as the Greeks are 
 quite ignorant of mathematics, and have a bad ear for our 
 music. The maps, &c. I will put into use for them, and 
 take care that all (with proper caution) are turned to the 
 intended uses of the Committtee — but I refer you to Co- 
 lonel Napier, who will tell you, that much of your really 
 valuable supplies should be removed till proper persons 
 arrive to adapt them to actual service. 
 
 " Believe me, my dear sir, to be, &c. 
 
 "P. S. Private. — I have written to our friend Douglas 
 Kinnaird on my own matters, desiring him to send me 
 out all the further credits I can command, — and I have a 
 year's income, and the sale of a manor besides, he tells 
 me, before me, — for till the Greeks get their loan, it is 
 probable that I shall have to stand partly paymaster — as 
 far as I am ' good upon Change^ that is to say. I pray 
 you to repeat as much to him, and say that I must in the 
 interim draw on Messrs. Ransom most formidably. To 
 say the truth, I do not grudge it, now the fellows have be- 
 gun to fight again — and still more welcome shall they be 
 if they will go on. But they have had, or are to have, 
 some four thousand poimds (besides some private extra- 
 ordinaries for widows, orphans, refugees, and rascals of 
 all descriptions) of mine at one ' swoop ;' and it is to 
 be expected the next will be at least as much more. 
 And how can I refuse it if they will fight? — ^and espe- 
 cially if I should happen ever to be in their company ? I 
 therefore request and require that you should apprize my 
 trusty and trustworthy trustee and banker, and crown and 
 sheet anchor, Douglas Kinnaird the Honourable, that he 
 prepare all moneys of mine, including the purchase-mo- 
 ney of Rochdale manor and mine income for the year 
 ensuing, A. D. 1824, to answer, or anticipate, any orders 
 or drafts of mine for the good cause, in good and lawful 
 money of Great Britain, &c. &c. May you hve a thou- 
 sand years ! which is 999 longer than the Spanish Cortes 
 1 Constitution." 
 
218 
 
 LETTERS, 1823. 
 
 LETTER DCIII. 
 
 TO THE HONOURABLE MR. DOUGLAS KINNAIRD. 
 
 "Cephalonia, Dec. 23, 1823. 
 
 " I shall be as saving of my purse and person as you 
 recommend, but you know that it is as well to be in rea- 
 diness with one or both, in the event of either being 
 required. 
 
 " I presume that some agreement has been concluded 
 with Mr. Murray about ' Werner.' Although the copy- 
 right should only be worth two or three hundred pounds, 
 I will tell you what can be done with them. For three 
 hundred pounds I can maintain in Greece, at more than 
 the fullest pay of the Provisional Government, rations 
 included, one hundred armed men for three mmdhs. You 
 may judge of this when I tell you, that the four thousand 
 pounds advanced by me to the Greeks is likely to set a 
 fleet and an army in motion for some months. 
 
 " A Greek vessel has arrived from the squadron to con- 
 vey me to Missolonghi, where Mavrocordato now is, and 
 has assumed the command, so that I expect to embark 
 immediately. Still address, however, to Cephalonia, 
 through Messrs. Welch and Barry of Genoa, as usual; 
 and get together all the means and credit of mine you 
 can, to face the war establishment, for it is ' in for a 
 penny, in for a pound,' and I must do all that I can for 
 the ancients. 
 
 " I have been labouring to reconcile these parties, and 
 there is now some hope of succeeding. Their public af- 
 fairs go on well. The Turks have retreated from Acar- 
 nania without a battle, after a few fruitless attempts on 
 Anatoliko. Corinth is taken, and the Greeks have gained 
 a battle in the Archipelago. The squadron here, too, 
 has taken a Turkish corvette, with some money and a 
 cargo. In short, if they can obtain a loan, I am of opin- 
 ion that matters will assume and preserve a steady and 
 favourable aspect for their independence. 
 
 " In the mean time I stand paymaster, and what not ; 
 and lucky it is that, from the nature of the warfare and 
 of the country, the resources even of an individual can 
 be of a partial and temporary service. 
 
 " Colonel Stanhope is at Missolonghi. Probably we 
 shall attempt Patras next. The Suliotes, who are friends 
 of mine, seem anxious to have me with them, and so is 
 Mavrocordato. If I can but succeed in reconciling the 
 two parties (and I have left no stone unturned) it will be 
 something ; and if not, we must go over to the Morea 
 with the western Greeks — who are the bravest, and at 
 present the strongest, having beaten back the Turks — 
 and try the effect of a little physical advice, should they 
 persist in rejecting moral persuasion. 
 
 " Once more recommending to you the reinforcement of 
 my strong-box and credit from all lawful sources and re- 
 sources of mine to their practicable extent — for, after all, 
 it is better pla)dng at nations than gaming at Almack's 
 or Newmarket — and requesting you to write to me as 
 often as vou can. " I remain ever, &c.'' 
 
 LETTER DCIV. 
 
 TO MR. BOWRING. 
 
 «10b'-e26,1823. 
 
 * Little need be added to the enclosed, which arrived 
 this day, except that I embark to-morrow for Missolonghi. 
 The intended operations are detailed in the armexed 
 documents. I have only to request that the Committee 
 will use every exertion to forward our views by all its in- 
 fluence and credit. 
 
 " I have also to request you personally from myself to 
 urge my friend and trustee, Douglas Kinnaird (from whom 
 I have not heard these four months nearly,) to forward to 
 
 me all the resources of ray ofwn we can muster for the 
 ensuing year, since it is no time to menager purse^ or, 
 perhaps, person. I have advanced, and am advancing, all 
 that I have in hand, but I snail require all that can be got 
 together — and, (if Douglas has completed the sale of 
 Rochdale, that and my year's income for next year ought 
 to form a good round sum) — as you may perceive that 
 there will be little cash of their own among the Greeks, 
 (unless they get the loan,) it is the more necessary that 
 those of their friends who have any should risk it. 
 
 " The supplies of the Committee are, some useful, and 
 all excellent in their kind, but occasionally hardly practical 
 enough, in the present state of Greece; for instance, the 
 mathematical instruments are thrown away — none of the 
 Greeks know a problem from a poker — we must conquer 
 first, and plan afterward. The use of the trumpets too 
 may be doubled, unless Constantinople were Jericho, for 
 the Hellenists have no ears for bugles, and you must send 
 us somebody to listen to them. 
 
 " We will do our best — and I pray you to stir your 
 English hearts at home to more general exertion ; for my 
 part, I will stick by the cause while a plank remains 
 which can be honourably clung to. If I quit it, it will be 
 by the Greeks' conduct, and not the Holy Allies or the 
 holier Mussulmans — but let us hope better things. 
 
 " Ever yours. 
 
 «N. B. 
 
 "P.S. lam happy tosay that Colonel Leicester Stan- 
 hope and myself are acting in perfect harmony together — 
 he is likely to be of great service both to the cause and to 
 the Committee, and is publicly as well as personally a very 
 valuable acquisition to our party on every account. He 
 came up (as they all do who have not been in the coun- 
 try before) vinth some high-flown notions of the 6th form 
 at Harrow or Eaton, &c. ; but Col. Napier and I set 
 him to rights on those points, which is absolutely neces- 
 sary to prevent disgust, or perhaps return ; but now we 
 can set our shoulders soberly to the wheel, without quar- 
 reling vdth the mud which may clog it occasionally. 
 
 "I can assure you that Col. Napier and myself are as 
 decided for the cause as any German student of them all ; 
 but like men who have seen the country and human hfe, 
 there and elsewhere, we must be pemitted to view it in 
 its truth, with its defects as well as beauties, — more espe- 
 cially as success will remove the former gradically. 
 
 «N. B. 
 
 "P. S. As much of this letter as you please is for the 
 Committee, the rest may be ' entre nous.' " 
 
 LETTER DCV. 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 "Cephalonia, Dec. 27, 1823. 
 
 " I received a letter from you some time ago. I have 
 been too much employed latterly to write as I could wish, 
 and even now must write in haste. 
 
 " I embark for Missolonghi to join Mavrocordato in 
 four-and- twenty hours. The state of parties (but it were 
 along story) has kept me here till now; but now that 
 Mavrocordato (their Washington or their Kosciusko) is 
 employed again, I can act with a safe conscience. I carry 
 money to pay the squadron, &c., and I have influence 
 with the Suliotes, supposed sufficient to keep them in har- 
 mony with some of the dissentients ; — for there are plenty 
 of differences, but trifling. 
 
 " It is imagined that we shall attempt either Patras or 
 the castles on the Straits ; and it seems, by most accounts, 
 that the Greeks,— at any rate, the Suliotes, who are in 
 affinity with me of 'bread and salt,'— expect that I should 
 march with them, and — be it even so ! If any thbg in 
 the way of fever, fatigue, famine, or otherwise, should*'cut 
 short the middle age of a brother warbler,— like Garci- 
 
LETTERS, 1824. 
 
 219 
 
 lasso de la Vega, Kleist, Komer, Kutoffski, (a Russian 
 nightingale — see Bowring's Anthology,) or Thersander, 
 or, — or, somebody else — but never mind — I pray you to 
 remember me in your ' smiles and wine.' 
 
 " I have hopes that the cause will triumph ; but whether 
 it does or no, still ' Honour must be minded as strictly as 
 a millc diet.' I trust to observe both. 
 
 «Ever,&c." 
 
 LETTER DCVL 
 
 TO THE HONOURABLE COLONEL STANHOPE. 
 
 "Scrofer, (or some such name,) on board a Cephaoniole. 
 "MisticOjDec. 31, 1823. 
 "my dear stanhope, 
 
 " We are just arrived here, that is, part of my people 
 and 1, with some things, &c., and which it may be as well 
 not to specify in a letter (which has a risk of being inter- 
 cepted, perhaps ;) — but Gamba, and my horses, negro, 
 steward, and the press, and all the Committee things, also 
 some eight thousand dollars of mine (but never mind we 
 have more left, do you understand?) are taken by (he 
 Turkish frigates, and my party and myselfj in another, 
 boat, have had a narrow escape last night, (being close 
 under their stern and hailed, but we would not answer, 
 and bore away,) as well as this morning. Here we are, 
 with sun and clearing weather, within a pretty little port 
 enough : but whether our Turkish friends may not send 
 in their boats and take us out (for we have no arms except 
 two carbines and some pistols, and, I suspect, not more 
 than four fighting people on board,) is another question, 
 especially if we remain long here, since we are blocked 
 out of Missolonghi by the direct entrance. 
 
 " You had better send my friend George Drake (Draco,) 
 and a body of Suliotes, to escort us by land or by the 
 canals, with all convenient speed. Gamba and our ISoni- 
 bard are taken into Patras, I suppose ; and we must take 
 a turn at the Turks to get them out : but where the devil 
 is the fleet gone ? — the Greek, I mean ; leaving us to get 
 in without the least intimation to take heed that the Mo- 
 slems were out agam. 
 
 " Make my respects to Mavrocordato, and say, that I 
 am here at his disposal. 1 am uneasy at being here ; not 
 so much on my own account as on that of a Greek boy 
 with me, for you know what his fate would be : and I 
 would sooner cut him in pieces, and myself too, than have 
 him taken out by those barbarians. We are all very 
 well. " N. B. " 
 
 "The Bombard was twelve miles out when taken; at 
 least so it appeared to us, (if taken she actually be, for it 
 is not certain ;) and we had to escape from another ves- 
 sel that stood right between us and the port." 
 
 LETTER DCVIL 
 
 TO MR. MUIR. 
 
 "Dragomestri, Jan. 2, 1824. 
 
 "MY dear MUIR, 
 
 " I wish you many returns of the season and happiness 
 therewithal. Gamba and the Bombard, (there is a strong 
 reason to believe) are carried into Patras by a Turkish 
 frigate, which we saw chase them at dawn on the 31st ; 
 we had been close under the stern in the night, believing 
 her a Greek till within pistol-shot, and only escaped by a 
 miracle of all the Saints, (our captain says,) and truly I 
 am of his opinion, for we should never have got away of 
 ourselves. They were signalizing their consort with 
 lights, and had illuminated the ship between decks, and 
 were shouting like a mob \ — but then why did they not 
 
 fire? Perhaps they took us for a Greek brlilot, and were 
 afraid of kindling us — they had no colours flaying even at 
 dawn nor after. 
 
 " At daybreak my boat was on the coast, but the wind 
 unfavourable for the port; — a large vessel with the wind in 
 her favour standing between us and the Gulf, and another 
 in chase of the Bombard about 12 miles off or so. Soon 
 after they stood (i. e. the Bombard and frigate,) appa- 
 rently towards Patras, and a Zantiote boat making sig- 
 nals to us from the shore to get away. Away we went 
 before the wind, and ran into a creek called Scrofes, I 
 believe, where I landed Luke* and another (as Luke's 
 life was in most danger,) with some money for them- 
 selves, and a letter for Stanhope, and sent them up the 
 country to Missolonghi, where they would be in safety, as 
 the place where we were, could be assailed by armed 
 boats in a moment, and Gamba had all our arms except 
 two carbines, a fowling-piece, and some pistols. 
 
 "In less than an hour the vessel in chase neared us, 
 and we dashed out again, and showing our stern (our 
 boat sails very well,) got in before night to Dragomestri, 
 where we now are. But where is the Greek fleet? I 
 do n't know — do you ? I told our master of the boat that 
 I was inclined to think the two large vessels (there were 
 none else in sight,) Greeks. But he answered ' they are 
 too large — why do n't they show their colours ?' and his 
 account was confirmed, be it true or false, by several boats 
 which we met or passed^ as we could not at any rate 
 have got in with that wind without beating about for a 
 long time ; and as there was much property and some 
 lives ro risk (the boy's especially) without any means of 
 defence, it was necessary to let our boatmen have their 
 o\\Ti way. 
 
 " I despatched yesterday another messenger to Mis- 
 solonghi for an escort, but we have yet no answer. We 
 are here (those of my boat) for the fifth day without tak- 
 ing our clothes ofi^ and sleeping on deck in all weathers, 
 but are all very well, and in good spirits. It is to be sup- 
 liosed that the Government will send, for their own sakes, 
 an escort, as I have 16,000 dollars on board, the greater 
 part for their service. I had (besides personal property 
 to the amount of about 5000 more,) 8000 dollars in specie 
 of my own, without reckoning the Committee's stores, so 
 that the Turks will have a good thing of it, if the prize be 
 good. 
 
 " I regret the detention of Gamba, &c. but the rest we 
 can make up again, so tell Hancock to set my bills into 
 cash as soon as possible, and Corgialegno to prepare the 
 remainder of my credit with Messrs. Webb to be turned 
 into moneys. I shall remain here, unless something ex- 
 traordinary occurs, till Mavrocordato sends, and then go 
 on, and act according to circumstances. My respects to 
 the two colonels, and remembrances to all friends. Tell 
 ' Ultima Analise'] that his friend Raidi did not make his 
 appearance with the brig, though I think that he might as 
 well have spoken with us in or off Zante, to give us a 
 gentle hint of what we had to expect. 
 
 " Yours ever affectionately, 
 «N.B. 
 " P. S. Excuse my scrawl on account of the pen and 
 the frosty morning at daybreak. I write in haste, a boat 
 starting for Kalamo. I do not know whether the deten- 
 tion of the Bombard, (if she be detained, for I cannot 
 swear to it, and I can only judge from appearances, and 
 what all these fellows say,) be an affair of the Govern- 
 ment, and neutrality, and, &c, — ^but she was stopped ai 
 least 12 miles distant from any port, and had all her papers 
 regular from Zante for Kalamo^ and we also. I did not 
 land at Zante, being anxious to lose as httle time as 
 
 ' a Greek youth whom he had brought with him, in his suite, from 
 Cephalonia. 
 
 t Count Delladecima, to whom he gives this name in consequence of a 
 habit which that gentleman had of using the phrase " in ultima analise" 
 frequently in conversation. 
 
220 
 
 LETTERS, 1824. 
 
 possible, but Sir F. S. came off to invite me, &c, and 
 everybody was eis kind as could be, even in Cephalonia." 
 
 LETTER DCVIII. 
 
 TO MR. C. HANCOCK. 
 
 " Dragomestri, Jan. 2, 1824. 
 "dear sir 'ancock,'* 
 
 "Remember me to Dr. Muir and everybody. I have 
 still the 16,000 dollars with me, the rest were on board 
 the Bombarda. Here we are — the Bombarda taken, or 
 at least missincj, with all die Committee stores, my friend 
 Gamba, the horses, negro, bull-dog, steward, and domes- 
 tics, with all our implements of peace and war, also 8000 
 dollars ; but whether she will be lawful prize or no, is for 
 the decision of the Governor of the Seven Islands. I 
 have written to Dr. Muir, by way of Kalamo, with all 
 particulars. We are in good condition ; and what with 
 wind and weather, and being hunted or so, little sleepinjj 
 on deck, &c. are in tolerable seasoning for the country 
 and circumstances. But I foresee that we shall have 
 occasion for all the cash I can muster at Zante and else- 
 where. Mr. Barnff gave us 8000 and odd dollars ; so 
 there is still a balance in my favour. We are not quite 
 certain that the vessels were Turkish which chased ; but 
 there is strong presumption that they were, and no news 
 to the contrary. At Zante, everybody, from the Resident 
 downwards, were as kind as could be, especially your 
 vj^orthy and courteous partner. 
 
 " Tell our friends to keep up their spirits, and we may 
 yet do well. I disembarked the boy and another Greek, 
 who were in most terrible alarm — the boy, at least, from 
 the Morea — on shore near Anatoliko, T believe, which put 
 them in safety ; and, as for me and mine, we must stick 
 by our goods. 
 
 " I hope that Gamba's detention will only be temporary. 
 As for the effects and moneys, — if we have them, well ; if 
 otherwise, patience. I wish you a happy new year, and 
 all our friends the same, « Yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER DCIX. 
 
 TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 
 
 •'Missolonghi, Jan. 13,1824 
 "dear sir, 
 
 "Many thanks for yours of the 5th: ditto to Muir for 
 his. You will have heard that Gamba and my vessel got 
 out of the hands of the Turks safe and intact ; nobody 
 knows well how or why, for there 's a mystery in the story 
 somewhat melodramatic. Captain Valsamachi has, I 
 take it, spun a long yarn by this time in Argostoli. I 
 attribute their release entirely to Saint Dionisio, of Zante, 
 and the Madonna of the Rock, near Cephalonia. 
 
 " The adventures of my separate luck were also not 
 finished at Dragomestri ; we were conveyed out by some 
 Greek gunboats, and found the Leonidas brig-of-vvar at 
 sea to look after us. — But blowing weather coming on, 
 we were driven on the rocks twice in the passage of the 
 Scrophes, and the dollars had another narrow escape. 
 Two-thirds of the crew got ashore over the bowspirit : 
 the rocks were rugged enough, but water very deep close 
 in shore, so that she was, after much swearing and some 
 exertion, got off again, and away we went with a third of 
 our crew, leaving the rest on a desolate island, where they 
 might have been now, had not one of the gunboats taken 
 
 * This letter is, more properly, a poslcript to one which Dr. Bruno 
 liad by Ins orders, written to Mr. Hancock, with some particulars 
 OJ their voyage: and the Doctor having begun his letter, "Pregiatmo. 
 Sigr. Ancock,'- Lord Byron thus parodies his mode of address.— 
 Moore. 
 
 them off, for we were in no condition to take them off 
 again. 
 
 " Tell Muir that Dr. Bruno did not show much fight on 
 the occasion, for besides stripfiing to his flannel waistcoat, 
 and running about like a rat in an emergency, when I was 
 talking to a Greek boy (the brother of the Greek girls in 
 Argostoli.) and telling him of the fact that there was no 
 danger for the passengers, whatever there might be for 
 the vessel, and assuring him that I could save both hira 
 and myself without ditlicully, (though he can't swim,) as 
 the water, though deep, was not very rough, — the wind 
 not blowing right on shore (it was a blunder of the Greeks 
 who missed stays,) the Doctor exclaimed, ' Save hijn, in- 
 deed ! by G — d ! save me rather — I '11 be first if I can' — a 
 piece of egotism which he pronounced with such emphatic 
 simplici y as to set all who had leisure to hear him laugh- 
 ing, and in a minute after the vessel drove off again after 
 striking twice. She sprung a small leak, but nothing fur- 
 ther happened, except that the captain was very nervous 
 afterward. 
 
 " To be brief, we had bad weather almost always, 
 (hough not contrary ; slept on deck in the wet generally 
 for seven or eight nights, but never was in better health 
 (T speak personally) — so much so, that I actually bathed 
 for a quarter of an hour on the evening of the fourth 
 instant in the sea (to kill the fleas, and other &c.) and 
 was all the better for it. 
 
 " We were received at Missolonghi with all kinds of 
 kindness and honours ; and the sight of the fleet saluting, 
 &c. and the crowds and different costumes, was really 
 picturesque. We think of undertaldng an expedition 
 soon, and I expect to be ordered with the Suhotes to join 
 the army. 
 
 "All well at present. We found Gamba already 
 arrived, and every thing in good condition. Remember 
 me to all friends. " Yours ever, 
 
 «N.B. 
 "P. S. You will, I hope, use every exertion to reahze 
 the assets. For besides what I have already advanced, I 
 have undertaken to maintam the Suliotes for a year, (and 
 will accompany them, either as a Chief, or whichever is 
 most agreeable to the Government,) besides sundries. I 
 do not understand Bro\^^l's ^letters of credit.^ I neither 
 gave nor ordered a letter of credit that I know of; and 
 though of course, if you have done it, I will be responsi- 
 ble, I was not aware of any thing except that I would 
 have backed his bills, which you said was unnecessary. 
 As to orders — I ordered nothing but some red cloth and 
 oil clotJis, both of which I am ready to receive ; but if 
 Gamba has exceeded my commission, the other things 
 must be sent back, for I cannot permit any thing of the kind, 
 nor will. The servants' journey will of course be paid 
 foi-, though that is exorbitant. As for Brown's letter, I do 
 not know any thing more than I have said, and I really 
 cannot defray the charges of half Greece and the Frank 
 adventures besides. Mr. Barff must send us some dol- 
 lars soon, for the expenses fall on me for the present. 
 
 "January 14, 1824. 
 "P. S. Will you tell Saint (Jew) Geronimo Corgial- 
 egno that I mean to draw for the balance of my credit 
 with Messrs. Webb and Co. I shall draw for two thou- 
 sand dollars,) that being about the amount, more or less ;) 
 but to facilitate the business, I shall make the draft paya- 
 ble also at Messrs. Ransom and Co., Pall-Mail East, 
 London. I believe I already showed you my letters, (but 
 if not, I have them to show,) by which, besides the credits 
 now realizing, you will have perceived that I am not 
 limited to any particular amount of credit with my bank- 
 ers. The Honourable Douglas, my friend and trustee, is 
 a principal partner in that house, and having the direction 
 of my affairs, is aware to what extent my present resour- 
 ces may go, and the letters in question were from hira. I 
 can merely say, that within the current year, 1824, besides 
 
LETTERS, 1824. 
 
 221 
 
 the money already advanced to the Greek Government, 
 and the credits now in your hands and your partner's 
 (Mr. BarfF,) which are all from the income of 1823, 1 
 have anticipated nothing from that of the present year 
 hitherto. I shall or ought to have at my disposition 
 upwards of one hundred thousand dollars, (including my 
 income, and the purchase-moneys of a manor lately sold,) 
 and perhaps more, without infringing on my income for 
 1823, and not including the remaining balance of 1823. 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 "N.B." 
 
 LETTER DCX. 
 
 TO MR. CHAHLES HANCOCK. 
 
 " Missolonghi, Jan. 17, 1824. 
 
 " 1 have answered, at some length, your obliging letter, 
 and trust that you have received my reply by means of 
 Mr. Tindal. I will also thank you to remind Mr. Tindal 
 that I Avould thank him to furnish you, on my account, 
 v/ith an order of the Committee for one hundred dollars, 
 which I advanced to him on their account through Signor 
 Corgialegno's agency at Zante on his arrival in October, 
 as it is but fair that the said Committee should pay tlieir 
 own expenses. An order will be sufficient, as the money 
 might be inconvenient for Mr. T. at present to disburse. 
 
 " I have also advanced to Mr. Blackett the sum of fifty 
 dollars, which I will thank Mr. Stevens to pay to you, on 
 my account, from moneys of Mr. Blackett, now in his 
 hands. I have Mr. B.'s acknowledgment in writing. 
 
 " As the wants of the State here are still pressing, and 
 there seems very Uttle specie stirring except mine, I still 
 stand paymaster, and must again request you and Mr. 
 BarfF to forward by a safe channel (if possible) all the 
 dollars you can collect on the bills now negotiating. I 
 have also written to Corgialegno for two thousand dollars, 
 being about the balance of my separate letter from Messrs. 
 Webb and Co., making the biUs also payable at Ransom's 
 in London. 
 
 " Things are going on better, if not well ; there is some 
 order, and considerable preparation . I expect to accom- 
 pany the troops on an ex-pedition shortly, which makes me 
 particularly anxious for the remaining remittance, as 
 ' money is the sinew of war,' and of peace, too, as far as I 
 can see, for I am sure there would be no peace here 
 without it. However, a little does go a good way, which 
 is a comfort. The Government of the Morea and of 
 Candia have written to me for a farther advance from my 
 own peculium of 20 or 30,000 dollars, to which I demur 
 for the present, (having undertaken to pay the Suliotes as 
 a free gift and other things already, besides the loan w^hich 
 I have already advanced,) till I receive letters from Eng- 
 land, which I have reason to expect. 
 
 " When the expected credits arrive, I hope that you will 
 bear a hand, otherwise I must have recourse to Malta, 
 which will be losing time and taking trouble ; but I do not 
 wish you to do more than is perfectly agreeable to Mr. 
 BarfF and to yourself. I am very well, and have no 
 reason to be dissatisfied with my personal treatment, or 
 with the posture of pubhc affairs — others must speak for 
 themselves. 
 
 "Yours ever and truly, &c. 
 
 " P. S. Respects to Colonels Wright and Duffie, and 
 the officers civil and military ; also to my friends Muir 
 and Stevens particularly, and to Delladecima." 
 
 LETTER DCXI. 
 
 TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 
 
 « Missolonghi, Jan. 19, 1824 
 " Since I wrote on the 17thj I have received a letter 
 
 from Mr. Stevens, enclosing an account from Corfu, 
 wl-iich,is so exaggerated m price and quantity, that I am 
 at a loss whether most to admire Gamba's foUy, or the 
 merchant's knavery. All that I requested Gamba to 
 order was red cloth, enough to make a jacket, and some 
 oil-skin for trousers, &c. — the latter has not been sent — 
 the whole could not have amounted to 50 dollars. The 
 account is 645 ! ! ! I will guaranty Mr. Stevens against 
 any loss, of course, but I am not disposed to take the arti- 
 cles, (which I never ordered,) nor to pay the amount. I 
 will take 100 doUajs worth ; the rest may be sent back, 
 and I will make the merchant an allowance of so much 
 per cent. ; or if that is not to be done, you must sell the 
 whole by auction at what price the things may fetch, for I 
 would rather incur the dead loss oi part, than be encum- 
 bered with a quantity of things, to me at present super- 
 fluous or useless. Why, I could have maintained 300 
 men for a month for the sum in Western Greece ! 
 
 " When the dogs, and tlie dollars, and the negro, and the 
 horses, fell into the hands of the Turks, I acquiesced \\ith 
 patience, as you may have perceived, because it was the 
 work of the elements of war, or of Providence ; but this 
 is a piece of mere human knavery or folly, or both, and I 
 neither can nor will submit to it. I have occasion for 
 every dollar I can muster to keep the Greeks together, 
 and I do not grudge any expense for the cause ; but to 
 tlirow away as much as would equip, or at least maintain, 
 a corps of excellent ragamuffins with arms in their hands, 
 to furnish Gamba and the doctor with blank bills, (see 
 list,) broadcloth^ Hessian boots, and horsewhips, (the loiter 
 1 own that they have richly earned,) is rather beyond my 
 endurance, though a pacific person, as all the world 
 knows, or at least my acquaintances. I pray you to try 
 to help me out of this damnable conmiercial speculations 
 of Gamba's, for it is one of those pieces of impudence or 
 folly which I do n't forgive him in a hurry. I will of 
 course see Stevens free of expense out of the transac- 
 tion ; — by-the-way, the Greek of a Corfiote has thought 
 proper to draw a bill, and get it discounted at 24 doUars ; 
 f I had been there, it should have hcen protested also. 
 
 " Mr. Blackett is here ill, and will soon set out for 
 Cephalonia. He came to me for some pills, and I gave 
 him some reserved for particular friends, and which I 
 never knew any body recover from under several months; 
 but he is no better, and what is odd, no worse 5 and as the 
 doctors have had no better success with him than I, he 
 goes to Argostoli, sick of the Greeks and of a constipa- 
 tion. 
 
 " I must reiterate my request for specie, and that speed- 
 ily, otherwise public affairs wiU be at a stand-still here. 
 I have undertaken to pay the Suliotes for a year, to 
 advance in March 3000 dollars, besides, to the Govern- 
 ment for a balance due to the troops, and some other 
 smaller matters for the Germans, and the press, &c. &c. 
 &c. ; so what with these, and the expenses of my suite, 
 which, though not extravagant, is expensive with Gamba's 
 d — d nonsense, I shall have occasion for all the moneys 1 
 can muster, and I have credits wherewithal to face the 
 imdertakings, if realized, and expect to have more soon. 
 " Beheve me ever and truly yours, &c." 
 
 LETTER DCXII. 
 
 * + + *. 
 
 « Missolonghi, Jan. 31, 1824. 
 " The expedition of about two thousand men is planned 
 for an attack on Lepanto ; and for reasons of pohcy with 
 regard to the native Capitani, who would rather be (nomi- 
 nally at least) under the command of a foreigner, than 
 one of their own body, the direction, it is said, is to be 
 given to me. There is also another reason, which is, that 
 if a capitulation should take place, the Mussuhnans might 
 
222 
 
 LETTERB, 1824. 
 
 perhaps, rather have Christian faith with a Frank than 
 with a Greek, and so be inclined to accede a point or two. 
 These appear to be the most obvious motives for such an 
 appointment, as far as I can conjecture, unless there be 
 one reason more, viz. that, under present circumstances, 
 no one else (not even Mavrocordato himself) seems 
 disposed to accept such a nomination — and though my 
 desires are as far as my deserts upon this occasion, I do 
 not decline it, being willing to do as I am bidden ; and 
 as 1 pay a considerable part of the clans, I may as well 
 see what they are likely to do for their money ; besides 
 I am tired of hearing nothing but talk. + + * * 
 " I presume, from the retardment, that he* is the same 
 Parry who attempted the JVorlh Pole, and is (it may be 
 supposed) now essaying the SmthJ" 
 
 LETTER DCXIII. 
 
 CHARLES HANCOCK. 
 
 "Missolonghi, Feb. 5, 1824. 
 "Dr. Muir's letter and yours of the 23d reached me 
 some days ago. Tell Muir that I am glad of his promo- 
 tion for his sake, and of his remaining near us for all our 
 sakes : though I cannot but regret Dr. Kennedy's depar- 
 ture, which accounts for the previous earthquakes and 
 the present English weather in this climate. With all 
 respect to my medical pastor, I have to announce to him, 
 that among other firebrands, our firemaster Parry (just 
 landed) has disembarked an elect blacksmith, intrusted 
 widi three hundred and twenty-two Greek Testaments. 
 I have given him all facilities in my power for his works 
 spiritual and temporal, and if he can settle matters as 
 easily with tlie Greek Archbishop and hierachy, I trust 
 that neither the heretic nor the supposed skeptic will be 
 accused of intolerance. 
 
 « By-the-way, I met with the said Archbishop at Anato- 
 hco (where I went by invitation of the Primates afew days 
 ago, and was received with a heavier cannonade than the 
 Turks, probably) for the second time, (I had known him 
 here before;) and he and P. Mavrocordato, and the 
 Chiefs and Primates and I, all dined together, and I 
 thought the metropolitan the merriest of the party, and a 
 very good Christian for all that. But Gamba (we got 
 wet through in our way back) has been ill with a fever 
 and cohc ; and Luke has been out of sorts too, and so 
 have some others of the people, and I have been very 
 well,— except that I caught cold yesterday with swearing 
 too much m the rain at the Greeks, who would not bear 
 a hand in landing the Committee stores, and nearly 
 spoiled our combustibles; but I turned out in person, and 
 made such a row as set them in motion, blaspheming at 
 them from the Government downwards, till they actually 
 did some part of what they ought to have done several 
 days before, and this is esteemed, as it deserves to be, a 
 wonder. 
 
 « TeU Muir that, notwithstanding his remonstrances, 
 which I receive thankfuUy, it is perhaps best that I should 
 advance with the troops ; for if we do not do something 
 soon, we shall only have a third year of defensive opera- 
 tions and another siege, and all that. We hear that the 
 Turks are coming down in force, and sooner than usual ; 
 and as these fellows do mind me a little, it is the opinion 
 that I should go,— firstly, because they will sooner listen 
 to a foreigner than one of their o^vn people, out of native 
 jealousies ; secondly, because the Turks will sooner treat 
 or capitulate (if such occasion should happen) with a 
 i-rank than a Greek; and, thirdly, because nobody else 
 seems disposed to take the responsibility— Mavrocordato 
 bemg very busy here, the foreign military men too youna 
 ornot of authority enough to be obeyed by the natives". 
 
 • Fury w),o had been long expected with artillery, &c 
 
 and the Chiefs (as aforesaid) inclined to obey any one 
 except, or rather than, one of their own body. As for me, 
 I am willing to do what I am bidden, and to follow my 
 instructions. I neither seek nor shun that nor any thing 
 else they may wish me to attempt; and as for personal 
 safety, besides that it ought not to be a consideration, I 
 take it that a man is on the whole as safe in one place 
 as another ; and, after all, he had better end with a bullet 
 than bark in his body. If we are not taken off with the 
 sword, we are Uke to march off with an ague in this mud- 
 basket ; and to conclude with a very bad pun, to the ear 
 rather than to the eye, better martially, thaji marsh-ally ; 
 — the situation of Missolonghi is not unknown to you. 
 The dykes of Holland when broken down are the Deserts 
 of Arabia for dryness, in comparison. 
 
 "And now for the sinews of war. I thank you and Mr. 
 Barff for your ready answers, which, next to ready money, 
 is a pleasant thing. Besides the assets, and balance, and 
 the relics of the Corgialegno correspondence with Leg- 
 horn and Genoa, (I sold the dog flour, tell him, but not at 
 his price,) I shall request and require, from the beginning 
 of March ensuing, about five thousand dollars every two 
 months, i. e. about twenty-five thousand widiin the cur- 
 rent year, at regular intervals, independent of tlie sums 
 now negotiating. I can show you documents to prove 
 that these are considerably within my supplies for the year 
 in more ways than one ; but I do not like to tell the Greeks 
 exactly what I could or would advance on an emergency, 
 because, otherwise, they will double and triple their de- 
 mands, (a disposition that they have already sufficiently 
 shown ;) and though I am willing to do all I can when 
 necessary, yet I do not see why they should not help a 
 little, for they are not quite so bare as they pretend to be 
 by some accounts. 
 
 "Feb. 7, 1824. 
 "I have been interrupted by the arrival of Parry, and 
 afterward by the return of Hesketh, who has not brought 
 an answer to my epistles, which rather surprise me. You 
 will write soon I suppose. Parry seems a fine rough 
 subject, but will hardly be ready for the field these three 
 weeks ; he and I will (I think) be able to draw together, 
 —at least / will not interfere with or contradict him in his 
 own department. He complains grievously of the mer- 
 cantile and enthusymusy part of the Committee, but greatly 
 praises Gordon and Hume. Gordon would have given 
 three or four thousand pounds and come out himself, but 
 Kennedy or somebody else disgusted him, and thus they 
 have spoiled part of their subscription and cramped their 
 operations. Parry says Bowring is a humbug, to which 
 I say nothing. He sorely laments the printing and civi- 
 lizing expenses, and wishes that there was not a Sunday- 
 school in the world, or any school here at present, save and 
 except always an academy for artilleryship. 
 
 "He complained also of the cold, a httle to my surprise, 
 firstly, because, there being no chimneys, I have used my- 
 self to do without other warmth than the animal heat and 
 one's cloalc,in these parts ; and secondly, because I should 
 as soon have expected to hear a volcano sneeze, as a fire- 
 master (who is to bum a whole fleet) exclaim against the 
 atmosphere. I fully expected that his very approach 
 would have scorched up the town hke the burning-glasses 
 of Archimedes. 
 
 " Well, it seems that I am to be Commander-in-chiei^ 
 and the post is by no means a sinecure, for we are not 
 what Major Sturgeon calls 'a set of the most amicable 
 officers.' Whether we shall have a ' boxing bout between 
 Captain Sheers and the Colonel,' I cannot tell ; but, be- 
 tween Suliote chiefs, German barons, English volunteers 
 and adventurers of all nations, we are likely to form as' 
 goodly an alUed army as ever quarrelled beneath the same 
 banner. 
 
 « Feb. 8, 1824. 
 "Interrupted again by business yesterday, and it is time 
 to conclude mv letter. I drew some time since on Mr. 
 
LETTERS,1824. 
 
 223 
 
 Barff for a thousand dollars, to complete some money 
 wanted by the government. The said Government got 
 cash on tliat bill here and at a profit ; but the very same 
 fellow who gave it to them, after proposing to give me 
 money for other bills on BarfF to the emaount of thirteen 
 hundred dollars, either could not, or thought better of it, 
 I had written to BarfF advising him, but hsul afterward 
 to write to tell him of the fellow's having not come up to 
 time. You must really send me the balance soon. I 
 have the artillerists and my Suliotes to pay, and Heaven 
 knows what besides, and as every thing depends upon 
 punctuality, all our operations will be at a stand-still im- 
 less you use despatch. I shall send to Mr. BarfF or to 
 you further bills on England for three thousand poimds, 
 to be negotiated as speedily as you can. I have already 
 stated here and formerly the sums I can command at 
 home within the year, — mthout including my credits, or 
 the bills already negotiated or negotiating, as Corgialeg- 
 no's balance of Mr. Webb's letter, — and my letters from 
 my friends (received by Mr. Parry's vessel,) confirm 
 what I have already stated. How much I may require in 
 the course of the year I can't tell, but I will take care that 
 it shall not exceed the means to supply it. 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 «N. B. 
 "P. S. I have had, by desire of a Mr. Jerostati^ to draw 
 on Demetrius Delladecima (is it our friend in ultima ana- 
 Use ?) to pay the Committee expenses. I really do not 
 imderstand what the Committee mean by some oftlieir 
 freedoms. Parry and I get on very well hitherto ; how 
 long this may last. Heaven knows, but I hope it vdU, for a 
 good deal for the Greek service depends upon it, but he 
 has already had some miff's with Col. S. and I do all I can 
 to keep the peace among them. However, Parry is a fine 
 fellow, extremely active, and of strong, sound, practicd 
 talents, by all accounts. Enclosed are bills for three thou- 
 Band pounds, drawn in the mode directed, (i. e. parcelled 
 out in smaller bills.) A good opportunity occuring for 
 Cephalonia to send letters on, I avail myself of it. Re- 
 member me to Stevens, and to all friends. Also my 
 compliments emd every thing kind to the colonels and 
 officers. 
 
 « February 9, 1824. 
 " P. S. 2d or 3d. I have reason to expect a person from 
 England directed with papers (on business) for me to 
 sign, somewhere in the islands, by- and-by ; if such should 
 arrive, would you forward him to me by a safe convey- 
 ance, as the papers regard a transaction with regard to 
 the adjustment of a lawsuit, and a sum of several thou- 
 sand pounds, which I, or my bankers and trustees for me, 
 may have to receive (in England) in consequence. The 
 time of the probable arrival I cannot state, but the date 
 of my letters is the 2d Nov. and I suppose that he ought 
 to arrive soon." 
 
 the cause of Greece will be to me one of the happiest 
 events of my life. In the mean time, with the hope of our 
 again meeting, " I am, as ever, &€." 
 
 LETTER DCXIV. 
 
 TO ANDREW LONDO.* 
 " DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 " The sight of your handwriting gave me the greatest 
 pleasure. Greece has ever been for me, as it must be for 
 all men of any feeling or education, the promised land of 
 valour, of the arts, and of hberty ; nor did the time I 
 passed in my youth in travelling among her ruins at all 
 chill my affection for the birthplace of heroes. In addi- 
 tion to this, I am bound to yourself by ties of friendship 
 and gratitude for the hospitality which I experienced from 
 you during my stay in that country, of which you are now 
 become one of the first defenders and ornaments. To 
 see myself serving, by your side and under your eyes, in 
 
 LETTER DCXV. 
 
 TO HIS HIGHNESS YUSStJFF PACHA. 
 
 «Missolonghi,23d Jan. 1824. 
 
 " HIGHNESS ! 
 
 "A vessel, in which a friend and some domestics of 
 mine were embarked, was detained a few days ago and 
 released by order of your Highness. I have now to thank 
 you ; not for liberating the vessel, which, as carrying a 
 neutral flag, and being under British protection, no one 
 had a right to detain ; but for having treated my friends 
 with so much kindness while they were in your hands. 
 
 " In the hope, therefore, that it may not be altogether 
 displeasing to your Highness, I have requested the gover- 
 nor of this place to release four Turkish prisoners, and 
 he has humanely consented to do so. I lose no time, 
 therefore, in sending them back, in order to make as early 
 a return as I could for your courtesy on the late occasion. 
 These prisoners are liberated without any conditions: 
 but, should the circumstance find a place in your recollec- 
 tion, I venture to beg, that your Highness will treat such 
 Greeks as may henceforth fall into your hands with hu- 
 
 anity ; more especially since the horrors of war are 
 sufficiently great in themselves, %vithout being aggravated 
 by wanton cruelties on either side. 
 
 "Noel Byron." 
 
 LETTER DCXVI. 
 
 TO MR. BARFF. 
 
 Feb. 21. 
 " I am a good deal better, though of course weakly ; 
 the leeches took too much blood from my temples the day 
 after, and there was some difficulty in stopping it, but I 
 have since been up daily, and out in boats or on horse- 
 back. To-day I have taken a warm bath, and hve as • 
 temperately as can well be, without any liquid but water, 
 and without animal food. 
 
 « Besides the four Turks sent to Patras, I have ob- 
 tained the release of four-and-twenty women and children, 
 and sent them at my own expense to Prevesa, that the 
 English Consul-GenercJ may consign them to their rela- 
 tions. I did this by their owti desire. Matters here are 
 a httle embroiled with the Suhotes and foreigners, &c. 
 but I still hope better things, and will stand by the cause 
 as long as my health and circumstances will permit me to 
 be supposed useful.* 
 
 " I am obliged to support the Government here for the 
 present," 
 
 [The prisoners mentioned in this letter as having been 
 released by him and sent to Prevesa had been held in 
 captivity at Missolonghi since the begirming of the Revo- 
 lution. The following was the letter which he forwarded 
 \vith them to the English Consul at Prevesa.] 
 
 One of the Greek chiefs. 
 
 LETTER DCXVIL 
 
 TO MR. MAVER. 
 
 "sir, 
 " Coming to Greece, one of my principal objects was 
 to alleviate as much as possible the miseries incident to 
 
 * In a letter to the same gentleman, dated January 27, he had already 
 said, " I hope that things here will go on well some time or other. I will 
 stick by the cause as long as a cause exists — first or secoud." 
 
224 
 
 LETTERS, 1824. 
 
 a warfare so cruel as the present. When the dictates of 
 humanity are in question, 1 Imow no difference between 
 Turks and Greeks. It is enough that those who want 
 assistance are men, in order to claim the pity and protec- 
 tion of the meanest pretender to humane feelings. I 
 have found here twenty-four Turks, including women and 
 children, who have long pined in distress, far from the 
 means of support and the consolations of their home. 
 The Government has consigned them to me : I transmit 
 them to Prevesa, whither they desire to be sent. I hope 
 you will not object to take care that they may be restored 
 to a place of safety, and that the Governor of your town 
 may accept of my present. The best recompense I can 
 hope for would be to find that I had inspired the Ottoman 
 commanders with the same sentiments towards those un- 
 happy Greeks who may liereafter fall into their hands. 
 "I beg you to believe me, &c." 
 
 LETTER DCXVIIL 
 
 TO THE HONOURABLE DOUGLAS KINNAIRD. 
 
 « Missolonghi, Feb. 21, 1824. 
 
 " I have received yours of the 2d of November. It is 
 essential that the money should be paid, as I have drawn 
 for it all, and more too, to help the Greeks. Parry is here, 
 and he and I agree very well ; and all is going on hope- 
 fully for the present, considering circumstances. 
 
 " We shall have work this year, for the Turks are com- 
 ing down in force ; and, as for me, I must stand by the 
 cause. I shall shortly march (according to orders) against 
 Lepanto, with two thousand men. I have been here some 
 time, after some narrow escapes from the Turks, and also 
 from being shipwrecked. We were twice upon the rocks, 
 but this you will have heard, truly or falsely, through other 
 channels, and I do not wish to bore you with a long story 
 
 " So far I have succeeded in supporting the Govern- 
 ment of Western Greece, which would otherwise have 
 been dissolved. If you have received the eleven thou- 
 sand and odd pounds, these, with what I have in hand, 
 and my income for the current year, to say nothing of 
 contingencies, will, or might, enable me to keep the 
 'sinews of war' properly strung. If the deputies be honest 
 fellows, and obtain the loan, they will repay the 4000Z. as 
 agreed upon ; and even then I shall save litde, or indeed 
 less than little, since I am maintaining nearly the whole 
 machine — m this place, at least — at my own cost. But 
 let the Greeks only succeed, and I do n't care for myself. 
 
 " I have been very seriously unwell, but am getting bet- 
 ter, and can ride about again : so pray quiet our friends on 
 that score. 
 
 " It is not true that I ever did, will, would, could, or 
 should write a satire against Gifford, or a hair of his head. 
 I always considered him as my literary father, and myself 
 as his 'prodigal son;' and if I have allowed his 'fatted 
 calf' to grow to an ox before he kills it on my return, it is 
 onlv because I prefer beef to veal. 
 
 « Yours, &c." 
 
 "If they should want any thing during their quarantine, 
 you can advance them not more than a dollar a day 
 (among them) for that period, to purchase them some 
 little extras as comforts, (as they are quite out of their 
 element.) I cannot afford them more at present." 
 
 LETTER DCXX. 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 LETTER DCXIX. 
 
 TO MR. BARFF. 
 
 " February 23. 
 "My health seems improving especially from riding 
 and the warm bath. Six Englishmen will be soon in 
 quarantine at Zante ; they are artificers, and have had 
 enough of Greece in fourteen days. If you could re- 
 commejid them to a passage home, I would thank you ; 
 they are good men enough, but do not quite understand 
 the little discrepanies in these countries, and are not used 
 to see shooting and slashing in a domestic quiet way, or 
 (as it forms here) a part of housekeeping. 
 
 « Missolonghi, Feb. 25, 1824. 
 "I have heard from Mr. Douglas Kinnaird that you 
 state ' a report of a satire on Mr. Gifford having arrived 
 from Italy, said to be written by me ! but that you do not 
 believe it.' I dare say you do not, nor anybody else, I 
 should think. Whoever asserts that I am the author or 
 abettor of any thing of the kind on Gifford lies in his 
 throat. If any such composition exists it is none of mine. 
 You know as well as anybody upon whom I have or have 
 not written ; and you also know whether they do or did 
 not deserve that same. And so much for such matters. 
 " You will perhaps be anxious to hear some news from 
 this part of Greece, (which is the most liable to invasion;) 
 but you will hear enough through public and private 
 channels. I will, however, give you the events of a week, 
 mingling my own private pecuhar with the public, for we 
 are here a httle jumbled together at present. 
 
 " On Sunday (the 15th, I believe,) I had a strong and 
 sudden convulsive attack, which left me speechless, though 
 not motionless — for some strong men could not hold me ; 
 but whether it was epilepsy, catalepsy, cachexy, or apo- 
 plexy, or what other exy or epsy, the doctors have not 
 decided ; or whether it was spasmodic or nen'ous, &c. ; 
 but it was very unpleasant, and nearly carried me off, 
 and all that. On Monday, they put leeches to my tem- 
 ples, no difficult matter, but the blood could not be stopped 
 till eleven at night, (they had gone too near the temporal 
 artery for my temporal safety,) and neither styptic nor 
 caustic would cauterize the orifice till after a hundred 
 attempts. 
 
 " On Tuesday, a Turkish brig of war ran on shore. 
 On Wednesday, great preparations being made to attack 
 her, though protected by her consorts, the Turks burned 
 her and retired to Patras. On Thursday a quarrel en- 
 sued between the Suliotes and the Frank guard at the 
 arsenal; a Swedish officer was killed, and a Suliote 
 severely wounded, and a general fight expected, and with 
 some difficulty prevented. On Friday, the officer was 
 buried ; and Captain Parry's English artificers mutinied, 
 under the pretence that their lives are in danger, and are 
 for quitting the country : — they may. 
 
 " On Saturday we had the smartest shock of an earth- 
 quake which I remember, (and I have felt thirty, slight or 
 smart, at different periods ; they are common in the 
 Mediterrtmean,) and the whole army discharged their 
 arms, upon the same principle that the savages beat 
 drums, or howl, during an eclipse of the moon: — it was 
 a rare scene altogether — if you had but seen the English 
 Johnnies, who had never been out of a cockney workshop 
 before I — or will again, if they can help it — and on Sun- 
 day, we heard diat the Vizier is come down to Larissa, 
 with one hundred and odd thousand men. 
 
 "In commg here, I had two escapes, one from the 
 Turks {one of my vessels was taken, but afterward re- 
 leased,) and the other from shipwreck. We drove twice 
 on the rocks near the Scrophes (islands near the coast.) 
 " I have obtained from the Greeks the release of eight- 
 and-twenty Turkish prisoners, men, women, and children, 
 and sent them to Patras and Prevesa, at my own charges. 
 One little girl of nine years old, who prefers remaining 
 with me, I shall (if I live) send, with her mother, prc^ 
 bably, to Italy, or to England. Her name is Hato, or 
 Hetagee. She is a very prettv, lively child. All her 
 
LETTERS, 1824. 
 
 225 
 
 brothers were killed by the Greeks, and she herself and 
 her mother merely spared by special favour and owning 
 to her extreme youth, she being tlien but five or sLx years 
 old. 
 
 " My health is now better, and I ride about again. My 
 office here is no sinecure, so many parties and difficulties 
 of every kind ; but I will do what I can. Prince Mavro- 
 cordato is an excellent person, and does all in his power, 
 but his situation is perplexing in the extreme. Still we 
 have great hopes of the success of the contest. You 
 will hear, however, more of public news from plenty of 
 quarters, for I have Uttle time to write. 
 
 *' Believe me yours, &c. &c. 
 
 "N.Bn." 
 
 LETTER DCXXL 
 
 TO MR. MOORE. 
 
 " Missolonghi, Western Greece, March 4, 1824. 
 
 " MY DEAR MOORE, 
 
 "Your reproach is unfounded — I have received t%vo 
 .etters from you, and answered both previous to leaving 
 Cephalonia. I have not been 'quiet' in an Ionian island, 
 but much occupied with business, — as the Greek deputies 
 (if arrived) can tell you. Neither have I continued ' Don 
 Juan,' nor any other poem. You go, as usual, I presume, 
 by some newspaper report or other. 
 
 " When the proper moment to be of some use, arrived, 
 I came here ; and am told that my arrival (with some 
 other circumstances) has been oi^ at least, temporary 
 advantage to the cause. T had a narrow escape from 
 the Turks, and another from shipwreck on my passage. 
 On the loth (or 16th) of February I had an attack of 
 apoplexy, or epilepsy, — the physiciajis have not exactly 
 decided which, but the ahernaiive is agreeable. My con- 
 stitution, therefore, remains between the two opinions, 
 like Mahomet's sarcophagus between the magnets. All 
 that I can say is, that they nearly bled me to death, by 
 placing the leeches too near the temporal artery, so that 
 the blood could %vith difficulty be stopped, even with caus- 
 tic. I am supposed to be getting better, slowly, however. 
 But my homilies will, I presume, for the future, be like the 
 Archbishop of Grenada's — in this case, ' I order you a 
 hundred ducats from my treasurer, and wish you a little 
 more taste.' 
 
 "For public matters I refer you to Col. Stanhope's and 
 Capt. Parry's reports, — and to all other reports whatso- 
 ever. There is plenty to do — war without, and tumult 
 within — they 'kill a man a week,' like Bob Acres in the 
 country. Parry's artificers have gone away in alarm, on 
 account of a dispute, in which some of the natives and 
 foreigners were engaged, and a Swede was killed, and a 
 Suliote wounded. In the middle of their fright there was 
 a strong shock of an earthquake ; so, between that and 
 the sword, they boomed off in a hurry in despite of all 
 disuasions to the contrary. A Turkish brig ran ashore, 
 &c. &c. &c.* 
 
 " You, I presume, are either publishing or meditating 
 that same. Let me hear from and of you, and beUeve me, 
 in all events, " Ever and affectionately yours, 
 
 "N.B. 
 
 " P. S. Tell Mr. Murray that I wrote to him the other 
 day, and hope that he has received, or will receive, the 
 letter." 
 
 LETTER DCXXn. 
 
 TO DR. KENNEDY. 
 
 " Missolonghi, March 4, 1824. 
 
 " MY DEAR DOCTOR, 
 
 " I have to thank you for your two very kind letters. 
 
 * Wbat is omitted here is but a repetition of the various particulars, 
 respecting all that had happened since his arrival, which have already 
 been avea in the letters to his other correspondents. — Moore. 
 
 29 
 
 both received at the same time, and one long after its 
 date. I am not unaware of the precarious state of my 
 health, nor am, nor have been, deceived on that subject. 
 But it is proper that I should remain in Greece ; and it 
 were better to die doing something than nothing. My 
 presence here has been supposed so far useful aslo have 
 prevented confusion from becoming worse confounded, at 
 least for the present. Should I become, or be deemed, 
 useless or superfluous, I am ready to retire ; but in the 
 interim I am not to consider personal consequences ; the 
 rest is in the hands of Providence, — as indeed are all 
 things. I shall, however, observe your instructions, and 
 indeed did so, as far as regards abstinence, for some time 
 past. 
 
 " Besides the tracts, &c. which you have sent for dis- 
 tribution, one of the English artificers (bight Brownbill, 
 a tinman) left to my charge a number of Greek Testa- 
 ments, which I will endeavour to distribute properly. The 
 Greeks complain that the translation is not correct, nor in 
 good Romaic : Bambas can decide on that point. I am 
 trying to reconcile the clerg}' to the distribution, which 
 (without due regard to their hierarchy) they might con- 
 trive to impede or neutralize in the effect, from their power 
 over their people. Mr. BrowTibill has gone to the islands, 
 having some apprehension for his life, (not from the priests, 
 however,) and apparently preferring rather to be a saint 
 than a martyr, although his apprehensions of becoming the 
 latter were probably unfounded. All the Enghsh artifi- 
 cers accompanied him, thinking themselves in danger, on 
 account of some troubles here, which have apparently 
 subsided. 
 
 " I have been interrupted by a visit from Prince Mav- 
 rocordato and others since I began this letter, and must 
 close it hastily, for the boat is announced as ready to sail. 
 Your future convert, Hato, or Hatagee, appears to me 
 lively, and intelligent, and promising, and possesses an in- 
 teresting countenance. With regard to her disposition, 1 
 can say little, but Millingen, who has the mother (who ia 
 a middle-aged woman of good character) in his house as 
 a domestic, (although their family was in good worldly 
 circumstances previous to the Revolution,) speaks well oi 
 both, and he is to be rehed on. As far as I know, I have 
 only seen the child a few times with her mother, and what 
 I have seen is favourable, or I should not take so much 
 interest in her behalf. If she turns out w^eU, my idea 
 would be to send her to my daughter in England, (if not 
 to respectable persons in Italy,) and so to provide for her 
 as to enable her to live with reputation, either singly or in 
 marriage, if she arrive at maturity. I will make proper 
 arrangements about her expenses through Messrs. Barff 
 and Hancok, and the rest I leave to your discretion and 
 to JNIrs. K.'s, with a great sense of obhgation for your 
 kindness m undertaking her temporary superintendence. 
 
 " Of public matters here, I have little to add to what 
 you will already have heard. We are going on as well 
 as we can, and with the hope and the endeavour to do 
 better. Believe me, 
 
 "Ever and truly, fee." 
 
 LETTER DCXXni. 
 
 TO MR. BARFF. 
 
 '."March 5, 1824. 
 "If Sisseni* is sincere, he will be treated with, and 
 well treated ; if he is not, the sm and the shame may lie 
 at his own door. One great object is to heal those inter- 
 nal dissensions for the future, without exacting too rigor- 
 
 * This Sisseni, who was \he Capitano of the rich district about Ga- 
 Etouni, and had for some time held out against the general Government, 
 was now, as appears by the above letter, making overtures, through 
 M. Barff, of adhesion. As a proof his sincerity, it was required by Lord 
 Byron that he should surrender into the bands of the Government the 
 [fortress of Chiarenza.— Moore. 
 
226 
 
 LETTERS,1824. 
 
 ous an account of the past. Prince Mavrocordato is of 
 the same opinion, and whoever is disposed to act fairly 
 will be fairly dealt with. I have heard a good deal of Sis- 
 seni, but not a deal of good ; however, I never judge from 
 report, particularly in a Revolution. PersojiaUj/, I am 
 rather obUged to him, for he has been very hospitable to 
 all friends of mine who have passed tlirough his district. 
 You may therefore assure him that any overture for the 
 advantage of Greece and its internal pacification will be 
 readily and sincerely met here. I hardly think that he 
 would have ventured a deceitful proposition to me through 
 youy because he must be sure that in such a case it would 
 eventually be exposed. At any rate, the healing of these 
 dissensions is so important a point, that something must 
 be risked to obtain it." 
 
 LETTER DCXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. BARFF. 
 
 "March 10. 
 
 " Enclosed is an answer to Mr. Parruca's letter, and I 
 hope that you will assure him from me, that I have done 
 and am doing all I can to reunite the Greeks with the 
 Greeks. 
 
 « I am extremely obliged by your offer of your country 
 house (as for all other kindness) in case that my health 
 should require my removal; but I cannot quit Greece 
 while there is a chance of my being of any (even sup- 
 posed) utihty: — there is a sfake worth millions such as I 
 am, and while I can stand at all, I must stand by the 
 cause. When I say this, I am at the same time aware 
 of the difficulties and dissensions, and defects of the Greeks 
 themselves ; but allowaJice must be made for them by all 
 reasonable people. 
 
 " My chief, indeed nine-tenths of my expenses here are 
 solely in advances to or on behalf of the Greeks, and ob- 
 jects connected with their independence." 
 
 LETTER DCXXV. 
 
 TO SR. PARRUCA. 
 
 "March 10, 1824. 
 'sir, 
 " I have the honour of answering your letter. My first 
 wish has always been to bring the Greeks to agree among 
 themselves. I came here by the imitation of the Greek 
 Govt rnment, and I do not think that I ought to abandon 
 Rourneali for the Peloponnesus until that Government 
 shall desire it ; and the more so, as this part is exposed in 
 a greater degree to the enemy. Nevertheless, if my pre- 
 sence can really be of any assistance in uniting two or 
 more parties, I am ready to go any where, either as a me- 
 diator, or, if necessary, as a hostage. In these affairs I 
 have neither private views, nor private dislike of any in- 
 dividual, but the sincere wish of deserving the name of the 
 friend of your country, and of her patriots. 
 
 " I have the honour, &c." 
 
 LETTER DCXXVI. 
 
 TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 
 
 ■Missolonghi, 10th March, 1824. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 " 1 sent by Mr. J. M. Hodges a bill drawn on Signer 
 C. Jerostatti for three hundred and eighty-six pounds, on 
 account of the Hon. the Greek Committee, for carrying 
 on the service at this place. jBut Count Delladecima sent 
 
 no more than two hundred dollars until he should receive 
 instructions from C. Jerostatti. Therefore I am obliged 
 to advance that sum to prevent a positive stop being put 
 to the laboratory service at this place, &c. &c. 
 
 "I beg you will mention this business to Count 
 Delladecima, who has the draft and every account, and 
 that Mr. Barff, in conjunction with yourselfj will endea- 
 vour to arrange this money account, and, when received, 
 forward the same to Missolonghi. 
 
 " I am, sir, yours very truly. 
 
 "So far is \^Titten by Captain Parry; but I see that I 
 must continue the letter myself. I understand little or 
 nothing of the business, saving and except that, like most 
 of the present affairs here, it will be at a stand-still if mo- 
 neys be not advanced, and there are few here so disposed ; 
 so that I must take the chance, as usual . 
 
 " You will see what can be done with Delladecima and 
 Jerostatti, and remit the sum, that we may have some 
 quiet; for the Committee have somehow embroiled their 
 matters, or chosen Greek correspondents more Grecian 
 than ever the Greeks are wont to be. 
 
 "Yours ever, 
 "Ni-.Bw. 
 
 "P. S. A thousand thanks to Muir for his cauliflower, 
 the finest I ever saw or tasted, and I believe, the largest 
 that ever grew out of Paradise or Scotland. I have writ- 
 ten to quiet Dr. Kennedy about the newspaper, (with 
 which I have nothing to do as a writer, please to recollect 
 and say.) I told the fools of conductors that their motto 
 would play the devil ; but, like all mountebanks, they per- 
 sisted. Gamba, who is any thing but liich/, had some- 
 thing to do with it ; and, as usual, the moment he had, 
 matters went wTong. It will be better, perhaps, in time. 
 But I write in haste, and have only time to say, before the 
 boat sails, that I am ever " Yours, 
 
 "N.Bn. 
 
 "P. S. Mr. Findlay is here, and has received his 
 money." 
 
 LETTER DCXXVIL 
 
 TO DR. KENNEDY. 
 
 "Missolonghi, March 10, 1824. 
 
 " DEAR SIR, 
 
 " You could not disapprove of the motto to the Tele- 
 graph more than I did, and do ; but this is the land of 
 liberty, where most people do as they please, and few as 
 they ought. 
 
 " I have not written, nor am inclined to write, for that 
 or for any other paper, but have suggested to them, over 
 and over, a change of the motto and style. However, I 
 do not think that it will turn out either an irreligious or a 
 levelling publication, and they promise due respect to 
 both churches and things, i. e. the editors do. 
 
 " If Bambas would write for the Greek Chronicle, he 
 might have his own price for articles. 
 
 "There is a sUght demur about Hato's voyage, her 
 mother wishing to go with her, which is quite natural, and 
 I have not the heart to refuse it ; for even Mahomet 
 made a law, that in the division of captives, the child 
 should never be separated from the mother. But this 
 may make a difference in the arrangement, although the 
 poor woman (who has lost half her family in the war) is, 
 as I said, of good character, and of mature age, so as to 
 render her respectability not liable to suspicion. She has 
 heard, it seems, from Prevesa, that her husband is no 
 longer there. I have consigned your Bibles to Dr. 
 Meyer; and I hope that the said Doctor may justify 
 your confidence ; nevertheless, I shall keep an eye upon 
 him. You may depend upon my giving the society as 
 fair play as Mr. Wilberforce himself would ; and any 
 
LETTERS, 1824. 
 
 227 
 
 other commission for the good of Greece will meet with 
 the same attention on my part. 
 
 " I am trying, with some hope of eventual success, to 
 reunite the Greeks, especially as the Turks are expected 
 in force, and that shortly. We must meet them as we 
 may, and fight it out as we can. 
 
 "I rejoice to hear that your school prospers, and I 
 assure you that your good wishes are reciprocal. The 
 weather is so much finer, that I get a good deal of mode- 
 rate exercise in boats and on horseback, and am willing 
 to hope that my heahh is not worse than when you kindly 
 wrote to me. Dr. Bruno can tell you that I adhere to 
 your regimen, and more, for I do not eat any meat, even 
 fish. " Believe me ever, &c. 
 
 "P. S. The mechanics (sLx in number) were all pretty 
 much of the same mind. Brownbill was but one. Per- 
 haps they are less to blame than is imagined, since 
 Colonel Stanhope is said to have told them, ^that he 
 could not positively say their lives were safe.' I should 
 like to know where our life is safe, either here or any 
 where else ? With regard to a place of safety, at least 
 such hermetically-sealed safety as these persons appeared 
 to desiderate, it is not to be found in Greece, at any rate ; 
 but Missolonghi was supposed to be the place where they 
 would be useful, and their risk was no greater than that 
 of others." 
 
 LETTER DCXXVIIL 
 
 TO COLONEL STANHOPE. 
 
 "Missolonghi, March 19, 1824. 
 
 "my dear stanhope, 
 
 "Prince Mavrocordato and myself will go to Salona to 
 meet Ulysses, and you may be very sure that P. M. will 
 accept any proposition for the advantage of Greece. 
 Parry is to answer for himself on his own articles ; if I 
 were to interfere with him, it would only stop the whole 
 progress of his exertion, and he is really doing all that 
 can be done without more aid from the Government. 
 
 " What can be spared will be sent ; but I refer you to 
 Captain Humphries's report, and to Count Gamba's let- 
 ter for details upon all subjects. 
 
 " In the hope of seeing you soon, and deferring much 
 that will be to be said till then. 
 
 " Beheve me ever, &c. 
 
 " P. S. Your two letters (to me) are sent to Mr. Barff; 
 as you desire. Pray remember me particularly to Tre- 
 lawney, whom I shall be very much pleased to see again.' 
 
 LETTER DCXXIX. 
 
 TO MR. BARFF. 
 
 "March 19. 
 "As Count Mercati is under some apprehensions of a 
 direct answer to him personally on Greek affairs, I reply 
 (as you authorized me) to you, who will have the good- 
 ness to communicate to him the enclosed. It is the jomt 
 answer of Prmce Mavrocordato and of myself, to Signer 
 Georgio Sisseni's propositions. You may also add, both 
 to him and to Parruca, that I am perfectly sincere in 
 desiring the most amicable termination of their internal 
 dissensions, and that I believe P. Mavrocordato to be so 
 also, otherwise I would not act with him, or any other 
 whether native or foreigner. 
 
 " If Lord Guilford is at Zante, or, if he is not, if Signor 
 Tricupi is there, you would oblige me by presenting my 
 respects to one or both, and by telhng them, that from 
 the very first I foretold to Col. Stanhope and to P. Ma- 
 vrocodato, that a Greek newspaper (or indeed any other) 
 in the present state of Greece might and probably would 
 
 tend to much mischief and misconstruction, unless under 
 some restrictions, nor have I ever had any thing to do 
 with either, as a writer or otherwise, except as a pecu- 
 niary contributor to their support on the outset, which I 
 could not refuse to the earnest request of the projectors. 
 Col. Stanhope and myself had considerable differences 
 of opinion on this subject, and (what will appear laugh- 
 able enough) to such a degree that he charged me with 
 despotic principles, and I him with ultraradicalism. 
 
 " Dr. * *, the editor, with his unrestrained freedom of 
 the press, and who has the freedom to exercise an un- 
 limited discretion, — not allowing any article but his own 
 and those like them to appear, — and in declaiming against 
 restrictions, cuts, carves, and restricts (as they tell me,) 
 at his own will and pleasure. He is the author of an 
 article against monarchy, of which he may have the 
 advantage and fame — but they (the editors) will get 
 themselves into a scrape, if they do not take care. 
 
 " Of all petty tyrants, he is one of the pettiest, as are 
 most demagogues, that ever I knew. He is a Swiss by 
 birth, and a Greek by assumption, having married a wife 
 and changed his religion. 
 
 " I shall be very glad, and am extremely anxious for 
 some favourable result to the recent pacific overtures of 
 the contending parties in the Peloponnese." 
 
 LETTER DCXXX. 
 
 TO MR. BARFF. 
 
 "March 
 "If the Greek deputies (as seems probable) have ob- 
 tained the loan, the sums I have advanced may perhaps 
 be repaid ; but it would make no great difference, as I 
 should still spend that in the cause, and more to boot — 
 though I should hope to better purpose than paying oflT 
 arrears of fleets that sail away, and Suliotes that won't 
 march, which, they say, what has hitherto been advanced 
 has been employed in. But that was not my affair, but of 
 those who had the disposal of affairs, and I could not 
 decently say to them, ' You shall do so and so, because 
 &c. &c. &c.' 
 
 In a few days P. Mavrocordato and myself with a 
 considerable escort, int nd to proceed to Salona at the 
 request of Ulysses and the Chiefs of Eastern Greece, and 
 take measures offensive and defensive for the ensuing 
 campaign. Mavrocordato is almost recalled by the new 
 Government to the Morea (to take the lead, I rather 
 think,) and they have written to propose to me, to go 
 either to the Morea with him, or to take the general 
 direction of affairs in this quarter — with General Londo, 
 and any other I may choose, to form a council. A. 
 Londo is my old friend and acquaintance since we were 
 lads in Greece together. It would be difficult to give a 
 positive answer till the Salona meeting is over,* but I 
 am willing to serve them in any capacity they please, 
 either commanding or commanded — it is much the same 
 to me, as long as I can be of any presumed use to them. 
 " Excuse haste ; it is late, and I have been several hours 
 on horseback in a country so miry after the rains, that 
 every hundred yards brings you to a ditch, of whose 
 depth, width, colour, and contents, both my horses and 
 their riders have brought away many tokens." 
 
 LETTER DCXXXI. 
 
 TO MR. BARFF. 
 
 "March 26. 
 ' Since your intelligence with regard to the Greek loan, 
 
 * To this offer of the Government to appoint him Governor-General 
 of Greece (that is, of the enfranchised part of the Continent, with the 
 exception of the Morea and the islands,) his answer was, that "he 
 was first going to Salona, and that afterward he would be at their 
 commands; that he could have no difficulty in accepting any office, 
 provided he could persuade himseli' that any good would result from 
 it."— Moore. 
 
228 
 
 LETTERS, 1824. 
 
 P. Mavrocordato has shown to me an extract from some 
 correspondence of his, by which it would appear that three 
 commissioners are to be named to see that the amount is 
 placed in proper hands for the service of the country, and 
 that my name is among the number. Of this, however, 
 we have as yet only the report. 
 
 " This commission is apparently named by the Com- 
 mittee or the contracting parties m England. I am of 
 opinion that such a commission will be necessary, but the 
 office will be both delicate and difficult. The weather, 
 which has lately been equinoctial, has flooded the country, 
 and will probably retard our proceeding to Salona for 
 some days, till the road becomes more practicable. 
 
 "You were akeady apprized that P. Mavrocordato and 
 myself had been invited to a conference by Ulysses and 
 the Chiefs of Eastern Greece. I hear (and am indeed 
 consulted on the subject) that in case the remittance of the 
 first advance of the loan should not arrive immediately, the 
 Greek General Government mean to try to raise some 
 thousand dollars in the islands in the mterim, to be repaid 
 from the earliest instalments on their arrival. What 
 prospect of success they may have, or on what condi- 
 tions, you can tell better then me : 1 suppose, if the loan 
 be confirmed, something might be done by them, but sub- 
 ject of course to the usual terms. You can let them and 
 me know your opinion. There is an imperious necessity 
 for some national fund, and that speedily, otherwise what 
 is to be done ? The auxiliary corps of about two hundred 
 men paid by me, are, I beUeve, the sole regularly and pro- 
 perly furnished with the money, due to them weekly, and 
 the officers monthly. It is true that the Greek Govern- 
 ment gives their rations, but we have had three mutinies, 
 owing to the badness of the bread, which neither native 
 nor stranger could masticate (nor dogs either,) and there 
 is still great difficulty in obtaining them even provisions of 
 any kind. 
 
 " There is a dissension among the Germans about the 
 conduct of tlie agents of their Committee, and an exami- 
 nation among themselves instituted. What the result 
 may be cannot be anticipated, except that it will end in a 
 row, of course, as usual. 
 
 "The English are all very amicable, as far as I know ; 
 we get on too with the Greeks very tolerably, always 
 making allowance for circumstances ; and we have no 
 juarrels with the foreigners." 
 
 LETTER DCXXXIL 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 A PRUSSIAN OFriCER. 
 
 * April 1,1824. 
 
 SIR, 
 
 I have the honour to reply to your letter of this day 
 fn consequence of an urgent, and, to all appearance, a 
 well founded complaint made to me yesterday evening, I 
 gave orders to Mr. Hesketh,* to proceed to your quarters 
 with the soldiers of liis guard, and to remove you from 
 your house to the Seraglio, because the owner of your 
 house declared himself and his family to be in immediate 
 danger from your conduct, and added that it was not the 
 first time that you had placed them in similar circum' 
 Btances. Neither Mr. Hesketh nor myself could imagine 
 that you were in bed, as we had been assured of the 
 contrary, and certainly such a situation was not contem- 
 plated. But Mr. Hesketh had positive orders to conduct 
 you from your quarters to those of the Artillery Brigade, at 
 the same time being desired to use no violence, nor does 
 it appear that any was had recourse to. This measure 
 was adopted, because your landlord assured me when I 
 proposed to put off the enquiry until the next day, that he 
 could not return to his house \vithout a guard for his 
 
 protection, and thai he had left his wife, and daughter - 
 and family in the greatest alarm, and on that account 
 putting them under our immediate protection. The 
 case admitted of no delay. As 1 am not aware that 
 Mr. Hesketh exceeded his orders, I cannot take any 
 measures to punish him, but I have no objection to ex- 
 amine minutely into his conduct. You ought to recollect 
 that entering into his Auxiliary Greek corps now under my 
 ders, at your own sole request and positive desire, you 
 incurred the obligation of obeying the laws of the country 
 as well as tliose of the service. 
 
 " I have the honour, to be, &c. &c. 
 
 "Noel Byron." 
 
 LETTER DXXXm. 
 
 TO MR. BARFF. 
 
 "April 3. 
 
 " There is a quarrel, not yet settled, between the citizens 
 and some of Cariascachi's people, which has already pro- 
 duced some blows. I keep my people quite neutral ; but 
 have ordered them to be on their guard. 
 
 "Some days ago we had an ItaUan private soldier 
 drummed out for thieving. The German officers wanted 
 to flog him ; but I flatly refused to permit the use of the 
 stick or whip, and delivered him over to the poUce. Since 
 then a Prussian officer rioted in his lodgings ; and I put 
 him under arrest, according to the order. This, it ap- 
 pears, did not please his German confederation: but I 
 stuck by my text ; and have given them plainly to under- 
 stand, that those who do not choose to be amenable to the 
 laws of the country and service, may retire ; but that in 
 all that I have to do, I will see them obeyed by foreigner 
 or native. 
 
 " I wash something was heard of tiie arrival of part of 
 the loan, for there is a plentiful dearth of every thing at 
 present," 
 
 LETTER DCXXXIV. 
 
 TO MR. BARFF. 
 
 Th« Adjutant. 
 
 "Aprils. 
 
 " Since I wrote, we have had some tumult here with 
 the citizens and Cariascachi's people, and all are under 
 arms, our boys and all. They nearly fired on me and fifty 
 of my lads,* by mistake, as we were taking our usual ex- 
 cursion into the country. To-day matters are settled or 
 subsiding ; but about an hour ago, the father-in-law of the 
 landlord of the house where I am lodged (one of the Pri- 
 mates the said landlord is) was arrested for high-treason. 
 
 " They are in conclave still with Mavrocordato ; and 
 we have a number of new faces from the hills, come to 
 assist, they say. Gunboats and batteries all ready, &c. 
 
 " The row has had one good effect — it has put them 
 on the alert. What is to become of the father-in-law, I 
 do not know ; nor what he has done, exactly ; but 
 
 ' 'T is a very fine thing to be father-in-law 
 To a very magnificent three-tailed bashaw,' 
 
 as the man in Bluebeard says and sings, I wrote to you 
 upon matters at length, some days ago; the letter, or 
 letters, you will receive with this. We are desirous to 
 hear more of the loan ; and it is some time since I have 
 had any letters (at least of an interesting description) from 
 England, excepting one of 4th Feb. from Bowning (of no 
 great importance.) My latest dates are of 9i"-e, or of the 
 6th 10t»e, four months exactly. I hope you get on well 
 in the islands : here most of us are, or have been, more 
 or less indisposed, natives as well as foreiorners." 
 
 • A corpg of fifty Suiiotei, Ui body guard. 
 
EXTRACTS PROM A JOURNAL. 
 
 LETTER DCXXXV. 
 
 TO MR. BARFF. 
 
 "April 7. 
 "The Greeks here of the Government have been 
 boring me for more money. As I have the brigade to 
 maintain, and the campaign is apparently now to open, 
 and as I have already spent 30,000 dollars in three months 
 upon them in one way or other, and more especially as 
 their public loan has succeeded, so that they ought not to 
 draw from individuals at that rate, I have given tliem a 
 
 229 
 
 refusal, and — as they would not take that^ — another refusal 
 in terms of considerable sincerity. 
 
 " They wish now to try in the islands for a few thou- 
 sand dollars on the ensuing loan. If you can serve them, 
 perhaps you will (in the way of information, at any rate,) 
 and 1 will see that you have fair play, but still 1 do not 
 advise you, except to act as you please. Almost every 
 thing depends upon the arrival, and the speedy arrival, of 
 a portion of the loan to keep. peace among themselves. 
 If they can but have sense to do this, I think that they 
 will be a match and better for any force that can be 
 brought against them for the present. We are all doing 
 as well as we can." 
 
 EXTRACTS FRfoM A JOURNAL 
 
 BEGUN NOVEMBER 14, 1813. 
 
 « If this had been begun ten years ago, and faithfully 
 kept ! ! I — heigho ! there are too many things I wish never 
 to have remembered, as it is. Well, — I have had my 
 share of what are called the pleasures of this life, and 
 have seen more of the European and Asiatic world than 
 I have made a good use of. They say ' virtue is its own 
 reward,' — it certainly should be paid well for its trouble. 
 At five-and- twenty, when the better part of life is over, 
 one should be something ; — and what am I ? nothing but 
 five-and- twenty — and the odd months. What have I 
 seen ? the same man all over the world, — ay, and woman 
 too. Give me a Mussulman who never asks questions, 
 and a she of the same race who saves one the trouble of 
 putting them. But for this same plague — yellow- fever — 
 and Newstead delay, I should have been by this time a 
 second time close to the Euxine. If I can overcome the 
 last, I do n't so much mind your pestilence ; and, at any 
 rate, the spring shall see me there, — provided I neither 
 marry myself nor unmarry any one else in the interval. I 
 wish one was — I do n't know what I wish. It is odd I 
 never set myself seriously to wishing without attaining it 
 — and repenting. I begin to believe with the good old 
 Magi, that one should only pray for the nation, and not 
 for the individual ; — -but, on my principle, this would not 
 be very patriotic. 
 
 "No more reflections. — Let me see — last night I 
 finished ' Zuleika,'* my second Turldsh Tale. I believe 
 the composition of it kept me alive — for it was written 
 to drive my thoughts from the recollection of— 
 
 ' Dear, sacred name, rest ever unreveal'd.' 
 
 At least, even here, my hand would tremble to write it . 
 This afternoon I have burned the scenes of my com- 
 menced comedy. I have some idea of expectorating a 
 romance, or rather a tale, in prose ; — ^but what romance 
 could equal the events — 
 
 ' quseque ipse vidi, 
 
 Et quorum para magna fui.' 
 
 "To-day Henry Bjrron called on me with my little 
 cousin Eliza. She will grow up a beauty and a plague 
 but, in the mean time, it is the prettiest child ! dark eyes 
 and eyelashes, black and long as the wing of a raven. I 
 tViink she is prettier even than my niece, Georgiana, — yet 
 
 'Th« Bride of ABydoa. 
 
 I do n't like to thinlt so neither ; and, though older, she is 
 not so clever. 
 
 " Dallas called before I was up, so we did not meet. 
 Lewis, too — who seems out of humour with every thincr. 
 What can be the matter ? he is not married — has he lost 
 his ovm mistress, or any other person's wife ? Hodgson, 
 too, came. He is going to be married, and he is the kind 
 of man who will be the happier. He has talent, cheer- 
 fulness, every thing that can make him a pleasing com- 
 panion ; and his intended is handsome and young, and all 
 that. But I never see any one much improved by matri- 
 mony. All my coupled contemporaries are bald and 
 discontented. W. and S. have both lost their hair and 
 good-humour ; and the last of the two had a good deal to 
 lose. But it do n't much signify what falls off' a man's 
 temples in that state. 
 
 " Mem. I must get a toy to-morrow for Eliza, and send 
 the device for the seals of myself and **♦**. Mem. 
 too, to call on the Stael and Lady Holland to-morrow 
 and on * *, who has advised me (without seeing it, by- 
 the-by) not to publish ' Zuleika ;' I beheve he is right, 
 but experience might have taught him that not to print is 
 physically impossible. No one has seen it but Hodgson 
 and Mr. GifFord. I never in my life read a composition, 
 save to Hodgson, as he pays me in kind. It is a horrible 
 thing to do too frequently ; — better print, and they who 
 like may read, and, if they do n't like, you have the satis- 
 faction of knowing that they have, at least, purchased the 
 right of saying so. 
 
 "I have declined presenting the Debtor's Petition, being 
 sick of parliamentary mummeries. I have spoken thrice ; 
 but I doubt my ever becoming an orator. My first was 
 liked ; the second and third — I do n't know whether they 
 succeeded or not. I have never yet set to it con amore ; 
 one must have some excuse to oneself for laziness, or 
 inability, or both, and this is mine. ' Company, villanous 
 company, hath been the spoil of me ;' — and then, I have 
 ' drunk medicines,' not to make me love others, but cer- 
 tainly enough to hate myself 
 
 "Two nights ago, I saw the tigers sup at E.\eter 
 'Change. Except Veli Pacha's lion in the Morea, — who 
 followed the Arab keeper like a dog, — the fondness of the 
 hyaena for her keeper amused me most. Such a conver- 
 sazione ! There was a ' hippopotamus,' like Lord Liver- 
 pool in the face ; and the ' Ursine Sloth' hath the very 
 voice and manner of my valet — ^but the tiger talked too 
 
230 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOUR NAL, 1813. 
 
 much. The elephant took and gave me my money again 
 
 took off my hat — opened a door — trunked a whip — and 
 
 behaved so well, that I wish he was my butler. The 
 handsomest animal on earth is one of the panthers \ but 
 the poor antelopes were dead. I should hate to see one 
 here : — tlie sight of the camel made me pine again for Asia 
 Minor. ' Oh quando te aspiciam ?' 
 
 ****** 
 
 "Nov. 16. 
 
 "Went last night with Lewis to see the first of Antony 
 and Cleopatra. It was admirably got up and well acted 
 — a salad of Shakspeare and Dryden. Cleopatra strilies 
 me as the epitome of her sex — fond, lively, sad, tender, 
 teasing, humble, haughty, beautiful, the devil !— coquettish 
 to the last, as well with the ' asp' as with Antony. After 
 doing all she can to persuade him that — ^but why do they 
 abuse him for cutting off tiiat poltroon Cicero's head ? 
 Did not Tully tell Brutus it was a pity to have spared 
 Antony ? and did he not speak the Philippics ? and are 
 not ^ words things?^ and such 'words^ very pestilent 
 Hhings' too? If he had had a hundred heads, they 
 deserved (from Antony) a rostrum (his was stuck up 
 there) apiece — though, after all, he might as well have 
 pardoned him, for the credit of the thing. But to resume 
 — Cleopatra, after securing him, says, ' yet go' — 'it is your 
 interest,' &c. ; how like the sex! and the questions about 
 Octavia — it is woman all over. 
 
 " To-day received Lord Jersey's invitation to Middle- 
 ton — to travel sixty miles to meet Madame de Stael ! I 
 once travelled three thousand to get among silent people ; 
 and this same lady writes octavos and talks folios. I have 
 read her books — lilce most of tliem, and delight in the 
 last : so I won't hear it, as well as read. **** + + ♦ 
 
 " Read Burns to-day. What would he have been, if a 
 patrician ? We should have had more poUsh — less force 
 — just as much verse, but no immortality — a divorce and 
 a duel or two, the which had he survived, as his potations 
 must have been less spirituous, he might have lived as long 
 as Sheridan, and outlived as much as poor Brinsley. 
 What a wreck is that man ! and all from bad pilotage ; 
 for no one had ever better gales, though now and then a 
 little too squally. Poor dear Sherry ! I shall never forget 
 the day he, and Rogers, and Moore, and I passed toge- 
 ther ; when he talked, and we listened, without one yawn, 
 from six till one in the morning. 
 
 "Got my seals + *****. Have again forgot a 
 plaything for ma petite coxisine Eliza ; but I must send 
 for it to-morrow. I hope Harry will bring her to me. I 
 sent Lord Holland the proofs of the last ' Giaour,' and 
 the * Bride of Abydos.' He won't hke the latter, and I 
 do n't tliink that I shall long. It was written in four 
 nights to distract my dreams from * *. Were it not 
 thus, it had never been composed ; and had I not done 
 something at that time, I must have gone mad, by eating 
 my own heart — bitter diet ! Hodgson likes it better than 
 the Giaour, but nobody else will, — and he never liked the 
 Fragment. I am sure, had it not been for Murray, that 
 would never have been published, though the circum- 
 stances which are the groundwork make it * * * 
 heigh-ho ! 
 
 " To-night I saw both the sisters of * * ; my God ! 
 the youngest so like ! I thought I should have sprung 
 across the house, and am so glad no one was with me in 
 L.ady Holland's box. I hate those likenesses — the mock- 
 bird, but not the nightingale — so like as to remind, so dif- 
 ferent as to be painful. One quarrels equally with the 
 points of resemblance and of distinction. 
 
 "Nov. 17. 
 " No letter from * * ; but I must not complain. The 
 respectable Job says, ' Why should a limng man com- 
 plain ?' I really do n't know, except it be that a dead man 
 can't ; and he, the said patriarch, did complain, never- 
 
 theless, till his friends were tired, and his wife recom- 
 mended that pious prologue, 'Curse — and die ;' the only 
 time, I suppose, when but little relief is to be found in 
 swearing. J have had a most kind letter from Lord Hol- 
 land on ' The Bride of Abydos,' wliich he likes, and so 
 does Lady H. This is very good-natured in both, from 
 whom I do n't deserve any quarter. Yet I did think, at 
 the time, that my cause of enmity proceeded from Hol- 
 land-house, and am glad I was wrong, and wish I had not 
 been in such a hurry with that confounded satire, of which 
 I would suppress even the memory ; — ^but people, now 
 they can't get it, make a fuss, I verily beUeve, out of con- 
 tradiction. 
 
 " George Ellis and Murray have been talking some- 
 thing about Scott and me, George pro Scoto, — and very 
 right too. If they want to depose him, I only wish they 
 would not set me up as a competitor. Even if I had my 
 choice, I would rather be the eari of Warwick than all the 
 kings he ever made ! Jeffrey and Gifford I take to be 
 the monarch-makers in poetry and prose. The British 
 Critic, in their Rokeby Review, have presupposed a com- 
 parison, wliich I am sure my friends never thought o^ and 
 W. Scott's subjects are injudicious in descending to. I 
 like the man — and admire his works to what Mr. Braham 
 calls entusymnsy. All such stuff can only vex him, and 
 do me no good. Many hate his politics, — (I hate all 
 politics ;) and, here, a maoi's politics are like the Greek 
 soul — an tiliAov, besides God knows what other soul; 
 but their estimate of the two generally go together. 
 
 "Harry has not brought ma petite cousine. I want us 
 to go to the play together ; she has been but once. 
 Another short note from Jersey, inviting Rogers and me 
 on the 23d. I must see my agent to night. I wonder 
 when that Newstead business will be finished. It cost 
 me more than words to part with it — and to have parted 
 with it 1 What matters it what I do ? or what becomes 
 of me ? — but let me remember Job's saying, and console 
 myself with being ' a living man.' 
 
 "I wish I could settle to reading again; my life is 
 monotonous, and yet desultory. I take up books, and 
 fling them down again. I began a comedy, and burned it 
 because the scene ran into reality ; a novel, for the same 
 reason. In rhyme, I can keep more away from facts ; 
 
 but the thought always runs through, through 
 
 yes, yes, through. I have had a letter from Lady Mel- 
 bourne, the best friend I ever had in my hfe, and the 
 cleverest of women. 
 
 "Not a word from * *. Have they set out from * * ? 
 or has my last precious epistle fallen into the Lion's jaws? 
 If so — and this silence looks suspicious — I must clap on 
 ' my musty morion' and 'hold out my iron.' I am out of 
 practice, but I won't begin again at Manton's now. Be- 
 sides, I would not return his shot. I was once a famous 
 wafer-splitter ; but then the bullies of society made it 
 necessary. Ever since I began to feel that I had a bad 
 cause to support, I have left off the exercise. 
 
 " What strange tidings from that Anakim of anarchy — 
 Buonaparte ! Ever since I defended my bust of him at 
 Harrow against the rascally time-servers, when the war 
 broke out in 1803, he has been a 'Heros de Roman' of 
 mine, on the continent ; I do n't want him here. But I 
 do n't like those same flights, leaving of armies, &c. &c. 
 I am sure when I fought for his bust at school, I did not 
 think he would run away from himself. But I should 
 not wonder if he banged them yet. To be beat by men 
 would be something ; but by three stupid, legitimate-old- 
 dynasty boobies of regular-bred sovereigns — O-hone-a- 
 rie ! — 0-hone-a-rie ! It must be, as Cobbet says, his 
 marriage with the thick-lipped and thick-headed Avtri- 
 chienne brood. He had better have kept to her who was 
 kept by Barras. I never knew any good come of your 
 young wife, and legal espousals, to any but your ' sober- 
 blooded boy,' who 'eats fish' and drinketh 'no sack. 
 Had he not the whole opera ? all Paris ? aX\ France ? 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1813. 
 
 231 
 
 But a mistress is just as perplexing — that is, one — two or 
 more are manageable by division. 
 
 " I have begun, or had begun a song, and flung it into 
 the fire. It was in remembrance of Mary Duff, my first 
 of flames, before most people begin to burn. I wonder 
 what the devil is the matter with me ! I can do nothing, 
 and — fortunately there is nothing to do. It has lately 
 been in my power to make two persons (and their con- 
 nexions) comfortable, pro tempore^ and one happy ex tem- 
 pore, — I rejoice in the last particularly, as it is an excel- 
 lent man. I wish there had been more inconvenience 
 and less gratification to my self-love in it, for then there 
 had been more merit. We are all selfish — and I believe, 
 ye gods of Epicurus ! I believe in Rochefoucault about 
 men, and in Lucretius, (not Busby's translation) about 
 yourselves. Your bard has made you very nonchalant 
 and blest ; but as he has excused us from damnation, I 
 do n't envy you your blessedness much — a little, to be 
 sure. I remember last year, * * said to me at * *, ' Have 
 we not passed our last month like the gods of Lucretius?' 
 And so we had. She is an adept in the text of the 
 origmal (which I like too;) and when that booby Bus. 
 sent his translating prospectus, she subscribed. But, the 
 devil prompting him to add a specimen, she transmitted 
 him a subsequent answer, saying, that, ' after perusing it, 
 her conscience would not permit her to aJlow her name 
 to remain on the list of subscribblers.' * * + 
 
 * * Last night, at Lord Holland's— 
 Mackintosh, the Ossulstones, Puysegur, &c. there — I 
 was trying to recollect a quotation (as / think) of Stael's, 
 from some Teutonic sophist about architecture. ' Archi- 
 tecture,' says this Macoronica Tedescho, 'reminds me of 
 frozen music' It is somewhere — but where ? — the demon 
 of perplexity must loiow and won't tell. I asked Moore, 
 
 and he said it was not in her ; but P r said it must 
 
 be hers, it was so like. =f: * + * 
 
 * * * * H. laughed, as 
 he does at all 'De I'Allemagne,' — in which, however, I 
 think he goes a little too far. B., I hear, contemns it too. 
 But there are fine passages ; — and, after all, what is a 
 work — any— or every work — ^but a desert v^dth fountains, 
 and, perhaps, a grove or two, every day's journey ? To 
 be sure, in Madame, what we often mistake, and ' pant 
 for,' as the ' cooling stream,' turns out to be the ' mirage'' 
 (critice, verbiage ;) but we do, at last, get to something 
 like the temple of Jove Ammon, and then the waste we 
 have passed is orJy remembered to gladden the contrast. 
 
 ******** 
 "Called on C * *, to explain + * * * She is very 
 beautiful, to my taste, at least ; for on coming home from 
 abroad, I recollect being unable to look at any woman 
 but her — they were so fair, and vmmeaning, and blonde. 
 The darkness and regularity of her features reminded me 
 of my 'Jarmat al Aden.' But this impression wore off"; 
 and now I can look at a fair woman without longing for a 
 Houri. She was very good-tempered, and every thing 
 was explained. 
 
 "To-day, great news — 'the Dutch have taken Hol- 
 land,' — which, I suppose, will be succeeded by the actual 
 explosion of the Thames. Five provinces have declared 
 for young Stadt, and there will be inundation, conflagra- 
 tion, constirpation, consternation, and every sort of nation 
 and nations, fighting away up to their knees, in the dam- 
 nable quags of this will-o'-the-wisp abode of Boors. It 
 is said, Bemadotte is among them, too ; and, as Orange 
 will be there soon, they will have (Crown) Prince Stork 
 and King Log in their Loggery at the same time. Two 
 to one on the new dynasty ! 
 
 "Mr. Murray has offered me one thousand guineas for 
 the 'Giaour' and the 'Bride of Abydos.' I won't — ^it is 
 too much, though I am strongly tempted, merely for the 
 say of it. No bad price for a fortnight's (a week each) 
 
 ' Lady Coroliue Lamb. 
 
 what? — the gods know — ^it was intended to be called 
 Poetry. 
 
 " I have dined regularly to-day, for the first time since 
 Sunday last — this being Sabbath, too. All the rest, tea 
 and dry biscuits — sixper diem. I wish to God 1 had not 
 dined now ! It kills me with heaviness, stupor, and horri- 
 ble dreams ; — and yet it was but a pint of bucellas and 
 fish. — Meat I never touch, — nor much vegetable diet. I 
 wish I were in the country, to taJve exercise, — instead of 
 being obliged to cool by abstinence, in Ueu of it. I should 
 not so much mind a little accession of flesh, — my bones 
 can well bear it. But the worst is, the devil always came 
 with it, — till I starve him out, — and I will not be the slave 
 of any appetite. If I do err, it shall be my heart, at least, 
 that heralds the way. Oh my head — how it aches ! — the 
 horrors of digestion ! I wonder how Buonaparte's dinner 
 agrees with him ? 
 
 "Mem. I must vmte to-morrow to ' Master Shallow, 
 who owes me a thousand pounds,' and seems, in his letter, 
 afraid that I should ask him for it ; — as if I would ' — I 
 don't want it (just now, at least,) to begin with; and 
 though I have often wanted that sum, I never asked for 
 the repayment of \Ql. in my life — from a friend. His bond 
 is not due this year ; and I told him when it was, I should 
 not enforce it. How often must he make me say the 
 same thing ? 
 
 " I am wrong — I did once ask * * * to repay me. But 
 it was under circumstances that excused me to him, and 
 would to any one. I took no interest, nor required secu- 
 rity. He paid me soon, — at least, his padre. My head! 
 I believe it was given me to ache with. Good even. 
 
 "Nov. 22,1813. 
 
 " ' Orange Boven !' So the bees have expelled the bear 
 that broke open their hive. Well, — if we are to have 
 new De Witts and De Ruyters, God speed the httle re- 
 public ! I should like to see the Hague and the village 
 of Brock, where they have such primitive habits. Yet, I 
 don't know, — their canals would cut a poor figure by the 
 memory of the Bosphorus ; and the Zuyder Zee look 
 awkwardly after 'Ak Degnity.' No matter, — the bluflf 
 burghers, puffing freedom out of their short tobacco-pipes, 
 might be worth seeing; though I prefer a cigar, or a 
 hooka, with the rose leaf mixed with the milder herb of 
 the Levant. I don't know what Uberty means, — ^never 
 having seen it, — but wealth is power all over the world ; 
 and as a shilling performs the duty of a pound (besides sun 
 and sky and beauty for nothing) in the East, — thai is the 
 country. How I envy Herodes Atticus ! — more than Pom- 
 ponius. And yet a little tumult, now and then, is an 
 agreeable quickener of sensation ; such as a revolution, a 
 battle, or an aventure of any lively description . I think I 
 rather would have been Bonneval, Ripperda, Alberoni, 
 Hayreddin, or Horuc Barbarossa, or even Wortley Mon- 
 tague, than Mahomet himself. 
 
 " Rogers will be in town soon ! — the 23d is fixed for our 
 Middleton visit. Shall I go ? umph ! — In this island, where 
 one can't ride out without overtaking the sea, it do n't 
 much matter where one goes. 
 
 ****** 
 
 " I remember the effect of the Jirst Edinburgh Review 
 on me. I heard of it six weeks before, — read it the day 
 of its denunciation, — dined and drank three bottles of 
 claret, (with S. B. Davies, I thinli,) — neither ate nor slept 
 the less, but, nevertheless, was not easy till I had vented 
 my wrath and my rhyme, in the same pages, against every 
 thing and every body. Like George, in the Vicar of 
 Wakefield, 'the fate of my paradoxes' would allow me to 
 perceive no merit in another. I remembered only the 
 maxim of my boxing-master, which, in my youth, was 
 found useful in all general riots, — ' Whoever is not for you 
 is against you — mill away right and left,' and so I did;— 
 like Ishmael, my hand was against all men, and all men's 
 anent me. I did wonder, to be sure, at my own success— 
 * Aad marvels so much wit is all his own,' 
 
232 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1813. 
 
 as Hobhouse sarcastically says of somebody, (not unlikely 
 myself, as we are old friends ;) — but were it to come over 
 again, I would not. I have since redde* the cause of my 
 couplets, and it is not adequate to the effect. C + * told 
 me that it was believed I alluded to poor Lord Carlisle's 
 nervous disorder in one of the lines. I thank Heaven I 
 did not know it — and would not, could not, if I had. I 
 must naturally be the last person to be pointed on defects 
 or maladies. 
 
 " Rogers is silent, — and, it is said, severe. When he 
 does talk, he talks well ; and, on all subjects of taste, his 
 delicacy of expression is pure as his poetry. If you enter 
 his house — ^his drawing-room — his library — you of your- 
 self say, this is not the dwelling of a common mind. There 
 is not a gem, a coin, a book, thrown aside on his chimney- 
 piece, his sofa, his table, that does not bespeak an almo.st 
 fastidious elegance in the possessor. But this very deli- 
 cacy must be the misery of his existence. Oh the jar- 
 rings his disposition must have encountered through life ! 
 
 " Southey I have not seen much of. His appearance 
 is Epic ; and he is the only existing entire man of letters. 
 All the others have some pursuit annexed to their author- 
 ship. His manners are mild, but not those of a man of 
 the world, and his talents of the first order. His prose is 
 perfect. Of his poetry there are various opinions: there is, 
 perhaps, too much of it for the present generation ; — pos- 
 terity will probably select. He has passages equal to any 
 thing. At present, he has a party, but no pyblic — except 
 for his prose writings. The life of Nelson is beautiful. 
 
 « * * is a Litterateur, the Oracle of the Coteries, of the 
 * *s, L * W*, (Sidney Smith's 'Tory Viigin,') Mrs. 
 Wilmot, (she, at least, is a swan, and might frequent a 
 purer stream,) Lady B * *, and all the Blues, with Lady 
 Caroline at their head — but I say nothing of her — 'look 
 in her face, and you forget them all,' and every thing else. 
 Oh that face ! — by ' te. Diva potens Cypri,' I would, to be 
 beloved by that woman, build and burn another Troy. 
 
 " Moore has a peculiarity of talent, or rather talents, — 
 poetry, music, voice, all his own ; and an expression in 
 each, which never was, nor will be, possessed by another. 
 But he is capable of still higher flights in poetry. By-the- 
 by, what humour, what — every thing in the ' Post-Bag !' 
 There is nothing Moore may not do, if he will but seri- 
 ously set about it. In society, he is gentlemanly, gentle, 
 and altogetlier more pleasing than any individual wdth 
 whom I am acquainted. For his honour, principle, and 
 independence, his conduct to * * * * speaks ' trumpet- 
 tongued.' He has but one fault — and that one I daily 
 regret — he is not here. 
 
 "Nov. 23. 
 
 "Ward— I like Ward.f By Mahomet! I begin to 
 think I like every body ; a disposition not to be encou- 
 raged ; a sort of social gluttony, that swallows every thing 
 set before it. But I like Ward. He is piquant ; and, in 
 my opinion, wiU stand very high in the House and every 
 where else — if he applies regularly, By-the-by, I dine 
 with him to-morrow, which may have some influence on 
 my opiiiion. It is as well not to trust one's gratitude after 
 dinner. I have heard many a host libelled by his guests, 
 with his burgundy yet reeking on their rascally lips. 
 ****** 
 
 "I have taken Lord Salisbury's box at Covent-garden 
 for the season ; — and now I must go and prepare to join 
 Lady Holland and party, in theirs, at Drury-lane, qiiesta 
 sera. 
 
 " Holland does n't think the man is Junius; but that the 
 yet unpublished journal throws great light on the obscuri- 
 ties of that part of George the Seconds reign. — What is 
 this to George the Third's ? I don't know what to think. 
 Why should Junius be yet dead ? If suddenly apoplexed, 
 would he rest in his grave without sending his eiSu)\ov to 
 
 ♦ It was thus that he, in general, spelled this word, 
 t The present Lord Dudley. 
 
 shout in the ears of posterity, ' Junius was X. Y. Z. Esq. 
 buried in the parish of* * *. Repair his monument, ye 
 church-wardens ? Print a new edition of his letters, ye 
 booksellers 1' Impossible ; the man must be alive, and 
 will never die without the disclosure. I like him ; he was 
 a good hater. 
 
 "Came home unwell and went to bed, — not so sleepy 
 as might be desirable. 
 
 « Tuesday morning. 
 
 "I awoke from a dream — well! and have not others 
 dreamed? — Such a dream ! but she did not overtake me. 
 I wish the dead would rest, however. Ugh ! how my 
 blood chilled — and I could not wake — and — and — ^heighol 
 
 ' Shadows to-night 
 Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard, 
 Than could the substance often thousand * *8, 
 Arra'd all in proof, and led by shallow * *.' 
 
 I do not like this dream, — I hate its ' foregone conclusion. 
 And am I to be shaken by shadows ? Ay, when they re- 
 mind us of — no matter — but, if I dream thus again, I will 
 try whether all sleep has the like visions. Since I rose, 
 I 've been in considerable bodily pain also ; but it is gone, 
 and now, like Lord Ogleby, I am wound up for the day. 
 
 "A note from Mountnorris — I dine with Ward; Can- 
 ning is to be there, Frere, and Sharpe, perhaps GifFord. 
 I am to be one of ' the five,' (or rather sue,) as Lady * * 
 said, a little sneeringly, yesterday. They are all good to 
 meet, particularly Canning, and — Ward, when he likes. 
 I wish I may be well enough to listen to these mtellectuals. 
 
 " No letters to-day ; so much the better, thera are no 
 answers. I must not dream again ; it spoils even reality. 
 I will go out of doors, and see what the fog will do for me. 
 Jackson has been here : the boxing world much as usual ; 
 but the Club increases. I shall dine at Crib's to-morrow: 
 I like energy, even animal energy, of all kinds ; and I have 
 need of both mental and corporeal. I have not dined out, . 
 nor, indeed, at uU, lately ; have heard no music, have seen 
 nobody. Now for a plunge — high life and low life. 
 ' Amant alterna Camoenae !' 
 
 " I have burned my Roman, as I did the first scenes 
 and sketch of my comedy — and, for ought I see, the 
 pleasure of burning is quite as great as that of printing. 
 These last two would not have done. I ran into realities 
 more than ever ; and some would have been recognised 
 and others guessed at. 
 
 " Redde the Ruminator, a collection of Essays, by a 
 strange, but able, old man (Sir Edgerton Bridges) and a 
 half-wild young one, author of a Poem on the Highlands, 
 called ' Childe Alarique.' The word ' sensibility,' (always 
 my aversion) occurs a thousand times in these Essays ; 
 and, it seems, is to be an excuse for all kinds of discon- 
 tent. This young man can know nothing of life ; and, if 
 he cherishes the disposition which nms through his 
 papers, will become useless, and, perhaps, not even a poet, 
 after all, which he seems detennined to be. God help 
 him! no one should be a rhymer who could be any 
 thing better. And this is what annoys one, to see Scott 
 and Moore, and Campbell and Rogers, who might all 
 have been agents and leaders, now mere spectators. For, 
 though they may have other ostensible avocatioas. these 
 last are reduced to a secondary consideration. * *, too, 
 frittering away his time among dowagers and urmiarried 
 girls. If it advanced any serious ziflair, it were some 
 excuse ; but, with the unmarried, that is a hazardous spe- 
 culation, and tiresome enough, too ; and, with the veterans, 
 it is not much worth trying, — unless, perhaps, one in a 
 thousand. 
 
 " If I had any views in this country, they would proba- 
 bly be parliamentary. But I have no ambition ; at least, 
 if any, it would be ' aut Caesar aut nihil.' My hopes are 
 limited to the arrangement of my affairs, and settling 
 either in Italy or the East, (rather the last,) and drinking 
 deep of the languages and literature of both. Past events 
 have unnerved me ; and all I can now do is to make life 
 
EXTRACTS FROxM A JOURNAL, 1813. 
 
 233 
 
 an amusement, and look on, while others play. After all 
 —even the highest game of crowns and sceptres, what is 
 It? Ficfe Napoleon's last twelvemonth. It has com- 
 pletely upset my system of fatalism. I thought, if crushed, 
 he would have fallen, when ' fractus illabaUir orbis,' and 
 not have been pared away to gradual insignificance ; — that 
 all this was not a mere jeu of the gods, but a prelude to 
 greater changes and mightier events. But men never 
 advance beyond a certain point ; — and here we are, retro- 
 grading to thedulj, stupid, old system,— balance of Europe- 
 poising straws upon kings' noses, instead of wringing them 
 off! Give me a republic, or a despotism of one, rather 
 than the mixed government of one, two, three. A republic I 
 —look in the history of the Earth — Rome, Greece, Ve- 
 nice, France, Holland, America, our short (eheu !) Com- 
 monwealth, and compare it with what they did under 
 masters. The Asiatics are not qualified to be republicans, 
 but they have the liberty of demolishing despots,— which 
 is the next thing to it. To be the first man— not the Dic- 
 tator — not the Sylla, but the Wasliington or the Aristides 
 — the leader in talent and truth — is next to the Divinity ! 
 Frankhn, Penn, and, next to these, either Brutus or Cas- 
 sius— even Mirabeau — or St. Just. I shall never be any 
 thing, or rather always be nothing. The most I can hope 
 is, that some %villsay, 'He might, perhaps, if he would.' 
 
 "12, midnight. 
 
 " Here are two confounded proofs from the printer. 1 
 have looked at the one, but, for the soul of me, I can't look 
 over that ' Giaour' again, — at least, just now, and at this 
 hour — and yet there is no moon. 
 
 '* Ward talks of going to Holland, and we have partly 
 discussed an ensemble expedition. It must be in ten days, 
 if at all, if we wish to be in at the Revolution. And why 
 not ? * * is distant, and will be at * +, still more distant, 
 till spring. No one else, except Augusta, cares for me — 
 noties — notrammels — andiamo dunque — se tomiamo, bene 
 — se non ck' importal Old William of Orange talked of 
 dying in ' the last ditch' of his dingy country. It is lucky I 
 can swim, or I suppose I should not well weather the first. 
 But let us see. I have heard hyenas and jackals in the 
 ruins of Asia ; and bull-frogs in the marshes, besides 
 wolves and angry Mussulmans. Now, I should like to 
 listen to the shout of a free Dutchman. 
 
 " Alia ! Viva! For ever ! Hourra! Huzza ! — which is 
 the most rational or musical of these cries ? ' Orange 
 Boven,' according to the Morning Post. 
 
 " Wednesday, 24th. 
 
 " No dreams last night of the dead nor the living — so — 
 I am ' firm as the marble, founded as the rock' — till the 
 next earthquake. 
 
 " Ward's dinner went off well. There was not a dis- 
 agreeable person there — unless / offended any body, 
 which I am sure I could not by contradiction, for I said 
 little, and opposed nothing. Sharpe (a man of elegant 
 mind, and who has lived much with the best — Fox, Home 
 Tooke, Windham, Fitzpatrick, and all the agitators of 
 other times and tongues) told us the particulars of his last 
 interview with Windham, a few days before the fatal 
 operation, which sent ' that gallant spirit to aspire the 
 skies.' Windham, — the first in one department of oratory 
 and talent, whose only fault was his refinement beyond 
 the intellect of half his hearers, — Windham, half his life 
 an active participator in the events of the earth, and one 
 of those who governed nations, — he regretted, and dwelt 
 much on that regret, that ' he had not entirely devoted 
 himself to literature and science ! ! !' His mind certainly 
 would have carried him to eminence there, as elsewhere 5 
 — ^but I caimot comprehend what debility of that mind 
 could suggest such a wish. I, who have heard him, 
 cannot regret any thing but that I shall never hear him 
 again. What I would he have been a plodder ? a metaphy- 
 sician ? — perhaps a rhymer ? a scribbler ? Such an 
 exchange must have been suggested by illness. But he 
 is gone, and Time ' shall not look upon his like again.' 
 30 
 
 " I am tremendously in arrcar with my letters, — except 
 to * * and to her my tlioughts overpower me, — my words 
 never compass them. To Lady Melbourne I write with 
 most pleasure — and her answers, so sensible, so tactique 
 — ^I never met with half her tcilent. If she had been a few 
 years younger, what a fool she would have made of me, 
 had she thought it worth her while,— and I should have 
 lost a valuable and most agreeable /ricTwi. Mem. — a mis- 
 tress never is nor can be a friend. While you agree, you 
 are lovers ^ and, when it is over, any thing but friends. 
 
 " I have not answered W. Scott's last letter, — but I will. 
 I regret to hear from others that he has lately been unfor- 
 tunate in pecuniary involvements. He is undoubtedly 
 the monarch of Parnassus, and the most English of bards. 
 I should place Rogers next in the hving Ust— (I value him 
 more as the last of the best school)— Moore and Campbell 
 both third — Southey and Wordsworth and Coleridge— 
 the rest, bi ttoXXoi — thus : 
 
 There is a triangular 'Gradus ad Parnassum!' The 
 names are too numerous for the base of the triangle. Poor 
 Thurlow has gone wild about the poetry of Q,ueen Bess's 
 reign — c^est dommage. I have ranked the names upon my 
 triangle more upon what I beUeve popular opinion than 
 any decided opinion of my own . For, to me, some of 
 Moore's last Erin sparks — 'As abeam o'er the face of 
 the waters' — ' When he who adores thee' — ' Oh blame not' 
 — and ' Oh breathe not his name' — are worth all the Epics 
 that ever were composed. 
 
 K* * thinks the (Quarterly will attack me next. Let 
 them. I have been ' peppered so highly' in my time, both 
 ways, that it must be cayenne or aloes to make me taste. 
 I can sincerely say that I am not very much aUve now to 
 criticism. But — in tracing this — I rather believe that it 
 proceeds from my not attaching that importance to author- 
 ship which many do, and which, when young, I did also. 
 One gets tired of every thing, my angel,' says Valmont. 
 The ' angels' are the only things of which I am not a little 
 sick — but I do think the preference o^ writers to agents — 
 the mighty stir made about scribbling and scribes, by them- 
 selves and others — a sign of effeminacy, degeneracy, 
 and weakness. Who would wTite, who had any thing 
 better to do? 'Action' — 'action' — 'action' — ^said Demos- 
 thenes : 'Actions — actions,' I say, and not writing, — least 
 of aU rhyme. Look at the querulous and monotonous lives 
 of the ' genus ;' — except Cervantes, Tasso, Dante, Ariosto, 
 Ifleist, (who were brave and active citizens,) ^schylus, 
 Sophocles, and some other of the antiques also— what a 
 worthless, idle brood it is ! 
 
 " 12, Mezza notte. 
 " Just returned from dinner, with Jackson (the emperor 
 of Pugilism) and another of the select, at Cribb's the cham- 
 pion's. I drank more than I like, and have brought away 
 some three bottles of very fair claret — for I have no 
 headach. We had Tom Cribb up after dinner ; — very 
 
234 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1813. 
 
 facetious, though somewhat prolix. He don't like his 
 situation — wants to fight again— pray Pollux (or Castor, 
 if he was the viiller) he may ! Tom has been a sailor— a 
 coal-heaver — and some other genteel professions, before 
 he took to the cestus. Tom has been in action at sea, 
 and is now only three-and-thirty. A great man ! has a 
 wife and a mistress, and conversations well— bating some 
 sad omissions and misapplications of the aspirate. Tom 
 is an old friend of mine ; I have seen some of his best 
 battles in my nonage. He is now a publican, and, I fear, 
 a sinner ] — for Mrs. * * is on alimony, and * *'s daughter 
 Uvcs with the champion. This * * told me,— Tom havmg 
 an opinion of my morals, passed her off as a legal spouse. 
 Talking of her, he said, ' she was the truest of women' 
 —from which I immediately inferred she could not be his 
 wife, and so it turned out. 
 
 « These panegyrics do n't belong to matrimony ; for if 
 true,' a man do n't think it necessary to say so •, and if not, 
 the less he says the better.' * * * + is the only man, except 
 ***+,! ever heard harangue upon his wife's virtue ; and 
 I hstened to both with great credence and patience, and 
 stuffed my handkerchief into my mouth, when I found 
 yawning irresistible. By-the-by, I am yawning now — 
 so, good night to thee. Kwaipwv- 
 
 « Thursday, 26th November. 
 
 "Awoke a little feverish, but no headache — no dreams 
 neither — thanks to stupor ! Two letters, one from * * + *, 
 the other from Lady Melbourne — both excellent in their 
 respective styles. * * * *'s contained also a very pretty 
 lyric on ' concealed griefs' — if not her own, yet very like 
 her. Why did she not say that the stanzas were, or were 
 not, of her composition? — I do not know whether to wish 
 them hers or not. I have no great esteem for poetical 
 persons, particularly women : — they have so much of the 
 ' ideal' in practics, as well as ethics. 
 
 " I have been thinking lately a good deal of Mary Duff. 
 How very odd that I should have been so utterly, devotedly 
 fond of that girl, at an age when I could neither feel pas- 
 sion, nor know the meaning of the word. And the effect'. 
 — My mother used always to rally me about this childish 
 amour ; and, at last, many years after, when I was sixteen, 
 she told me one day, ' Oh. Eyron, I have had a letter from 
 Edinburgh, from Miss Abercromby, and your old sweets 
 heart Mary Duff is married to a Mr-Co^.' And what was 
 my ejiswer 7 I really cannot explain or account for my 
 feelings at that moment ; but they nearly threw me into 
 convulsions, and alarmed my mother so much, that, after I 
 grew better, she generally avoided the subject — to j/ie — 
 and contented herself with telling it to all her acquaintance. 
 Now, what could this be ? I had never seen her since her 
 mother's faux-pas at Aberdeen had been the cause of her 
 removal to her grandmother's at Banff; we were both the 
 merest children. I had and have been attached fifty times 
 since that period ; yet I recollect aU we said to each other, 
 all our caresses, her features, my restlessness, sleepless- 
 ness, my tormenting my mother's maid to %vrite for me to 
 her, which she at last did, to quiet me. Poor Nancy 
 thought I was wild, and, as I could not write for myself, 
 became my secretary. I remember, too, our walks, and 
 the happiness of sitting by Mary, in the children's apart- 
 ment, at their house not far from the Plainstones at Aber- 
 deen, while her less sister Helen played with the doU, and 
 we sat gravely making love, in our Avay. 
 
 "How the deuce did all this occur so early? where 
 could it originate ? I certainly had no sexual ideas for years 
 afterward ; and yet my misery, my love for that girl were 
 so violent, that I sometimes doubt if I have ever been 
 really attached since. Be that as it may, hearing of her 
 marriage several years after was like a thunder-stroke — it 
 nearly choked me — to the horror of my mother and the 
 astonishment and almost incredulity of every body. And 
 it is a phenomenon in my existence (for I was not eight 
 years old) which has puzzled, and will puzzle me to the 
 latest hour of it; and lately, I know not why, the recollec- 
 
 tion (not the attachment) has recurred as forcibly as ever. 
 I wonder if she can have the least remembrance of it or 
 mc ? or remember her pitying sister Helen for not having 
 an admirer too ? How very pretty is the perfect image of 
 her in my memory — her brown dark hair, and hazel eyes ; 
 her very dress ! 1 should be quite grieved to see her noio ; 
 the reality, however beautiful, would destroy, or at least 
 confuse, the features of the lovely Peri which then existed 
 m her, and still hves in my imagination, at the distance 
 of more than sixteen years. I am now twenty -five and odd 
 months 
 
 " I think my mother told the circumstances (on my hear- 
 ing of her marriage) to the Parkynsies, and certainly to 
 the Pigoi family, and probably mentioned it in her answer 
 to IMiss. A., who was well acquainted with my childish 
 penchant, and had sent the news on purpose for me, — and, 
 tlianlcs to her ! 
 
 " Next to the beginning, the conclusion has often occu- 
 pied my reflections, in the way of investigation. That the 
 facts are thus, others know as well as I, and my memory 
 yet tells me so, in more than a whisper. But, the more I 
 reflect, the more I am bewildered to assign any cause 
 for tliis precocity of affection. 
 
 "Lord Holland invUed me to dinner to-day ; but three 
 days' dining would destroy me. So, without eating al 
 all since yesterday, I went to my box at Covent-garden. 
 ***** 
 
 " Saw * * * * looking Tery pretty, though quite a differ- 
 ent style of beauty from the other two. She has the finest 
 eyes in the world, out of which she pretends not to 
 see, and the longest eyelashes I ever saw, since Leila's 
 and Phannio's Moslem curtains of the light. She has 
 much beauty, — ^just enough, — but is, I think, mechante. 
 ***** 
 
 " I have been pondering on the miseries of separation, 
 that — oh how seldom w-e see those we love I yet we Uve 
 ages in moments, when met. The only thing that consoles 
 me during absence is the reflection that no mental or 
 personal estrangement, from ennui or disagreement, can 
 take place ; — and when people meet hereafter, even though 
 many changes may have taken place in the mean time, 
 still — unless they are tired of each other — they are ready 
 to reunite, and do not blame each otlier for the circum- 
 stances that severed them. 
 
 " Saturday, 27th, (I believe — or rather am in doubt, 
 which is the ne plus ultra of mortal faith.) 
 
 " I have missed a day ; and, as tlie Irishman said, or 
 Joe Miller says for him, ' have gained a loss,' or by the 
 loss. Every thing is settled for Holland, and nothing but 
 a cough, or a caprice of my fellow-traveller's, can stop us. 
 Carriage ordered — funds prepared — and, probably, a gale 
 of wind into the bargain. JV'importe — I beheve, with 
 Clym o' the Clow, or Robm Hood, 'By our Mary (dear 
 name I) that art both Mother and May, 1 think it never 
 was a man's lot to die before his day.' Heigh for Hel- 
 voetsluys, and so forth ! 
 
 " To-night I went with young Henry Fox to see 'Nour- 
 jahad' — a drama, which the Morning Post hath laid to my 
 charge, but of wliich I cannot even guess the author. I 
 wonder what they will next inflict upon me. They can- 
 not well sink below a Melodrama ; but that is better than a 
 Satire, (at least, a personal one,) with which I stand truly 
 arraigned, and in atonement of which I am resolved to 
 bear silently all criticisms, abuses, and even praises for 
 bad pantomimes never composed by me, — without even a 
 contradictory aspect. I suppose the root of this report is 
 my loan to the manager of my Turkish drawings for his 
 di-esses, to which he was more welcome than to my name. 
 I suppose the real author will soon own it, as it has suc- 
 ceeded ; if not, Job be my model, and Lethe my beverac^e ! 
 
 " * * * * has received the portrait safe ; and, in an- 
 swer, the only remark she makes upon it is, ' indeed it is 
 hke'— and again, ' indeed it is like.' * * * With her 
 the likeness ' covered a multitude of sins ;' for I happen 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 
 
 1813. 
 
 235 
 
 to know that this portrait was not a flatterer, but dark and 
 stern, — even black as the mood in which my mind was 
 scorching last July, when I sate for it. All the others of 
 me — like most portraits whatsoever — are, of course, more 
 agreeable than nature. 
 
 "Redde the Ed. Review of Rogers. He is ranked 
 highly — but where he should be. There is a summary 
 view of us all — Moore and me among the rest ; and both 
 (the Jirst justly) praised ; though, by implication (justly 
 again) placed beneath our memorable friend. Mackin- 
 tosh is the writer, and also of the critic on the Stael. His 
 grand essay on Burke, I hear, is for the next number. 
 But I know nothing of the Edinburgh, or of any other 
 Review, but from rumour ; and I have long ceased — in- 
 deed, I could not, injustice, complain of any, even though 
 I were to rate poetry in general, and my rhymes in par- 
 ticular, more highly than I really do. To withdraw my- 
 sdf from myself (oh that cursed selfishness !) has ever 
 been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling 
 at all ; and publishing is also the continuance of the same 
 object, by the action it affords to the mind, which else 
 recoils upon itself. If I valued fame, I should flatter re- 
 ceived opinions, which have gathered strength by time, 
 and will yet wear longer than any hving works to the con- 
 trary. But, for the soul of me, I cannot and will not give 
 the he to my own thoughts and doubts, come what may. 
 If I am a fool, it is, at least, a doubting one ; and I envy 
 no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom. 
 
 " All are inclined to believe what they covet, from a 
 lottery-ticket up to a passport to Paradise ; in which, from 
 description, I see nothing very tempting. My restless- 
 ness tells me I have something within that ' passeth show.' 
 It is for Him, who made it, to prolong that spark of celes- 
 tial fire which illuminates, yet burns, this frail tenement ; 
 but I see no such horror in a 'dreamless sleep,' and I have 
 no conception of any existence which duration would not 
 render tiresome. How else ' fell the angels,' even accord- 
 ing to your creed ? They were immortal, heavenly, and 
 happy as their apostate Abdiel is now by his treachery. 
 Time must decide ; and eternity won't be the less agree- 
 able or more horrible because one did not expect it. In 
 the mean time, I am grateful for some good, and tolerably 
 patient under certain evils — grace a Dieu et mon bon 
 emperaraent. 
 
 « Sunday, 28 th. 
 
 « Monday, 29th. 
 
 « Tuesday, 30th. 
 " Two days missed in my log-book ; hiatus hand de- 
 flendus. They were as htde worth recollection as the 
 rest ; and, luckily, laziness or society prevented me from 
 notching them. 
 
 " Sunday, I dined with Lord Holland m St. James's- 
 square. Large party — among them Sir S. Romilly and 
 Lady Ry. ; General Sir Somebody Bentham, a man of 
 science and talent I am told; Horner — the Horner, an 
 Edinburgh Reviewer, an excellent speaker in the 'Ho- 
 nourable House,' very pleasing, too, and gentlemanly in 
 company, as far as I have seen — Sharpe— Pliillips of 
 Lancashire — Lord John Russell, and others, ' good men 
 and true.' Holland's society is very good •, you always 
 see some one or other in it worth knowing. Stuffed my- 
 self with sturgeon, and exceeded in champaign and wine 
 in general, but not to confusion of head. When I do dine, 
 I gorge hke an Arab or a Boa snake, on fish and vegeta- 
 bles, but no meat. I am always better, however, on my 
 tea and biscuit than any other regimen, — and even tJtat 
 sparingly. 
 
 " Why does Lady H. always have that damned screen 
 between the whole room and the fire ? I, who bear cold 
 no better than an antelope, and never yet found a sun 
 quite done to my taste, was absolutely petrified, and could 
 not even shiver. AU the rest, too, looked as if they were 
 
 just unpacked, like salmon from an ice-basket, and set 
 down to table for that day only. When she retired, I 
 watched their looks as I dismissed the screen, and every 
 cheek thawed, and every nose reddened with the antici- 
 pated glow. 
 
 " Saturday, I went with Harry Fox to Nourjahad ; and, 
 I beheve, convinced him, by incessant yawning, that it 
 was not mine. I wish the precious author would own it 
 and release me from his fame. The dresses are pretty, 
 but not in costume — Mrs. Home's, all but the turban, and 
 the want of a small dagger, (if she is a Sult&na.,) perfect. 
 I never saw a Turldsh woman with a turban in my liJFe — 
 nor did any one else. The Sultanas have a small poniard 
 at the waist. The dialogue is drowsy — the action heavy 
 — the scenery fine — the actors tolerable. I can't say much 
 for their seragUo ; Teresa, Phannio, or * * * * were 
 worth them all. 
 
 " Sunday, a very handsome note from Mackintosh, who 
 is a rare instance of the union of very transcendent talent 
 and great good-nature. To-day, (Tuesday,) a very pretty 
 billet from M. la Baronne de Stael Holstein. She is 
 pleased to be much pleased with my mention of her and 
 her last work in my notes, I spoke as I thought. — Her 
 works are my delight, and so is she herself, for — half an 
 hour. I do n't like her politics — at least, her having 
 changed them ; had she been qualis ah incepto, it were 
 nothing. But she is a woman by herselfj and has done 
 more than all the rest of them together, intellectually, — 
 she ought to have been a man. She flatters me very pret- 
 tily in her note ; — but I know it. The reason that adula- 
 tion is not displeasing is, that, though untrue, it shows 
 one to be of consequence enough, in one way or other, to 
 induce people to lie, to make us their friend : — that is their 
 concern. 
 
 " * * is, I hear, thriving on the repute of a pirn (which 
 was 7nine at Mackintosh's diimer som.e time back) on 
 Ward, who was askmg ' how much it would take to re- 
 whig him ?' I answered that, probably, he ' must first, 
 before he was re-whigged, be re-ivarded.' This foolish 
 quibble, before the Stael and Mackintosh and a number 
 of conversationers, has been mouthed about, and at last 
 settled on the head of * *, where long may it remain ! 
 
 "George* is returned from afloat to get a new ship. 
 He looks thin, but better than I expected. I like George 
 much more than most people like their heirs. He is a fine 
 fellow, and every inch a sailor. I would do any thing, 
 btU apostatize, to get him on in his profession. 
 
 "Lewis called. It is a good and good-humoured man, 
 but pestilently prolix, and paradoxical, and personal. If 
 he would but talk half and reduce liis \isits to an hour, 
 he would add to his popularity. As an author, he is very 
 good, and his vanity is oziverte, like Ersldne's, and yet not 
 offending. 
 
 "Yesterday, a very pretty letter from Annabellajf 
 which I answered. What an odd situation and friend- 
 ship is ours ! without one spark of love on either side, and 
 produced by circumstances which in general lead to cold- 
 ness on one side, and aversion on the other. She is a 
 very superior woman, and very Uttle spoiled, which is 
 strange in an heiress — a girl of twenty — a peeress that is 
 to be, in her own right — an only child, and a savante, who 
 has always had her own way. She is a poetess — a ma- 
 thematician — a metaphysician ; and yet, withal, very kind. 
 generous, and gentle, with very little pretension. Any 
 other head would be turned with half her acquisitions, 
 and a tenth of her advantages. 
 
 "Wednesday, December 1, 1813. 
 " To-day responded to La Baronne de Stael Holstein 
 and sent to Leigh Hunt (an acquisition to my acquaint- 
 ance — through Moore — of last summer) a copy of the 
 two Turldsh Tales. Hunt is an extraordinary character, 
 and not exactly of the present age. He reminds me more 
 
 * His cousin, afterward Lord Byron. 
 
 1 Misa lylillaiilft; afierward Lady Byro.i. 
 
236 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1813. 
 
 of the Pym and Hampden times — much talent, great in- 
 dependence of spirit, and an austere, yet not repulsive, 
 aspect. If he goes on qualis ah inceplo, I know few men 
 who will deserve more praise or obtain it. I must go and 
 see him again ; the rapid succession of adventure since 
 last summer, added to some serious uneasiness and busi- 
 ness, have interrupted our acquaintance ; but he is a man 
 worth knowing ; and though, for his own sake, I wish him 
 out of prison, I like to study character in such situations. 
 He has been unshaken, and will continue so. I do n't 
 think him deeply versed in life ; — ^he is the bigot of virtue, 
 (not religion,) and enamoured of the beauty of that 
 
 * empty name,' as the last breath of Brutus pronounced, 
 and every day proves it. He is, perhaps, a little opinion- 
 ated, as all men who are the centre of circles, wide or nar- 
 row — the Sir Oracles, in whose name two or three are 
 gathered together — must be, and as even Johnson was ; 
 but, withal, a valuable man, and less vain than success 
 and even the consciousness of preferring ' the right to the 
 expedient' might excuse. 
 
 " To-morrow there is a party of purple at the ' blue' 
 Miss * * *'s. Shall I go ? um ! I do n't much affect 
 your blue-bottles ; but one ought to be civil. There will 
 be, 'I guess now,' (as the Americans say,) the Staels and 
 Mackintoshes — good — the + * *s and "^ * ♦s — not so 
 good — the * * *s, &c. &c. — good for nothing. Perhaps 
 tliat blue-winged Kashmirian butterfly of book-learning, 
 Lady * + * *j vvill be there. I hope so ; it is a pleasure 
 to look upon that most beautiful of faces. 
 
 " Wrote to Hodgson ; he has been telling that I .* 
 
 I am sure, at least, / did not mention it, and I wish he 
 had not. He is a good fellow, and I obliged myself ten 
 times more by being of use than I did him ; and there 's 
 an end on 't, 
 
 " Baldwin is boring me to present their King's Bench 
 petition. I presented Cartwright's last year ; and Stan- 
 hope and I stood against the whole House, and mouthed 
 it valiantly — and had some fun and a little abuse for our 
 opposition. But 'I am noti' th' vein' for this business. 
 Now, had * * been here, she would have made me do it. 
 There is a woman, who, amid all her fascination, always 
 urged a man to usefulness or glory. Had she remained, 
 she had been my tutelar genius. * * * 
 
 " Baldwin is very importunate — but, poor fellow, ' I 
 can't get out, I can't get out — said the starling.' — Ah, I 
 am as bad as that dog Sterne, who preferred whining 
 over ' a dead ass to relieving a living mother' — villain — 
 hypocrite — slave — sycophant ! but I am no better. Here 
 I cannot stimulate myself to a speech for the sake of 
 these vmfortunates, and three words and half a smile of 
 
 * *, had she been here to urge it, (and urge it she infalli- 
 bly would — at least, she always pressed me on senatorial 
 duties, and particularly in the cause of weakness,) would 
 have made me an advocate, if not an orator. Curse on 
 Rochefoucault for being always right ! In him a lie were 
 virtue, — or, at least, a comfort to his readers. 
 
 "George Byron has not called to-day ; I hope he will 
 be an admiral, and, perhaps. Lord Byron into tlie bar- 
 gain. If he would but marry, I would engage never to 
 marry, myself, or cut him out of the heirship. He would 
 be happier, and I should like nephews better than sons. 
 
 " I shall soon be six-and-twenty, (January 22d, 1814.) 
 Is there any thing in the future that can possibly console 
 us for not being always twenty-five ? 
 
 ' Oh Gioventu ! 
 Oh Primavera ! giovenlu dell' anno. 
 Oh Gioveatu ! primaTera della vita.' 
 
 * Sunday, Dec. 5. 
 "Dallas's nephew (son to the American Attorney- 
 
 Two or three words are here scratched out in the manuscript, but 
 the import of the sentence evidently is, that Air. Hodgson (to whom the 
 passage i-efers) had been revealing to some friends the secret of Lord 
 Byron's kindness to him.— A/bore. 
 
 general) is arrived in this country, and tells Dallas that 
 my rhymes are very popular in die United States. These 
 are the first tidings that have ever sounded like Fame to 
 my ears — to be redde on the banks of the Ohio ! The 
 greatest pleasure I ever derived, of this kind, was from an 
 extract, in Cooke the actor's Life, from his Journal, sta- 
 ting, that in the reading-room of Albany, near Washing- 
 ton, he perused English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. 
 To be popular in a rising and far country has a kind of 
 posthumous feel, very different from the ephemeral eclAt 
 and fete-ing, buzzing and party-ing compliments of the 
 well-dressed multitude. I can safely say that, during my 
 reign in the spring of 1812, I regretted nothing but its 
 duration of six weeks instead of a fortnight, and was 
 heartily glad to resign. 
 
 "Last night I supped with Lewis; — and, as usual, 
 though I neither exceeded in solids nor fluids, have been 
 half dead ever since. My stomach is entirely destroyed 
 by long abstinence, and the rest will probably follow. Let 
 it — I only wish the pain over. The ' leap in the dark' is 
 the least to be dreaded. 
 
 « The Duke of * * called. I have told them forty 
 times that, except to half-a-dozen old and specified ac- 
 quaintances, I am invisible. His grace is a good, noble, 
 ducal person ; but I am content to think so at a distance, 
 and so — I was not at home. 
 
 "Gait called. — Mem. — to ask some one to speak to 
 Raymond in favour of his play. We are old fellow- 
 travellers, and, with all his eccentricities, he has much 
 strong sense, experience of the world, and is, as far as I 
 have seen, a good-natured, philosophical fellow. I show- 
 ed him Sligo's letters on the report of the Turkish girl's 
 aventure at Athens soon after it happened. He and Lord 
 Holland, Lewis, and Moore, and Rogers, and Lady Mel- 
 bourne have seen it. Munay has a copy. I thought it 
 had been unknown, and wish it were ; but Sligo arrived 
 only some days after, and the rumours are the subject of 
 his letter. That I shall preserve — it is as well. Levsis 
 and Gait were both horrified ; and L. wondered 1 did not 
 introduce the situation into ' the Giaour.' He may won- 
 der — he might wonder more at that production's being 
 written at all. But to describe the feelings of thai situa- 
 tion were impossible — it is icy even to recollect them. 
 
 " The Bride of Abydos was published on Thursday 
 the second of December ; but how it is liked or disliked, 
 I know not. "Whether it succeeds or not is no fault of 
 the public, against whom I can have no complaint. But 
 I am much more indebted to the tale than I can ever be 
 to the most partial reader ; as it wrung my thoughts from 
 reality to imagination — from selfish regrets to vivid re- 
 collections — and recalled me to a country replete with 
 the brightest and darkest, but always most lively colours 
 of my memory. Sharpe called, but was not let in, which 
 I regret. 
 
 *** + * + 
 
 "Saw * * yesterday. I have not kept my appoint- 
 ment at Middleton, which has not pleased hun, perhaps ; 
 and my projected voyage with * * will, perhaps, please' 
 him less. But I wish to keep well with both. They are 
 instruments that don't do, in concert; but, surely, their 
 separate tones are very musical, and I won't give up 
 either. 
 
 "It is well if I do n't jar between these great discords 
 At present, I stand tolerably well with all, but I cannot 
 adopt their dislikes;— so many sets. Holland's is the 
 first ;— every thing distingue is welcome there, and cer- 
 tainly the ton of his society is the best. Then there is 
 Mde. de Stael's— there I never go, though I might, had I 
 courted it. It is composed of the * +s and the * * 
 family, with a strange sprinkling,— orators, dandies, and 
 aU kinds of Blue, from the regular Grub-street uniform, 
 down to the azure jacket of the Litterateur. To see * * 
 and * * sitting together, at dbner, always reminds me of 
 the grave, where aU distinctions of friend and foe are 
 levelled; and they— the Reviewer and Reviewee, the 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1813. 
 
 237 
 
 Rhinoceros and Elephant, the Mammoth and Megalonyx 
 
 —all will lie quietly together. They now sit together, as 
 
 silent, but not so quiet, as if they were already immured. 
 
 + + * + ** 
 
 "I did not go to the Berry's the other night. The 
 elder is a w^oman of much talent, and both are handsome, 
 and must have been beautiful. To-night asked to Lord 
 H.'s — shall I go ? um ! perhaps. 
 
 " Morning, two o'clock. 
 
 "Went to Lord H.'s, — party numerous — milady in 
 perfect good-humour, and consequently perfect. No one 
 more agreeable, or perhaps so much so, when she will. 
 Asked for Wednesday to dine and meet the Stael ; — 
 asked particularly, I beheve, out of mischief, to see the 
 first interview after the Tiote, with which Corinne pro- 
 fesses herself to be so much taken. I do n't much like 
 it ; — she always talJis of myself or herself, and I am not 
 (except in soliloquy, as now) much enamoured of either 
 subject — especially one's Works. What the devil shall 
 I say about 'De I'Allemagne ?' I like it prodigiously; 
 but unless I can twist my admiration into some fantastical 
 expression, she won't believe me ; and I know, by expe- 
 rience, I shall be overwhelmed with fine things about 
 rhjnne, &c. &c. The lover, Mr. Rocia, was there to- 
 night, and Campbell said 'it was the only proof he had 
 seen of her good taste.' Monsieur L'Amant is remark- 
 ably handsome ; but I do n't think more so then her book. 
 
 "Campbell looks well — seemed pleased, and dressed to 
 sprucery. A Wue coat becomes him, so does his new 
 wig. He really looked as if Apollo had sent him a birth- 
 day suit, or a wedding-garment, and was witty and lively. 
 * * * He abused Corinne's book, which I regret; 
 because, firstly, he understands German, and is conse- 
 quently a fair judge ; and. secondly, he is Jirst rate, and 
 consequently, the best of judges. I reverence and admire 
 him ; but I won't give up my opinion — why should 1 ? I 
 read her again and again, and there can be no affectation 
 m this. I cannot be mistaken (except in taste) in a book 
 I read and lay down, and take up again ; and no book 
 can be totally bad, which finds one, even one reader, who 
 can say as much sincerely. 
 
 " Campbell talks of lecturing next spring ; his last lec- 
 tures were eminently successful, Moore throught of it, 
 but give it up, I do n't know why. * * had been prating 
 dignity to him, and such stuff; as if a man disgraced 
 himself by instructbg and pleasing at the same time. 
 
 " Introduced to Marquis Buckingham — saw Lord Gower 
 — he is going to Holland ; Sir J. and Lady Mackintosh 
 and Horner, G. Lamb, with, I know not how many, (R. 
 Wellesley, one — a clever man,) grouped about the room. 
 Little Henry Fox, a fine boy, and very promising in mind 
 and manner, — he went away to bed, before I had time to 
 talk to him. I am sure I had rather hear him than all 
 the savans. 
 
 « Monday, Dec. 6. 
 
 "Murray tells me that Croker asked him why the 
 thing was called the Bride of Abydos ? It is a cursed 
 awkward question, being unanswerable. She is not a 
 bride, only about to be one ; but for, &c. &c. &c. 
 
 " I do n't wonder at his finding out the Bull ; but the 
 detection * * * is too late to do any good. I was 
 a great fool to make it, and am eishamed of not bemg an 
 Irishman. * * * * 
 
 " Campbell last night seemed a little nettled at some- 
 thing or other— I know not what. We were standing in 
 the ante-saloon, when Lord H. brought out of the other 
 room a vessel of some composition similar to that which 
 is used in Catholic churches, and, seeing us, he exclaimed, 
 ' Here is some incense for you.' Campbell answered — 
 * Carry it to Lord Byron — he is used to it.^ 
 
 " Now, this comes of ' bearing no brother near the 
 tlirone.' I, who have no throne, nor wish to have one 
 
 now — whatever I may have done — am at perfect peace 
 with all the poetical fraternity ; — or, at least, if I dislike 
 any, it is not poetically, but personally. Surely, the field 
 of thought is infinite ; — what does it signify who is before 
 or behind in a race where there is no goal 1 The temple 
 of Fame is like that of the Persians, the Universe ; — our 
 altar, the tops of mountains, I should be equally con- 
 tent with Mount Caucasus or Mount Anything ; and 
 those who like it may have Mont Blanc or Chimborazo 
 without my envy of their elevation. 
 
 " I think I may now speak thus ; for I have just pub- 
 lished a Poem, and am quite ignorant whether it is Ukely 
 to be liked or not. I have hitherto heard little in its com- 
 mendation, and no one can downright abuse it to one's 
 face, except in print. It can't be good, or I should not 
 have stumbled over the threshold, and blundered in my 
 very title. But I begun it with heart full of * * *, and 
 my head of orientaliiies, (I can't call them isrns,) and 
 wrote on rapidly, 
 
 "This journal is a relief. When I am tired — as I 
 generally am — out come this, and down goes every thing. 
 But I can't read it over ; — and God knows what contra- 
 dictions it may contain. If I am sincere with myself 
 (but I fear one lies more to one's self than to any one 
 else,) every page should confute, refiite, and utterly 
 abjure its predecessor. 
 
 " Another scribble from Martin Baldwin the petitioner : 
 I have neither head nor nerves to present it. That con- 
 founded supper at Lewis's has spoiled my digestion and 
 my philanthropy. I have no more charity than a cruet 
 of vinegar. Would I were an ostrich and dieted on 
 fire-irons, — or any thing that my gizzards could get the 
 better of. 
 
 " To-day saw W. His uncle is dying, and W. do n't 
 much afiect our Dutch determinations. I dine v^ith him 
 on Thursday, provided Voncle is not dined upon, or pe- 
 remptorily bespoke by the posthumous epicures, before that 
 day. I wish he may recover — not for our dinner's sake, 
 but to disappoint the undertaker, and the rascally reptiles 
 that may well wait, since they will dine at last. 
 
 " Gell called — he of Troy — after I was out. Mem. — 
 to return his visit. But my Mems. are the very land- 
 marks of forgetfulness : — something like a lighthouse, with 
 a ship wrecked under the nose of its lantern. I never 
 look at a Mem. without seeing that I have remembered to 
 forget. Mem. — I have forgotten to pay Pitt's taxes, and 
 suppose I shaU be surcharged. ' An I do not turn rebel 
 when thou art king* — oons ! I believe my very biscuit is 
 leavened with that impostor's imposts. 
 
 "Ly. Me. returns from Jersey's to-morrow; — I must 
 call. A Mr. Thomson has sent a song, which I must 
 applaud. I hate annoying them with censure or silence; 
 and yet I hate lettering. 
 
 " Saw Lord Glenbervie and his Prospectus, at Mur- 
 ray's, of a new Treatise on Timber. Now here is a 
 man more useful than all the historians and rhymers ever 
 planted. For, by preserving our woods and forests, he 
 furnishes materials for all the history of Britain worth 
 reading, and all the odes worth nothing. 
 
 " Redde a good deal, but desultorily. My head is cram- 
 med with the most useless lumber. It is odd that when I 
 do read, I can only bear the chicken broth of — any thing 
 but novels. It is many a year since I have looked into 
 one, (though they are sometimes ordered, by way of expe- 
 riment, but never taken,) till I looked yesterday at the 
 worst parts of the Monk. These descriptions ought to 
 have been written by Tiberias at Caprea — they are forced 
 — the philtred ideas of a jaded voluptuary. It is to me 
 inconceivable how they could have been composed by a 
 man of only twenty — his age when he wrote them. They 
 have no nature — all the sour cream of cantharides. I 
 should have suspected Buffon of writing them on the 
 death-bed of his detestable dotage. I had never redde 
 this edition, and merely looked at them from curiosity 
 
238 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1813 
 
 and recollection of the noise tliey made, and the name 
 they have left to Lewis. But they could do no harm 
 except * * *. 
 
 "Called this evening on my agent — my business as 
 usual. Our strange adventures are the only inheritances 
 of our family that have not diminished. * + + * 
 
 " I shall now smoke two cigars, and get me to bed. 
 The cigars do n't keep well here. They get as old as 
 a donna di quaranti anvi in the sun of Africa. The 
 Havana are the best; — but neither are so pleasant as 
 a hooka or chibouque. The Turkish tobacco is mild, 
 and their horses entire — two things as they should be. 
 I am so far obliged to this Journal, that it preserves me 
 from verse, — at least from keeping it. I have just thrown 
 a Poem into the fire (which it has relighted to my great 
 comfort,) and have smoked out of my head the plan of 
 anotlier. I wish I could as easily get rid of thinking, or, 
 at least, the confusion of thought. 
 
 " Tuesday, Dec. 7. 
 " Went to bed, and slept dreamlessly, but not refresh- 
 ingly. Awoke and up an hour before being called ; but 
 dawdled three hours in dressing. When one subtracts 
 from life infancy (which is vegetation) — sleep, eating, and 
 swilling — buttoning and unbuttoning — how much remains 
 of downright existence ? The summer of a dormouse. * 
 ****** 
 
 " Redde the papers and ^ea-ed and soda-watered, and 
 found out that the fire was badly lighted. Ld. Glenbervie 
 wants me to go to Brighton — um ! 
 
 " This morning a very pretty billet from the Stael 
 about meeting her at Ld. H.'s to-morrow. She has 
 written, I dare say, twenty such this morning to different 
 people, all equally flattering to each. So much the better 
 for her and those who believe all she wishes them, or they 
 wish to believe. She has been pleased to be pleased with 
 my slight eulogy in the note annexed to the ' Bride.' 
 This is to be accounted for in several ways : — firstly, all 
 women like all, or any praise ; secondly, this was unex- 
 pected, because I have never courted her ; and, thirdly, 
 as Scrub says, those who have been all their lives regu- 
 larly praised, by regular critics, like a little variety, and 
 are glad when any one goes out of his way to say a civil 
 thing ; and, fourthly, she is a very good-natured creature, 
 which is the best reason, after all, and, perhaps, the only 
 one. 
 
 " A knock — knocks single and double. Bland called. — 
 He says Dutch society (he has been in Holland) is 
 second-hand French ; but the women are lilie women 
 every where else. This is a bore ; I should like to see 
 them a little unlike ; but that can't be expected. 
 
 " Went out — came home — this, that, and the other— 
 and ' all is vanity, saith the preacher,' and so say I, as part 
 9f his congregation. Talking of vanity — whose praise 
 do I prefer? Why, Mrs. Inchbald's, and that of the 
 Americans. The first, because her ' Simple Story' and 
 
 * Nature and Art' are, to me, true to their titles ; and con- 
 sequently, her short note to Rogers about the ' Giaour' 
 delighted me more than any thing, except the Edinburgh 
 Review. I lilie the Americans, because / happened to 
 be in Asioj while the English Bards and Scotch Review- 
 ers were redde in America. If I could have had a speech 
 against the Slave Trade, in Africa, and an Epitaph on a 
 Dog, in Europe, (i. e. m the Morning Post,) my vertex 
 sublimis would certainly have displaced stars enough to 
 overthrow the Newtonian system. 
 
 « Friday, Dec.lO, 1813. 
 
 " I am ennuyd beyond my usual tense of that yawning 
 
 verb, which I am always conjugating ; and I do n't find 
 
 that society much mends the matter. I am too lazy to 
 
 shoot myself— and it would annoy Augusta, and perhaps 
 
 * * ; but it would be a good thing for George, on the 
 other side, and no bad one for me; but I won't be 
 tempted. 
 
 "I have had the kindest letter from Moore. I do think 
 that man is the best-hearted, the only hearted being I ever 
 encountered ; and then, liis talents are equal to his feel- 
 ings. 
 
 " Dined on Wednesday at Lord H.'s — the Staffords, 
 Staels, Cowpers, Ossulstones, Melbournes, Mackintoshes, 
 &c. &c. — and was introduced to the Marquis and 
 Marchioness of Stafford, — an unexpected event. My 
 quarrel with Lord Carlisle (their or his brother-in-law) 
 having rendered it improper, I suppose, brought it about. 
 But, if it was to happen at all, I wonder it did not occur 
 before. She is handsome, and must have been beautiful 
 — and her manners 3.reprincessli/. * * * 
 
 " The Stael was at the other end of the table, and less 
 loquacious than heretofore. We are now very good 
 friends ; though she asked Lady Melbourne whether I 
 had really any bonhommie. She might as well have asked 
 that question before she told C. L. 'c'est un demon.' 
 True enough, but rather premature, for she could not have 
 found it out, and so — she wants me to dine there next 
 Sunday. 
 
 " Murray prospers, as far as circulation. For my part, 
 I adhere (in liking) to my Fragment. It is no wonder 
 that I wrote one — my mind is a fragment. 
 
 " Saw Lord Gower, Tierney, &c. in the square. Took 
 leave of Lord Gr. who is going to Holland and Germany. 
 He tells me, that he carries with him a parcel of 'Harolds' 
 and 'Giaours,' &c. for the readers of Berlin, who, it 
 seems, read English, and have taken a caprice for mine. 
 Um ! — have I been German all this time, when I thought 
 myself oriental ? * * * 
 
 " Lent Tierney my box for to-morrow ; and received a 
 new comedy sent by Lady C. A. — but not hers. I must 
 read it, and endeavour not to displease the author. I hate 
 annoying them with cavil ; but a comedy I take to be the 
 most difficult of compositions, more so than tragedy. 
 
 " Gait says there is a coincidence between the first part 
 of ' the Bride' and some story of his — whether published 
 or not, I know not, never having seen it. He is almost the 
 last person on whom any one would commit literary lar- 
 ceny, Euid I am not conscious of any witting thefts on any 
 of the genus . As to originality, all pretensions are ludi- 
 crous, — 'thereis nodiing new under the sun.' 
 
 « Went last night to the play. * + * * 
 
 Invited out to a party, but did not go ; — right. Refused 
 to go to Lady * * 's on Monday ; — right again. If I 
 must fritter away my life, I would rather do it alone. I 
 was much tempted ; — C * * looked so Turkish with her 
 red turban, and her regular dark and clear features. Not 
 that she and / ever were, or could be, any thing ; but I 
 love any aspect that reminds me of the ' children of the 
 sun.' 
 
 " To dine to-day with Rogers and Sharpe, for which I 
 have some appetite, not having tasted food for the pre- 
 ceding forty-eight hours. I wish I could leave off eating 
 altogether. 
 
 "Saturday, Dec. II. 
 " Sunday, Dec. 12. 
 
 " By Gait's answer, I find it is some story in real life, 
 and not any work with which my late composition coin- 
 cides. It is still more singular, for mine is drawn from 
 existence also. 
 
 "I have sent an excuse to M. de Stael. I do not feel 
 sociable enough for dinner to-day ; and I will not go to 
 Sheridan's on Wednesday. Not that I do not admire 
 and prefer his unequalled conversation ; but — that ' but^ 
 must only be intelligible to thoughts I cannot write. She- 
 ridan was in good talk at Rogers's the other night, but I 
 only stayed till nine. All the world are to be at the Stael's 
 to-night, and I am not sorry to escape any part of it. I 
 only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone. 
 Went out— did not go to the Stael's, but to Ld. Holland's. 
 Party numerous— conversation general. Stayed late — 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1814. 
 
 239 
 
 made a blunder — got over it — came home and went to 
 bed, not having eaten. Rather empty, but fresco^ which 
 is the great point with me. 
 
 "Monday, Dec. 13, 1813. 
 
 " Called at three places — read, and got ready to leave 
 town to-morrow. Murray has had a letter from his 
 brother Bibliopole of Edinburgh, v/ho says 'he Is lucky in 
 having such a ■poet^ — something as if one was a pack- 
 horse, or ' ass, or any thing that is his :' or, like Mrs. Pack- 
 wood, who replied to some inquiry after the Odes on 
 Razors, ' Law, su-, we keeps a Poet.' The same illus- 
 trious Edinburgh bookseller once sent an order for books, 
 poesy, and cookery, with this agreeable postscript — ' The 
 Harold and Cookery are much wanted.' Such is fame, 
 and, after aD, quite as good as any other ' life in other's 
 breath.' 'T is much the same to tivide purchasers with 
 Hannah Glasse or Hannah More. 
 
 "Some editor of some Magazine has announced to 
 Murray his intention of abusing the thing ' without read- 
 ing it.' So much the better ; if he redde it first, he 
 would abuse it more. 
 
 " Allen (Lord Holland's Allen — the best informed and 
 one of the ablest men I know — a perfect Magliabecchi — 
 a devourer, a Helluo of books, and an observer of men) 
 has lent me a quantity of Burns 's unpublished, and never- 
 to-be-pubUshed, Letters. They are full of oaths and 
 obscene songs. What an antithetical mind ! — tenderness, 
 roughness — dehcacy, coarseness — sentiment, sensuality — 
 soaring and grovelling, dirt and deity — all mixed up in 
 that one compound of inspired clay ! 
 
 "It seems strange ; a true voluptuary will never aban- 
 don his mind to the grossness of reality. It is by exaltino 
 the earthly, the material, the physique of our pleasures, 
 by veiling these ideas, by forgetting them altogether, or, 
 at least, never naming them hardly to one's self, that we 
 alone can prevent them from disgusting. 
 
 ******* 
 
 "Dec. 14, 15,16. 
 ** Much done, but nothing to record. It is quite enough 
 to set down my thoughts; my actions will rarely bear 
 retrospection. 
 
 « Dec. 17, 18. 
 
 " Lord Holland told me a curious piece of sentimentahty 
 in Sheridan. The other night we were all delivering our 
 respective and various opinions on him and other hommes 
 marquans, and mine was this. 'Whatever Sheridan has 
 done or chosen to do, has been, par excellence, always the 
 best of its kind. He has Avritten the best comedy, (School 
 for Scandal,) the best drama, (in my mmd, far before that 
 St. Giles's lampoon, the Beggar's Opera,) the best farce, 
 (the Critic — ^it is only too good for a farce,) and the best 
 Address, (Monologue on Garrick,) and, to crown all, 
 delivered the very best Oration (the famous Begum 
 Speech) ever conceived or heard in this country.' Some- 
 body told S. this the next day, and on hearing it, he burst 
 into tears ! 
 
 " Poor Brinsley ! if they were tears of pleasure, I 
 would rather have said these few, but most sincere words, 
 than have written the Iliad, or made his o^vn celebrated 
 Philippic. Nay, his own comedy never gratified me more 
 than to hear that he had derived a moment's gratification 
 from any praise of mine, humble as it must appear to 
 ' my elders and my betters.' 
 
 " Went to my box at Covent-garden to-night ; and my 
 delicacy felt a little shocked at seeing S * * *'s mistress 
 (who, to my certain knowledge, was actually educated, 
 from her birth, for her profession) sitting with her mother, 
 
 * a three-piled b d, b d-Major to the army,' in a 
 
 private box opposite. I felt rather indignant ; but, casting 
 my eyes roimd the house, in the next box to me, and the 
 next and the next, were the most distinguished old and 
 
 young Babylonians of quality ; — so I burst out a laughing. 
 It was really odd ; Lady * * divorced — Lady * * and 
 her daughter, Lady * *, both divorceable — Mrs. * *, f in 
 the next, the like, and still nearer * + ***+! What 
 an assemblage to me, who know all their histories. It 
 was as if the house had been divided between your pub- 
 lic and your understood courtesans ; but the Intriguantes 
 much outnumbered the regular mercenaries. On the 
 other side were only Pauline and her mother, and, next 
 box to her, three of inferior note. Now, where lay the 
 difference between her and mamma, and Lady * * and 
 daughter ? except that the two last may enter Carleton 
 and any other house, and the two first are limited to the 
 
 opera and b house. How I do delight in observing 
 
 life as it really is ! and myself, after all, the worst of any. 
 But, no matter, I must avoid egotism, which, just now, 
 would be no vanity. 
 
 "I have lately written a \^-ild, rambling, unfiuiished 
 rhapsody, called ' The Devil's Drive,| the notion of which 
 I took from Porson's ' Devil's Walk.' 
 
 "Redde some Italian, and wrote two Sonnets on 
 * * *§. I never wrote but one sonnet before, and that 
 was not in earnest, and many years ago, as an exercise— 
 and I will never write another. They are the most 
 puling, petrifying, stupidly platonic compositions. I de- 
 test the Petrarch so much, that I would not be the man 
 even to have obtained his Laura, which the metaphysical, 
 whining dotard never could 
 ******* 
 
 "Jan. 16,1814. 
 
 * * * * + H« 
 
 " To-morrow I leave to^Ti for a few days. I saw 
 Lewis to-day, who has just returned fi-om Oatlands, where 
 he has been squabbling with Mad. de Stael about him- 
 self, Clarissa Harlowe, Mackintosh, and me. My homage 
 has never been paid in that quarter, or we would have 
 agreed still worse. I do n't talk — I can't flatter, and 
 won't hsten, except to a pretty or a foolish woman. She 
 bored Lewis with praises of himself till he sickened— 
 found out that Clarissa was perfection, and Mackintosh 
 the first man in England. There I agree, at least, one of 
 the first — ^but Lewis did not. As to Clarissa, I leave 1o 
 those who can read it to judge and dispute. I could not 
 do the one, and am, consequently, not qualified for the 
 other. She told Lewis wisely, he being my friend, that I 
 as affected, in the first place, and that, in the next place, 
 I committed the heinous offence of sitting at dinner with 
 my eyes shut, or half shut. * * * j wonder if I 
 really have this trick. I must cure myself of it, if true. 
 One insensibly acquires awkward habits, which should be 
 broken in time. If this is one, I wish I had been told of 
 it before. It would not so much signify if one was always 
 to be checkmated by a plain woman, but one may as weU 
 see some of one's neighbours, as well as the plate upon 
 the table. 
 
 " I should like, of all things, to have heard the Amabaean 
 eclogue between her and Lewis, — both obstinate, clever, 
 odd, garrulous, and shrill. In fact, one could have heard 
 nothing else. But they fell out, alas! — and now they 
 will never quarrel again. Could not one reconcile them 
 for the ' nonce ?' Poor Corinne, — she -will find that some 
 of her fime sayings won't suit our fine ladies and gentle- 
 men. 
 
 " I am getting rather into admiration of * *, the young- 
 est sister of * *. A %vife would be my salvation. I am 
 sure the wives of my acquaintances have hitherto done 
 me little good. * * is beautiful, but very young, and, I 
 think, a fool. But I have not seen enough to judge ; be- 
 sides, I hate an esprit in petticoats. That she won't love 
 me is very probable, nor shall I love her. But, on my 
 
 t These Qames are all left blank 
 J See Poems, p. 4*9. 
 § See Poems, p. 193. 
 
 the original. 
 
240 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1814. 
 
 system, and tlie modem system in general, that do n't 
 signify. The business (if it came to business) would 
 probably be arranged between papa and me. She would 
 have her own way ; I am good-humoured to women, and 
 docile ; and, if I did not fall in love with her, which I 
 should try to prevent, we should be a very comfortable 
 couple. As to conduct, that she must look to. + + + * + 
 But if I love, I shall be jealous ; — and for that reason I 
 will not be in love. Though, after all, I doubt my temper, 
 and fear I should not be so patient as becomes the 
 bienseance of a married man in my station. * + * + + 
 Divorce ruins the poor femme, and damages are a paltry 
 compensation. I do fear my temper would lead me into 
 Bome of our oriental tricks of vengeance, or, at any rate, 
 jito a summary appeal to the court of twelve paces. So 
 I '11 none on 't,' but e'en remain single and soUtary ; — 
 /hough I should hke to have somebody now and then, to 
 ya%vn with one. 
 
 "Ward, and, after him, * *, has stolen one of my 
 buffooneries about Mde. de Stael's Metaphysics and the 
 Fog, and passed it, by speech and letter, as their own. 
 As Gibbet says, ' they are the most of a gentleman of 
 any on the road.' W. is in sad enmity with the Whigs 
 about this review of Fox, (if he did review him ;) — all 
 the epigrammatists and essayists are at him. I hate 
 odds, and wish he may beat them. As for me, by the 
 blessing of indifference, I have simplified my politics into 
 an utter detestation of all existing governments ; and, as it 
 is the shortest and most agreeable and summary feeling 
 imaginable, the first moment of a universal republic would 
 convert me into an advocate for single and uncontradicted 
 despotism. The fact is, riches are power, and poverty 
 is slavery, all over the earth, and one sort of establishment 
 is no better, nor worse, for du people than another. I shall 
 adhere to my party, because it would not be honourable 
 to act otherwise ; but, as to opinions, I do n't think poh 
 tics worth an opinion. Conduct is another thing : — if you 
 begin with a party, go on with them. I have no consis- 
 tency, except in politics , and that probably arises from 
 my indifference on the subject altogether." 
 
 "February 18. 
 
 " Better than a month since I last journalized : — most 
 of it out of London, and at Notts., but a busy one and a 
 pleasant, at least three weeks of it. On ray return, I find 
 all the newspapers in hysterics, and town in an uproar, 
 on the avowal and republication of two stanzas on Prin- 
 cess Charlotte's weeping at Regency's speech to Lauder- 
 dale in 1812. They are daily at it still; — some of the 
 abuse good, all of it hearty. They talk of a motion in 
 our House upon it — be it so. 
 
 " Got up — read the Morning Post containing the battle 
 of Buonaparte, the destruction of the Custom-house, and 
 a paragraph on me as long as my pedigree, and vitupera- 
 tive, as usual. * * * 
 
 "Hobhouse is returned to England. He is my best 
 friend, the most hvely, and a man of the most sterling 
 talents extsmt. 
 
 "'The Corsair' has been conceived, written, published, 
 &c. since I last took up this Journal. They tell me it 
 has great success ; — it was written con amore, and much 
 from existence. Murray is satisfied with its progress ; and 
 if the public are equally so with the perusal, there 's an 
 end of the matter. 
 
 " Nine o'clock. 
 "Been to Hanson's on business. Saw Rogers, and 
 had a note from Lady Melbourne, who says, it is saic 
 that I am ' much out of spirits.' I wonder if I really aa 
 or not 7 I have certainly enough of * that perilous stuff 
 which weighs upon the heart,' and it is better they should 
 believe it to be the result of these attacks than of the 
 real cause; but— ay, ay, always 6u/, to the end of the 
 chapter. ♦ * ♦ 
 
 "Hobhouse has told me ten thousand anecdotes of 
 Napoleon, all good and true. My friend H. is the most 
 entertaining of companions, and a fine fellow to boot. 
 
 " Redde a little — vrrole notes and letters, and am alone, 
 which, Locke says, is bad company. 'Be not solitary, be 
 not idle' — Um ! — the idleness is troublesome ; but J can't 
 see so much to regret in the solitude. The more I see 
 of men, the less 1 like them. If I could but say so of 
 women too, all would be well. Why can't I? I am 
 now six-and-twenty ; my passions have had enough to 
 cool them: my affections more than enough to wither 
 them, — and yet — and yet — always yet and but — ' Excel- 
 lent well, you are a fishmonger — get thee to a nunnery.' 
 ' They fool me to the top of my bent.' 
 
 " Midnight. 
 
 " Began a letter, which I threw into the fire. Redde 
 — but to little purpose. Did not visit Hobhouse, as 
 I promised and ought. No matter, the loss is mine. 
 Smoked cigars. 
 
 " Napoleon ! — this week will decide his fate. All seems 
 against him ; but I believe and hope he will win — at 
 least, beat back the invaders. What right have we to 
 prescribe sovereigns to France? Oh for a repubUc! 
 ' Brutus, thou sleepest.' Hobhouse abounds in conti- 
 nental anecdotes of this extraordinary man ; all in favour 
 of his intellect and courage, but against his bonhommie. 
 No wonder ; — how should he, who knows mankind well, 
 do other than despise and abhor them. 
 
 " The greater the equality, the more impartially evil is 
 distributed, and becomes lighter by the division among so 
 many — therefore, a republic ! 
 
 "More notes from Mad. de Stael unanswered — and 
 so they shall remain. I admire her abihties, but really 
 her society is overwhelming — an avalanche that buries 
 one in glittering nonsense — all snow and sophistry. 
 
 " Shall I go to Mackintosh's on Tuesday ? um ! — I did 
 not go to Marquis LansdowTie's, nor to Miss Berry's, 
 though both are pleasant. So is Sir James's, — but I 
 do n't know — 1 believe one is not the better for parties ; 
 at least, unless some regnanie is there. 
 
 " I wonder how the deuse any body could make such a 
 world ; for what purpose dandies, for instance, were or- 
 dained — and kings — and fellows of colleges — and women 
 of ' a certain age' — and many men of any age — and 
 myself, most of all! 
 
 ' Divesne prisco et natus ab Inacho, 
 Nil iaterest, an pauper, et infizn& 
 De gente, sub dio moreris, 
 Victima nil miserantis Orel. 
 
 Omnes eodem cogimur.' 
 
 "Is there any thing beyond? — who knows? He that 
 can't tell. Who tells that there is? He who don't 
 know. And when shall he know? perhaps, when he 
 do n't expect, and, generally, when he do n't wish it. In 
 this last respect, however, all are not alike : it depends a 
 good deal upon education, — something upon nerves and 
 habits — but most upon digestion. 
 
 " Saturday, Feb. 19. 
 
 "Just returned from seeing Kean in Richard. By 
 Jove, he is a soul ! Life — nature — truth — without ex- 
 aggeration or diminution. Kemble's Hamlet is perfect ; — 
 but Hamlet is not Nature. Richard is a man ; and Kean 
 is Richard. Now to my own concerns. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Went to Waite's. Teeth all right and white ; but he 
 says that I grind them in my sleep and chip the edges. 
 That same sleep is no friend of mine, though I court him 
 sometimes for half the 24. 
 
 "February 20. 
 " Got up and tore out two leaves of this Journal—! 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1814. 
 
 241 
 
 don't know why. Hodgson just called and gone. He 
 has mucli bo)ihommie with his other good qualities, and 
 more talent than he has yet had credit for beyond his 
 circle. 
 
 " An invitation to dine at Holland-house to meet Kean. 
 He is worth meeting ; and I hope, by getting into good 
 society, he will be prevented from falling like Cooke. He 
 is greater now on the stage, and off he should never be 
 less. There is a stupid and underrating criticism upon 
 him in one of the newspapers. I thought that, last night, 
 though great, he rather underacted more than the first 
 time. This may be the effect of these cavils ; but I hope 
 he has more sense tlian to mind them. He cannot expect 
 to niaintain his present eminence, or to advance still 
 higher, without the envy of his green-room fellows, and 
 the nibbling of their admirers. But, if he do n't beat 
 them all, why, then — merit hath no purchase in 'these 
 coster-monger days.' 
 
 " I wish that I had a talent for the drama ; I would 
 v?rite a tragedy now. But no, — it is gone. Hodgson 
 talks of one, — he will do it well ; — and I think Moore 
 should try. He has wonderful powers, and much variety ; 
 besides, he has lived and felt. To write so as to bring 
 home to the heart, the heart must have been tried, — but, 
 perhaps, ceased to be so. While you are under the influ- 
 ence of passions, you only feel, but cannot describe them, 
 — any more than, when in action, you could turn round, 
 and tell the story to your next neighbour ! When all is 
 over, — all, all, and irrevocable, — trust to memory — she is 
 then but too faithful. 
 
 " Went out, and answered some letters, yawned now 
 and then, and redde the Robbers. Fine, — but Fiesco is 
 better ; and Alfieri and Monti's Aristodemo best. They 
 are more equal than the Tedeschi dramatists. 
 
 "Answered — or, rather, acknowledged — the receipt of 
 young Reynold's Poem, Safie. The lad is clever, but 
 much of his thoughts are borrowed, — whence, the Review- 
 ers may find out. I hate discouraging a young one; and 
 I think, — though wild, and more oriental than he would 
 be, had he seen the scenes where he has placed his Tale, 
 — that he has much talent, and certainly, fire enough. 
 
 "Received a very singular epistle ; and the mode of its 
 conveyance, though Lord H.'s hands, as curious as the 
 letter itself. But it was gratifying and pretty. 
 
 "Sunday, Feb. 27. 
 
 " Here I am, alone, instead of dining at Lord H.'s, 
 where I was asked, — but not inclined to go any where. 
 Hobhouso says I am growing a loup garou, — a solitary 
 hobgoblin. True; — 'I am myself alone.' The last week 
 has been passed in reading — seeing plays — now and then, 
 visiters — sometimes yawning and sometimes sighing, but 
 no writing — save of letters. If I could always read, I 
 should never feel the want of society. Do I regret it? — 
 um I — 'Man delights not me,' and only one woman — at a 
 time. 
 
 " There is something to me very softening in the pre- 
 sence of a woman, — some strange influence, even if one 
 is not in love with them, — which I cannot at all account 
 for, having no very high opinion of the sex. But yet, — 1 
 always feel in better humour with myself and every thing 
 else, if there is a woman within ken. Even Mrs. Mule, 
 my fire-lighter, — the most ancient and withered of her 
 kind, — and (except to myself) not the best tempered — 
 always makes me laugh, — no difficult task when 1 am 
 ' i' the vein.' 
 
 " Heigho ! I would I were in mine island ! — I am not 
 well ; and yet I look in good health. At times, I fear, 
 'I am not in my perfect mind;' — and yet my heart and 
 head have stood many a crash, and what should ail them 
 now ? They prey upon themselves, and I am sick — sick 
 — ^'Prithee, undo this button; why should a cat, a rat, a 
 dog, have life, and thou no life at all ?' Six- and- twenty 
 years, as they call them: — why, 1 might and should have 
 
 been a Pasha by this time. ' I 'gin to be a weary of the 
 sun.' 
 
 " Buonaparte is not yet beaten ; but has rebutted 
 Blucher, and repiqued Swartzenburg. This it is to have 
 a head. If he again wins, ' Vae victis !' 
 
 « Sunday, March 6. 
 *On Tuesday last dined with Rogers,— Made, de 
 Stael, Mackintosh, Sheridan, Erskine, and Payne Knight, 
 Lady Donegall and Miss R. there. Sheridan told a 
 very good story of himself and M^, de Recamier's hand- 
 kerchief; Erskine a few stories of himself only. She is 
 going to write a big book about England, she says ; — I 
 believe her. Asked by her how I liked Miss * * 's thing, 
 called * *, and answered (very sincerely) that I thought 
 it very bad for her, and worse than any of the others. 
 Afterward thought it possible Lady Donegall, being Irish, 
 might he a Patroness of * *, and was rather sorry for 
 my opinion, as I hate putting people into fusses, either 
 with themselves, or their favourites ; it looks as if one did 
 it on purpose. The party went off very well, and the 
 fish was very much to my gusto. But we got up too 
 soon after the women ; and Mrs. Corinne always lingers 
 so long after dinner, that we wish her in — tlie drawing- 
 room. 
 
 " To-day C. called, and, while sitting here, in came 
 Merivale. During our colloquy, C. (ignorant that M. 
 was the writer) abused the ' mawkishness of the duar- 
 terly Review of Grimm's Correspondence.' I (knowing 
 the secret) changed the conversation as soon as I could; 
 and C. went away, quite convinced of having made the 
 most favourable impression on his new acquaintance. 
 Merivale is luckily a very good-natured fellow, or God 
 he knows what might have been engendered from such a 
 malaprop. I did not look at him while this was going on, 
 but 1 folt like a coal, — for I like Merivale, as well as the 
 article in question. * + + + + * * 
 
 " Asked to Lady Keith's to-morrow evening — I think I 
 will go ; but it is the first party invitation I have accepted 
 this ' season,' as the learned Fletcher called it, when that 
 youngest brat of Lady * * 's cut my eye and cheek open 
 with a misdirected pebble — ' Never mind, my lord, the 
 scar wiU be gone before the season ;' as if one's eye was 
 of no importance in the mean time. 
 
 " Lord Erskine called, and gave me his famous pamph- 
 let, with a marginal note and corrections in his handwri- 
 ting. Sent it to be bound superbly, and shall treasure it. 
 
 * Sent my fine print of Napoleon to be framed. It is 
 framed ; and the emperor becomes his robes as if he had 
 been hatched in them. 
 
 « March 7. 
 
 " Rose at seven — ready by half past eight — went to 
 Mr. Hanson's, Berkeley-square — went to church with 
 his eldest daughter, Mary Anne, (a good girl,) and gave 
 her away to the Earl of Portsmouth, Saw her fairly a 
 countess — congratulated the family and groom (bride) — 
 drank a bumper of wine (wholesome sherris) to their 
 felicity, and all that, — and came home. Asked to stay 
 to dinner, but could not. At three sat to Phillips for 
 faces. Called on Lady M. — I like her so well, that I 
 always stay too long, (Mem. — to mend of that.) 
 
 " Passed the evening with Hobhouse, who has begun a 
 Poem, which promises highly ; — wish he would go on 
 with it. Heard some curious extracts from a life of 
 Morosini, the blundering Venetian, who blew up the 
 Acropolis at Athens with a bomb, and be d — d to him ! 
 Waxed sleepy, — ^just come home, — must go to bed, and 
 am engaged to meet Sheridan to-morrow at Rogers's. 
 
 " Glueer ceremony that same of marriage — saw many 
 abroad, Greek and Catholic — onCj at home, many years 
 ago. There be some strange phrases in the prologue, 
 (the exhortation,) which made me turn away, not to laugh 
 in the face of the surpliceman. Made one blunderj when 
 
242 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1814. 
 
 I joined the hands of the happy — rammed their left 
 hands, by mistake, into one another. Corrected it — 
 bustled back to the altar-rail, and said ' Amen.' Ports- 
 mouth responded as if he had got the whole by heait ; 
 and, if any thing, was rather before the priest. It is now 
 midnight, and ♦ * * * 
 
 « March 10, Thor's Day. 
 
 « On Tuesday dined vnth Rogers — Mackintosh, Sheri- 
 dan, Sharpe — much talk, and good — all, except my own 
 little prattlement. Much of old times— Home Tooke,— 
 the Trials, — evidence of Sheridan, — and anecdotes of 
 those times, when /, alas ! was an infant. If I had been 
 a man, I would have made an English Lord Edward 
 Fitzgerald. 
 
 « Set down Sheridan at Brookes's — where, by-the-by, 
 he could not have well set down himself, as he and I were 
 the only drinkers. Sherry means to stand for Westmin- 
 ster, as Cochrane (the stock-jobbing hoaxer) must vacate. 
 Brougham is a candidate. I fear for poor dear Sherry. 
 Both have talents of the highest order, but the youngster 
 has yet a character. We shall see, if he lives to Sherry's 
 age, how he will pass over the red-hot ploughshares of 
 public life, I do n't know why, but I hate to see the old 
 ones lose ; particularly Sheridan, notwithstanding all his 
 mechancete. 
 
 " Received many, and the kindest, thanks from Lady 
 Portsmouth, phre and mtre, for my match-making. I do n't 
 regret it, as she looks the countess well, and is a very good 
 girl. It is odd how well she carries her new honours. 
 She looks a different woman, and high-bred, too. I had 
 no idea that I could make so good a peeress. 
 
 "Went to the play with Hobhouse. Mrs. Jordan 
 superlative in Hoyden, and Jones weU enough in Fop- 
 pington. What plays! what wit! — helas! Congreve 
 and Vanbrugh are your only comedy. Our society is too 
 insipid now for the like copy. Would not go to Lady 
 Keith's. Hobhouse thought it odd. I wonder ?ie should 
 like parties. If one is in love, and wants to break a com- 
 mandment and covet any thing that is there, they do very 
 well. But to go out among the mere herd, without a 
 motive, pleasure, or pursuit — 'sdeath ! ' I '11 none of it.' 
 He told me an odd report ; that / am the actual Conrad, 
 the veritable Corsair, and that part of my travels are sup- 
 posed to have passed in privacy. Um ! people sometimes 
 hit near the truth ; but never the whole truth. H. do n't 
 know what I was about the year after he left the Levant ; 
 nor does any one — nor — nor — nor — however, it is a lie ; 
 but, ' I doubt the equivocation of the fiend that lies like 
 truth!' 
 
 "I shall have letters of importance to-morrow. Which, 
 **,**, or * * ? heigho ! — * * is in my heart, * * in my 
 head, * * in my eye, and the single one, HeavenJinows 
 where. All write, and will be answered. ' Since I have 
 crept in favour with myself, I must maintain it ;' but I 
 never 'mistook my person,' though I think others have, 
 r " * * called to-day in great despair about his mistress, 
 who has taken a freak of * * *. He began a letter to 
 her, but was obliged to stop short — I finished it for him, 
 and he copied and sent it. If he holds out and keeps to 
 my instructions of affected indifference, she will lower her 
 colours. If she do n't, he will, at least, get rid of her, 
 and she do n't seem much worth keeping. But the poor 
 lad is in love — if that is the case, she will vdn. When 
 they once discover their power, Jinita h la mu^ca. 
 
 " Sleepy, and must go to bed. 
 
 « Tuesday, March 15. 
 "Dined yesterday with R., Mackintosh, and Sharpe 
 Sheridan could not come. Sharpe told several very 
 amusing anecdotes of Henderson, the actor. Stayed till 
 late, and came home, — having drank so much tea, that I 
 did not get to sleep till six this morning. R. says I am 
 to be in this Quarterly— cut up, I presume, as they «hate 
 
 us youth.' NHmporte. As Sharpe was passing by the 
 doors of some Debating Society (the Westminster Fo- 
 rum) in his way to dinner, he saw rubricked on the walls, 
 Scott's name and mine — 'Which the best poet?' being 
 the question of the evening ; and I suppose all the Tem- 
 plars and woidd-bes took our rhymes in vsun, in the course 
 of the controversy. Which had the greater show of 
 hands, I neither know nor care ; but I feel the coupling of 
 the names as a compliment, — though I think Scott de- 
 serves better company. 
 
 * + * * + 
 
 " W. W. called— Lord Erskine, Lord Holland, &c. &c. 
 Wrote to * * the Corsair report. She says she do n't 
 wonder, since ' Conrad is so like.' It is odd that one, who 
 knows me so thoroughly, should tell me this to my face. 
 However, if she do n't know, nobody can. 
 
 " Mackintosh is, it seems, the writer of the defensive 
 letter in the Morning Chronicle. If so, it is very kind, 
 and more than I did for myself. 
 
 + + * * ♦ 
 
 "Told Murray to secure for me Bandello's Italian 
 Novels at the sale to-morrow. To me they wiU be ntds. 
 Redde a satire on myself, called ' Anti-Byron,' and told 
 Murray to publish it if he liked. The object of the 
 author is to prove me an Atheist and a systematic con- 
 spirator against law and government. Some of the verse 
 is good ; the prose I do n't quite imderstand. He asserts 
 that my ' deleterious works' have had an ' effect upon ci^il 
 society, which requires, &c. &c. &c.' and his own poetry. 
 It is a lengthy poem, and a long preface, with an harmo- 
 nious tidepage. Lilce the fly in the fable, I seem to have 
 got upon a wheel w hich makes much dust ; but, unlike 
 the said fly, I do not take it all for my own raising. 
 
 "A letter from Bella, which I answered. I shall be in 
 love with her agam, if I do n't take care. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " I shall begin a more regular system of reading soon 
 
 " Thursday, March 17. 
 
 "I have been sparring with Jackson for exercise this 
 morning ; and mean to continue and renew my acquaint- 
 ance with the muffles. My chest, and arms, and wind 
 are in very good plight, and I am not in flesh. I used to 
 be a hard hitter, and my arms are very long for my height 
 (5 feet 8| inches.) At any rate, exercise is good, and 
 this the severest of all ; fencing and the broadsword never 
 fatigued me half so much. 
 
 "Redde the 'duarrels of Authors' (another sort of 
 sparring) — a new work, by that most entertaining and 
 researching writer, Israeli. They seem to be an irritable 
 set, and I wish myself well out of it. ' I '11 not march 
 through Coventry with them, that 's flat.' What the 
 devil had I to do with scribbling ? It is too late to inquire, 
 and all regret is useless. But, an' it were to do again,— 
 I should write again, I suppose. Such is human nature, 
 at least my share of it ; — though I shall think better of 
 myself, if I have sense to stop now. If I have a vvdfe, 
 and that wife has a son— by any body — I will bring up 
 mine heir in the most anti-poetical way — make him a 
 lawyer, or a pirate, or — any thing. But if he writes too, 
 I shall be sure he is none of mine, and cut him oflf with a 
 bank token. Must write a letter — three o'clock. 
 
 "Sunday, March 20. 
 "I intended to go to Lady Hardwcke's, but won't. I 
 always begin the day with a bias towards going to parties ; 
 but, as the evening advances my stimulus fails, and I 
 hardly ever go out — and, when I do, always regret it. 
 This might have been a pleasant one ; — at least the 
 hostess is a very superior woman. Lady Lansdowne's to- 
 morrow — Lady Heathcote's Wednesday. Um ! — I must 
 spur myself into going to some of them, or it will look like 
 rudeness, and it is better to do as other people do— con 
 found them! 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1814. 
 
 243 
 
 "Redde Machiavel, parts of Chardin, and Sismondi, 
 and Bandelloj — by starts. Redde the Edinburgh, 44, 
 just come out. In the beginning of the article on 'Edge- 
 worth's Patronage,' I have gotten a high comphment, I 
 perceive. Whether tliis is creditable to me, I know not ; 
 but it does honour to the editor, because he once abused 
 me. Many a man will retract praise ; none but a high- 
 spirited mind will revoke its censure, or can praise the 
 man it has once attacked. I have often, since my return 
 to England, heard Jeffrey most highly commended by 
 those who know him for things independent of his talents. 
 I admire him for this — not because he has praised me (I 
 have been so praised elsewhere and abused, alternately, 
 that mere habit has rendered me as indifferent to both as 
 a man at twenty-six can be to any thing,) but because he 
 is, perhaps, the only man who, under the relations in which 
 he and I stand, or stood, with regard to each other, would 
 have had the hberahty to act thus ; none but a great soul 
 dared hazard it. The height on which he stands has not 
 made him giddy ; — a little scribbler would have gone on 
 cavilling to the end of the chapter. As to the justice of 
 his panegyric, that is matter of taste. There are plenty 
 to question it, and glad, too, of the opportunity. 
 
 "Lord Erskme called to-day. He means to carry 
 down his reflections on the war — or rather wars — to the 
 present day. I trust tlmt he will. Must send to Mr. 
 Murray to get the binding of my copy of his pamphlet 
 finished, as Lord E. has promised me to correct it, and 
 add some marginal notes to it. Any thing m his hand- 
 writing will be a treasure, which will gather compound 
 interest from years. Erskine has high expectations of 
 Mackintosh's promised History. Undoubtedly it must be 
 a classic, when finished. 
 
 " Sparred with Jackson again yesterday morning, and 
 shall to-morrow. I feel all the better for it, in spirits, 
 though my arms and shoulders are very stiff from it. 
 Mem. — to attend the pugilistic dirmcr. Marquis Huntley 
 is in the chair. 
 
 ****** 
 
 " Lord Ei-skine thinks that ministers must be in peril of 
 going out. So much the better for him. To me it is the 
 same who are in or out ; — we want something more than 
 a change of ministers, and some day we will have it. 
 
 " I remember, in riding from Chrisso to Castri (Del- 
 phos) along the sides of Parnassus, I saw six eagles in 
 the air. It is uncommon to see so many together ; and 
 it was the number — not the species, which is common 
 enough — that excited my attention. 
 
 " The last bird I ever fired at was an eaglet^ on the 
 shore of the Gulf of Lepanto, near Vostitza. It was 
 only wounded, and I tried to save it, the eye was so 
 bright ; but it piaed, and died in a few days ; and I never 
 did since, and never will, attempt the death of another 
 bird. I wonder what put these two things into my head 
 just now ? I have been reading Sismondi, and there is 
 nothing there that could induce the recollection. 
 
 "I am mightily taken -with Braccio di Montone, Gio- 
 vamii Galeazzo, and Eccellino. But the last is not 
 Bracciaferro, (of the same name,) Count of Ravenna, 
 whose history I want to trace. There is a fine engraving 
 in Lavater, from a picture by Fuseh, of that EzzeUn, 
 over the body of Meduna, punished by him for a hitch in 
 her constancy during his absence in the Crusades. He 
 was right — but I want to know the story. 
 
 * * + + * ♦ 
 
 "Tuesday, March 22. 
 " Last night, party at Lansdowne-house. To-night, 
 party at Lady Charlotte Greville's — deplorable waste of 
 time, and something of temper. Nothing imparted — 
 nothing acquired — talking without ideas — if any thing 
 like thought in my mind, it was not on the subjects on 
 which we were gabbling. Heigho! — and in this way 
 half London pass what is called life. To-morrow tiiere 
 
 is Lady Heathcote's — shall I go ? yes — to punish myself 
 for not having a pursuit. 
 
 " Let me see — what did I see ? The only person who 
 much struck me was Lady S * * d's eldest daughter, 
 Lady C. L. They say she is not pretty. I do n't know 
 
 every thing is pretty that pleases ; but there is an air 
 of soul about her — and her colour changes — and there is 
 that shyness of the antelope (which I delight in) in her 
 marmer so much, that I observed her more than I did any 
 other woman in the rooms, and only looked at any thing 
 else when I thought she might perceive and feel embar- 
 rassed by my scrutiny. After all, there may be some- 
 thing of association in this. She is a friend of Augus- 
 ta's, and whatever she loves, I can't help liking. 
 
 Her mother, the marchioness, talked to me a little ; 
 and I was twenty times on the point of asking her to 
 introduce me to saJiUe, but I stopped short. This comes 
 of that affray with the Carlisles. 
 
 " Earl Grey told me, laughingly, of a paragraph in the 
 last Mordteur^ which has stated, among other symptoms 
 of rebellion, some particulars of the sensation occasioned 
 in all our government -gazettes by the ' tear' lines, — ordy 
 amplifying, in its restatement, an epigram (by-the-by, no 
 epigram except in the Greek acceptation of the word) 
 into a roman. I wonder the Couriers, &c. &c. have not 
 translated that part of the Moniteur, with additional 
 comments. 
 
 "The Princess of Wales has requested Fuseli to 
 paint from ' the Corsair ;' leaving to him the choice of any 
 passage for the subject : so Mr. Locke tells me. Tired, 
 jaded, selfish, and supine — must go to bed. 
 
 Roman, at least Romance^ means a song sometimes, 
 as in the Spanish. I suppose this is the Moniteur's 
 meaning, unless he has confused it with ' the Corsair.' 
 
 " Albany, March 28. 
 This night got into my new apartments, rented of 
 Lord Althorpe, on a lease of seven years. Spacious, and 
 room for my books and sabres. In the ho^lse, too, another 
 advantage. The last few days, or whole week, have 
 been very abstemious, regular in exercise, and yet very 
 umvell. 
 
 "Yesterday, dined tete-h-tete at the Cocoa with Scrope 
 Davies — sate from six till midnight — drank between us 
 one bottle of champaign and six of claret, neither of 
 which wines ever affect me. Offered to take Scrope 
 home in my carriage ; but he was tipsy and pious, and I 
 was obliged to leave him on liis knees, praying to I know 
 not what purpose or pagod. No headache, nor sickness 
 that night nor to-day. Got up, if any thing, earUer than 
 usual — sparred with Jackson ad svAorem, and have been 
 much better in health than for many days. I have heard 
 noticing more from Scrope. Yesterday paid him four 
 thousand eight hundred pounds — a debt of some stand- 
 ing, and which I wished to have paid before. My mind 
 is much relieved by the removal of that debit. 
 
 " Augusta wants me to make it up with CarUsle. I 
 have refused every body else, but I can't deny her any 
 thing ; so I must e'en do it, though I had as Uef 'drirdc up 
 Eisel — eat a crocodile.' Let me see — Ward, the Hol- 
 lands, tlie Lambs, Rogers, &c. &c. — every body more or 
 less, have been trying for the last two years to accommo- 
 date tliis couplet quarrel to no purpose. I shall laugh if 
 Augusta succeeds. 
 
 "Redde a little of many things — shall get in all my 
 books to-morrow. Luckily, this room will hold them — 
 with ' ample room and verge, &c. the characters of hell to 
 trace.' I must set about some employment soon ; my 
 heart begins to eat itself again. 
 
 "Aprils. 
 
 " Out of town six days. On my return, find my poor 
 
 little pagod, Napoleon, pushed off his pedestal; the 
 
 thieves are in Paris. It is his owti fault. Like Milo. ha 
 
 would rend ths oak ; but it closed again, wedged his 
 
244 
 
 EXTRACTS PROM A JOURNAL, 1816. 
 
 hands, and now the beasts — lion, bear, down to the dirti- 
 est jackall — may all tear him. That Muscovite winter 
 wedged his arms ; ever since, he has fought with his feet 
 and teeth. The last may still leave their marks ; and 'I 
 guess now' (as the Yankies say) that he will yet play 
 them a pass. He is in their rear — between them and 
 tlieir homes. Q,uery — will they ever reach them ? 
 
 « Saturday, April 9, 1814. 
 
 ♦' I mark this day ! 
 
 "Napoleon Buonaparte has abdicated the throne of the 
 world. 'Excellent well.' Methinks Sylla did better; 
 for he revenged, and resigned in the height of his sway, 
 red with the slaughter of his foes — the finest insteince of 
 glorious contempt of the rascals upon record. Diocletian 
 did well too — Amurath not amiss, had he become aught 
 except a dervise — Charles the Fifth but so, so — but Na- 
 poleon, worst of all. What ! wait till they were in his 
 capital, and then talk of his readiness to give up what is 
 already gone I ! ' What whining monk art thou — what 
 holy cheat?' 'Sdeath! Dionysius at Corhith was yet a 
 king to this. The ' Isle of Elba' to retire to ! Well— if 
 it had been Caprea, I should have marvelled less. ' I see 
 men's minds are but a parcel of their fortunes.' I am 
 utterly bewildered and confounded. 
 
 " I do n't know — but I think /, even /, (an insect com- 
 pared with this creature,) have set my life on casts not a 
 millionth part of this man's. But, after all, a crown may 
 be not worth dying for. Yet, to outUve Lodi for this ! ! ! 
 Oh that Juvenal or Johnson could rise from the dead ! 
 'Expende — quot libras in duce summo invenies?' I 
 knew they were light in the balance of mortality ; but I 
 thought their living dust weighed more carats. Alas ! this 
 imperial diamond hath a flaw in it, and is now hardly fit to 
 stick in a glazier's pencil ; the pen of the historian won't 
 rate it worth a ducat. 
 
 "Psha! 'something too much of this.' But 1 won't give 
 him up even now ; though all hia admirers have, ' like the 
 Thanes, fall'n from him. 
 
 "April 10. 
 " I do not know that I am happiest when alone ; but 
 this 1 am sure of, that I never am long in the society even 
 of her I love, (God knows too well, and the Devil probably 
 too,) without a yearning for the company of my lamp 
 and my utterly confused and tumbled-over libraiy. Even 
 in the day, I send away my carriage oftener than I use or 
 abuse it. Per esempio, — I have not stirred out of these 
 rooms for these four days past : but I have sparred for 
 exercise (windows open) with Jackson an hour daily, to 
 attenuate and keep up the ethereal part of me. The 
 more violent the fatigue, the better my spirits for the rest 
 of the day ; and then, my evenings have that calm nothing- 
 ness of languor, which I most delight in. To-day I have 
 boxed one hour — written an ode to Napoleon Buonaparte 
 — copied it — eaten six biscuits — drunk four bottles of 
 soda-water — redde away the rest of my time — besides 
 giving poor * * a world of advice about this mistress of 
 his, who is plaguing him into a phthisic and intolerable 
 tediousness. I am a pretty fellow truly to lecture about 
 ' the sect.' No matter, my counsels are all tlirown away. 
 
 " April 19, 1814. 
 "There is ice at both poles, north and south-^-all 
 extremes are the same — misery belongs to the highest 
 and the lowest only, — to the emperor and the beggar, 
 when unsLxpenced and unthroned. There is, to be sure, 
 a damned insipid medium — an equinoctial line — no one 
 knows where, except upon maps and measurement. 
 
 « And all our yesterdays have liglited fools 
 The way to dusty death.' 
 
 I will keep no further journal of that same hestemal 
 torchlight ; and, to prevent me from returning, like a 
 dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the remaining 
 leaves of this volume, and write, in ipecacuanha, — ' that 
 the Bourbons are restored!!!' 'Hang up philosophy.' 
 To be sure, I have long despised myself and man, but I 
 never spat in the face of my species before^ — ' O fool ! I 
 shall go mad,' " 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL 
 
 IN SWITZERLAND. 
 
 " September 18, 1816. 
 " Yesterday, September 17th, I set out with Mr. Hob- 
 house on an excursion of some days to the mountains. 
 
 " September 17. 
 "Rose at five ; left Diodati about seven, in one of the 
 country carriages, (a char-a-banc,) our servants on horse- 
 back. Weather very fine ; the lake calm and clear ; 
 Mont Blanc and the Aiguille of Argentieres both very 
 distinct; the borders of the lake beautiful. Reached 
 
 Lausanne before sunset ; stopped and slept at . 
 
 Went to bed at nine ; slept till five o'clock. 
 
 " September 18. 
 " Called by my courier ; got up. Hobhouse walked on 
 before. A mile from Lausanne, the road overflowed by 
 
 the lake ; got on horseback, and rode till within a mile of 
 Vevay. The colt young, but went very well. Overtook 
 Hobhouse, and resumed the carriage, which is an open 
 one. Stopped at Vevay two hours, (the second time I 
 had visited it;) walked to the church; view from the 
 churchyard superb : within it General Ludlow (the regi- 
 cide's) monument— black marble — long inscription- 
 Latin, but simple ; he was an exile two-and- thirty years 
 — one of king Charles's judges. Near him Broughton 
 (who read liing Charles's sentence to Charles Stuart) is 
 buried, with a queer and rather canting, but still a republi- 
 can inscription. Ludlow's house shown ; it retains still 
 its inscription— ' Omne solum forti patria.' Walked 
 dovMi to the lake side ; servants, carriage, saddle-horses 
 — all set off and left us plantes Ri, by some mistake, and 
 we walked on after them towards Clarens ; Hobhouse 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1810. 
 
 245 
 
 ran on before, and overtook them at last. Arrived the 
 second time (first time was by water) at Clarens. Went 
 to Chillon through scenery worthy of I know not whom ; 
 went over the Castle of Chillon again. On our return 
 met an English party in a carriage ; a lady in it fast 
 asleep — fast asleep in the most anti-narcotic spot in the 
 world — excellent ! I remember at Chamouni, in the very 
 eyes of Mont Blanc, hearing another woman, Enghsh 
 also, exclaim to her party, ' Did you ever see any thing 
 more rural .?' — as if it was Highgate, or Hampstead, or 
 Brompton, or Hayes — 'Rural!' quotha? — Rocks, pines, 
 torrents, glaciers, clouds, and summits of eternal snow far 
 above them — and 'rural !' 
 
 "After a slight and short dinner we visited the Chateau 
 de Clarens ;* an English woman has rented it recently 
 (it was not let when I saw it first ;) the roses are gone 
 with their summer ; the family out, but the servants de- 
 sired us to walk over the interior of the mansion. Saw 
 on the table of the saloon Blair's Sermons, and somebody 
 else (I forget who's) sermons, and a set of noisy children. 
 Saw all worth seeing, and then descended to the ' Bosquet 
 de Julie,' &c. &c. ; our guide fuU of Rousseau, whom he 
 is eternally confounding with St. Preux, and mixing the 
 man and the book. Went again as far as Chillon to 
 revisit the little torrent from the hill behind it. Sunset 
 reflected in the lake. Have to get up at five to-morrow 
 to cross the mountains on horseback ; carriage to be sent 
 round ; lodged at my old cottage — hospitable and com- 
 fortable ; tired with a longish ride on the colt, and the 
 subsequent jolting of the char-a-banc, and my scramble 
 in the hot sun. 
 
 "Mem. The corporal who showed the wonders of 
 Chillon was as di-unk as Blucher; he was deaf also, and 
 thinldng every one else so, roared out the legends of the 
 casde so fearfully. — However, we saw things from the 
 gallows to the dungeons,| (the potence and the cachots,) and 
 returned to Clarens with more freedom than belonged to 
 tlie fifteenth century. 
 
 "September 19. 
 "Rose at five. Crossed the mountains to Montbovon 
 on horseback, and on mules, and, by dint of scrambhng, on 
 foot also ; the whole route beautiful as a dream, and now 
 to me almost as indistinct. I am so tired ; — for though 
 healthy, I have not the strength I possessed but a few 
 years ago. At Montbovon we breakfasted ; afterward, 
 on a steep ascent, dismounted; tumbled down; cut a 
 finger open ; the baggage also got loose and fell down a 
 ravine, till stopped by a large tree ; recovered baggage ; 
 horse tired and drooping; mounted mule. At the ap- 
 proach of the summit of Dent JumentJ dismounted again 
 with Hobhouse and all the party. Arrived at a lake in 
 the very bosom of the mountains ; left our quadrupeds 
 with a shepherd, and ascended farther ; came to some 
 snow in patches, upon which my forehead's perspiration 
 fell like rain, making the same dints as m a sieve ; the chill 
 of the wind and the snow turned me giddy, but I scram- 
 bled on and upwards. Hobhouse went to the highest 
 pinnacle ; I did not, but paused within a few yards (at an 
 opening of the cliff.) In coming down, the guide tumbled 
 three times; I fell a laughing, and tumbled too — the 
 descent luckily soft, though steep and slippery : Hobhouse 
 also fell, but nobody hurt. The whole of the mountains 
 superb. A shepherd on a very steep and high cliff play- 
 ing upon his pipe ;§ very different from Arcadia, where I 
 saw the pastors with a long musket instead of a crook, 
 and pistols in their girdles. Our Swiss shepherd's pipe 
 was sweet, and his tune agreeable. I saw a cow strayed ; 
 am told that they often break their necks on and over die 
 crags. Descended to Montbovon ; pretty scraggy village, 
 with a wild river and a wooden bridge. Hobhouse went 
 
 * See Childe Harold, Canto III, Stauza 99, &c. 22d Note to ChUde 
 Harold, Canto III. t Prisoaer of Chillon, Note 3d, &c. 
 
 J D«it de Jamaa. § Manfred, Aa I. Sc«ne 2<l. 
 
 to fish — caught one. Our carriage not come ; our horses 
 mules, &c. knocked up ; ourselves fatigued. 
 
 " The view from the highest points of to-day's journey 
 comprised on one side the greatest part of Lake Leman ; 
 on the other, the valleys and mountain of the canton of 
 Fribourg, and an immense plain, with the lakes of Neuf- 
 chatel and Morat, and all which the borders of the Lake 
 of Geneva inlierit; we had both sides of the Jura before 
 us in one point of view, with Alps in plenty. In passing a 
 ravine, the guide recommended strenuously a quickening 
 of pace, as the stones fall with great rapidity and occa- 
 sional damage ; the advice is excellent, but, like most good 
 advice, impracticable, the road being so rough that neither 
 mules, nor mankind, nor horses, can make any violent 
 progi'ess. Passed without fractures or menace thereof. 
 
 " The music of the covins bells* (for their wealth, like the 
 patriarch's, is cattle) in the pastures, which reach to a 
 height far above any mountains in Britain, and the shep- 
 herds shouting to us from crag to crag, and playing on 
 their reeds where the steeps appeared almost inaccessible. 
 \vith the surrounding scenery, realized all that I have ever 
 heard or imagined of a pastoral existence : — much more so 
 than Greece or Asia IMinor ; for there we are a little too 
 much of the sabre and musket order, and if there is a crook 
 in one hand, you are sure to see a gun in the other: — but 
 this was pure and unmixed — solitary, savage, and patri- 
 archal. As we went, they played the 'Rans des Vaches' 
 and other airs, by way of farewell. I have lately repeopled 
 my mind with nature. 
 
 "September 20. 
 
 " Up at six ; off at eight. The whole of this day's 
 journey at an average of between from 2700 to 3000 feet 
 above the level of the sea. This valley, the longest, nar- 
 rowest, and considered the finest of the Alps, httle traversed 
 by travellers. Saw the bridge of La Roche. The bed of 
 the river very low and deep, between immense rocks, and 
 rapid as anger ; — a man and mule said to have tumbled 
 over without damage. The people looked free, and happy, 
 and ric^ (which last impUes neither of the former;) the 
 cows superb ; a bull nearly leaped into the char-a-banc — 
 ' agreeable companion in a postchaise ;' goats and sheep 
 very thriving. A mountain with enormous glaciers to the 
 right — the Khtzgerberg ; farther on, the Hockthorn — nice 
 names — so soft! — Stocklwrn, I beUeve, very lofty and 
 scraggy, patched with snow only ; no glaciers on it, but 
 some good epaulettes of clouds. 
 
 "Passed the boundaries, out of Vaud and into Berne 
 canton ; French exchanged for bad German ; the district 
 famous for cheese, liberty, property, and no taxes. Hob- 
 house went to fish — caught none. Strolled to the river ; 
 saw boy and kid ; kid followed him like a dog ; kid could 
 not get over a fence, and bleated piteously ; tried myself, 
 to help kid, but nearly overset both self and kid into the 
 river. Arrived here about six in the evenmg. Nine 
 o'clock— going to bed ; not tired to-day, but hope to sleep, 
 nevertheless. 
 
 "September 21. 
 "OS* early. The valley of Simmenthal as before. En- 
 trance to the plain of Thoun very narrow ; high rocks, 
 wooded to the top ; river ; new mountains, with fine glaciers. 
 Lake of Thoun ; extensive plain with a girdle of Alps. 
 Walked down to the Chateau de Schadau ; view along 
 the lake ; crossed the river in a boat rowed by women. 
 Thoun a very pretty to^vn. The whole day's journey 
 Alpine and proud. 
 
 "September 22. 
 "Left Thoun in a boat, which carried us the length of 
 the lake in three hours. The lake small; but the banks 
 fine. Rocks down to the water's edge. Landed at New- 
 hause ; passed Interlachen ; entered upon a range ol 
 scenes beyond all description, or previous conception. 
 
 • Manfred, Act I, Scene 5 
 
246 
 
 EXTRA<3TS FROM A JOURNAL, 1816. 
 
 Passed a rock \ inscription — two brothers — one murdered 
 the other ; just the place for it. After a variety of windings 
 came to an enormous rock. Arrived at the foot of the 
 mountain, (the Jungfrau, that is, the Maiden i) glaciers; 
 torrents; one of these torrents nim hundred feet in height 
 of visible descent. Lodged at the curate's. Set out to 
 Bee the valley; heard an avalanche fall, like thunder; 
 glaciers enormous ; storm came on, thunder, hghtning, hail ; 
 all in perfection, and beautiful. I was on horseback ; guide 
 wanted to carry my cane ; I was going to give it him, 
 when I recollected that it was a sword-stick, and I thought 
 the hghtning might be attracted towards him; kept it 
 myself: a good deal incumbered with it, as it was too 
 heavy for a whip, and the horse was stupid, and stood with 
 every other peal. Got in, not very wet, the cloak being 
 stanch. Hobhouse wet through ; Hobhouse took refuge 
 in cottage; sent man, umbrella, and cloak (from the 
 curate's when I arrived) after him. Swiss curate's house 
 very good indeed — much better than most EngUsh vicar- 
 ages. It is immediately opposite the torrent I spoke of 
 The torrent is in shape curving over the rock, lilce the tail 
 of a white horse streaming in the wind, such as it might 
 be conceived would be that of the ' pale horse' on which 
 Death is mounted in the Apocalypse.* It is neither mist 
 nor water, but a something between both ; its immense 
 height (nine hundred feet) gives it a wave or curve, a 
 spreading here, or condensation there, wonderful and inde- 
 scribable. I think, upon the whole, that this day has been 
 better than any of this present excursion. 
 
 « September 23. 
 
 '' Before ascending the mountain, went to the torrent 
 (seven in the morning) again ; tlie sun upon it, forming a 
 rainbowl of the lower part of all colours, but principally 
 purple and gold ; the bow moving as you move ; 1 never 
 saw any thing like this ; it is only in the sunshine. As- 
 cended the Wengen mountain ; at noon reached a valley 
 on the summit ; left the horses, took off my coat, and 
 went to the summit, seven thousand feet (EngUsh feet) 
 above the level of the sea, and about five thousand above 
 the valley we left in the morning. On one side, oui" view 
 comprised the Jungfrau, with all her glaciers ; then the 
 Dent d' Argent, shining like truth ; then the Little Giant, 
 (the Kleine Eigher ;) and the Great Giant, (the Grosse 
 Eigher,) and last, not least, the Wetterhorn. The height 
 of the Jungfrau is 13,000 feet above the sea, 11,000 above 
 the valley ; she is the highest of this range. Heard the 
 avalanches falling every five minutes nearly. From 
 whence we stood, on the Wengen Alp,| we had all these 
 in view on one side ; on the other, the clouds rose from 
 tlie opposite valley, curling up perpendicular precipices 
 like the foam of the ocean of hell, during a spring tid( 
 it was white and sulphury, and immeasurably deep in 
 appearance. The side we ascended was (of course) not 
 of so precipitous a nature ; but on arriving at the summit, 
 we looked down upon the other side upon a boiling sea 
 of cloud, dashing against die crags on which we stood, 
 (these crags on one side quite perpendicular.) Stayed 
 a quarter of an hour ; began to descend ; quite clear from 
 cloud on that side of the mountain. In passing the masses 
 of snow, I made a snowball and pelted Hobhouse with it. 
 
 "Got down to our horses again; eat somediing; re- 
 mounted ; heard the avalanches still ; came to a morass ; 
 Hobhouse dismounted to get over well ; I tried to pass 
 my horse over; the horse sunk up to the chin, and of 
 course he and I were in the mud together ; bemired, but 
 not hurt ; laughed, and rode on. Arrived at the Grindel- 
 wald; dined, mounted again, and rode to the higher 
 glacier — like a frozen hurricane.^ StarUght, beautiful, 
 but a devil of a path ! Never mind, got safe in ; a litde 
 lightning, but the whole of the day as fine in point of 
 weather as the day on which Paradise was made. Passed 
 
 •Manfred Act II. Scene 2d. 
 t Ibid, Act II. Scene 2d. 
 
 J Manfred, Act I. Scene 2d. 
 § Ibid, Act II. Scene 3d. 
 
 whole woods of withered pines, all withered;* trunks 
 stripped and lifeless, branches lifeless ; done by a single 
 winter. 
 
 * September 24. 
 " Set off at seven ; up at five. Passed the black 
 glacier, the mountain Wetterhorn on the right ; crossed 
 the Scheideck mountain ; came to the Rose glacier, said 
 to be the largest and finest in Switzerland. / think the 
 Bossons glacier at Chamouni as fine ; Hobhouse does not. 
 Came to the Reichenbach waterfall, two hundred feet 
 high; halted to rest the horses. Arrived in the valley 
 of Oberland ; rain came on ; drenched a httle ; only four 
 hours' rain, however, in eight days. Came to the lake 
 of Brientz, then to the town of Brientz ; changed. In 
 the evening, four Swiss peasant girls of Oberhasli came 
 and sang the airs of their country ; two of the voices 
 beautiful — the tunes also ; so wild and original, and at the 
 same time of great sweetness. The singing is over ; but 
 below stairs I hear the notes of a fiddle, which bode no 
 good to my night's rest : I shall go down and see the 
 dancing. 
 
 « September 25. 
 
 " The whole town of Brientz were apparently gathered 
 together in the rooms below ; pretty music and excellent 
 waltzing: none but peasants; the dancing much better 
 than in England ; the English can't w^altz, never could, 
 never will. One man with his pipe in his mouth, but 
 danced as well as the others ; some other dances in pairs 
 and in fours, and very good. I went to bed, but the 
 revelry continued below late and early. Brientz but a 
 village. Rose early. Embarked on the lake of Brientz ; 
 rowed by the women in a long boat ; presently we put to 
 shore, and another woman jumped in. It seems it is the 
 custom here for the boats to be manned by women ; four 
 or five men and three women in our bark, all the women 
 took an oar, and but one man. 
 
 " Got to Interlachen in three hours ; pretty lake ; not 
 so large as that of Thoun. Dined at Interlachen. Girl 
 gave me some flowersf and made me a speech in German, 
 of which I know nothing; I do not know whether the 
 speech was pretty, but as the woman was, I hope so. 
 Re-embarked on the lake of Thoun; fell asleep part of 
 the way ; sent our horses round ; found people on the 
 shore, blowing up a rock with gunpowder ; they blew it 
 up near our boat, only telling us a minute before ; — mere 
 stupidity, but they might have broken our noddles. Got 
 to Thoun in the evening ; the weather has been tolerable 
 the whole day. But as the wild part of our tour is 
 finished, it do n't matter to us ; in all the desirable part, 
 we have been most lucky in warmth and clearness of 
 atmosphere. 
 
 " September 26. 
 " Being out of the mountains, my journal must be as 
 flat as my journey. From Thoun to Berne, good" road, 
 hedges, villages, industry, property, and all sorts of tokens 
 of insipid civilization. From Berne to Fribourg ; diffe- 
 rent canton ; Catholics ; passed a field of battle ; Swiss 
 beat the French in one of the late wars against the 
 French republic. Bought a dog. The greater part of 
 this tour has been on horseback, on foot, and on mule. 
 
 " September 28. 
 "Saw the tree planted in honour of the battle of 
 Morat ; three hundred and forty years old ; a good deal 
 decayed. Left Fribourg, but first saw the cathedral; 
 high tower. Overtook the baggage of the nuns of La 
 Trappe, who are removing to Normandy, afterward a 
 coach, with a quantity of nuns in it. Proceeded along 
 the banks of the lake of Neufchatel ; very pleasing and 
 
 * Manfred, Act I. Scene 2<1. 
 
 t Cbilde Harold, Canto III.— Song after Stanza 55. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 
 
 247 
 
 soft, but not so mountainous — at least, the Jura, not ap- 
 pearing so, after the Bernese Alps. Reached Yverduii 
 in the dusk; a long Une of large trees on the border of 
 the lake ; fine and sombre ; the Auberge nearly full — a 
 German Princess and suite ; got rooms. 
 
 "September 29. 
 * Passed through a fine and flourishing country, but not 
 mountainous. In the evening reached Aubonne, (the 
 
 entrance and bridge something like that of Durham,) 
 which commands by far the fairest view of the Lake of 
 Geneva ; twilight ; the moon on the lake ; a grove on the 
 height, and of very noble trees. Here Tavernier (the 
 eastern traveller) bought (or built) the chateau, because 
 the site resembled and equalled that of Erivan, a frontier 
 city of Persia ; here he finished his voyages, and I this 
 little excursion, — for I am within a few hours of Diodati 
 and have little more to see, and no more to say." 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL 
 
 IN ITALY. 
 
 " Ravenna, January 4, 182L 
 
 "*A sudden thought strikes me.' Let me begin a 
 Journal once more. The last I kept was in Switzerland, 
 in record of a tour made in the Bernese Alps, which I 
 made to send to my sister ia 1816, and I suppose that she 
 has it still, for she wrote to me that she was pleased with 
 it. Another, and longer, I kept in 1813-1814, which I 
 gave to Thomas Moore in the same year. 
 
 " This morning I gat me up late, as usual — weather 
 bad — bad as England — worse. The snow of last week 
 melting to the sirocco of to-day, so that there were two 
 d — d things at once. Could not even get to ride on 
 horseback in the forest. Stayed at home all the morning 
 — looked at the fire — wondered when the post would 
 come. Post came at the Ave Maria, instead of half-past 
 one o'clock, as it ought. Gahgnani's Messengers, six in 
 number — a letter from Faenza, but none from England. 
 Very sulky in consequence, (for there ought to have been 
 letters,) and ate in consequence a copious dinner; for 
 when I am vexed, it makes me swallow quicker — but 
 drank very little. 
 
 " I was out of spirits — read the papers — thought what 
 fame was, on reading, in a case of murder, that ' Mr. 
 Wych, grocer, at Tunbridge, sold some bacon, flour, 
 cheese, and, it is believed, some plums, to some gipsy 
 woman accused. He had on his counter (I quote faith- 
 fully) a book, the Life of Pamela, which he was tearing 
 for waste paper, &c. &c. In the cheese was found, &c. 
 and a leaf of Pamela wrapped round the bacon.' What 
 would Richardson, the vainest and luckiest of living 
 authors (i. e. while ahve) — he who, with Aaron Hill, 
 used to prophesy and chuckle over the presumed fall of 
 Fielding (the prose Homer of human nature) and of 
 Pope (the most beautiful of poets) — what would he have 
 said could he have traced his pages from their place on 
 the French prince's toilets (see Boswell's Johnson) to the 
 grocer's counter and the gipsy-murderess's bacon ! ! ! 
 
 " What would he have said ? what can any body say, 
 save what Solomon said long before us ? After all, it 
 is but passing from one counter to another, from the book- 
 seller's to the other tradesman's — grocer or pastry-cook. 
 For my part, I have met with most poetry upon trunks ; 
 so that I am apt to consider the trunk-maker as the sex- 
 ton of authorship. 
 
 " Wrote five letters in about half an hour, short and 
 savage, to all my rascally correspondents. Carriage 
 came. Heard the news of three murders at Faenza and 
 Forli — a carabinier, a smuggler, and an attorney — all last 
 night. The first two in a quarrel, tlie latter by preme- 
 ditation.* 
 
 " Three weeks ago — almost a month — the 7th it was — 
 I picked up the Commandant, mortally wounded, out of 
 the street ; he died in my house ; assassins unknown, but 
 presumed political. His brethren wrote from Rome last 
 night to thank me for having assisted him in his last 
 moments. Poor fellow ! it was a pity ; he was a good 
 soldier, but imprudent. It was eight in the evening when 
 they killed him. We heard the shot ; my servants and I 
 ran out, and found him expiring, with five wounds, two 
 whereof mortal — by slugs they seemed. I examined him, 
 but did not go to the dissection next morning. 
 
 " Carriage at 8 or so — went to visit La Contessa G.— 
 found her playing on the piano-forte — talked till ten, when 
 the Count, her father, and the no less Count, her brother, 
 came in from the theatre. Play, they said, Alfieri's 
 Filippo — well received. 
 
 " Two days ago the King of Naples passed through 
 Bologna on his way to congress. My servant Luigi 
 brought the news. I had sent him to Bologna for a 
 lamp. How will it end ? Time will shovv'. 
 
 " Came home at eleven, or rather before. If the road 
 and weather are conformable, mean to ride to-morrow. 
 High time — almost a week at this work — snow, sirocco, 
 one day — frost and snow the other — sad climate for Italy. 
 But the two seasons, last and present, are extraordinary. 
 Read a Life of Leonardo da Vinci by Rossi — ruminated 
 — wrote this much, and will go to bed. 
 
 "Januarys, 1821. 
 "Rose late — dull and droopmg — the weather dripping 
 and dense. Snow on the ground, and sirocco above in 
 the sky, like yesterday. Roads up to the horse's belly, 
 so that riding (at least for pleasure) is not very feasible. 
 Added a postcript to my letter to Murray. Read the 
 conclusion, for the fiftieth time (I have read all W^. Scott's 
 novels at least fifty times) of the third series of ' Tales of 
 my Landlord,' — grand work — Scotch Fielding, as well as 
 
 See Letter 465, &c. 
 
248 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 
 
 great English poet — wonderful man ! I long to get drunk 
 with him. 
 
 " Dined versus six o' the clock. Forgot that there was 
 a pluinpudding, (I have added, lately, eating to my 
 ' family of vices,') and had dined before I knew it. 
 Drank half a bottle of some sorts of spirits — probably 
 spirits of wine ; for, what they call brandy, rum, &c. &c. 
 here is nothing but spirits of wine, coloured accordingly. 
 Did 7iot eat two apples, which were placed, by way of 
 dessert. Fed the two cats, the hawk, and the tame (but 
 not tamed) crow. Read Mitford's History of Greece — 
 Xenophon's Retreat of the Ten Thousand. Up to this 
 present moment writing, 6 minutes before 8 o' the clock 
 — French hours, not Italian. 
 
 " Hear the carriage — order pistols and great coat, as 
 usual — necessary articles. Weather cold — carriage open, 
 and inhabitants somewhat savage — rather treacherous 
 axid highly inflamed by politics. Fine fellows, tliough — 
 good materials for a nation. Out of chaos God made a 
 world, and out of high passions comes a people. 
 
 " Clock strikes — going out to make love. Somewhat 
 perilous, but not disagreeable. Memorandum — a new 
 screen put up to-day. It is rather antique, but will do 
 with a little repair. 
 
 " Thaw continues — hopeful that riding may be practi- 
 cable to-morrow. Sent the papers to All' — grand events 
 coming. 
 
 " 11 o' the clock and nine minutes. Visited La Con- 
 tessa G. Nata G. G. Found her beginning my letter of 
 answer to the thanks of Alessio del Pinto of Rome for 
 assisting his brother the late Commandant in his last 
 moments, as I had begged her to pen my reply for the 
 purer Italian, I being an ultra-montane, little skilled in 
 the set phrase of Tuscany. Cut short the letter — finish 
 it another day. Talked of Italy, patriotism, Alfieri, 
 Madame Albany, and other branches of learning. Also 
 Sallust's Conspiracy of Catiline, and the war of Jugurtha. 
 At 9 came in her brother, II Conte Pietro— at 10, her 
 father, Conte Ruggiero. 
 
 " Talked of various modes of warfare — of the Hun- 
 garian and Highland modes of broadsword exercise, in 
 both whereof I was once a moderate ' master of fence. 
 Settled that the R. will break out on the 7th or 8th of 
 March, in which appointment I should trust, had it not 
 been settled that it was to have broken out in October, 
 1820. But those Bolognese sliirked the Romagnuoles. 
 
 "'It is all one to Ranger.' One must not be parti- 
 cular, but take rebellion when it lies in the way. Came 
 home— read the ' Ten Thousand' again, and will go to 
 bed. 
 
 " Mem.— Ordered Fletcher (at four o'clock this after- 
 noon) to copy out 7 or 8 apophthegms of Bacon, in which 
 I have detected such blunders as a schoolboy might de- 
 tect, rather than commit. Such are the sages ! What 
 must they be, when such as I can stumble on their mis- 
 takes or mistatements ? I will go to bed, for I find that I 
 grow cynical. 
 
 "Januarys, 1821. 
 
 " Mist — thaw — slop— rain. No stirring out on horse- 
 back. Read Spence's Anecdotes. Pope a fine fellow — 
 always thought him so. Corrected blunders in nine apo- 
 phthegms of Bacon— all historical— and read Mitford's 
 Greece. Wrote an epigram. Turned to a passage in 
 Guinguene— ditto, in Lord Holland's Lope de Vega. 
 Wrote a note on Don Juan.* 
 
 " At eight went out to visit. Heard a little music- 
 like music. Talked with Count Pietro G. of the Italian 
 comedian Vestris, who is now at Rome — have seen him 
 often act in Venice— a good actor— very. Somewhat of 
 a mannerist ; but excellent in broad comedy, as well as in | 
 sentimental pathetic 
 
 and cry, neither of which is now a very easy matter — at 
 least, for a player to produce in me. 
 
 "Thought of the state of women under the ancient 
 Greeks — convenient enough. Present state, a remnant 
 of the barbarism of the chivalry and feudal ages — artifi- 
 cial and unnatural. They ought to mind home — and be 
 well fed and clothed — but not mixed in society. Well 
 educated, too, in religion — but to read neither poetry nor 
 politics — nothing but books of piety and cookery. Music 
 — drawing — dancing — also a little gardening and plough- 
 ing now and then. I have seen them mending the roads 
 in Epirus with good success. Why not, as well as hay- 
 making and milking ? 
 
 "Came home, and read Mitford again, and played with 
 my mastiff— gave him his supper. Made another read- 
 ing to the epigram, but the turn the same. To-night at 
 the theatre, there being a prince on his throne m the last 
 scene of the comedy, — the audience laughed, and asked 
 him for a Constitution. This shows the state of the pub- 
 lic mind here, as well as the assasinations. It won't do. 
 There must be a universal republic, — and there ought 
 to be. 
 
 " The crow is lame of a leg — wonder how it happened 
 — some fool trod upon his toe, I suppose. The falcon 
 pretty brisk — the cats large and noisy — the monkeys I 
 have not looked to since the cold weather, as they suffer 
 by being brought up. Horses must be gay — get a ride as 
 soon as weather serves. Deused muggy still — an Italian 
 winter is a sad thing, but all the other seasons are chann- 
 ing. 
 
 " What is the reason that I have been, all my lifetime, 
 more or less ennuye ? and that, if any thing, I am rather 
 less so now than I was at twenty, as far as my recollec- 
 tion serves ? I do not know how to answer this, but pre- 
 sume that it is constitutional, — as well as the waking in 
 low spirits, which I have invariably done for many years. 
 Temperance and exercise, which I have practised at 
 times, and for a long time together vigorously and vio- 
 lently, made little or no difference. Violent passions did ; 
 — when under their immediate influence — it is odd, but — 
 I was in agitated, but not in depressed spirits. 
 
 " A dose of salts has the effect of a temporary inebria- 
 tion, like light champaign, upon me. But wine and spirits 
 make me sullen and savage to ferocity — silent, however, 
 and retiring, and not quarrelsome, if not spoken to. Swim- 
 ming also raises my spirits; — but in general they are low, 
 and get daily lower. That is hopeless ; for I do not think 
 I am so much ennuye as I was at nineteen. The proof 
 is, that then I must game, or drink, or be in motion of 
 some kind, or I was miserable. At present, 1 can mope 
 m quietness ; and like being alone better than any com- 
 pany—except the lady's whom I serve. But I feel a 
 something, which makes me think tliat, if I ever reach 
 near to old age, like Swift, '1 shall die at top' first. 
 Only I do not dread idiotism or madness so much as he 
 did. On the contrary, I think some quieter stages of both 
 must be preferable to much of what men think the pos- 
 session of their senses. 
 
 " January 7, 1821, Sunday. 
 "Still rain — mist — snow — drizzle — and all the incal- 
 culable combinations of a climate, where heat and cold 
 struggle for mastery. Read Spence, and turned over 
 Roscoe, to find a passage I have not found. Read the 
 4th vol. of W. Scott's second series of ' Tales of my 
 Landlord.' Dined. Read the Lugano Gazette. Read 
 — I forget what. At 8 went to conversazione. Found 
 there the Countess Geltrude, Betti V. and her husband, 
 
 and odiers. Pretty black- eyed woman that — ofnly twenty- 
 two — same age as Teresa, wlio is prettier, though. 
 " The Count Pietro G. took me aside to say that the 
 He has made me frequently laugh I Patriots have had notice from Forli (twenty miles off) 
 
 ■ . - J tliat to-night the government and its party mean to strike 
 
 Don Juan, note 9th to Canto V I a Stroke — that the Cardinal here has had orders to make 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 
 
 249 
 
 several arrests immediately, and that, in consequence, 
 the Liberals are arming, and have posted patrols in the 
 streets, to sound the alarm and give notice to fight for it. 
 
 "He asked me ' what should be done?' — I answered, 
 * fight for it, rather than be taken in detail ;' and offered, 
 if any of them are in inmiediate apprehension of arrest, 
 to receive them in my house, (which is defensible,) and to 
 defend them, with my ser\'ants and themselves, (we have 
 arms and ammunition,) as long as we can, — or to try to 
 get them away imder cloud of night. On going home, I 
 offered him the pistols which I had about me — ^but he 
 refused, but said he would come off to me in case of acci- 
 dents. 
 
 " It wants half an hour of midnight, and rains ; — as 
 Gibbet says, 'a fine night for their enterprise — dark as 
 hell, and blows lilte the de\'il.' If the row do n't happen 
 now, it must soon. I thought that their system of shoot- 
 ing people would soon produce a reaction — and now it 
 seems coming. I will do what I can in the way of com- 
 bat, though a Httle out of exercise. The cause is a good 
 one. 
 
 " Turned over and over half a score of books for the 
 passage in question, and can't find it. Expect to hear 
 the drum and the musketry momently (for they swear to 
 resist, and are right) — but I hear nothing, as yet, save the 
 plash of the rain and the gusts of the wind at intervals. 
 Don't like to go to bed, because I hate to be waked, and 
 would rather sit up for the row, if there is to be one. 
 
 " Mended the fire — have got the arms — and a book or 
 two, which I shall turn over. I know little of their num- 
 bers, but think the Carbonari strong enough to beat the 
 troops, even here. With twenty men this house might 
 be defended for twenty-four hours against any force to be 
 brought against it, now; in this place, for the same time ; 
 and, in such a time, the country would have notice, and 
 would rise, — if ever they wiU rise, of which there is some 
 doubt. In the mean time, I may as well read as do any 
 thing else, being alone. 
 
 « January 8, 1821, Monday. 
 
 " Rose, and found Count P. G. in my apartments. Sent 
 awav the servant. Told me that, according to the best 
 information, the Goverrmient had not issued orders for the 
 arrests apprehended; that the attack in Forli had not 
 taken place (as expected) by the Sanfedisti — the oppo- 
 nents of the Carbonari or Liberals — and that, as yet, they 
 are still in apprehension only. Asked me for some arms 
 of a better sort, which I gave him. Settled that, in case 
 of a row, the Liberals were to assemble here, (with me,) 
 and that he had given the word to Vbcenzo G. and others 
 of the Chiefs for that purpose. He himself and father are 
 going to the chase in the forest ; but V. G. is to come to 
 me, and an express to be sent off to him, P. G. if any thing 
 occurs. Concerted operations. They are to seize — but 
 no matter. 
 
 " I advised them to attack in detail, and in different 
 parties, in different places, (though at the same time,) so 
 as to divide the attention of the troops, who, though few, 
 yet being disciplined, would beat any body of people (not 
 trained) in a regular fight — unless dispersed in small 
 parties, and distracted with different assaults. Offered to 
 let them assemble here, if they choose. It is a strongish 
 post — narrow street, commanded from within — and tena- 
 ble walls. * + * 
 
 "Dined. Tried on a new coat. Letter to Murray, with 
 corrections of Bacon's Apophthegms and an epigram — the 
 latter not for publication. At eight went to Teresa, 
 Countess G. * * * * At nine and a half 
 came in II Conte P. and Count P. G. Talked of a cer 
 tain proclamation lately issued. Count R. G. had been 
 with * * (the * *,) to sound him about the arrests. He, 
 * *, is a trimmer, and deals, at present, his cards with both 
 hands. If he don't mind, they '11 be full. * * pretends (J 
 doubt him — they don't, — we shall see) that there is 
 such order, and seems staggered by the immense exertions 
 
 32 
 
 of the Neapolitans, and the fierce spirit of the Liberals here. 
 The truth is, that * * cares for Uttle but his place (which 
 is a good one) and wishes to play pretty with both parties. 
 He has changed his mind thirty times these last three 
 moons, to my knowledge, for he corresponds with me. 
 But he is not a bloody fellow — only an avaricious one. 
 
 " It seems that, just at this moment (as Lydia Languish 
 says) there will be no elopement after all. I wish that I 
 had known as much last night — or, rather, this morning — 
 I should have gone to bed two hours earlier. And yet I 
 ought not to complain; for, though it is a sirocco, and 
 heavy rain, I have not yawned for these two days. 
 
 "Cam.e home — read History of Greece — before dinner 
 had read Walter Scott's Rob Roy. Wrote address to the 
 letter in answer to Alessio del Pinto, who has thanked me 
 for helping his brother (the late Commandant, murdered 
 here last month) in his last moments. Have told him I 
 only did a duty of humanity — as is true. The brother 
 lives at Rome. 
 
 "^Mended the fire with some 'sgobole,' (a Romagnuole 
 word,) and gave the falcon some water. Drank some 
 Seltzer-water. Mem. — received to-day a print, or etching 
 of the story of Ugolino, by an Italian painter — different, of 
 course, from Sir Joshua Reynolds's, and I think (as far as 
 recollection goes) no worse, for Reynolds is not good in 
 history. Tore a button in my new coat. 
 
 "I wonder what figure these Itahans will make in a 
 regular row. I sometimes think that, hke the Irishman's 
 gun, (somebody had sold him a crooked one,) they wiU 
 only do for 'shooting round a corner ;' at least this sort of 
 shooting has been the late tenor of their exploits. And 
 yet, there are materials in this people, and a noble energy, 
 if well directed. But who is to direct them ? No matter. 
 Out of such times heroes spring. Difficulties are the hot- 
 beds of high spirits, and Freedom the mother of the few 
 \Tirtues incident to human nature. 
 
 "Tuesday, January 9, 182L 
 "Rose — the day fine. Ordered the horses, but Lega 
 (my secretary, an Itahanism for steward or chief servant) 
 coming to tell me that the painter had finished the work 
 in fresco, for the room he has been employed on lately, I 
 went to see it before I set out. The painter has not 
 copied badly the prints from Titian, &c. considering all 
 things. * + * * + + 
 
 " Dined. Read Johnson's ' Vanity of Human Wishes,' 
 — all the examples and mode of giving them sublime, as 
 well as the latter part, with the exception of an occasional 
 couplet. I do not so much admire the opening. I remem- 
 ber an observation of Sharpe's (the Conversationist, as he 
 was called in London, and a very clever man,) that the 
 first hne of this poem was superfluous, and that Pope (the 
 very best of poets /think) would have begun at once, only 
 changing the punctuation — 
 
 ' Survey mankind from China to Peru I' 
 
 The former line, ' Let observation,' &c. is certainly heavy 
 and useless. But't is a grand poem — and so true ! — true as 
 the 10th of Juvenile himseff. The lapse of ages changes 
 all things — time — ^language — the earth — the bounds of the 
 sea — the stars of the sky, and every thmg 'about, around, 
 and underneath' man, except man himself, who has always 
 been, and always will be, an vinlucky rascal. The infinite 
 variety of lives conducts but to death, and the infinity of 
 wishes leads but to disappointment. All the discoveries 
 which have yet been made have multiplied httle but exist- 
 ence. An extirpated disease is succeeded by some new 
 pestilence ; and a discovered world has brought little to 
 the old one, except the p — first and freedom afterward — 
 the latter a fine thing, particularly as they gave it to Eu- 
 rope in exchange for slavery. But it is doubtful whether 
 ' the Sovereigns' would not think the^rs^ the best present 
 of the two to their subjects. 
 
 " At eight went out — heard some news. They say the 
 king of Naples has declared, by couri^s from Florence, 
 
250 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 
 
 to the Powers (as they call now those wretches with 
 crowns) that his Constitution was compulsive, &c. &c. 
 and that the Austrian barbarians are placed again on war 
 pay, and will march. Let them — 'they come like sacri- 
 fices m tlieir trim,' the hounds of hell!* Let it still be a 
 hope to see their bones piled lilce those of the human 
 dogs at Morat, in Switzerland, wliich I have seen, 
 
 " Heard some music. At nine the usual \'isiters — news, 
 war, or rimiours of war. Consulted with P. G. &c. &c. 
 They mean to insurrect here, and are to honour me with 
 a call thereupon. I shall not fall back; though I don't 
 think them in force or heart sufficient to make much of it. 
 But onward ! — it is now the time to act, and what signifies 
 self, if a single spark of that which would be worthy of the 
 past can be bequeathed imquenchedly to the future? It is 
 not one man, nor a million, but the spirit of hberty, which 
 must be spread. The waves which dash upon tlie shore 
 are, one by one, broken, but yet the ocean conquers, never- 
 theless. It overwhelms the Armada, it wears the rock, 
 and, if the JVepiunians are to be believed, it has not only 
 destroyed, but made a world. In like manner, whatever 
 the sacrifice of individuals, the great cause will gather 
 strength, sweep down what is rugged, and fertilize (for 
 sea-weed is manure) what is cultivable. And so, the mere 
 selfish calculation ought never to be made on such occa- 
 sions ; and, at present, it shall not be computed by me. I 
 was never a good arithmetician of chances, and shall not 
 commence now. 
 
 "January 10,1821. 
 
 " Day fine — rained only in the morning. Looked over 
 accounts. Read Campbell's Poets — marked errors of Tom 
 (the author) for correction.f Dined — went out — music — 
 Tyrolese air, with variations. Sustained the cause of the 
 origmal simple air against the variations of the Itahan 
 school, ***** * 
 
 "Politics somewhat tempestuous, and cloudier daily. 
 To-morrow being foreign post-day, probably something 
 more wiU be known. 
 
 " Came home — read. Corrected Tom Campbell's slips 
 of the pen. A good work, though — style affected — but his 
 defence of Pope is glorious. To be sui'e, it is his oion 
 cause too, — but no matter, it is very good, and does him 
 great credit. 
 
 "Midnight, 
 •* I have been turning over different Lives of the Poets. 
 I rarely read their works, unless an occasional flight over 
 the classical ones. Pope, Dryden, Johnson, Gray, and those 
 who approach them nearest, (Heave the rani of the rest to 
 the cani of the day,) and — I had made several reflections, 
 but I feel sleepy, and may as well go to bed. 
 
 "January 11, 1821. 
 
 "Read the letters. Corrected the tragedy and the 
 •Hints from Horace.' Dined, and got into better spirits. 
 Went out — returned — finished letters, five in number. 
 Read Poets, and an anecdote in Spence. 
 
 "Alii writes to me that the Pope, and Duke of Tuscany, 
 and King of Sardinia have also been called to Congress ; 
 but the Pope will only deal there by proxy. So the inter- 
 ests of millions are in the hands of about twenty coxcombs, 
 at a place called Leibach ! 
 
 " I should almost regi-et that my own affairs went well, 
 when those of nations are in peril. If the interests of man- 
 kind could be essentially bettered, (particularly of these 
 oppressed Italians,) I should not so much mind my o\vn 
 ' sma' peculiar.' God grcuit us all better times, or more 
 philosophy. 
 
 " In reading, I have just chanced upon an expression of 
 Tom Campbell's; — spealdng of Collins, he says that 'no 
 reader cares any more about the characteristic manners of 
 his Eclogues than about the authenticity of the tale of 
 
 ' Childe Harold, 3d Canto, stan. 63, and note U. 
 ^ Don Juan, note 9 to Canto 5. 
 
 Troy.' 'T is false — we do care about ' the authenticity cf 
 tlic tale of Troy.' I have stood upon that plain daUy, for 
 more tlian a month, in 1810 ; and, if any thing diminished 
 my pleasure, it was that the blackguard Bryant had 
 impugned its veracity. It is true I read 'Homer Tra- 
 vestied,' (tlie first twelve books,) because Hobhouse and 
 others bored me with their learned locaUties, and I love 
 quizzing. But I still venerated the grand original as the 
 trutli o{ history (in the material /acfa) and o{ place. Other- 
 wise, it would have given me no delight. Who wiU per- 
 suade me, when I reclined upon a mighty tomb, that it did 
 not contain a hero ? — its very magnitude proved this. Men 
 do not labour over the ignoble and petty dead — and why 
 should not tlie dead be Homer's dead ? The secret of Tom 
 Campbell's defence oi inaccuracy in costume and descrip- 
 tion is, that his Gertrude, &c. has no more locality in com- 
 mon with Permsylvania than with Penmanmaur. It is 
 notoriously full of grossly false scenery, as all Americans 
 declare, though they praise parts of the Poem. It is thus 
 that self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting any 
 thing which happens, even accidently, to stumble upon it. 
 
 "January 12,1821. 
 
 "The weather still so humid cUid impracticable, that 
 London, in its most oppressive fogs, were a siunmer-bower 
 to this mist and sirocco, which has now lasted, (but with 
 one day's interval,) checkered with snow or heavy rain only, 
 since the 30th of December, 1820. It is so far lucky that 
 I have a Uterary turn ; but it is very tiresome not to be 
 able to stir out, in comfort, on any horse but Pegasus, for 
 so many days. The roads are even worse than the 
 weather, by the long splashing, and the heavy soil, and the 
 growth of the waters. 
 
 "Read the Poets — English, that is to say — out of 
 CampbeU's edition. There is a good deal of taffeta in 
 some of Tom's prefatory phrases, but his work is good as 
 a whole. I like him best, though, in his own poetry. 
 
 " Murray writes that they want to act the tragedy of Ma- 
 rino Faliero ; more fools they — it was written for the closet. 
 I have protested against this piece of usurpation, (which, 
 it seems, is legal for managers over any printed work, 
 against the author's will,) and I hope they will not attempt 
 it. Why do n't they bring out some of the numberless 
 aspirants for theatrical celebrity, now incumbering their 
 shelves, instead of lugging me out of the library ? I have 
 written a fierce protest against any such attempt, but I 
 still would hope that it will not be necessary, and that they 
 will see, at once, that it is not intended for the stage. It 
 is too regular — the time, twenty-four hours — the change 
 of place not frequent — nothing Twcfo-dramatic — no sur- 
 prises, no starts, nor trap-doors, nor opportunities 'for 
 tossing their heads and kiclting their heels' — and no lov^— 
 the grand ingredient of a modem play. 
 
 " I have found out the seal cut on Murray's letter. It 
 is meant for Walter Scott — or Sir Walter — he is the first 
 poet knighted since Sir Richard Blackmore. But it does 
 not do him justice. Scott's — particularly when he recites 
 — is a very intelligent countenance, and this seal says 
 nothing. 
 
 " Scott is certainly the most wonderful writer of the day. 
 His novels are a new literature in themselves, and his 
 poetry as good as any — if not better (only on an erroneous 
 system) — and only ceased to be so popular, because the 
 vulgar learned were tired of hearing ' Aristides called the 
 Just' and Walter Scott the Best, and ostracised him. 
 
 "I like him, too, for his manliness of character, for the 
 extreme pleasantness of his conversation, and his good- 
 nature towards myself, personally. May he prosper! — 
 for he deserves it. I know no reading to which I fall 
 with such alacrity as a work of W. Scott's. I shall give 
 the seal, with his bust on it, to Madame la Contessa G. 
 this evening, who will be curious to have the effigies of a 
 man so celebrated. 
 
 " How strange are my thoughts ! — The reading of the 
 song of MUtoa ' Sabrina fair ' has brought back upon me 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 
 
 251 
 
 — I know not how or why — the happiest, perhaps, days of 
 my life (always excepting, here and there, a Harrow holy- 
 day in the two latter summers of my stay there,) when 
 Uving at Cambridge with Edward Noel Long, afterward 
 of the Guards, — who, after having served honourably in 
 the expedition to Copenhagen, (of which two or three 
 thousand scoundrels yet survive in plight and pay,) was 
 drowned early in 1809, on his passage to Lisbon with his 
 regiment in the St. George transport, which was run foul 
 of] in the night, by another transport. We were rival 
 swimmers — fond of riding — reading — and of conviviality. 
 We had been at Harrow together ; but — there^ at least — 
 his was a less boisterous spirit than mine. I was always 
 cricketing — rebelling — fighting — rowmg, (from row, not 
 boai-roWmg, a different practice,) and in all manner of 
 mischiefs ; while he was more sedate and pohshed. At 
 Cambridge — both of Trinity — my spirit rather softened, 
 or his roughened, for we became very great friends. The 
 description of Sabrina's seat reminds me of our rival 
 feats in diving. Though Cam's is not a very ' translucent 
 wave,' it was fourteen feet deep, where we used to dive 
 for, and pick up — having thrown them in on purpose — 
 plates, eggs, and even shillings. I remember, in particu- 
 lar, there was the stump of a tree (at least ten or twelve 
 feet deep) in the bed of the river, in a spot where we 
 bathed most commonly, round which I used to cling, and 
 ' wonder how the devil I came there.' 
 
 " Our evenings we passed in music (he was musical, 
 and played on more than one instrument, flute and violon- 
 cello,) in which I was audience ; and I think that our 
 cliief beverage was soda-water. In the day we rode, 
 bathed, and lounged, reading occasionally. I remember 
 our buying, with vast alacrity, Moore's new quarto, (in 
 1806,) and reading it together in the evenings. 
 
 " We only passed the summer together ; — Long had 
 gone into the Guards during the year I passed in Notts, 
 away from college. His friendship and a violent, though 
 pure, love and passion — which held me at the same period 
 — were the then romance of the most romantic period of 
 my Ufe. 
 
 *♦*♦** 
 
 "1 remember that, in the spring of 1809, H * * laughed 
 at my being distressed at Long's death, and amused hun- 
 self with making epigrams upon his name, which was 
 susceptible of a pun — Long, short, &c. But three years 
 afler he had ample leisure to repent it, when our mutual 
 friend, and his, H * *'s, particular friend, Charles Mat- 
 thews, was drowned also, and he, himself, was as much 
 affected by a similar calamity. But / did not pay him 
 back in puns and epigrams, for I valued Matthews too 
 much, myself, to do so ; and, even if I had not, I should 
 have respected his griefs. 
 
 "Long's father wrote to me to write his son's epitaph. 
 I promised, — but I had not the heart to complete it. He 
 was such a good, amiable being as rarely remams long in 
 this world ; with talent and accomphshments, too, to 
 make him the more regretted. Yet, although a cheerful 
 companion, he had strange melancholy thoughts some- 
 times. I remember once that we were going to his 
 uncle's, I think, — I went to accompany him to the door 
 merely, in some Upper or Lower Grosvenor or Brook 
 street, I forget which, but it was in a street leading out of 
 some square, — he told me that, the night before, he 'had 
 taken up a pistol — not knowing or examining whether it 
 was loaded or no — and had snapped it at his head, leaving 
 It to chance whether it might, or might not, be charged.' 
 The letter too, which he wrote me, on leaving college, to 
 join the Guards, was as melancholy in its tenor as it 
 could well be on such an occasion. But he showed 
 nothing of this in his deportment, being mild and gentle ; 
 — and yet with much turn for the ludicrous in his disposi- 
 tion. We were both much attached to Harrow, and 
 sometimes made excursions there together from London, 
 to revive our schoolboy recollections. 
 
 "Midnight. 
 
 " Read the Italian translation by Guido Sorelli of the 
 German Grillparzer — a devil of a name, to be sure, for 
 posterity ; but they must learn to pronounce it. With 
 all the allowance for a translation, and, above all, an Italian 
 translation (they are the very worst of translators, except 
 from the Classics — Annibale Caro, for instance — and 
 there the bastardy of their language helps them, as, by 
 way of looking legitimate, they ape their father's tongue) 
 — but with every allowance for such a disadvantage, the 
 tragedy of Sappho is superb and sublime ! There is no 
 denying it. The man has done a great thing in writing 
 that play. And who is he ? I know him not ; but ages 
 will. 'T is a high intellect. 
 
 " I must premise, however, that I have read nothing of 
 Adolph Milliner's, (the author of 'Guilt,') and much less 
 of Goethe, and Schiller, and Wieland than I could wish. 
 I only know them through the medium of English, French, 
 and Italian translations. Of the real language I know 
 absolutely nothing, — except oaths learned from postilUons 
 and officers in a squabble. I can swear in German po- 
 tently, when I like — ^ Sacrament — ^Verflutcher — Hunds- 
 fott' — and so forth ; but I have little of their less energetic 
 conversation. 
 
 " I like, however, their women, (I was once so despe- 
 rately in love with a German woman, Constance.) and all 
 that I have read, translated of their writings, and all that I 
 have seen on the Rhine of their country and people — all, 
 except the Austrians, whom I abhor, loathe, and — I cannot 
 find words for my hato of them, and should be sorry to 
 find deeds correspondent to my hate ; for I abhor cruelty 
 more than I abhor the Austrians — except on an impulse, 
 and then I am savage — but not deliberately so. 
 
 "GriSparzer is grand — antique — not so simple as the 
 ancients, but very simple for a modern — too Madame de 
 Stael-ish now and then — ^but altogether a great and 
 goodly writer. 
 
 « January 13, 1821, Saturday. 
 Sketched the outline and Drams. Pers. of an intended 
 tragedy of Sardanapalus, which I have for some time 
 meditated. Took the names from Diodorus Siculus, (I 
 know the history of Sardanapalus, and have known it 
 since I was twelve years old,) and read over a passage in 
 the ninth vol. octavo of Milford's Greece, where he 
 rather vindicates the memory of this last of the Assy- 
 rians. 
 
 " Dined — news come — the Powers mean to war with 
 the peoples. The intelligence seems positive — ^let it be 
 so — they will be beaten in the end. The king-times are 
 fast finishing. There will be blood shed like water, and 
 tears like mist ; but the peoples will conquer in the end. 
 I shall not live to see it, but I foresee it. 
 
 " I carried Teresa the Italian translation of Grillparzer's 
 Sappho, which she promises to read. She quarrelled 
 with me, because I said that love was not the loftiest theme 
 for true tragedy ; and, having the advantage of her native 
 language, and natural female eloquence, she overcame my 
 fewer arguments. I believe she was right. I must put 
 more love into ' Sardanapalus' than I intended. I speaJt, 
 of course, if the times will allow me leisure. That if 
 will hardly be a peacemaker. 
 
 "January 14,1821. 
 
 " Turned over Seneca's tragedies. Wrote the open- 
 ing lines of the intended tragedy of Sardanapalus. Rode 
 out some miles into the forest. Misty and rainy. Re- 
 turned — dined — wrote some more of my tragedy. 
 
 "Read Diodorus Siculus — turned over Seneca, and 
 some other books. Wrote some more of the tragedy. 
 Took a glass of grog. After having ridden hard in rainy 
 weather, and scribbled, and scribbled again, the spirits 
 (at least mine) need a little exhilaration, and I do n't like 
 laudanum now as I used to do. So I have mixed a glass 
 of strong waters and single waters which I shall now 
 
252 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 
 
 1821. 
 
 proceed to empty. Therefore and thereunto I conclude 
 this day's diary. 
 
 " The effect of all wines and spirits upon me is, how- 
 ever, strange. It stttleSfhut it makes me gloomy — gloomy 
 at the very moment of their effect, and not gay hardly 
 ever. But it composes for a time, though sullenly. 
 
 « January 15, 1821. 
 
 "Weather fine. Received visit. Rode out into the 
 forest — fired pistols. Returned home — dined — dipped 
 into a volume of Mitford's Greece — wTote part of a scene 
 of ' Sardanapalus.' Went out — heard some music — 
 heard some politics. More ministers from the other 
 Italian powers gone to Congress. War seems certain — 
 in that case, it will be a savage one. Talked over vari- 
 ous important matters with one of the initiated. At ten 
 and half returned home. 
 
 "I have just thought of something odd. In the year 
 1814, Moore ('die poet,' par excellence, and he deser\'es 
 it) and I were going together, in the same carriage, to 
 dine with Eai'l Grey, the Capo Politico of the remaining 
 Whigs. Murray, the magnificent, (the illustrious pub- 
 lisher of that name,) had just sent me a Java gazette — I 
 know not why or wherefore. Pulling it out, by way of 
 curiosity, we found it to contain a dispute (the said Java 
 gazette) on Moore's merits and mine. I think, if I had 
 been there, that I could have saved them the trouble of 
 disputing on the subject. But, tliere is fame for you at 
 six-and-twenty ! Alexander had conquered India at the 
 same age ; but I doubt if he was disputed about, or his 
 conquests compared with those of Indian Bacchus, at Java. 
 
 "It was great fame to be named with Moore ; greater 
 
 to be compared with him ; grea.test— pleasure, at least 
 
 to be vdth him ; and, surely, an odd comcidence, that we 
 should be dining together while they were quarrelling 
 about us beyond the equinoctial line. 
 
 "Well, the same evening I met LawTence, the painter, 
 and heard one of Lord Grey's daughters (a fine, tall, 
 spirit-looking girl, with much of the patrician thorough- 
 bred look of her father, which I dote upon) play on the 
 harp, so modestly and ingenuously, that she looked music. 
 Well, I would rather have had my talk with Lawrence 
 (who talked delightfully) and heard the girl, than have had 
 all the fame of Moore and me put together. 
 
 " The only pleasure of fame is that it paves the way to 
 pleasure; and the more intellectual our pleasure, the 
 better for the pleasure and for us too. It was, however, 
 agreeable to have heard our fame before dinner, and a 
 girl's harp after- 
 
 « January 16, 1821. 
 
 " Read — rode — fired pistols — returned — dined — ^vrote 
 —visited — heard music — talked nonsense — and went 
 home. 
 
 "Wrote part of a Tragedy — advance in Act 1st with 
 * all deliberate speed.' Bought a blanket. The weather 
 is still muggy as a London May — mist, mizzle, the air 
 replete with ScoUicisms, which, though fine in the descrip- 
 tions of Ossian, are somewhat tiresome, in real, prosaic 
 perspective. Politics still mysterious. 
 
 "January 17, 1821. 
 
 " Rode i' the forest — fired pistols — dined. Arrived a 
 packet of books from England and Lombardy — English 
 Italian, French, and Latin. Read till eight— went out. 
 "January 18,1821. 
 
 " To-day, the post arriving late, did not ride. Read 
 letters — only two gazettes, instead of twelve now due. 
 Made Lega write to that negligent Galignani, and added 
 a postscript Dined, 
 
 " At eight proposed to go out. Lega came in with a 
 letter about a bill unpaid at Venice, which I thought paid 
 months ago. I flew into a paroxysm of rage, which 
 almost made me faint. I have not been well ever since. 
 I deserve it for being such a fool — ^but it was provoking — a 
 set of scoundrels ! It is, however, but five-and-tw^nty 
 pounds. 
 
 "January 19, 1821. 
 
 " Rode. Winter's wind somewhat more luikind than 
 ingratitude itself, though Shalcespeare says otherwise. At 
 least, I am so much more accustomed to meet with 
 ingratitude than the north wind, that I thought the latter 
 the sharper of the two. I had met with both in the 
 course of the twenty-four hours, so could judge. 
 
 " Thought of a plan of education for my daughter 
 Allegra,who ought to begin soon with her studies. Wrote 
 a letter — aftenvard a postscript. Radier in low spirits — 
 certainly hippish — liver touched — ^will take a dose of salts. 
 
 "I have been reading the Life, by himself and daugh- 
 ter, of Mr. R. L. Edgeworth, the father oi the Miss 
 Edgeworth. It is altogether a great name. In 1813, 1 
 recollect to have met them in the fashionable world of 
 London (of which I then formed an item, a fraction, the 
 segment of a circle, the unit of a million, the nothing of 
 something) in the assembhes of the hour, and at a break- 
 fast of Sir Humphry and Lady Da\-y's, to which I was 
 inrited for the nonce. I had been the lion of 1812 5 Miss 
 Edgeworth and Madame de Stael, with 'the Cossack,' 
 towards the end of 1813, were the exhibitions of the suc- 
 ceeding year. 
 
 " I thought Edgeworth a fine old fellow, of a clarety, 
 elderly, red complexion, but active, brisk, and endless. He 
 was seventy, but did not look fifty — no, nor forty-eight 
 even. I had seen poor Fitzpatrick not very long before 
 — a man of pleasure, wit, eloquence, all things. He tot- 
 tered — but still talked like a gentleman, though feebly. 
 Edgeworth bounced about, and talked loud and long ; but 
 he seemed neither weakly nor decrepit, and hardly old. 
 
 "He began by telling 'that he had given Dr. Parr a 
 dressing, who had taken him for an Irish bog-trotter,' &c. 
 &c. Now I, who know Dr. Parr, and who know {not by 
 experience — for I never should have presumed so far as 
 to contend with him — ^but by hearing him with others, and 
 of others) that it is not so easy a matter to ' dress him,' 
 thought Mr. Edgeworth an assertor of what was not 
 true. He could not have stood before Parr an instant. 
 For the rest, he seemed intelligent, vehement, vivacious, 
 and full of life. He bids fair for a hundred years. 
 
 " He was not much admired in London, and I remem- 
 ber a ' ryghte merrie' and conceited jest which was rife 
 among the gallants of the day, — viz. a paper had been 
 presented for the recall of Mrs. Siddons to the stage, (she 
 having lately taken leave, to the loss of ages, — for nothing 
 ever was, or can be, like her,) to which all men had been 
 called to subscribe. Whereupon, Thomas Moore, of 
 profane and poetical memory, did propose that a similar 
 paper should be su6scribed and cireuTnscribed 'for the 
 recall of Mr. Edgeworth to Ireland.'* 
 
 " The fact was— every body cared more about her. 
 She was a nice litde unassuming ' Jeannie Deans'-looking 
 bodie,' as we Scotch say — and, if not handsome, certainly 
 not ill-looking. Her conversation w-as as quiet as her- 
 self. One would never have guessed she could write her 
 name ; whereas her father talked, not as if he could write 
 nothing else, but as if nothing else was worth wridnDf. 
 
 " As for Mrs. Edgeworth, I forget — except that I think 
 she was the youngest of the party. Altogether, they 
 were an excellent cage of the kind ; and succeeded for 
 two months, till the landing of. Madame de Stael. 
 
 " To turn from them to their works, I admire them ; 
 but they excite no feeling, and they leave no love — except 
 for some Irish steward or postillion. However, the im- 
 pression of intellect and prudence is profound — and may 
 be useful. 
 
 "January 20, 1821. 
 
 "Rode — fired pistols. Read from Grimm's Corre- 
 spondence. Dined — went out — heard music — returned — 
 wrote a letter to the Lord Chamberlain to request him to 
 prevent the theatres from representing the Doge, which 
 
 ' In this, I rather think he was misinformed ;— whatever merit there 
 may be in the jest, I have not, as far as I can recollect, the slightest claiiin 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1621. 
 
 253 
 
 the Italian papers say that they are going to act. This is 
 pretty work — what ! without asking my consent, and even 
 in opposition to it ! 
 
 « January 21, 1821. 
 
 " Fine, clear, frosty day — that is to say, an Italian frost, 
 for their winters hardly get beyond snow ; for which rea- 
 son nobody knows how to skate (or skait) — a Dutch and 
 Enghsh accomplishment. Rode out, as usual, and fired 
 pistols. Good shooting — broke four common, and rather 
 small, bottles, in four shots, at fourteen paces, with a com- 
 mon pair of pistols and indifferent powder. Almost as 
 good wafering or shooting — considering the difference of 
 powder and pistols— as when, in 1809, 1810, 1811, 1812, 
 1813, 1814, it was my luck to spUt walking-sticks, wafers, 
 half-crowns, shillings, and even the eye of a walldng-stick, 
 at twelve paces, with a single bullet — and all by eye and 
 calculation ; for my hand is not steady, and apt to change 
 vnth the very weather. To the prowess which I here 
 note, Joe Manton and others can bear testimony ; — ^for the 
 former taught, and the latter have seen me do, these feats. 
 
 "Dined — ^visited — came home — read. I^marked on 
 an anecdote in Grimm's Correspondence, which says that 
 ' Regnard et la plupart des poetes comiques etaient gens 
 bilieux et melancoliques ; et que M. de Voltaire, qui est 
 tr^s gai, n'a jamais fait que des tragedies — et que la come- 
 die gaie est le seul genre oil il n'ait point reussi. C'est 
 que celui qui rit et celui qui fait rire sont deux hommes 
 fort differens.' — Vol. vi. 
 
 " At this moment I feel as bilious as the best comic 
 writer of them all, (even as Regnard himself, the next to 
 Moliere, who has written some of the best comedies in 
 any language, and who is supposed to have committed 
 suicide,) and am not in spirits to continue my proposed 
 tragedy of Sardanapalus, which I have, for some days, 
 ceased to compose. 
 
 " To-morrow is my birthday — ^that is to say, at twelve 
 o' the clock, midnight, i. e. in twelve minutes, I shall have 
 completed thirty and three years of age ! ! ! — and I go to 
 my bed wdth a heaviness of heart at having lived so long, 
 and to so little purpose. 
 
 « It is three minutes past twelve. — ' 'T is the middle of 
 night by the castle clock,' and I am now thirty-three ! 
 
 ' Eheu, fugaces, Posthurae, Posthurae, 
 Labuntur anni ;'— 
 
 but I do n't regret them so much for what I have done, as 
 for what I might have done. 
 
 " Through life's road, so dim and dirty, 
 I have dragg'd to three-and-thirty. 
 What have these years left to me ? 
 Nothing — except thirty-three. 
 "January 22, 1821.* 
 
 1S21. 
 
 HERB LIES, 
 INTEERED IN THE ETERNITY 
 
 OP THE PA.ST, 
 
 PROM WHENCE THERE IS NO 
 
 RESURRECTION 
 
 FOR THE DAYS — WHATEVER THERE MAY BE 
 
 POR THE DUST — 
 
 THE THIRTY-THIRD YEAR 
 
 OF AN ILL-SPENT LIFE, 
 
 WHICH, AFTER 
 
 A. LINGERING DISEASE OF MANY MONTHS, 
 
 SUNK INTO A LETHARGY, 
 
 AND EXPIRED, 
 
 JANUARY 22d, 1821, A. D. 
 
 LEAVING A SUCCESSOR 
 
 INCONSOLABLE 
 
 POR THE VERY LOSS WHICH 
 
 OCCASIONED ITS 
 
 EXISTENCE. 
 
 "January 23, 1821. 
 "Fine day. Read — rode — ^fired pistols, and returned 
 
 See Letter 472. 
 
 Dined — read. Went out at eight — ^made the usual visit. 
 Heard of nothing but war, — ' the cry is still, They come.' 
 The Car', seem to have no plan — nothing fixed among 
 themselves, how, when, or what to do. In that case, they 
 will make nothing of this project, so often postponed, and 
 never put in action. 
 
 " Came home, and gave some necessary orders, in case 
 of circumstances requiring a change of place. I shall 
 act according to what may seem proper, when I hear 
 decidedly what the Barbarians mean to do. At present, 
 they are building a bridge of boats over the Po, which 
 looks very warlike. A few days wiU probably show. I 
 think of retiring towards Ancona, nearer the northern 
 frontier ; that is to say, if Teresa and her father are 
 obliged to retire, which is most likely, as all the family are 
 Liberals. If not, I shall stay. But my movements will 
 depend upon the lady's wishes, for myself it is much the 
 same. 
 
 " I am somewhat puzzled what to do with my little 
 daughter, and my effects, which are of some quantity and 
 value, — and neither of them do in the seat of war where 
 I think of going. But there is an elderly lady who will 
 take charge ofhei; and T. says that the Marchese C. will 
 undertake to hold the chattels in safe keeping. Half the 
 city are getting their affairs in marching trim. A pretty 
 Carnival ! The blackguards might as well have waited 
 till Lent. 
 
 "January 24, 1821. 
 Returned — ^met some masques in the Corso — ' Vive 
 la bagatelle !' — the Germans are on the Po, the Barbari- 
 ans at the gate, and their masters in council at Leybach, 
 (or whatever the eructation of the sound may syllable 
 into a human pronunciation,) and lo! they dance and 
 sing, and malie merry, 'for to-morrow they may die.' 
 Who can say that the Arlequins are not right ? Like 
 the Lady Baussiere, and my old friend Burton— I ' rode 
 on.' 
 
 Dined — (damn this pen!) — beef tough — there is no 
 beef in Italy worth a curse ; unless a man could eat an 
 old ox with the hide on, singed in the sim. 
 
 " The principal persons in the events which may occur 
 in a few days, are gone out on a shooting party. If it were 
 like a ' highland hunting,' a pretext of the chase for a 
 grand reunion of counsellors and chiefe, it would be all 
 very well. But it is nothing more or less than a real 
 snivelling, popping, small-shot, water-hen waste of powder, 
 ammunition, and shot, for their own special amusement : 
 — a rare set of fellows for ' a man to risk his neck with,' 
 as 'Marishal Wells' says in the Black Dwarf. 
 
 " If they gather, — ' whilk is to be doubted,' — ^they will 
 not muster a thousand men. The reason of this is, that 
 the populace are not interested, — only the higher and 
 middle orders. I wish that the peasantry were: they are 
 a fine savage race of two-legged leopards. Bui the 
 Bolognese won't — the Romagnuoles can't without them. 
 Or, if they try — what then ? They will try, and man can 
 do no more — and, if he would but try his utmost, much 
 might be done. The Dutch, for instance, against the 
 Spaniards — then, the tyrants of Europe — since, the slaves 
 — and, lately, the freedmen. 
 
 " The year 1820 was not a fortunate one for the indi- 
 vidual me, whatever it may be for the nations. I lost a 
 lawsuit, after two decisions m my favour. The project of 
 lending money on an Irish mortgage was finally rejected 
 by my wife's trustee after a year's hope and trouble. The 
 Rochdale lawsuit had endured fifteen years, and always 
 prospered till I married; since which, every thing has 
 gone wrong — with me, at least. 
 
 " In the same year, 1820, the Countess T. G. nata G*. 
 Gi. in despite of all I said and did to prevent it, would 
 separate from her husband, II Cavalier Commendatore 
 Gi. &c. &c. &c. and all on the account of 'P. P. clerk 
 of this parish.' The other little petty vexations of the 
 year — overturns in carriages — the murder of people before 
 one's door, and dying in one's beds — ^the cramp in swim- 
 
254 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 
 
 ming — colics — indigestions and bilious attacks, &c. &c 
 &c.~- 
 
 ' Many small articles make up a sum, 
 A ud bey ho for Caleb Q,uotera , oh ! ' 
 
 "January 25, 1821. 
 
 « Received a letter from Lord Sidney Osborne state 
 secretary of the Seven Islands — a fine fellow — clever — 
 dished in England five years ago, and came abroad to 
 retrench and to renew. He wrote from Ancona, in his 
 way back to Corfa, on some matters of our OAvn. He is 
 son of the late Duke of Leeds by a second marriage. He 
 wants me to go to Corfu. Why not? — perhaps I may, 
 next spring. 
 
 "Answered Murray's letter — read — ^lounged. Scrawl- 
 ed this additional page of life's log-book. One day more 
 is over, of it and of me ; — but ' which is best, life or death, 
 the gods only know,' as Socrates said to his judges, on 
 the breaking up of the tribunal. Two thousand years 
 since that sage's declaration of ignorance have not 
 enlightened us more upon this important point; for, 
 according to the Claristian dispensation, no one can know 
 whether he is sure of salvation — even the most righteous 
 — since a single slip of faith may throw him on his back, 
 like a skater, while ghding smoothly to his paradise. 
 Now, therefore, whatever the certainty of faith in the facts 
 may be, the certainty of the individual as to his happiness 
 or misery is no greater than it was under Jupiter. 
 
 "It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a 
 grand peutetre' — but still it is a grand one. Every body 
 clings to it — the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of 
 human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal. 
 
 "January 26, 1821. 
 
 "Fine day — a few mares' tails portending change, but 
 the sky clear, upon the whole. Rode — fired pistols — good 
 shootmg. Coming back, met an old man. Charity — 
 purchased a shilling's worth of salvation. If that was to 
 be bought, I have given more to my fellow-creatures in 
 this life — sometimes for vice, but, if not more often, at 
 least more considerably, for virtue — than I now possess. I 
 never in my life gave a mistress so much as I have some- 
 times given a poor man in honest distress ; — but, no mat- 
 ter. The scoundrels who have all along persecuted me* 
 (with the help of * * who has crowned their efforts) will 
 triumph ; — and, when justice is done to me, it will be when 
 this hand that writes is as cold as the hearts which have 
 stung me. 
 
 " Returning, on the bridge near the mill, met an old 
 woman. I asked her age — she said, ' Tre croci.^ I asked 
 my groom (though myself a decent Italian) what the devil 
 her three crosses meant. He said, ninety years, and that 
 she had five years more to boot! ! I repeated the same 
 three times, not to mistake — ninety-five years!!! — and 
 she was yet rather active — heard my question, for she 
 answered it — saw me, for she advanced towards me ; and 
 did not appear at all decrepit, though certainly touched 
 with vears. Told her to come to-morrow, and will exa- 
 m'me her mvself. I love phenomena. If she is ninety- 
 five years old, she must recollect the Cardinal Alberoni, 
 who was legate here. 
 
 "On dismountmg, found Lieutenant E. just arrived 
 from Faenza. Invited him to dine with me to-morrow. 
 Did Tiot mvite him for to-day, because there was a small 
 turbot, (Friday, fast regularly and religiously,) which I 
 wanted to eat all myself. Ate it. 
 
 "Went out— found Teresa as usual— music. The 
 gentlemen, who make revolutions, and are gone on a 
 shooting, are not yet returned. They do n't return till 
 Sunday — that is to say, they have been out for five days, 
 buffooning, while the interests of a whole country are at 
 stake, and even they themselves compromised. 
 
 " It is a difficult part to play among such a set of assas- 
 sins and blockheads — but, when the scum is skimmed off, 
 
 or has boiled over, good may come of it. If this country 
 could but be freed, what would be too great for the accom- 
 plishment of that desire 7 for the ex-tinction of that Sigh 
 of Ages ? Let us hope. They have hoped these thou- 
 sand years. The very revolvement of the chances may 
 bring it — it is upon the dice. 
 
 "If the Neapolitans have but a single Massaniello 
 among them, they -will beat the bloody butchers of the 
 crown and sabre. Holland, in worse circumstances, beat 
 the Spains and Philips ; America beat the English ; 
 Greece beat Xerxes ; and France beat Europe, till she 
 took a tyrant ; South America beats her old vultures out 
 of their nest ; and, if these men are but firm in them- 
 selves, there is nothing to shake them from without. 
 
 "January 28, 1821. 
 
 " Lugano Gazette did not come. Letters from Venice. 
 It appears that the Austrian brutes have seized my three 
 or four pounds of EngUsh powder. The scoundrels ! — ;I 
 hope to pay them in ball for that powder. Rode out till 
 twilight. 
 
 " Pondered the subjects of four tragedies to be written, 
 (life and circumstances permitting,) to wit, Sardanapalus, 
 already begun ; Cain, a metaphysical subject, something 
 in the style of Manfred, but in five acts, perhaps, with the 
 chorus ; Francesca of Rimini, in five acts ; and I am not 
 sure that I would not try Tiberius. I think that I could 
 extract a something, of my tragic, at least, out of the 
 gloomy sequestration and old age of the tyrant — and even 
 out of his sojourn at Caprea — by softening the details, 
 and exhibiting the despair which must have led to those 
 very vicious pleasures. For none but a powerful and 
 gloomy mind overthrown would have had recourse to such 
 solitary horrors, — being also, at the same time, old, £uid 
 the master of the world. 
 
 ^^ Memoranda. 
 " What is poetry ? — The feehng of a Former world 
 and Future. 
 
 " Thought Second. 
 " Why, at the very height of desire and human plea- 
 sure, — worldly, social, amorous, ambitious, or even avari- 
 cious, — does there mingle a certain sense of doubt and 
 sorrow — a fear of what is to come — a doubt of what is — 
 a retrospect to the past, leading to a prognostication of 
 the future. (The best of Prophets of the Future is the 
 Past.) Why is this ? or these ? — I know not. except 
 that on a pinnacle we are most susceptible of giddiness, 
 and that we never fear falling except from a precipice — 
 the higher, the more awful, and the more subUme ; jmd, 
 therefore, I am not sure that fear is not a pleasurable sen- 
 sation ; at least, Hope is ; and what Hope is there without 
 a deep leaven of Fear ? and what sensation is so delight- 
 ful as Hope ? and, if it were not for Hope, where would 
 the Future be ? — in hell. It is useless to say where the 
 Present is, for most of us Imow ; and as for the Past, what 
 predominates in memory ? — Hope baffled. Ergo, in all 
 human affairs, it is Hope — Hope — Hope. I allow sixteen 
 minutes, though I never counted them, to any given or 
 supposed possession. From whatever place we com- 
 mence, we luiow where it all must end. And yet, what 
 good is there in knowing it ? It does not make men better 
 or wiser. During the greatest horrors of the greatest 
 plagues, (Athens and Florence, for example — see Thucy- 
 dides and Machiavelli,) men were more cruel and profli- 
 gate than ever. It is all a mystery. I feel most things, 
 but I know nothing, except — — — 
 
 Childe Harold, Canto IV. Stanza 137, and Note to the Two * Thus marked, with impatient strokes of the pen, by himself in the 
 Foscari. original. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 
 
 255 
 
 « Thought for a speech of Lucifer, in the tragedy of Cain ;— 
 
 " Were Deatfi an evil, would / let thee live 1 
 Fool! live as I live — as thy father lives, 
 And thy son's sons shall live for evermore. 
 
 " Past midnight. One o' the clock. 
 
 « I have been reading W. F. Schlegel (brother to the 
 other of the name) till now, and I can make out nothing. 
 He evidently shows a great power of words, but there is 
 nothing to be taken hold of. He is like Hazlitt, in Eng- 
 lish, who talks pimples— & red and white corruption rising 
 up, (in Uttle imitation of mountains upon maps,) but con- 
 taining nothing, and discharging nothing, except their own 
 humours. 
 
 "IdisUke him the worse, (that is, Schlegel,) because 
 he always seems upon the verge of meaning ; and, lo, he 
 goes down lilce sunset, or melts hke a rainbow, leaving a 
 rather rich confusion, — to which, however, the above com- 
 parisons do too much honour. 
 
 "Continuing to read Mr. F. Schlegell. He is not such 
 a fool as I took him for, that is to say, when he speaks of 
 the North. But still he speaks of thmgs aU over the world 
 with a kind of authority that a philosopher would disdain, 
 and a man of common sense, feeling, and knowledge of 
 his own ignorance, would be ashamed of. The man is 
 evidently wanting to make an impression, hke his brother, 
 —or like George in the Vicar of Wakefield, who found 
 out that all the good things had been said already on the 
 right side, and therefore 'dressed up some paradoxes' 
 upon the wrong side — ingenious, but false, as he himself 
 says — to which ' the learned world said nothing, nothing 
 at all, sir.' The * learned world,' however, has said some- 
 thing to the brothers Schlegel. 
 
 « It is high time to think of something else. What they 
 say of the antiquities of the North is best. 
 
 "January 29, 1821. 
 "Yesterday the woman of ninety-five years of age was 
 with me. She said her eldest son (if now alive) would 
 have been seventy. She is thin — short, but active — 
 hears, and sees, and talks incessantly. Several teeth 
 left — aU in the lower jaw, and single front teeth. She is 
 very deeply wrinkled, and has a sort of scattered gray 
 beard over her chin, at least as long as my mustachios. 
 Her head, in fact, resembles the drawing in crayons of 
 Pope the poet's mother, which is in some editions of his 
 works. 
 
 « I forgot to ask her if she remembered Alberoni, (legate 
 here,) but will ask her next time. Gave her a louis — 
 ordered her a new suit of clothes, and put her upon a 
 weekly pension. Till now, she had worked at gathering 
 wood and pine-nuts in the forest, — pretty work at ninety- 
 five years old ! She had a dozen children, of whom some 
 are alive. Her name is Maria Montanari. 
 
 « Met a company of the sect (a kind of Liberal Club) 
 called the ' Americani' in the forest, all armed, and sing- 
 ing, with all their might, in Romagnuole — ' Sem tutti 
 soldat' per la hberta,' (' we are all soldiers for hberty.') 
 They cheered me as I passed — I returned their salute, 
 and rode on. This may show the spirit of Italy at pre- 
 sent. 
 
 " My to-day's journal consists of what I omitted yes- 
 terday. To-day was much as usual. Have rather a 
 better opinion of the writings of the Schlegels than I had 
 four-and-twenty hours ago ; and will amend it still farther, 
 if possible. 
 
 « They say that the Piedmontese have at length risen 
 -fa ira ! 
 
 « Read Schlegel. Of Dante he says that ' at no time 
 has the greatest and most national of all Itahan poets 
 ever been much the favourite of his countrymen,' 'T is 
 false ! There have been more editors and commentators 
 (and imitators, ultimately) of Dante than of all their poets 
 put together. Not a favourite ! Why, they talk Dante — 
 write Dante — and think and dream Dante at this moment 
 
 (1821) to an excess, which would be ridiculous, but that 
 he deserves it. 
 
 " In the same style this German talks of gondolas on 
 the Arno— a precious fellow to dare to speak of Italy ! 
 
 « He says also that Dante's chief defect is a want, in a 
 word, of gentle feehngs. Of gentle feelings !— and Fran- 
 cesca of Rimini— and the father's feelings in Ugohno— 
 and Beatrice— and ' La Pia !' Why, there is a gentleness 
 in Dante beyond all gentleness, when he is tender. It is 
 true that, treating of the Christian Hades, or Hell, there 
 is not much scope or site for gentleness — ^but who but 
 Dante could have introduced any « gentleness' at all into 
 Helll Is there any in Milton's? No— and Dante's 
 Heaven is all love, and glory, and majesty. 
 
 « 1 o'clock. 
 " I have found out, however, where the German is right 
 it is about the Vicar of Wakefield. ' Of all romances 
 in miniature, (and, perhaps, this is the best shape in which 
 romance can appear,) the Vicar of Wakefield is, I think, 
 the most exquisite.' He thinks !— he might be sure. But 
 it is very well for a Schlegel. I feel sleepy, and may as 
 well get me to bed. To-morrow there will be fine wea- 
 ther. 
 
 • Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.' 
 
 « January 30, 1821. 
 The Count P. G. this evening (by commission from 
 the Ci.) transmitted to me the new words for the next six 
 months. + * * and * * *. The new sacred word is 
 
 * * +— the reply * * *— the rejoinder * + *. The 
 former word (now changed) was * * * — there is also 
 
 * * + — * * *.■[ Things seem fast coming to a crisis — 
 fa ira ! 
 
 "We talked over various matters of moment and move- 
 ment. These I omit ;— if they come to any thing, they 
 will speak for themselves. After these, we spoke of 
 Kosciusko. Count R. G. told me that he has seen tho 
 Polish officers in the Italian war burst into tears on hear- 
 ing his name. 
 
 " Something must be up in Piedmont — all the letters 
 and papers are stopped. Nobody knows any thing, and 
 the Germans are concentrating near Mantua. Of the 
 decision of Laybach, nothing is known. This state of 
 things cannot last long. The ferment in men's minds at 
 present cannot be conceived without seemg it. 
 
 "January 31, 1821. 
 
 " For several days I have not written any thing except 
 a few answers to letters. In momentary expectation of 
 an explosion of some kind, it is not easy to setde down to 
 the desk for the higher kinds of composition. I could do 
 it, to be sure, for, last summer, I wrote my drama in the 
 very bustle of Madame la Contesse G.'s (hvorce, and all 
 its process of accompaniments. At the same time, I 
 also had the news of the loss of an important lawsuit in 
 England. But these were only private and personal 
 business ; the present is of a different nature. 
 
 " I suppose it is this, but have some suspicion that it 
 may be laziness, which prevents me from writing ; espe- 
 cially as Rochefoucault says that « laziness often masters 
 them all' — speaking of the passions. If this were true, 
 it could hardly be said that ' idleness is the root of all evil,' 
 smce this is supposed to spring from the passions only ; 
 ergo, that which masters all the passions (lazmess, to >vit) 
 would in so much be a good. Who knows ? 
 
 "Midnight. 
 "I have been reading Grimm's Correspondence. He 
 repeats frequently, in speaking of a poet, or of a man of 
 genius in any department, even in music, (Gretry, for in- 
 stance,) that he must have ' une ame qui se tourmente, 
 
 t In the original MS. these watchwords are blotted over so as to be 
 
 illegible. 
 
256 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 
 
 un esprit \'iolent.' How far this may be true, I kno%v 
 not ; but if it were, I should be a poet ' per eccellenza ;' 
 for I have always had 'une ame,' which not only tor- 
 mented itself but every body else in contact with it ; and 
 an ' esprit violent,' which has almost left me without any 
 'esprit' at all. As to defining what a poet shotdd be, it is 
 not worth while, for what are they worth ? what have they 
 done? 
 
 "Grimm, however, is an excellent critic and literary 
 historian. His Correspondents forms the annals of the 
 literary part of that age of France, with much of her 
 politics, and still more of her ' way of life.' He is as 
 valuable, and far more entertaining that Muratori or 
 Tiraboschi — I had almost said, than Guingene — but there 
 we should pause. However 't is a great man in its line. 
 
 "Monsieur St. Lambert has 
 
 ' Et lorsqu'Ji ses regards la lumifere est ravie, 
 II n'a plus, en mourant, i perdre que la vie.' 
 
 This is, word for word, Thomson's 
 
 ' And dying, all u-e can resign is breath,' 
 without the smallest acknowledgment from the Lorraine 
 of a poet, M. St. Lambert is dead as a man, and (for 
 any thing I know to the contrary) damned as a poet, by 
 this time. However, his Seasons have good things, and, 
 it may be, some of his o^vn. 
 
 « February 2, 182L 
 
 " I have been considering what caa be the reason why 
 I alwa}'s wake at a certain hour in the morning, and 
 always in very bad spirits — I may say, in actual despair 
 and despondency, in all respects — even of that which 
 pleased me over night. In about an hour or two, this 
 goes oflj and I compose either to sleep again, or at least, 
 to quiet. In England, five years ago, I had the same 
 kind of hypochondria, but accompanied with so violent a 
 thirst that I have drank as many as fifteen bottles of soda- 
 water in one night, after going to bed, and been still thirsty 
 ^-calculating, however, some lost from the bursting out 
 and effervescence and overflowing of the soda-water, in 
 drawing the corks, or striking off the necks of the bottles 
 from mere thirsy impatience. At present, I have not the 
 thirst ; but the depression of spirits is no less violent. 
 
 "I read in Edgeworth's Memoirs of something similar 
 (except that his thirst expended itself on small beer) in the 
 case of Sir F. B. Delaval; — but then he was, at least, 
 twenty years older. What is it ? — liver ? In England, 
 Le Man (the apothecary) cured me of the thirst in three 
 days, and it had lasted as many years. I suppose that it 
 is all hypochondria. 
 
 " What I feel most growing upon me are lazinesss and 
 a disrelish more powerful than indifference. If I rouse, 
 it is into fury. I presume that I shall end (if not earlier 
 by accident, or some such termination) lilce Swift — ' dying 
 at top.' I confess I do not contemplate this with so much 
 horror as he apparently did for some years before it hap- 
 pened. But Swift had hardly begun life at the very period 
 (thirty-three*) when I feel quite an old sort of feel. 
 
 " Oh ! there is an organ pla}Tng in the street — a waltz, 
 too ! I must leave off to listen. They are playing a 
 waltz, which I have heard ten thousand times at the balls 
 in London, between 1812 and 1815. Music is a strange 
 thing. 
 
 "Februarys, 1821. 
 
 *At last, 'the kiln's in a low.' The Germans are 
 ordered to march, and Italy is, for the ten thousandth time, 
 to become a field of battle. Last night the news came. 
 
 " This afl;emoon, Count P. G. came to me to consult 
 upon divers matters. We rode out together. They have 
 sent off to the C. for orders. To-morrow the decision 
 ought to arrive, and then something will be done. Returned 
 — dined — read — ^went ouf — talked over matters. Made 
 a purchase of some arms for the new enrolled Americani. 
 
 See Journal, January 6, l5^I. 
 
 who are all on tiptoe to march. Gave orders for some 
 harness and portmanteaus necessary for the horses. 
 
 " Read some of Bowles's dispute about Pope, with all 
 the replies and rejoinders. Perceive that my name has 
 been lugged into the controversy, but have not time to 
 state what I know of the subject. On some ' piping day 
 of peace' it is probable that I may resume it. 
 
 "February 9, 1821. 
 
 " Before dinner wrote a little ; also, before I rode out, 
 Count P. G. called upon me, to let me know the result of 
 the meeting of the C'. at F. and at B. * * returned late 
 last night. Every thing was combined under the idea that 
 the Barbarians would pass the Po on the 13th inst. 
 Instead of this, from some previous information or other- 
 wise, they have hastened their march and actually passed 
 two days ago ; so tliat all that can be done at present in 
 Romagna is, to stand on the alert and wait for the advance 
 of the Neapolitans. Every thing was ready, and the 
 Neapolitans had sent on their own instructions and inten- 
 tions, all calculated for the tenth and eleventh, on which 
 days a general rising was to take place, under the suppo- 
 sition that the Barbarians could not advance before 
 the 15th. 
 
 " As it is, they have but fifty or sixty thousand troops, a 
 a number with which they might as well attempt to con- 
 quer the world as secure Italy in its present state. The 
 artniery marches last, and alone, and there is an idea of 
 an attempt to cut part of them off. AH this will much 
 depend upon the first steps of the Neapolitans. Here, the 
 public spirit is excellent, provided it be kept up. This will 
 be seen by the event. 
 
 " It is probable that Italy vsill be delivered from the Bar- 
 barians if the Neapolitans will but stand firm, and are 
 united among themselves. Here they appear so. 
 
 "February 10, 1821. 
 
 " Day passed as usual — nothing new. Barbarians still 
 in march — not well equipped, and, of course, not well 
 received on their route. There is some talk of a commo- 
 tion at Paris. 
 
 " Rode out between four and six — finished my letter to 
 Murray on Bowles's pamphlets — added postscript. Passed 
 the evening as usual — out till eleven — and subsequently 
 at home. 
 
 "February 11,1821. 
 " Wrote — had a copy taken of an extract from Petrarch's 
 Letters, with reference to the conspiracy of the Doge, M. 
 Faliero, containing the poet's opinion of the matter. Heard 
 a heavy firing of cannon towards Comacchio— the Barba- 
 rians rejoicing for tlieir principal pig's birthday, which is 
 to-morrow— or Saint day — I forget which. Received a 
 ticket for the first ball to-morrow. Shall not go to the 
 first, but intend going to the second, as also to the Veglioni. 
 
 "February 13, 1821. 
 
 " To-day read a little in Louis B 's HoUande, but have 
 written nothing since the completion of the letter on the 
 Pope controversy. Pohtics are quite misty for the pre- 
 sent. The Barbarians still upon their march. It is not 
 easy to divine what the Italians will now do. 
 
 "Was elected yesterday ' Socio' of the Carnival ball 
 society. This is the fifth carnival that I have passed. 
 In the four former, I racketed a good deal. In the pre- 
 sent, I have been as sober as Lady Grace herself. 
 
 "February 14, 1821. 
 
 " Much as usual. Wrote, before riding out, part of a 
 scene of ' Sardanapalus.' The first act nearly finished. 
 The rest of the day and evening as before — partly without, 
 in conversazione — partly at home. 
 
 " Heard the particulars of the late fray atRussi, a town 
 not far from this. It is exactly the fact of Romeo and 
 Giulietta — not Romeo, as the Barbarian writes it. Two 
 families of Contadini (peasants) are at feud. At a ball, 
 the younger part of the families forget their quarrels, and 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 
 
 257 
 
 dance together. An old man of one of them enters, and 
 reproves the young men for dancing with the females of 
 the opposite family. The male relatives of the latter 
 resent this. Both parties rush home, and arm themselves. 
 They meet directly, by moonlight, in the public way, and 
 fight it out. Three are killed on the spot, and sixwoimded, 
 most of them dangerously, — pretty well for two families, 
 methinks — and al\ fact, of the last week. Another assas- 
 sination has taken place at Cesenna, — in all ahout forty 
 in Romagna within these last three months. These people 
 retain much of the middle ages. 
 
 "Febmary 15, 1821. 
 "Last night finished the first act of Sardanapalus. To- 
 night, or to-morrow, I ought to answer letters. 
 
 "February 16, 1821. 
 
 "Last night D Conte P. G. sent a man with a bag full 
 of bayonets, some muskets, and some hundreds of car- 
 tridges to my house, without apprizing me, though I had 
 seen him not half an hour before. About ten days ago, 
 when there was to be a rising here, the Liberals and my 
 brethren C'. asked me to purchase some arms for a cer- 
 tain few of our ragamuffins. I did so immediately, and 
 ordered ammunition, &c. and they were armed accord- 
 ingly. Well — the rising is prevented by the Barbarians 
 marching a sveek sooner than appointed ; and an order is 
 issued, and in force, by the Government, ' that all persons 
 having amis concealed, &c. &c. shall be hable to,' &c. 
 &c. — and what do my friends, the patriots, do two days 
 afterward ? Why, they throw back upon my hands, and 
 into my house, these very arms (without a word of warn- 
 ing previously) with wliich I had furnished them at their 
 own request, and at my own peril and expense. 
 
 " It was lucky that Lega was at home to receive them. 
 If any of the servants had (except Tita and F. and Lega) 
 they would have betrayed it immediately. In the mean 
 time, if they are denounced, or discovered, I shall be in a 
 scrape. 
 
 "At nine went out — at eleven returned. Beat the 
 crow for stealing the falcons victuals. Read 'Tales of 
 my Landlord' — wrote a letter — and mixed a moderate 
 beaker of water with other ingredients. 
 
 "February 18, 1821. 
 
 "The news are that the Neapohtans have broken a 
 bridge, and slam four pontifical carabiniers, whilk cara- 
 biniers, wished to oppose. Besides the disrespect to 
 neutrality, it is a pity that the first blood shed in this Ger- 
 man quarrel should be Italian. However, the war seems 
 begun in good earnest ; for, if the Neapohtans kill the 
 Pope's carabiniers, they will not be more delicate towards 
 the Barbarians. If it be even so, in a short time, 'there 
 will be news o' thae craws,' as Mrs. Alison Wilson says 
 of Jenny Blane's 'unco cockernony' in the Tales of my 
 Landlord. 
 
 " In turning over Grimm's Correspondence to-day, I 
 found a thought of Tom Moore's m a song of Maupertuis 
 to a female Laplander. 
 
 ' Et tous les lieux, 
 Oil sont sesyeux, 
 Font la Zone brulante.' 
 
 This is Moore's — 
 
 ' And those eyes make my climate, wherever I roam.' 
 
 But I am sure that Moore never saw it ; for this song 
 was published in Grimm's Correspondence in 1813, and 
 I knew Moore's by heart in 1812. There is also another 
 but an antithetical coincidence. 
 
 ' Le soleil luit, 
 Des joui-s sans nuit 
 Bient6[ il nous destine ; 
 Mais ces longs jours 
 Seront trop courts, 
 Passes pres des Christine.' 
 
 This is the tJujicsht^ reversed, of the last stanza of the 
 
 33 
 
 ballad on Charlotte Lynes, given in Miss Seward's Me- 
 moirs of Darwin, which is pretty — I quote from memoiy 
 of these last fifteen years. 
 
 ' For my first night 1 'II go 
 
 To those regions of snow, 
 Where the sun for six monllis never shinea ; 
 
 And think, even Ihen, 
 
 He too soon came again, 
 To disturb me wiih fair Charlotte Lynes.' 
 
 " To-day I have had no communication with my Car- 
 bonari cronies ; but, in the mean time, my lower apart- 
 ments are full of their bayonets, fusils, cartridges, and 
 what not. I suppose that they consider me as a depot, 
 to be sacrificed, in case of accidents. It is no great matter, 
 supposing that Italy could be liberated, who or what is 
 sacrificed. It is a grand object — the very poetry of poli- 
 tics. Only think — a free Italy!!! AVhy, there has been 
 nothing like it since the days of Augustus. I reckon the 
 times of Caesar (Julius) free ; because the commotions 
 left every body a side to take, and the parties were pretty 
 equal at the set out. But, afterward, it was all Pretorian 
 and legionary business — we shall see, or at least, some 
 will see, what card will turn up. It is best to hope, even 
 of the hopeless. The Dutch did more than these fellows 
 have to do, in the Seventy Years' War. 
 
 "February 19, 1821. 
 
 "Came home solus — very high wind — ^lightning — 
 moonshine — solitary stragglers muffled in cloaks — women 
 in mask — white houses — clouds hurrying over the sky, like 
 spilt milk blown out of the pail — altogether veiy poetical. 
 It is still blowing hard — the tiles flying, and the house 
 rocking — rain splashing — lightning flashing— quite a fine 
 Swiss Alpine evening, and tlie sea roaring in the distance. 
 
 "Visited — conversazione. All the women frightened 
 by the squall : they woji't go to the masquerade because it 
 lightens — the pious reason ! 
 
 " Still blo^ving away. A. has sent me some news to- 
 day. The war approaches nearer and nearer. Oh those 
 scoundrel sovereigns ! Let us but see them beaten — ^let 
 the Neapolitans but have the pluck of the Dutch of old, or 
 of the Spaniards of now, or of the German Protestants, the 
 Scotch Presbyterians, the Swiss under Tell, or the Greeks 
 under Themistocles — ali small and soUtary nations, 
 (except the Spaniards and German Lutherans,) and there 
 is yet a resurrection for Italy, and a hope for the world. 
 
 "February 20, 1821. 
 " The news of the day are, that the Neapolitans are full 
 of energy. The pubhc spirit here is certainly well kept 
 up. The ' Americani' (a patriotic society here, an under- 
 branch of the 'Carbonari') give a dinner, in the Forest in 
 a few days, and have invited me, as one of the C'. It 
 is to be in the Forest of Boccacio's and Dryden's 'Hunts- 
 man's Ghost ;' and, even if I had not the same political 
 feelings, (to say nothing of my old convivial turn, which 
 every now and then revives,) I would go as a poet, or, at 
 least, as a lover of poetry. I shall expect to see the spectre 
 of'Ostasio* degh Onesti' (Dryden has turned him into 
 Guido Cavalcanti — an essentially different person, as may 
 be found in Dante) come ' thundering for his prey'f in the 
 midst of tlie festival. At any rate, whether he does or no, 
 I will get as tipsy and patriotic as possible. 
 
 "Within these few days I have read, but not written. 
 
 "February 21, 1821. 
 "As usual, rode — ^visited, &c. Business begins to 
 thicken. The Pope has printed a declaration against the 
 patriots, who, he says, meditate a rising. The conse- 
 quence of all this will be, that, in a fortnight, the whole 
 country will be up. The proclamation is not yet pubhshed, 
 but printed, ready for distribution. * + sent me a copy 
 privately — a sign that he does not know what to think. 
 
 ♦ InBoccacio, the name is, I think, Nestagio. 
 t See Don Juan, Canto 3d, 105 and 106. 
 
258 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 1821. 
 
 When he wants to be well with the patriots, he sends to 
 me some civil message or otlier. 
 
 "For my own part, it seems to me, that nothing but the 
 most decided success of the Barbarians can prevent a 
 general and immediate rise of ihe whole nation. 
 
 "February 23, 1821. 
 
 "Almost ditto with yesterday — rode, &c. — visited — 
 wrote nothing — read Roman History. 
 
 "Had a curious letter from a fellow, who informs me 
 that the Barbarians are ill-disposed towards me. He is 
 probably a spy, or an impostor. But be it so, even as he 
 says. They cannot bestow their hostility on one who 
 loathes and execrates them more than I do, or who will 
 oppose their views with more zeal, when the opportunity 
 offers. 
 
 "February 24, 1821. 
 
 "Rode, &c. as usual. The secret intelligence arrived 
 this morning from the frontier to the C». is as bad as pos- 
 sible. The plan has missed — the chiefs are betrayed, 
 military as well as civil — and the Neapolitans not only 
 have not moved, but have declared to the P. government, 
 and to the Barbarians, that ihey Imow notliing of the 
 matter ! ! ! 
 
 " Thus the world goes ; and thus the Italians are aUvays 
 lost for lack of union among themselves. What is to be 
 done fwe, between the two fires, and cut off from the N^. 
 frontier, is not decided. My opinion was, better to rise 
 than be taken in detail ; but how it will be settled now, I 
 cannot tell. Messengers are despatched to the delegates 
 of the other cities to learn their resolutions. 
 
 "I always had an idea that it would be bungled ; but was 
 willing to hope, and am so still. Whatever I can do by 
 money, means, or person, I will venture freely for their 
 freedom ; and have so repeated to them (some of the 
 Chiefs here) half an hour ago. I have two thousand five 
 hundred scudi, better than five hundred pounds, in the 
 house, which I offered to begin with. 
 
 "February 25, 1821. 
 " Came home — my head aches — plenty of news, but too 
 tiresome to set down. I have neither read, nor wTitten, 
 nor thought, but led a purely animal life all day. I mean 
 to try to write a page or two before I go to bed. But, as 
 Squire Sullen says, 'My head aches consumedly: Scrub, 
 bring me a dram!' Drank some Imola wine, and some 
 punch. 
 
 Log-book contintied.* 
 
 "February 27, 1821. 
 
 "1 have been a day without continuisg the log, because 
 I coivld not find a blank book. At length I recollected this. 
 
 " Rode, &c. — dined — wrote down an additional stanza 
 for the 5th canto of D. J. which I had composed in bed 
 this morning. Visited t Arnica. We are invited on the 
 night of the Veglione, (next Domenica) with the Mar- 
 chesa Clelia Cavalli and the Countess Spinelli Rusponi. 
 I promised to go. Last night there was a row at the ball, 
 
 of which I am a ' socio.' The vice-legate had the impu- 
 dent insolence to introduce three of liis servants in mask — 
 without tickets, too ! and in spite of remonstrances. The 
 consequence was, that the yoimg men of the ball took it 
 up, and were near tlirowing the vice-legate out of the win- 
 dow. His servants, seeing the scene, withdrew, and he 
 after them. His reverence Monsignore ought to know, 
 that these are not times for the predominance of priests 
 over decorum. Two minutes more, two steps farther, and 
 the whole city would have been m arms, and the govern- 
 ment driven out of it. 
 
 " Such is the spu-it of the day, and these fellows appear 
 not to perceive it. As far as the simple fact went, tha 
 young men were right, senants being prohibited always 
 at these festivals. 
 
 "Yesterday wrote two notes on the 'Bowles and Pope' 
 controversy, and sent them off to Murray by the post. The 
 old woman whom I relieved in the forest (she is ninety- 
 four years of age*) brought me two bunches of violets. 
 ' Nam vita gaudet mortua floribus.' I was much pleased 
 with the present. An Englishwoman would have pre- 
 sented a pair of worsted stockings, at least, in the month 
 of February, Both excellent things; but the former are 
 more elegant. The present, at this season, reminds one 
 of Gray's stanza, omitted from his elegy. 
 
 * Here scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, 
 
 By hands unseen, are showers of violets found ; 
 The redbreast loves to build and warble here, 
 And little footsteps lightly print the ground.' 
 
 As fine a stanza as any in his elegy. I wonder that he 
 could have tlie heart to omit it. 
 
 "Last night I suffered horribly — from an indigestion, I 
 believe. I never sup — that is, never at home. But, last 
 night, I was prevailed upon by the Countess Gamba's 
 persuasion, and tlie strenuous example of her brother, to 
 swallow, at supper, a quantity of boiled cockles, and to 
 dilute them, no^ reluctantly, with some Imola wine. When 
 I came home, apprehensive of the consequences, I swal- 
 lowed three or four glasses of spirits, which men (the 
 venders) call brand)^, rum, or Hollands, but which gods 
 WO' lid entitle spirits of wine, coloured or sugared. AH was 
 pretty well till I got to bed, when I became somewhat 
 swollen, and considerably vertiginous. I got out, and 
 nuxing some soda-powders, drank them off. This brought 
 on temporary relief. I returned to bed ; but grew sick 
 and sorry once and again. Took more soda-water. At 
 last I fell into a dreary sleep. Woke, and was ill all day, 
 till I had galloped a few miles. Q,uery — was it the 
 cockles, or what I took to correct them, that caused the 
 commotion? I think both. I remarked in my illness the 
 complete inertion, inaction, and destruction of my chief 
 mental faculties. I tried to rouse them, and yet could not — 
 and this is the Soul!! ! I should believe that it was mar- 
 ried to the body, if they did not sympathize so much with 
 each other. If the one rose, when the other fell, it would 
 be a sign that they longed for the natural state of divorce. 
 But, as it is, they seem to draw together like posthorses. 
 
 " Let us hope the best — ^it is the grand possession." 
 
 ' In another paper-book. 
 
 ' See Journal, Jan. 26 
 
DETACHED THOUGHTS. 
 
 (EXTRACTED FROM VARIOUS JOURNALS, MEMORANDUMS, &c. &c.) 
 
 Un the first leaf of liis " Scriptores Grseci" is in his 
 schoolboy hand, the following memorial : — " George Gor- 
 don Byron, Wednesday, June 26th, a. d. 1805, 3 quarters 
 of an hour past 3 o'clock in the afternoon, 3d school, — 
 Calvert, monitor, Tom Wildman on my left hand, and 
 Long on my right. Harrow on the Hill." On the same 
 leaf, written five years after, appears this comment : 
 
 " Eheu fugaces, Poslhume I Posthume I 
 Labuiituramii. 
 
 * B. January 9th, 1809. — Of the four persons whose 
 names are here mentioned, one is dead, another in a dis- 
 tant chmate, all separated, and not five years have elapsed 
 smce they sat together in school, emd none are yet twenty- 
 one years of age." 
 
 In some of his other school books are recorded the date 
 of his entrance at Harrow, the names of the boys v/ho 
 were at that time monitors, and the hst of his feUow-pupils 
 under Doctor Drury, as follows: 
 
 "Byron, Harrow on the Hill, Middlesex, Alumnus 
 Scholae Lyonensis primus in anno Domini 1801, Elhson 
 Duce." 
 
 "Monitors, 1801. — Ellison, Royston, Hunxman, Rash- 
 leigh, Rokeby, Leigh." 
 
 " Drury 's Pupils, 1804. — Byron, Drury, Sinclair, Hoare, 
 Bolder, Annesley, Calverl, Strong, Acland, Gordon, 
 Drummond." 
 
 ****** 
 
 "For several years of my earhest ohildliood, I was in 
 Aberdeen, but have never revisited it since I was ten 
 years old. I was sent, at five years old or earher, to a 
 school kept by a Mr. Bowers, who was called ' Bodsy 
 Bowers,' by reason of his dapperness. It was a school 
 for both sexes. I learned little there except to repeat by 
 rote the first lesson of Monosyllables (' God made man' 
 — ' Let us love him') by hearing it often repeated, without 
 acquiring a letter. Whenever proof was made of my 
 progress at home, I repeated these words with the most 
 rapid fluency ; but on turning over a new leaf, I continued 
 to repeat them, so that the narrow boundaries of my first 
 year's accomplishments were detected, my ears boxed, 
 (which they did not deserve, seeing it was by ear only 
 that I had acquired my letters,) and my intellects con- 
 signed to a new preceptor. He was a very devout, clever 
 little clergyman, named Ross, afterward minister of one 
 of the kirks, {East, I thinlc.) Under him I made asto- 
 nishing progress, and I recollect to this day his mild man- 
 ners and good-natured pains-taldng. The moment I 
 could read, my grand passion was history, and, why I 
 know not, but I was particularly taken with the battle 
 near the Lake ReglUus in the Roman History, put into 
 my hands the first. Four years ago, when standing on 
 the heights of Tusculiim, and looking down upon the httl-e 
 round lake that was once Regillus, and which dots the 
 immense expanse below, I remembered my young enthu- 
 siasm and my old instructer. Afterward I had a very 
 serious, saturnine, but kind young man, named Paterson, 
 for a tutor. He was the son of my shoemalcer, but a 
 good scholar, as is common with the Scotch. He was a 
 rigid Presbyterian also. With him I began Latin in 
 Ruddimaa's granamar, and continued till I went to the 
 
 'Grammar School' {Scoticl, 'Schule;' Aherdmid, 
 ' Squeel,') where I threaded all the classes to the fourth, 
 when I was recalled to England (where I had been 
 hatched) by the demise of my imcle. I acquired this 
 handwriting, which I can hardly read myselfj under the 
 fair copies of Mr. Duncan of the same city: I don't 
 think he would plume himself much upon my progress. 
 However, I wrote much better then than I have ever 
 done since. Haste and agitation of one kind or anotlier 
 have quite spoiled as pretty a scrawl as ever scratched 
 over a frank. The grammar school might consist of a 
 hundred and fifty of all ages under age. It was divided 
 into five classes taught by four masters, the chief teaching 
 the fourth and fifth himself. As in England, the fifth, 
 sixth forms, and monitors, are heard by the head masters." 
 ****** 
 
 "I doubt sometimes whether, after all, a quiet and 
 unagitated hfe would have suited me ; yet I sometimes 
 long for it. My earliest dreams (as most boys' dreams 
 are) were martial ; but a httle later they were all for love 
 and retirement, till the hopeless attachment to M * * + 
 C + * * began and continued (though sedulously con- 
 cealed) very early in my teens ; and so upwards for a 
 time. This tlirew me out again 'alone on a wide, \vide 
 sea.' In the year 1804, 1 recollect meeting my sister at 
 General Harcourt's in Portland-place. I was then one 
 thing, and as she had always till then found me. When 
 we met again in 1805, (she told me since) my temper and 
 disposition were so completely altered that I was hardly 
 to be recognised. I was not then sensible of the change ; 
 but I can beheve it, and account for it." 
 
 ****** 
 
 " In all other respects," (he says, after mentioning his 
 infant passion for Mary Duff,) " I differed not at all from 
 other children, being neither tall nor short, dull nor witty, 
 of my age, but rather hvely — except in my sullen moods, 
 and then I was always a devil. They once (in one of 
 my silent rages) wrenched a knife from me, which I had 
 snatched from table at Mrs. B.'s dinner, (I always dined 
 earher,) and applied to my breast ; — but this was three or 
 four years after, just before the late Lord B.'s decease. 
 
 " My ostensible temper has certainly improved in later 
 years ; but I shudder, and must, to my latest hour, regret 
 the consequence of it and my passions combined. One 
 event — but no matter — there are others not much better 
 to think of also — and to them I give the preference 
 
 " But I hate dwelling upon incidents. My temper is 
 now under management — rarely loud, and, when loud, 
 never deadly. It is when silent, and I feel my forehead 
 and my cheek paling, that I cannot control it ; and then 
 
 but unless there is a woman (and not any or every 
 
 woman) in the way, I have sunk into tolerable apathy." 
 ****** 
 
 "My passions were developed very early — so early 
 that few would beheve me if I were to state the period 
 and the facts which accompanied it. Perhaps this was 
 one of the reasons which caused the anticipated melan- 
 choly of my thoughts, — having anticipated hfe. My 
 earher poems are the thoughts of one at least ten years 
 older than the age at which they were written, — I do n't 
 
260 
 
 DETACHED THOUGHTS. 
 
 mean for their solidity, but their experience. The first 
 two Cantos of Childe Harold were completed at twenty- 
 two ; and they are written as if by a man older than I 
 shall probably ever be." 
 
 ****** 
 
 "My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. It 
 was the ebullition of a passion for my first cousin, Mar- 
 garet Parker, (daughter and granddaughter of the two 
 Admirals Parker,) one of the most beautiful of evanes- 
 cent beings. I have long forgotten the verses, but it 
 would be difficult for me to forget her — her dark eyes — 
 her long eyelashes — her completely Greek cast of face 
 and figure ! I was then about twelve — she rather older, 
 perhaps a year. She died about a year or two afterward, 
 in consequence of a fall, which injured her spine, and 
 induced consumption. Her sister Augusta (by some 
 thought still more beautiful) died of the same malady ; 
 and it was, indeed, in attending her, that Margaret met 
 with the accident which occasioned her own death. My 
 sister told me, that when she went to see her, shortly 
 before her death, upon accidentally mentioning my name, 
 Margaret coloured through the paleness of mortality to 
 the eyes, to the great astonishment of my sister, Avho 
 (residing with her gi-andmother, Lady Holderness, and 
 seeing but Utile of me, for family reasons) knew nothing 
 of our attachment, nor could conceive why my name 
 should affect her at such a time. I knew nothing of her 
 illness, being at Harrow and in the coimtry, till she was 
 gone. Some years after, I made an attempt at an elegy 
 — a very dull one.* 
 
 "I do not recollect scarcely any thing equal to the 
 transparent beauty of my cousin, or to the sweetness of 
 her temper, during the short period of our intimacy. She 
 looked as if she had been made out of a rainbow — all 
 beauty and peace. 
 
 "My passion had its usual effects upon me — I could 
 not sleep — I could not eat — I could not rest ; and although 
 I had reason to know that she loved me, it was the texture 
 of my life to think of the time which must elapse before 
 we could meet again — being usually about twelve hours 
 of separation ! But I was a fool then, and am not much 
 wiser now." 
 
 ****** 
 "When I was fifteen years of age, it happened that, in 
 a cavern in Derbyshire, I had to cross m a boat, (in which 
 two people only could lie do\\'n,) a stream which flows 
 imder a rock, with the rock so close upon the water as to 
 admit the boat only to be pushed on by a ferryman (a 
 sort of Charon) who wades at the stern, stooping all the 
 time. The companion of my transit was Mary Anne 
 Chaworth, vdth whom I had been long in love and never 
 told it, though she had discovered it without. I recollect 
 my sensations, but carmot describe them, and it is as well. 
 We were a party, a Mr. W. two Miss W.'s, Mr. and 
 Mrs. CI— ke. Miss R. and my M. A. C. Alas! why 
 do I say my? Our union would have healed feuds in 
 which blood had been shed by our fathers, it would have 
 joined lands broad and rich, it would have joined at least 
 one heart, and two persons not ill matched in years, (she 
 is two years my elder,) and — and— and— what has been 
 the result?" 
 
 and the whole went oflf with great effect upon our good- 
 natured audience." 
 
 " When I was a youth, I was reckoned a good actor. 
 Besides ' Harrow Speeches', (in which I shone,) I enacted 
 Penruddock, in the ' Wheel of Fortune,' and Tristram 
 Fickle in Allingham's farce of the ' Weathercock,' for 
 three nights, (the duration of our compact,) in some 
 private theatricals at Southwell, in 1806, with great 
 applause. The occasional prologue for our volunteer 
 play was also of my composition. The other performers 
 were young ladies and gentlemen of the neighbourhood. 
 
 See preceding Memoraiida, on page 229. 
 
 ****** 
 " When I first went up to college, it was a new and a 
 heavy-hearted scene for me : firstly, I so much disliked 
 leaving Harrow, that though it was time, (I being seven- 
 teen,) it broke my very rest for the last quarter with 
 counting the days that remained. I always hated Harrow 
 till the last year and a half, but then I liked it. Secondly, 
 I wished to go to Oxford and not to Cambridge. Thirdly, 
 I was so completely alone in this new world, that it half 
 broke my spirits. My companions were not unsocial, 
 but the contrary — lively, hospitable, of rank and fortune, 
 and gay far beyond my gayety. I mingled with, and 
 dined and supped, &c. with them ; but, I know not how, 
 it was one of the deadliest and heaviest feelings of my 
 Ufe to feel that 1 was no longer a boy." 
 
 "From that moment" (he adds) "I began to grow old 
 in my own esteem, and in my esteem age is not estima- 
 ble. I took my gradations in the vices with great promp- 
 titude, but they were not to my taste ; for my early pas- 
 sions, though violent in the extreme, were concentrated, 
 and hated division or spreading abroad. I could have 
 left or lost the whole world with, or for, that which I 
 loved ; but, though my temperament was naturally burn- 
 ing, I could not share in the commonplace libertinism of 
 the place and time without disgust. And yet this very 
 disgust, and my heart thrown back upon itself, threw me 
 into excesses perhaps more fatal than those from which I 
 shrunk, as fixing upon one (at a time) the passions which 
 spread among many would have hurt only myself." 
 ****** 
 " Till I was eighteen years old (odd as it may seem) I 
 had never read a Review. But while at Harrow, my 
 general information was so great on modern topics as to 
 induce a suspicion that I could only collect so much infor- 
 mation from Reviews, because I was never seen reading, 
 but always idle, and in mischief, or at play. The truth is, 
 that I read eating, read in bed, read when no one else 
 read, and had read all sorts of reading since I was five 
 years old, and yet never met with a ReA-iew, which is the 
 only reason I know of why I should not have read them. 
 But it is true ; for I remember when Hunter and Curzon, 
 in 1804, told me this opinion at Harrow, I m_ade them 
 laugh by my ludicrous astonishment in asking thera, 
 ' What is a Review ?' To be sure, they were then less 
 common. In three years more, I Avas better acquainted 
 with that same ; but tlie first I ever read was in 1806-7. 
 
 " At School I was (as I have said) remarked for the 
 extent and readiness of my general information ; but in all 
 other respects idle, capable of great sudden exertions, 
 (such as thirty or forty Greek hexameters, of course with 
 such prosody as it pleased God,) but of few continuous 
 drudgeries. My qualities were much more oratorical and 
 martial than poetical, and Dr. Drury, my grand patron, 
 (our head master,) had a great notion that I should turn 
 out an orator, from my fluency, my turbulence, my voice, 
 my copiousness of declamation, and my action. I remem- 
 ber that my first declamation astonished him into some 
 unwonted (for he was economical of such) and sudden 
 compliments, before the declaimers at our first rehearsal. 
 My first Harrow verses, (that is, English, as exercises,) 
 a translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of ^Eschy- 
 lus, were received by him but coolly. No one had the 
 least notion that I should subside into poesy. 
 
 "Peel, the orator and statesman, (' that was, or is, or is 
 to be,') was my form-fellow, and we were both at tlie top 
 of our remove, (a public-school phrase.) We were on 
 good terms, but his brother was my intimate friend. There 
 were always great hopes of Peel, among us all, masters 
 and scholars — and he has not disappointed them. As a 
 scholar he was greatly my superior; as a declaimer and 
 actor, I was reckoned at least his equal ; as a schoolboy 
 out of school, I was always in scrapes, and he never ; and 
 
DETACHED THOUGHTS. 
 
 261 
 
 in school, he always knew his lessc and I rarely, — but 
 when I knew it, I knew it nearly as well. In general 
 information, history, &c. &c. I think I was his superior, as 
 well as of most boys of my standing. 
 
 " The prodigy of our school-days was George Sinclair, 
 (son of Sir John :) he made exercises for half the school, 
 {literally,) verses at will, and themes without it. * * * 
 He was a friend of mine, and in the same remove, and 
 used at times to beg me to let him do my exercise, — a 
 request always most readily accorded upon a pinch, or 
 when I wanted to do something else, which was usually 
 once an hour. On the other hand, he was pacific and I 
 savage ; so I fought for him, or thrashed others for him. 
 or thrashed himself to malve him thrash others, when it 
 was necessary, as a point of honour and stature, that he 
 should so chastise ; or we talked politics, for he was a 
 great politician, and were very good friends. I have 
 some of his letters, written to me from school, still.* 
 
 "Clayton was another school-monster of learning, and 
 talent, and hope ; but what has become of him I do not 
 know. He was certainly a genius. 
 
 " My school friendships were with me passions, (for I 
 was always violent,) but I do not know that there is one 
 which has endured (to be sure some have been cut short 
 by death) till now. That with Lord Clare began one of 
 the earliest and lasted longest — being only interrupted by 
 distance — that I know of I never hear the word ' Clare^ 
 without a beating of the heart even now, and I write it 
 with the feelings of 1803-4-5 ad infinitum." 
 
 "At Harrow I fought m}'^ way very fairly. I think I 
 
 lost but one battle out of seven ; and that w^as to H ; 
 
 — and the rascal did not win it, but by the unfair treat- 
 ment of his own boarding-house, where we boxed — I had 
 not even a second. I never forgave him, and I should be 
 sorry to meet him now, as I am sure we siiould quarrel. 
 My most memorable combats were with Morgan, Rice, 
 Rainsford, and Lord Jocelyn, — but we were always 
 friendly afterward. I was a most unpopular boy, but led 
 latterly, and have retained many of my school friendships, 
 and all my dislikes — except to Doctor Butler, whom I 
 treated rebelliously, and have been sorry ever since. 
 Doctor Drury, whom I plagued sufficiently too, was the 
 best, the kindest (and yet strict, too) friend I ever had — 
 and I look upon him still as a father. 
 
 "P. Hunter, Curzon, Long, and Tatersall, were my 
 principal friends. Clare, Dorset, C*. Gordon, De Bath, 
 Claridge, and J°''. Wingfield, were my juniors and favour- 
 ites, whom I spoiled by indulgence. Of all human 
 beings, I was, perhaps, at one time, the most attached to 
 poor Wingfield, who died at Coimbra, 1811, before I 
 returned to England." 
 
 ***** 
 
 "I have been thinking over, the other day, on the vari- 
 ous comparisons, good or evil, which I have seen published 
 of myself in different journals, English and foreign. This 
 was suggested to mc by accidentally turning over a 
 foreign one lately, — for I have made it a rule latterly never 
 to search for any thing of the kind, but not to avoid the 
 perusal if presented by chance. 
 
 " To begin, then : I have seen myself compared per- 
 sonally or poetically, in English, French, German, {as 
 interpreted to me,) Italian, and Portuguese, within these 
 nine years, to Rousseau, Goethe, Young, Aretine, Timon 
 of Athens, Dante, Petrarch, ' an alabaster vase, lighted up 
 within.' Satan, Shakspeare, Buonaparte, Tiberius, ^schy- 
 lus, Sophocles, Euripides, Harlequin, the Clown, Stern- 
 hold and Hopkins, to the phantasmagoria, to Henry the 
 Eighth, to Chenier, to Mirabeau, to young R. Dallas, 
 (the schoolboy,) to Michael Angelo, to Raphael, to a 
 petit-maitre, to Diogenes, to Childe Harold, to Lara, to 
 the Count in Beppo, to Milton, to Pope, to Dryden, to 
 Burns, to Savage, to Chatterton, to ' oft have I heard of 
 
 thee, my Lord Biron,' in Shakspeare, to Churchill the 
 poet, to Kean the actor, to Alfieri, &c. &c. &c. 
 
 '•' The hkeness to Alfieri was asserted very seriously by 
 an Italian who had known him in his younger days. It 
 of course related merely to our apparent personal dispo- 
 sitions. He did not assert it to me, (for we were not then 
 good friends,) but in society. 
 
 " The object of so many contradictory comparisons 
 must probably be hke someliing different from them all ; 
 but what tJiat is, is more than / know, or anybody else." 
 ***** 
 
 "My mother, before I was twenty, would have it that I 
 was like Rousseau, and INIadame de Stael used to say so 
 too in 1813, and the Edinburgh Review has something of 
 the sort in its critique on the fourth Canto of Childe 
 Harold. I can't see any point of resemblance : — he 
 wrote prose ; I verse ; he was of the people ; 1 of the 
 aristocracy:* he was a philosopher; I am none: he 
 published his first work at forty ; I mine at eighteen : his 
 first essay brought him universal applause ; mine tlie 
 contrary : he married his housekeeper ; I could net keep 
 house with my wife : he thought all the world in a plot 
 against him : my little world seems to think me in a plot 
 against it, if I may judge by their abuse in print and 
 coterie : he liked botany ; I like flowers, herbs, and trees, 
 but know nothing of their pedigrees : he wrote music ; I 
 limit my knowledge of it to what I catch by ear — I never 
 could learn any thing by studt/, not even a language — it 
 was all by rote, and ear, and memory : he had a bad 
 memory ; I had, at least, an excellent one, (ask Hodgson, 
 the poet — a good judge, for he has an astonishing one :) 
 he wrote with hesitation and care ; I with rapidity, and 
 rarely with pains : he could never ride, nor swim, nor 
 ' was cunning of fence ;' / am an excellent swimmer, a 
 decent, though not at all a dashing, rider, (having staved 
 in a rib at eighteen in the course of scampering,) and 
 was sufficient of fence, particularly of the Highland 
 broadsword, — not a bad boxer, when I could keep my 
 temper, which was difficult, but which I strove to do ever 
 since I knocked down Mr. Purling, and put his kneepan 
 out (with the gloves on,) in Angelo's and Jackson's 
 rooms, in 1806, during the sparring, — and I was besides a 
 very fair cricketer — one of the Harrow eleven, when we 
 played against Eton in 1805. Besides, Rousseau's way 
 of life, his country, his manners, his whole character, 
 were so very different, that I am at' a loss to conceive how 
 such a comparison could have arisen, as it has done three 
 several times, and all in rather a remarkable manner. I 
 forgot to say that he was also shortsighted, and that 
 hitherto my eyes have been the contrary, to such a 
 degree, that in die largest theatre of Bologna I distin- 
 guished and read some busts and inscriptions painted near 
 the stage from a box so distant and so darkly lighted, that 
 none of the company (composed of young and very 
 bright-eyed people, some of them in the same box) could 
 make out a letter, and thought it was a trick, though I had 
 never been in that theatre before. 
 
 " Altogether, I think myself justified in thinking the 
 comparison not well founded. I do n't say this out of 
 pique, for Rousseau was a great man, and the thing, if 
 true, were flattering enough ; — but I have no idea of 
 being pleased with a chimera." + * * * 
 
 ***** 
 
 " I have been thinking of an odd circumstance. My 
 daughter, (1) my wife, (2) my half-sister, (3) my mother, 
 (4) my sister's mother, (5) my natural daughter, (6) and 
 myself, (7) are, or were, all only children. My sister's 
 mother (Lady Conyers) had only my half-sister by that 
 second marriage, (herself, too, an only child,) and my 
 father had onlyme, an only child, by his second marriage 
 with my mother, an only child too. Such a complication 
 of only children, all tending to one family, is singular 
 
 ♦ See ChiKle Harold, Canto I. Kote 19. 
 
262 
 
 DETACHED THOUGHTS. 
 
 enough, and looks like fatality almost. But the fiercest 
 animals have the fewest numbers in their litters, as lions, 
 tigers, and even elephants, which are mild in compari- 
 son.''* 
 
 * ♦ * ♦ * 
 
 « I have a notion (he says) that gamblers are as happy 
 as many people, being always excited. Women, wine, 
 fame, the table, — even ambition, sate now and then; but 
 every tui-n of the card and cast of the dice keeps the 
 gamester alive ; besides, one can game ten times longer 
 than one can do any tiling else. I was very fond of it 
 when young, that is to say, of hazard, for I hate all card 
 games, — even faro. When macco (or whatever they 
 spell it) was introduced, I gave up the whole thing, for I 
 loved and missed the rattle and dash of the box and dice, 
 and the glorious uncertainty, not only of good luck or bad 
 luck, but of any luck at all, as one had sometimes to throw 
 ofle7i to decide at all. I have thrown as many as fourteen 
 mains running, and carried off aU the cash upon the table 
 occasionally ; but I had no coolness, or judgment, or cal- 
 culation, it was the delight of the thing that pleased me. 
 Upon the whole, 1 left off in time, without being much a 
 winner or loser. Since one-and-tvventy years of age I 
 Wave played but little, and then never above a hundred, or 
 two, or three." * + * + 
 
 "list of historical writers whose works I 
 
 HAVE PERUSED IN DIFFERENT LANGUAGES. 
 
 '^History of England. — Hume, Rapin, Henry, Smollet, 
 Tindal, Belsham, Bisset, Adolphus, Holingshed, Frois- 
 sart's Chronicles, (belonging properly to France.) 
 
 '^Scotland. — Buchanan, Hector Boethius, both in the 
 Latin. 
 
 '^Ireland. — Gordon. 
 
 " Rome. — Hooke, Decline and Fall by Gibbon, Ancient 
 History by Rollin, (including an account of the Cartliagi- 
 nians, &c.) besides Liv_v, Tacitus, Eutropius, Cornelius 
 Nef>os, Julius Caesar, Arrian, SaUust. 
 
 " Greece. — Mitford's Greece, Leland's Pliilip, Plutarch, 
 Potter's Antiquities, Xenophon, Thucydides, Herodotus. 
 
 " France. — Mezeray, Voltaire. 
 
 " Spain. — I cliiefly derived my Imowledge of old Spanish 
 History from a book called the Atlas, now obsolete. The 
 modern history, from the intrigues of Alberoni down to 
 the Pruice of Peace, I learned from its connexion with 
 European politics. 
 
 " Portugal. — From Vertot ; as also his account of the 
 Siege of Rftodes, — though the last is his own invention, 
 the real facts being totally different. — So much for his 
 Knights of Malta. 
 
 " Turkey. — I have read KnoUes, Sir Paul Rycaut, and 
 Prince Cantemir, besides a more modem history, ano- 
 nymous. Of the Ottoman History I know every event, 
 from Tangralopi, and afterward Oihman I. to the peace 
 of Passarowitz, in 1718, — the battle of Cutzka, in 1739, 
 and the treaty laetween Russia and Turkey, in 1790. 
 
 "Russia. — Tooke's Life of Catherine H. Voltaire's 
 Czar Peter. 
 
 "Sweden. — Voltaire's Charles XH. also Norberg's 
 Charles XIL — in my opinion the best of the two. — A 
 translation of Schiller's Thirty Years' War, which con- 
 tains the exploits of Gustavus Adolphus, besides Harte's 
 Life of the same Prince. I have somevvhere, too, read 
 an account of Gustavus Vasa, the deliverer of Sweden, 
 but do not remember the author's name. 
 
 " Prussia. — I have seen, at least, twenty Lives of Fre- 
 derick II. the only prince worth recording in Prussian 
 annals. GilUes, His own Works, and Tliiebault, — none 
 very amusing. The last is paltry, but circumstantial. 
 
 " Denmark I know litde of. Of Norway I understand 
 the natural history, but not the chronological. 
 
 " Germany. — I have read long histories of the house 
 
 • See Letter 535. 
 
 of Suabia, V/enceslaus, and, at length, Rodolph of Haps- 
 burgh and his tUck-lipped Austrian descendants. 
 
 " Switzerland.~Ah ! William Tell, and the battle of 
 Morgarten, where Burgundy was slain. 
 
 "Italy. — Davila, Guicciardmi, the Guelphs and Ghibel- 
 lines, the battle of Pavia, Massaniello, the revolutions of 
 Naples, &c. &c. 
 
 " Hindostan. — Orme and Cambridge. 
 
 "America. — Robertson, Andrews' American War. 
 
 "Africa. — Merely from travels, as Mungo Park, Bruce. 
 
 "BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 "Robertson's Charles V. — Caesar, Sallust, (Catiline 
 and Jugurtha,) Lives of Marlborough and Eugene, 
 Tekeli, Bonnard, Buonaparte, all the British Poets, both 
 by Johnson and Anderson, Rousseau's Confessions, Life 
 of Cromwell, British Plutarch, British Nepos, Campbell's 
 Lives of the Admirals, Charles XII. Czar Peter, Cathe- 
 rine II. Henry Lord Kaimes, Marmontel, Teignmouth's 
 Sir WilUam Jones, Life of Newton, Belisaire, with thou- 
 sands not to be detailed. 
 
 "law. 
 
 " Blaclcstone, Montesquieu. 
 
 "philosophy. 
 
 "Paley, Locke, Bacon, Hume, Berkeley, Druramond, 
 Beattie, and Bolingbroke. Hobbes I detest. 
 
 "geography. 
 "Strabo, Cellarius, Adams, Pinkerton, and Guthrie. 
 
 " All the British Classics, as before detailed, with most 
 of the Uving poets, Scott, Southey, &c. — Some French, 
 in the original, of which the Cid is my favourite. — Little 
 Italian. — Greek and Latin without number ; — these last I 
 shall give up in future. — I have translated a good deal 
 from both languages, verse as well as prose. 
 
 "eloq,uence. 
 "Demosthenes, Cicero, Q,uintilian, Sheridan, Austin's 
 Chironomia, and Parliamentary Debates, from the Re- 
 volution to the year 1742. 
 
 "Blair, Porteus, Tillotson, Hooker, — all very tiresome. 
 I abhor books of rehgion, though I reverence and love my 
 God, without the blasphemous notions of sectaries, or 
 belief in their absurd and damnable heresies, mysteries, 
 and Thii-ty-nine Articles. 
 
 "miscellanies. 
 
 "Spectator, Rambler, World, &c. &c. — Novels by the 
 thousand. 
 
 "All the books here enumerated I have taken down 
 from memory. I recollect reading them, and can quote 
 passages from any mentioned. I have, of course, omitted 
 several in my catalogue; but the greater part of the above 
 I perused before the age of fifteen. Since I left Harrow 
 I have become idle and conceited, from scribbling rhyme 
 and making love to women. " B. — Nov. 30, 1807. 
 
 " I have also read (to my regret at present) above four 
 thousands novels, including the works of Cervantes, Field- 
 ing, Smollet, Richardson, Mackenzie, Sterne, Rabelai:^ 
 and Rousseau, &c. &c. The book, in my opinion, most 
 useful to a man who wishes to acquire the reputation of 
 being well read, with the least trouble, is, 'Burton's Ana- 
 tomy of Melancholy,' the most amusing and instructive 
 medley of quotations and classical anecdotes I ever 
 perused. But a superficial reader must take care, or his 
 intricacies will bewilder him. Ifj however, he has patience 
 to go through his volumes, he will be more improved for 
 literary conversation than by the perusal of any twenty 
 
DETACHED THOUGHTS. 
 
 263 
 
 other works with which I am acquainted, — at least, in the 
 English language." 
 
 In the same book that contains the above record of his 
 studies, he has written out, also from memory, a "List 
 of the different poets, dramatic or otherwise, who have 
 distinguished their respective languages by their produc- 
 tions." After enumerating the various poets, both ancient 
 and modem, of Europe, he thus proceeds with his cata- 
 logue through other quarters of the world : — 
 
 "Arabia. — Mahomet, whose Koran contains most 
 sublime poetical passages, far surpassing European 
 poetry. 
 
 '^Persia. — Ferdousi, author of the Shah Nameh, the 
 Persian Iliad, — Sadi, and Hafiz, the immortal Hafiz, the 
 oriental Anacreon. The last is reverenced beyond any 
 bard of ancient or modem times by the Persians, who 
 resort to his tomb near Shiraz, to celebrate his memory. 
 A splendid copy of his works is chained to his monument. 
 
 '^America. — An epic poet has akeady appeared in that 
 hemisphere. Barlow, author of the Columbiad, — not to be 
 compared with the works of more polished nations. 
 
 '^ Iceland, Denmark, Norway, were famous for their 
 Skalds. Among these Lodburg was one of the most dis- 
 tinguished. His Death-Song breathes ferocious senti- 
 ments, but a glorious and impassioned strain of poetry. 
 
 '^Hindostan is undistinguished by any great bard, — at 
 least, the Sanscrit is so imperfectly known to Europeans, 
 we know not what poetical relics may exist. 
 
 * The Birman Empire. — Here the natives are passion- 
 ately fond of poetry, but their bards are unknown. 
 
 " China. — I never heard of any Chinese poet but the 
 Emperor Eaen Long, and his ode to Tea. What a pity 
 their philosopher Confucius did not write poetry, with his 
 precepts of morality ! 
 
 "Africa. — In Africa some of the native melodies are 
 plaintive, and the words simple and affecting ; but whether 
 their rude strains of nature can be classed with poetry, as 
 the songs of the bards, the Skalds of Europe, &c. &c. I 
 know not. 
 
 " This brief list of poets I have written dovra from 
 memory, vvdthout any book of reference; consequently 
 some errors may occur, but I think, if any, very trivial. 
 The works of the European, and some of the Asiatic, I 
 have perused, either in the original or translations. In my 
 list of English, I have merely mentioned the greatest ; — 
 to enumerate the minor poets would be useless, as well as 
 tedious. Perhaps Gray, Goldsmith, and Collins, might have 
 have added, as worthy of mention, in a cosmopolite account. 
 But as for the others, from Chaucer down to Churchill, 
 they are 'voces et praeterea nihil ;' — sometimes spoken of, 
 rarely read, and never with advantage. Chaucer, not- 
 withstanding the praises bestowed on him, I thinli obscene 
 and contemptible : — he owes his celebrity merely to his 
 antiquity, which he does not deserve so well as Pierce, 
 Plowman, or Thomas of Ercildoune. English living 
 poets I have avoided mentioning; — we have none who 
 will not survive their productions. Taste is over with 
 us; and another century will sweep our empire, our 
 Uterature, and our name, from all but a place in the 
 annals of mankind. " Byron." 
 
 "November 30, 1807. 
 
 ****** 
 "KnoUes, Cantemir, De Tott^ Lady M, W. Montague, 
 Hawkins's Translation from Mignot's History of the 
 Turks, the Arabian Nights, all travels, or histories, or 
 books upon the East I could meet with, I had read, as 
 well as Rycaut, before I was ten years old. I think the 
 Arabian Nights first. After these, I preferred the history 
 of naval actions, Don Q<uLxote, and SmoUet's novels, par- 
 ticularly Roderick Random, and I was passionate for the 
 Roman History. When a boy, I could never bear to 
 read any poetry whatever without disgust and reluct- 
 ance." 
 
 ****** 
 
 " When I belonged to the Drury-lane Committee, and 
 was one of the Sub-committee of Management, the num- 
 ber of plays upon the shelves were about Jive hundred. 
 Conceiving that among these there must be some of merit, 
 in person and by proxy I caused an investigation. I do 
 rot think rhat of those which I saw, there was one which 
 coull be conscientiously tolerated. There never were 
 such things as most of them ! Maturin was very kindly 
 recommended to me by Walter Scott, to whom I had 
 recourse, firstly, in the hope that he would do something 
 for us himself and secondly, in my despair, that he would 
 point out to us any young (or old) writer of promise. 
 Maturin sent Iiis Bertram and a letter without his ad- 
 dress, so that at first I could give him no answer. When 
 1 at last hit upon his residence, I sent him a favourable 
 answer and something more substantial. His play suc- 
 ceeded ; but I was at that time absent from England. 
 
 " I tried Coleridge too ; but he had nothing feasible in 
 hand at the time. Mr. Sotheby obligingly offered all his 
 tragedies, and I pledged myself, and notwithstanding 
 many squabbles with my Committed Brethren, did get 
 ' Ivan' accepted, read, and the parts distributed. But, lo ! 
 in the very heart of the matter, upon some tepidness on 
 the part of Kean, or warmth on that of the author, 
 Sotheby withdrew his play. Sir J. B. Burgess did also 
 present four tragedies and a farce, and I moved green- 
 room and Sub-committee, but they would not. 
 
 " Then the scenes I had to go through ! — the authors, 
 and the authoresses, and the milliners, and the wild Irish- 
 men, — the people from Brighton, from Blackwall, from 
 Chatham, from Cheltenham, from Dublin, from Dundee, 
 — who came in upon me ! to all of whom it was proper 
 to give a civil answer, and a hearing, and a reading. 
 Mrs. Glover's father, an Irish dancing-master of sixty 
 years, called upon me to request to play Archer, di'essed 
 in silk stockings, on a frosty morning, to show his legs 
 (which were certainly good and Irish for his age, and had 
 been still better,) — Miss Emma Somebody with a play 
 entitled ' The Bandit of Bohemia,' or some such title or 
 production, — Mr. O'Higgins, then resident at Richmond, 
 with an Irish tragedy, in which the unities could not fail 
 to be observed, for the protagonist was chained by tho 
 leg to a pillar during the chief part of the performance. 
 He was a wild man of a salvage appearance, and the 
 difficulty of not laughing at him was only to be got over 
 by reflecting upon the probable consequences of such 
 cachinnation. 
 
 " As I am really a civil and polite person, and do hate 
 iving pain when it can be avoided, I sent them up to 
 Douglas Kiimaird, — who is a man of business, and suffi- 
 ciently ready with a negative, — and left them to settle 
 with him; and as the begirming of next year I went 
 abroad, I have since been little av/are of the progress of 
 the theatres. 
 
 ****** 
 
 " Players are said to be an impracticable people. They 
 are so: but I managed to steer clear of any disputes with 
 them, and excepting one debate with the elder Byrne 
 about Miss Smith's pas de — (something — I forget the 
 technicals,) — I do not remember any litigation of my 
 own. I used to protect Miss Smith, because she was 
 hke Lady Jane Harley in the face, and likenesses go a 
 gi-eat way with me. Indeed, in general, I left such things 
 to my more bustling colleagues, who used to reprove me 
 seriously for not being able to take such things in hand 
 without buffooing with the histrions, or throwing things 
 into confusion by treating hght matters with levity. 
 
 ****** 
 " Then the Committee! — then the Sub-committee! — 
 we were but few, but never agreed. There was Peter 
 Moore who contradicted Kinnaird, and Kinnaird who 
 contradicted every body: then our two managers, Rae 
 and Dibdin ; and our Secretaiy, Ward ! and yet we were 
 all very zealous and in earnest to do good and so forth. 
 
264 
 
 DETACHED THOUGHTS. 
 
 * + * * furnished us with prologues to our revived old 
 English plays ; but was not pleased with me for compli- 
 menting him as 'the Upton' of our theatre, (Mr. Upton is 
 or was the poet who writes the songs for Asdey's,) and 
 almost gave up prologuing in consequence. 
 
 + **** + 
 
 «In the pantomime of 1815-16, there was a repre- 
 sentation of the masquerade of 1814 given by ' us youth' 
 of Watier's Club to Wellington and Co. Douglas Kin- 
 naird and one or two others, with myself, put on masques, 
 and went on the stage with the hi tto\\oi, to see the 
 effect of a theatre from the stage : — it is very grand. 
 Douglas danced among the figuranti too, and they were 
 puzzled to find out who we were, as being more than 
 their number. It was odd enough that Douglas Kinnaird 
 and I should have been both at the real masquerade, and 
 afterward in the mimic one of the same, on the stage of 
 the Drury-lane theatre." 
 
 ****** 
 
 "In 1812," he says, "at Middleton, (Lord Jersey's,) 
 among a goodly compeuiy of lords, ladies, and wits, &c. 
 there was * * * 
 
 " Erskine, too ! Erskine was there ; good, but intoler- 
 able. He jested, he talked, he did every thing admirably, 
 but then he would be applauded for the same thing twice 
 over. He would read his own verses, his own paragraph, 
 and tell his own story, again and again ; and then ' the 
 Trial by jury ! ! !' I almost wished it abolished, for I sat 
 next him at dinner. As I had read his published speeches, 
 there was no occasion to repeat them to me, 
 
 «Q * * (the fox-hunter,) nicknamed ^ Cheek C * *,' 
 and I, sweated the claret, being the only two who did so. 
 C * *, who loves his bottle, and had no notion of meet- 
 ing with a ' bon-vivant' in a scribbler, in making my eulogy 
 to somebody one evening, summed it up in — ' By G — d, 
 he drinks like a man 1' 
 
 " Nobody drank, however, but C * * and I. To be 
 sure, there was little occasion, for we swept off what was 
 on the table (a most splendid board, as may be supposed 
 at Jersey's) very sufficiently. However, we carried our 
 liquor discreetly, like the Baron of Bradwardine." 
 
 ****** 
 
 "At the opposition meeting of the Peers, in 1812, at 
 Lord Grenville's, when Lord Grey and he read to us the 
 correspondence upon Moira's negotiation, I sat next to 
 the present Dulce of Grafton, and said, ' What is to be 
 done next ?' — ' Wake the Duke of Norfolk,' (who was 
 snoring away near us,) replied he: 'I don't think the 
 negotiators have left any thing else for us to do this turn.' 
 
 "In the debate, or rather discussion, afterward in the 
 House of Lords upon that very question, I sat immedi- 
 ately behind Lord Moira, who was extremely annoyed at 
 Grey's speech upon the subject ; and, while Grey was 
 speaking, turned round to me repeatedly, and asked me 
 whether I agreed with him. It was an awkward question 
 to me, who had not heard both sides. Moira kept repeat- 
 ing to me, ' It was not so, it was so and so,' &c. I did 
 not know very well what to think, but I sympathized with 
 the acuteness of his feelings upon the subject." 
 
 "The subject of the Catholic claims was, it is well 
 known, brought forward a second time this session by 
 Lord Wellesley, whose motion for a future consideration 
 of the question was carried by a majority of one. In 
 reference to this division, another rather amusing anec- 
 dote is thus related. 
 
 " Lord * * affects an imitation of two very different 
 Chancellors, T hurlow and Loughborough, and can indulge 
 in an oath now and then. On one of the debates on the 
 Catholic question, when we were either equal or within 
 one, (I forget wliich,) I had been sent for in great haste 
 to a ball, which I quitted, I confess, somewhat reluctantly, 
 to emancipate five millions of people. I came in late, 
 and did not go immediately into the body of the House, 
 
 but stood just behind the woolsack. * * turned round, 
 and, catching my eye, immediately said to a peer, (who 
 had come to him for a few minutes on the woolsack, as is 
 the custom of his friends,) ' Damn them ! they '11 have it 
 now, — by G — d ! the vote that is just come in will give 
 it them.' " 
 
 ****** 
 
 '' When I came of age, some delays, on account of 
 some birth and marriage certificates from Cornwall, 
 occasioned me not to take my seat for several weeks. 
 When these were over and I had taken the oaths, the 
 Chancellor apologized to me for the delay, observing, 
 ' that these forms were a part of his duty.^ I begged 
 hhn to make no apology, and added, (as he certainly had 
 shown no violent hurry,) 'Your Lordship was exactly 
 like Tom Thumb' (which was then being acted) — 'You 
 did your duty, and you did no more.' " 
 
 ****** 
 
 "I have never heard any one who fulfilled my ideal of 
 an orator. G rattan would have been near it, but for his 
 harlequin delivery. Pitt I never heard. Fox but once, 
 and then he struck me as a debater, which to me seems 
 as different from an orator as an improvisatore, or a ver- 
 sifier from a poet. Grey is great, but it is not oratory. 
 Canning is sometimes very like one. Windham I did 
 not admire, though all the world did; it seemed sad 
 sophistry. Whitbread was the Demosthenes of bad 
 taste and vulgar vehemence, but strong, and English. 
 Holland is impressive from sense and sincerity. Lord 
 Lansdowne good, but still a debater only. Grenville I 
 like vastly, if he would prune his speeches down to an 
 hour's delivery. Burdett is sweet and silvery as Belial 
 himself, and I think the greatest favourite in Pandemo- 
 nium, at least I always heard the country gentlemen and 
 the ministerial devilry praise his speeches up stairs, and 
 run down from Bellamy's when he was upon his legs. I 
 heard Bob Milnes make his second speech ; it made no 
 impression. I like Ward — studied, but keen, and some- 
 times eloquent. Peel, my school and form-fellow, (we 
 sate within two of each other,) strange to say, I have 
 never heard, though I often wished to do so ; but from 
 what I remember of him at Harrow, he is, or should be, 
 among the best of them. Now, I do not admire Mr. 
 Wilberforce's speaking; it is nothbg but a flow of words 
 — ' words, words alone.' 
 
 " I doubt greatly if the English have any eloquence, 
 properly so called ; and am inclined to think that the Irish 
 had a great deal, and that the French will have, and have 
 had in Mirabeau. Lord Chatham and Burke are the 
 nearest approaches to orators in England. I do n't know 
 what Erskine may have been at the bar; but in the 
 House, I wish him at the bar once more. Lauderdale is 
 shrill, and Scotch, and acute. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "But among all these, good, bad, and indifferent, I 
 never heard the speech which was not too long for the 
 auditors, and not very intelligible, except here and there. 
 The whole thing is a grand deception, and as tedious and 
 tiresome as may be to those who must be often present. 
 I heard Sheridan only once, and that briefly, but I liked 
 his voice, his manner, and liis wit ; and he is the only one 
 of them I ever wished to hear at greater length. 
 
 " The impression of Parliament upon me was, that its 
 members are not formidable as speakers, but very much 
 so as an audience ; because in so numerous a body there 
 may be liitle eloquence, (after all, there were but two 
 thorough orators in all antiquity, and I suspect still fewer 
 in modern times,) but there must be a leaven of thought 
 and good sense sufficient to make them knmo what is 
 right, though they can't express it nobly. 
 
 "Home Tooke and Roscoe both are said to have 
 declared that they left Parliament with a higher opinion 
 of its aggregate integrity and abilities than that with 
 which they entered it. The general amount of both in 
 
DETACHED THOUGHTS. 
 
 265 
 
 most Parliaments is probably about the same, as also the 
 number of speakers and their talent. I except orators of 
 course, because they are things of ages, and not of sep- 
 tennial or triennial reunions. Neither House ever struck 
 me with more awe or respect than the same number of 
 Turks in a divan, or of Methodists in a barn, would have 
 done. Whatever diffidence or nervousness I felt (and I 
 felt both in a great degree) arose from the number rather 
 than the quaUty of the assemblage, and the thought rather 
 of the public withmit than the persons within, — knowing 
 (as all know) that Cicero himself, and probably the Mes- 
 siah, could never have altered the vote of a single lord 
 of the bedchamber or bishop. I thought our House dull, 
 but the other animating enough upon great days. 
 ***** 
 
 " In society I have met Sheridan frequently : he Vvfas 
 superb ! He had a sort of liking for me, and never at- 
 tacked me, at least to my face, and he did every body 
 else — high names, and wits, and orators, some of them 
 poets also. I have seen him cut up Whitbread, quiz 
 Madame de Stael, anniliilate Colman, and do httle less 
 by some others (whose names, as friends, I set not down) 
 of good fame and abiUty. 
 
 " The last time I met him was, I think, at Sir Gilbert 
 ElUot's, where he was as quick as ever — no, it was not 
 the last time ; the last time was at Douglas Kinnaird's. 
 
 "I have met him in aU places and parties — at White- 
 hall with the Melbourne's, at the Marquis of Tavistock's, 
 at Robins's the auctioneer's, at Sir Humphrey Davy's, at 
 Sam Rogers's, — in short, in most kinds of company, and 
 always found him very convivial and delightful. 
 
 "I have seen Sheridan weep two or three times. It 
 may be that he was maudlin; but this only renders it 
 more impressive, for who would see 
 
 ♦ From Marlborough's eyes the tears of dotage flow, 
 And Swift expire a driveller aud a show ?' 
 
 Once I saw him cry at Robins's the auctioneer's, after a 
 splendid dirmer, full of great names and high spirits. I 
 had the honour of sitting next to Sheridan. The occa- 
 sion of his tears was some observation or other upon the 
 subject of the sturdiness of the Whigs in resisting office 
 and keeping to their principles : Sheridan turned round : 
 • Sir, it is easy for my Lord G. or Earl G. or Marquis B. 
 or Lord H. with thousands upon thousands a year, some 
 of it either presently derived, or inherited in sinecure or 
 acquisitions from the public money, to boast of their 
 patriotism and keep aloof from temptation ; but they do 
 not know from what temptation those have kept aloof 
 who had equal pride, at least equal talents, and not un- 
 equal passions, and nevertheless knew not in the course 
 of their lives what it was to have a sliilling of their own.' 
 And in saying this he wept. 
 
 *' I have more than once heard him say, ' that he never 
 had a shilling of his own.' To be sure, he contrived to 
 extract a good many of other people's. 
 
 "In 1815, 1 had occasion to visit my lawyer in Chan- 
 cery-lane: he was with Sheridan. After mutual greet- 
 ings, &c. Sheridan retired first. Before recurring to my 
 own business, I could not help inquiring that of Sheridan. 
 'Oh,' replied the attorney, 'the usual thing! to stave off 
 an action from his wine-merchant, my client.' — ' Well,' 
 said I, 'and what do you mean to do?' — 'Nothing at all 
 for the present,' said he : ' would you have us proceed 
 agjunst old Sherry ? what would be the use of it V and 
 here he began laughing, and going over Sheridan's good 
 gifts of conversation. 
 
 "Now, from personal experience, I can vouch that my 
 attorney is by no means the tenderest of men, or par- 
 ticularly accessible to any kind of impression out of the 
 statute or record ; and yet Sheridan, in half an hour, had 
 found the way to soften and seduce him in such a manner, 
 that I almost think he would have thrown his chent (an 
 honest man, with all the laws, and some justice, on his 
 side) out of the window, had he come in at the moment. 
 
 34 
 
 " Such was Sheridan ! he could soften an attorney ! 
 There has been nothing like it since the days of Orpheus. 
 
 " One day I saw him take up his own ' Monody on 
 Garrick.' He Hghted upon tlie Dedication to the Dow- 
 ager Lady * *. On seeing it, he flew into a rage, and 
 exclaimed, ' that it must be a forgery, that he had never 
 dedicated any thing of his to such a d — d canting,' &c. 
 &c. &c. — and so went on for half an hour abusing his 
 own dedication, or at least the object of it. If all writers 
 w^ere equally sincere, it would be ludicrous. 
 
 " He told me that, on the night of the grand success 
 of his School for Scandal, he was knocked down and put 
 into the watchhouse for making a row in the street, and 
 being found intoxicated by the watchmen. 
 
 " When dying, he was requested to undergo ' an opera- 
 tion.' He replied, that he had already submitted to two^ 
 which were enough for one man's lifetime. Being asked 
 what they were, he answered, ' having his hair cut, and 
 sitting for his picture.' 
 
 "I have met George Colman occasionally, and thought 
 him extremely pleasant and convivial. Sheridan's hu- 
 mour, or rather wit, was always saturnine, and sometimes 
 savage ; he never laughed, (at least that / saw, and I 
 watched him,) but Colman did. If I had to choose, and 
 could not have both at a time, I should say, ' Let me begin 
 the evening with Sheridan, and finish it with Colman.' 
 Sheridan for dinner, Colman for supper ; Sheridan for 
 claret or port, but Colman for every thing, from the 
 madeira and champaigne at dinner, the claret with a 
 layer o{ port between the glasses, up to the punch of the 
 night, and down to the grog, or gin and water, of day- 
 break ; — .all these I have threaded with both the same. 
 Sheridan was a grenadier company of hfe-guards, but 
 Colman a whole regiment — of ligM infantry, to be sure, 
 but still a regiment." 
 
 ***** 
 
 "Sheridan's liking for me (whether he was not mystify- 
 ing me, I do not know, but Lady Caroline Lamb and others 
 told me that he said the same both before and after he 
 knew me) was founded upon ' Enghsh Bards and Scotch 
 Reviewers.' He told me that he did not care about 
 poetry, (or about mine — at least, any but that poem of 
 mine,) but he was sure from that and other symptoms, I 
 should make an orator, if I would but take to speaking 
 and grow a parUament man. He never ceased harpmg 
 upon this to me to the last; and I remember my old 
 tutor. Dr. Drury, had the same notion when I was a boy ; 
 but it never was my turn of inclination to try. I spoke 
 once or twice, as all young peers do, as a kind of intro- 
 duction into public life ; but dissipation, shyness, haughty 
 and reserved opinions, together with the short time I lived 
 in England after my majority, (only about five years in 
 all,) prevented me from resuming the experiment. As 
 far as it went, it was not discouraging, particularly my 
 Jirst speech, (I spoke three or four times in all,) but just 
 after it, my poem of Childe Harold was published, and 
 nobody ever thought about my prose afterward, nor indeed 
 did I ; it became to me a secondary and neglected object, 
 though I sometimes wonder to myself if I should have 
 succeeded." 
 
 " When the bailiff (for I have seen most kinds of life) 
 came upon me in 1816 to seize my chattels, (being a peer 
 of parhament, my person was beyond him,) being curious, 
 (as is my habit,) I first asked him, ' What extents elsewhere 
 he had for government ?' upon which he showed me one 
 upon one house only for seventy thousand pounds ! Next I 
 asked him, if he had nothing for Sheridan ? ' Oh — Sheri- 
 dan !' said he ; ' ay, I have this,' (pulling out a pocket-book, 
 &c. ;) ' but, my lord, I have been in Sheridan's house a 
 twelvemonth at a time— a civil gentleman — knows how to 
 deal with ws,' &c. &c. &c. Our own business was then 
 discussed, which was none of the easiest for me at that 
 time. But the man was civil, and (what I valued more) 
 
266 
 
 DETACHED THOUGHTS. 
 
 communicative. I had met many of his brethren, years 
 before, in affairs of my friends, (commoners, that is,) but 
 this was the first (or second) on my own account. A 
 civil man ; feed accordingly : probably he anticipated as 
 much." 
 
 "I have heard that when Grattan made his first speech 
 in the English Commons, it was for some mmutes doubt- 
 ful whether to laugh at or cheer hiin. The debut of his 
 predecessor Flood had been a complete failure under 
 nearly similar circumstances. But when the ministerial 
 part of our senators had watched Pitt (their thermome- 
 ter) for the cue, and saw him nod repeatedly liis stately 
 nod of approbation, they took the hint from their hunts- 
 man, and broke out into the most rapturous cheers. 
 Grattan's speech, indeed, deserved them ; it was a chef- 
 d'auvre. I did not hear that speech of his, (being then 
 at Harrow,) but heai-d most of his others on the same 
 question — also that on the war of 1815. I differed from 
 his opinions on the latter question, but coincided in tlie 
 general admiration of his eloquence. 
 
 " When I met old Courtenay, the orator, at Rogers the 
 poet's, in 1811-12, I was much taken with the portly 
 remains of hLs fine figure, and the still acute quickness 
 of his conversation. It was he who silenced Flood in the 
 English House by a crushing reply to a hasty debut of 
 the rival of Grattan in Ireland. I asked Courtenay (for 
 I like to trace motives) if he had not some personal pro- 
 vocation ; for the acrimony of his answer seemed to me, 
 as I had read it, to involve it. Courtenay said ' he had ; 
 that, when in Ireland, (being an Irishman,) at the bar of 
 the Irish House of Commons, Flood had made a personal 
 and unfair attack upon Idmself, who, not being a member 
 of that House, could not defend himself, and that some 
 years afterward, the opportunity of retort offering in the 
 English Parliament, he could not resist it. He certainly 
 repaid Flood with interest, for Flood never made any 
 figure, and only a speech or tvi^o afterward, in the English 
 House of Commons. I must except, however, his speech 
 on Reform in 1790, which Fox called 'the best he ever 
 heard upon that subject.' " 
 
 ****** 
 
 " I was much struck with the simplicity of Grattan's 
 manners in private life : they were odd, but they were 
 natural. Curran used to take him off, bowing to the 
 very ground, and 'thanking God that he had no pecu- 
 harities of gesture or appearance,' in a way irresistibly 
 ludicrous and * * used to call him a ' sentimental harle- 
 quin.' 
 
 "Curran! Curran 's the man who struck mc most. 
 Such imagination ! there never was any thing like it that 
 ever I saw or heard of. His published life — his pubUshed 
 speeches, give you no idea of the man — none at all. He 
 was a machine of imagination, as some one said that 
 Piron was an epigrammatic machine. 
 
 "I did not see a great deal of Curran — only in 1813 ; 
 but I met him at home, (for he used to call on me,) and 
 in society, at Mackintosh's, Holland House, &c. &c. and 
 he was wonderful even to me, who had seen many re- 
 markable men of the time. 
 
 ****** 
 
 "The powers of Curran's Irish imagination were ex- 
 haustless. I have heard that man speak more poetry than 
 I have ever seen written, — though I met him seldom and 
 but occasionally. I saw him presented to Madame de 
 Stael at Mackintosh's ; — it was the grand confluence be- 
 tween the Rhone and the Saone, and they were both so 
 d — d ugly, that I could not help wondering how the best 
 intellects of France and Ireland could have taken up 
 respectively such residences." * * * * 
 
 tion, was Scrope Berdmore Davies. Hobhouse is eilso 
 very good ii^ that line, though it is of less consequence to a 
 man who has other ways of showing his talents than in 
 company. Scrope was always ready and often witty — 
 Hobhouse >us witty, but not always so ready, being more 
 diffident." 
 
 * One of the cleverest men I ever knew, in conversa- 
 
 " Lewis is a good mcin, rhymes well, (if not wisely,) 
 but is a bore. He seizes you by the button. One night 
 of a rout, at Mrs. Hope's, he had fastened upon me, not- 
 withstanding my symptoms of manifest distress (for I 
 was in love, and had just nicked a minute when neither 
 mothers, nor husbands, nor rivals, nor gossips, were near 
 my then idol, who was beautiful as the statues of the 
 gallery where we stood at the time) — Lewis, I say, had 
 seized upon me by the button and the heart-strings, and 
 spared neither. W. Spencer, who Ukes fun, and do n't 
 dislike mischief, saw my case, and coming up to us both, 
 took me by the hand, and pathetically bade me farewell ; 
 for,' said he, ' I see it is all over with you.' Lewis then 
 went away. Sic me servavit Apollo. 
 
 "I remember seeing Blucher in the London assembhes, 
 and never saw any thing of his age less venerable. With 
 the voice and manners of a recruiting sergeant, he pre- 
 tended to the honours of a hero, — just as if a stone could 
 be worshipped because a man had stumbled over it." 
 
 " When I met Hudson Lowe, the jailer, at Lord Hol- 
 land's before he sailed for St. Helena, the discourse 
 turned on the battle of Waterloo. I asked him whether 
 the dispositions of Napoleon were those of a great gene- 
 ral ? He answered, disparagingly, ' that they w^ere very 
 simple.'' I had always thought that a degree of simphcity 
 was an ingredient of greatness. 
 
 ****** 
 
 KL * * was a good man, a clever man, but a bore. 
 My only revenge or consolation used to be, setting him 
 by the ears with some vivacious person who hated bores 
 especially, — ^Madame de S — or H — , for example. But 
 I hked L * * ; he was a jewel of a man, had he been 
 better set; — ^I don't mean personally^ but less tiresome, 
 for he was tedious, as well as contradictory to every thing 
 and every body. Being shortsighted, when we used to 
 ride out together near the Brenta in the twilight in sum- 
 mer, he made me go before., to pilot him : I am absent at 
 times, especially towards evening ; and the consequence 
 of this pilotage was some narrow escapes to the M * * 
 on herseback. Once I led him into a ditch over which I 
 had passed as usual, forgetting to warn my convoy ; once 
 I led him nearly into the river, instead of on the moveable 
 bridge which incommodes passengers ; and twice did we 
 both run against the Diligence, which, being heavy and 
 slow, did communicate less damage than it received in its 
 leaders, who were ^errafied by the charge 5 thrice did I 
 lose him in the gray of the gloaming, and was obliged to 
 bring-to to his distant signals of distance and distress ; — all 
 the time he went on talking without intermission, for he 
 was a man of many words. Poor fellow! he died a 
 martyr to his new riches^-of a second visit to Jamaica. 
 
 that: 
 
 • I 'd give the lands of Deloraine 
 Dark Musgrave were alive again 1 
 
 I would give many a sugar cane 
 Monk Lewis were alive again I" 
 
 ****** 
 " Madame de Stael was a good woman at heart and 
 the cleverest at bottom, but spoiled by a wish to be — she 
 Icnew not what. In her own house she was amiable ; in 
 any other person's, you wished her gone, and in her own 
 again." 
 
 ****** 
 " I liked the Dandies ; they were alwf.ys very civil to 
 
DETACHED THOUGHTS 
 
 267 
 
 me, though in general they disliked Uterary people, and 
 persecuted and mystified Madame de Stael, Lewis, * * 
 + *, and the like, damnably. They persuaded Madame 
 de Stael that A * * had a hundred thousand a year, &c. 
 &c- till she praised him to his face for his beauty! and 
 made a set at him for * *, and a hundred fooleries be- 
 sides. The truth is, that, though I gave up the business 
 early, I had a tinge of dandyism in my minority, and pro- 
 bably retained enough of it to concihate the great ones at 
 five-and-twenty. I had gamed, and dranlt, and taken my 
 degrees in most dissipations, and having no pedantry, and 
 not being overbearing, we ran quietly together. I knew 
 them all more or less, and they made me a member of 
 Wa tier's, (a superb club at that time,) being, I take it, the 
 only literary man (except two others, both men of the 
 world, Moore and Spenser) in it. Our masquerade was 
 a grand one ; so was the dandy ball too, at the Argyle, 
 but that (the latter) was given by the four chiefs, B., M., 
 A., and P., if I err not. 
 
 " I was a member of the Alfred, too, being elected 
 while in Greece. It was pleasant ; a little too sober and 
 literary, and bored with * * and Sir Francis D'lvernois ; 
 but one met Peel, and Ward, and Valentia^ and many 
 other pleasant or knovra people ; and it was, upon the 
 whole, a decent resource in a rainy day, in a dearth of 
 parties, or parliament, or in an empty season. 
 
 "I belonged, or belong, to the following clubs or socie- 
 ties: — to the Alfred; to the Cocoa Tree; to Watier's; 
 to the Union; to Racket's, (at Brighton;) to the Pugi- 
 listic ; to the Owls, or ' Fly-by-night ;' to the Cambridge 
 Whig Club; to the Harrow Club, Cambridge; and to 
 one or two private Clubs ; to the Hampden (political) 
 Club; and to the Italian Carbonari, &c. &c. &c. 'though 
 last, not least.' I got into all these, and never stood for 
 any other — at least to my own knowledge. I declined 
 being proposed to several others, though pressed to stand 
 candidate." 
 
 « * * * (commonly called long * + +, a very clever 
 man, but odd) complained to our friend Scrope B. Davies, 
 in riding, that he had a stitch in his side, 'I do n't won- 
 der at it,' said Scrope, ' for you ride like a tailor.^ Whoever 
 had seen * * * on horseback, with liis very tall figure on 
 a small nag, would not deny the justness of the repartee. 
 
 " When Brummell was obUged (by that affair of poor 
 M * *, who thence acquired the name of 'Dick the 
 Pandy-kiUer' — it was about money, and debt, and all 
 that) to retire to France, he knew no French, and having 
 obtained a grammar for the purpose of study, our friend 
 Scrope Davies was asked what progress Brummell had 
 made in French, he responded, ' that Brummell had been 
 stopped, Uke Buonaparte in Russia, by the Elements.'' 
 
 " I have put tliis pun into Beppo, which is ' a fair ex- 
 change and no robbery,' for Scrope made his fortune 
 at several dinners (as he owned himself) by repeating 
 occasionally, as his own, some of the buffooneries with 
 which I had encountered him in the morning." 
 
 "I have been called in as mediator, or second, at least 
 twenty times, in violent quarrels, and have always con- 
 trived to settle the business without compromising the 
 honour of the parties, or leading them to mortal conse- 
 quences, and this too sometimes in very difficult and 
 delicate circumstances, and having to deal Avith very hot 
 and haughty spirits, — ^Irishmen, gamesters, guardsmen, 
 captains, and cornets of horse, and the like. This was, 
 of course, in my youth, when I lived in hot-headed com- 
 pany. I have had to carry challenges from gentlemen to 
 noblemen, from captains to captains, from lawyers to 
 counsellors, and once from a clergyman to an officer in 
 
 the Ufe-guards ; but I found the latter by far the most 
 difficult, 
 
 ' to compose 
 The bloody duel without blows, ' 
 
 the business being about a woman : I must add too, that 
 I never saw a woman behave so ill, hke a cold-blooded, 
 heartless b — as she was, — but very handsome, for all 
 that, A certain Susan C + * was she called. I never 
 saw her but once ; and that was to induce her but to say 
 two words, (which in no degree compromised herself,) 
 and which would have had the effect of saving a priest or 
 a lieutenant of cavalry. She would not say them, and 
 neither N * * nor myself (the son of Sir E.N * *, 
 and a friend to one of the parties) could prevail upon her 
 to say them, though both of us used to deal in some sort 
 with womai>kind. At last I managed to quiet the com- 
 batants without her talisman, and, I believe, to her great 
 disappointment : she was the damnedest b — that I ever 
 saw, and I have seen a great many. Though my clergy- 
 man was sure to lose either his hfe or his living, he was 
 as warlike as the Bishop of Beauvais, and would hardly 
 be pacified ; but then he was in love, and that is a martial 
 passion." 
 
 ****** 
 
 "Like Sylla, I ha.ve always believed that all things 
 depend upon fortune, and nothing upon ourselves. I am 
 not aware of any one thought or action worthy of being 
 called good to myself or others, which is not to be attri- 
 buted to the good goddess Fortune." 
 
 ****** 
 
 " If I were to live over again, I do not know what I 
 would change in my hfe, xmless it were for — not to have 
 lived at all. All history, and experience, and the rest, 
 teaches us that the good and evil are pretty equally 
 balanced m this existence, and that what is most to be 
 desired is an easy passage out of it. What can it give 
 us but years ? and those have httle of good but their 
 ending. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 "The world visits change of politics or change of 
 religion with a more severe censure than a mere diffe- 
 rence of opinion would appear to me to deserve. But 
 tliere must be some reason for this feeling ; — and I think 
 it is that these departures from the earliest instilled ideas 
 of our childhood, and from the line of conduct chosen by 
 us when we first enter into public hfe, have been seen to 
 have more mischievous results for society, and to prove 
 more weakness of mind than other actions, in themselves 
 more immoral." 
 
 Of the bust of himself by Bartolhni : — " The bust does 
 not turn out a good one, — -though it may be like for aught 
 I know, as it exactly resembles a superannuated Jesuit." 
 Again, "■ I assure you Bartollini's is dreadful, though my 
 mind misgives me that it is hideously like. If it is, I 
 cannot be long for this world, for it overlooks seventy." 
 
 "As far as fame goes (that is to say, living fame,) I 
 have had my share, perhaps — indeed, certainly — more 
 than my deserts. 
 
 " Some odd instances have occurred, to my own experi- 
 ence, of the wild and strange places to which a name 
 may penetrate, and where it may impress. Two years 
 ago, (almost three, being in August or July, 1819,) I re- 
 ceived at Ravenna a letter, in English verse, from Dron- 
 theim in Norway, written by a Norwegian, and full of the 
 usual compliments, &c. &c. It is still somewhere among 
 my papers. In the same month I received an invitation 
 into Holstein from a Mr. Jacobsen (I think) of Ham- 
 burgh : also, by the same medium, a traiislation of Me- 
 dora's song in the Corsair by a Westphalian baroness, 
 {not ' Thunderton-Tronck,') with some original verses of 
 hers, (very pretty and Klopstock-ish,) and a prose transla- 
 tion annexed to them, on the subject of my wife: — as 
 
268 
 
 DETACHED THOUGHTS. 
 
 they concerned her more than me, I sent them to her, 
 together with Mr. Jacobsen's letter. It was odd enough 
 to receive an invitation to pass the summer in Holsian 
 while in Italy^ from people I never knew. The letter 
 was addressed to Venice. Mr. Jacobsen talked to me 
 of the 'wild roses growing in the Holstein summer.' 
 Why then did the Cimbri and Teutones emigrate? 
 
 « What a strange thing is life and man ! Were I to 
 present myself at the door of the house where my daugh- 
 ter now is, the door would be shut in my face — unless (as 
 is not impossible) I knocked down the porter ; and if I 
 had gone in that year (and perhaps now) to Drontheim, 
 (the furthest town in Norway,) or into Holstein, I should 
 have been received with open arms into the mansion of 
 strangers and foreigners, attached to me by no tie but by 
 that of mind and rumour. 
 
 " As far as fame goes, I have had my share : it has 
 indeed been leavened by other human contingencies, and 
 this in a greater degree than has occurred to most 
 literary men of a decent rank in life ; but, on the whole, I 
 take it that such equipoise is the condition of humanity." 
 
 "Among the various Journals, Memoranda, Diaries, 
 &c. which I have kept in the course of my living, I began 
 one about three months ago, and carried it on till I had 
 filled one paper-book, (thinnish,) and two sheets or so of 
 another. I then left off, partly because I thought we 
 should have some business here, and I had furbished up 
 my arms and got my apparatus ready for taking a turn 
 with the patriots, having my drawers full of their procla- 
 mations, oaths, and resolutions, and my lower rooms of 
 tlieir hidden w^eapons, of most calibers, — and partly 
 because I had filled my paper-book. 
 
 ''But the Neapolitans have betrayed themselves and 
 all the world ; and those who would have given their 
 blood for Italy can now only give her tlieir tears. 
 
 " Some day or other, if dust holds together, I have been 
 enough in the secret (at least in this part of the coimtry) 
 to cast perhaps some little light upon the atrocious 
 treachery which has replunged Italy into barbarism : at 
 present I have neither the time nor the temper. How- 
 ever, the real Italians are not to blame ; merely the scoun- 
 drels at the heel of the boot, which the Hun now w^ears. and 
 win trample them to ashes with for their servility. I have 
 risked myself with the others here, and how far I may or 
 may not be compromised is a problem at this moment. 
 Some of them, hke Craigengelt, would 'tell all, and more 
 than all, to save themselves.' But, come what may, the 
 cause was a glorious one, though it reads at present as if 
 the GreelvS had run away from Xerxes. Happy the few 
 who have only to reproach themselves with believing that 
 these rascals were less 'rascaille' than they proved! — 
 Here m Romagna, the efforts were necessarily limited to 
 preparations and good intentions, until the Germans were 
 fairly engaged in equal w-arfare — as we are upon theii- 
 very frontiers, without a single fort or hill nearer than San 
 Marino. Whether 'hell will be paved with' those 'good 
 intentions,' I know not ; but there wiU probably be a good 
 store of NeapoUtans to walk upon the pavement, whatever 
 may be its composition. Slabs of lava from their moun- 
 tain, with the bodies of their own damned souls for cement, 
 would be the fittest causeway for Satan's 'Corso.'" 
 
 "Pisa, November 5, 1821. 
 
 " ' There is a strange coincidence sometimes in the little 
 things of this world, Sancho,' says Sterne in a letter, (if I 
 mistake not,) and so I have often found it. 
 
 " In Page [ 261, ] of this collection, I had alluded to 
 my friend Lord Clare in terms such as my feelings sug- 
 gested. About a week or two after\vard, I met him on the 
 road between Imola and Bologna, after not having met for 
 seven or eight years. He was abroad in 1814, and came 
 home just as I set out in 1816. 
 
 " This meeting annihilated for a moment all the years 
 
 between Uie present time and the days of Harrow. It was 
 
 a new and inexplicable feeling, lilie rising from the grave 
 to me. Clare too was much agitated — more in appear- 
 ance than was myself; for I could feel his heart beat to his 
 fingers' ends, unless, indeed, it was the pulse of my own 
 which made me think so. He told me that I should find 
 a note from him left at Bologna. I did. We were obliged 
 to part for our different journeys, he for Rome, I for Pisa, 
 but with the promise to meet again in spring. We were 
 but five minutes together, and on the public road ; but I 
 hardly recollect an hour of my existence which could be 
 weighed against them. He had heard that I was coming 
 on, and had left his letter for me at Bologna, because the 
 people with whom he was travelling could not wait longer. 
 
 " Of all I have ever known, he has ahvays been the least 
 altered m every thing from the excellent qualities and kind 
 affections which attached me to him so strongly at school, 
 I should hardly have tliought it possible for society (or 
 the world, as it is called) to leave a being with so little of 
 the leaven of bad passions. 
 
 "I do not speak from personal experience only, but 
 from all I have ever heard of him from others, during ab- 
 sence and distance." 
 
 ****** 
 
 " I revisited the Florence Gallery, &c. My former im- 
 pressions were confirmed; but there were too many 
 visiters there to allow one to feel any thing properly. 
 When we were (about thirty or forty) all stuffed into the 
 cabinet of gems and knick-knackeries, in a comer of one 
 of the galleries, I told Rogers that it 'felt like being in the 
 vvatchhouse.' I left him to make his obeisances to some 
 of his acquaintances, and strolled on alone — the only four 
 minutes I could snatch of any feeling for the works around 
 me. I do not mean to apply this to a tete-a-tete scrutiny 
 with Rogers, who has an excellent taste, and deep feeling 
 for the arts, (indeed much more of both than I can pos- 
 sess, for of the former I have not much.) but to the 
 crowd of jostling starers and travelling talkers around me. 
 
 "I heard one bold Briton declare to the woman on his 
 arm, looldng at the Venus of Titian, ' Well, now, this is 
 really very fine indeed,' — an observation which, like that 
 of the landlord in Joseph Andrews on ' the certainty of 
 death,' was (as the landlord's wife observed) ' extremely 
 true.' 
 
 " In the Pitti Palace, I did not omit Goldsmith's pre- 
 scription for a connoisseur, viz. ' that the pictiores would 
 have been better if the painter had taken more pains, and 
 to praise the works of Pietro Perugino.'" 
 
 ****** 
 
 " People have wondered at the melancholy which runs 
 tlirough my writings . Others have wondered at my per- 
 sonal gayety. But I recollect once, after an hour in which 
 I had been sincerely and particularly gay and rather bril- 
 liant, in company, my wife replying to me, when I said, 
 (upon her remarking my high spirits,) ' And yet. Bell, I 
 have been called and miscalled melancholy — you must 
 have seen how falsely, frequently?' 'No, Byron,' she 
 answered, ' it is not so : at heart, you are the most melan- 
 choly of mankind ; and often when apparently gayest.' " 
 * * * * * * 
 
 •* A yoimg American,* named Coolidge, called on me 
 not many months ago. He was intelligent, very hand- 
 some, and not more than twenty years old, according to 
 appearances; a little romantic, but that sits well upon 
 youth, and mighty fond of poesy, as may be suspected from 
 his approaching me in my cavern. He brought me a 
 message from an old servant of my family, (Joe Murray,) 
 and told me that he (Mr. Coolidge) had obtained a copy 
 of my bust from Thorwaldsen at Rome, to send to Ame- 
 rica. I confess I was more flattered by this young enthu- 
 siasm of a solitaiy transatlantic traveller, than if they had 
 decreed me a statue in the Paris Pantheon, (I have seen 
 
 ^ei Letter 501 . 
 
DETACHED THOUGHTS, 
 
 269 
 
 emperors and demagogues cast down from their pedestals 
 even in my own time, and Grattan's name razed from the 
 street, called after him in Dublin ;) I say that I was more 
 flattered by it, because it was single^ unpolitical^ and was 
 without motive or ostentation, — the pure and warm feeling 
 of a boy for the poet he admired. It must have been ex- 
 pensive, though ; — I would not pay the price of a Thor- 
 waldsen bust for any human head and shoulders, except 
 Napoleon's, or my children's, or some ' absurd woman- 
 kinds^ as Monkbarns calls them — or my sister's. If asked 
 why^ then, I sat for my own ? — Answer, that it was at the 
 particular request of J. C. Hobhouse, Esq. and for no one 
 else. A picture is a different matter ; — every body sits for 
 their picture ; but a bust looks like putting up pretensions 
 to permanency, and smacks something of a hanliering for 
 public fame rather than private remembrance. 
 
 " Whenever an American requests to see me, (which is 
 not unfrequently,) I comply, firstly, because I respect a 
 people who acquired their freedom by their firmness with- 
 out excess; and, secondly, because these transatlantic 
 visits, 'few and far between,' make me feel as if talking 
 with posterity from the other side of the Styx. In a cen- 
 tury or two the new EngUsh and Spanish Atlantides will 
 be masters of the old countries, in all probabiHty, as Greece 
 and Europe overcame then- mother Asia in the older or 
 earlier ages, as they are called." 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 After saying, in reference to his own choice of Venice 
 as a place of residence, " I remembered General Ludlow's 
 domal inscription, 'Omne solum forti patrici,'and sat down 
 free in a country which had been one of slavery for centu- 
 ries," he adds, " But there is no freedom, even for masters^ 
 in the midst of slaves. It makes my blood boil to see the 
 thing. I sometimes wish that I was the owner of Africa, 
 to do at once what Wilberforce will do in time, viz. sweep 
 slavery from her deserts, and look on upon the first dance 
 of their freedom. 
 
 "As to political slavery, so general, it is men's own fault: 
 if they will be slaves, let them! Yet it is but 'a word and 
 a blow.' See how England formerly, France, Spain, Por- 
 tugal, America, Switzerland, freed themselves ! There is 
 no one instance of a long contest in which men did not tri- 
 umph over systems. If Tyranny misses her Jirst spring, 
 she is cowardly as the tiger, and retires to be hunted." 
 + + * * * * 
 
 "Going to the fountain of Delphi (Castri) in 1809, I 
 saw a flight of twelve eagles (H. says they were vultures 
 — at least, in conversation,) and I seized the omen. On 
 the day before, I composed the lines to Parnassus, (in 
 Childe Harold,) and, on beholding the birds, had a hope 
 that Apollo had accepted my homage. I have at least had 
 the name and fame of a poet during the poetical part of 
 life, (from twenty to thirty ;) — whether it will last is 
 another matter.'" 
 
 + * * + * + 
 
 "In the year 1814, as Moore and I were going to dine 
 widi Lord Grey in Portman-square, I pulled out a ' Java 
 Gazette,' (which Murray had sent to me,) in which there 
 was a controversy on our respective merits as poets. It 
 was amusing enough that we should be proceeding peace- 
 ably to the same table, while they were squabbling about us 
 in the Indian seas, (to be sure, the paper was dated six 
 months before,) and filling columns with Batavian criti- 
 cism. But this is fame,. I presume."* 
 
 "One of my notions different from those of my contem- 
 poraries is, that the present is not a luigh age of EngUsh 
 poetry. There are more poets (soi-disant) than ever there 
 were, and proportionably less poetry. This thesis I have 
 maintained for some years, but, strange to say, it meeteth 
 not with favour from my brethren of the shelf. Even 
 Moore shakes his head and firmly believes that this is the 
 grand age of British poesy." 
 
 ' See Journal in Italy. 
 
 "Of the immortaUty of the soul, it appears to me that 
 there can be little doubt, if we attend for a moment to the 
 action of mind : it is in perpetual activity. I used to doubt 
 of it, but reflection has taught me better. It acts also so 
 very independent of body— in dreams, for instance; — in- 
 coherently and madly^ I grant you, but still it is mind, and 
 much more mind than when we are awake. Now that 
 this should not act separately , as well as jointly, who can 
 pronounce ? The stoics, Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius, 
 call the present state ' a soul which drags a carcass,'— 
 a heavy chain to be sure, but all chains being material 
 may be shaken off. How far our future life wiR be indi~ 
 vidual, or, rather, how far it will at all resemble our present 
 existence, is another question ; but that the mind is eternal 
 seems as probable as that the body is not so. Of course, I 
 here venture upon the question without recurring to reve- 
 lation, which, however, is at least as rational a solution of 
 it as any other. A material resurrection seems strange 
 and even absurd, except for purposes of punishment ; and 
 all punishment which is to revenge rather than correct must 
 be morally wrong ; and when the world is at an end, what 
 moral or warning purpose can eternal tortures answer? 
 Human passions have probably disfigured the divine doc- 
 trines here : — but the whole thing is inscrutable." 
 
 "It is useless to tell me not to reason, but to believe. You 
 might as well tell a man not to wake, but sleep. And then 
 to bully with torments, and all that ! I cannot help think- 
 ing that the menace of hell makes as many devils as the 
 severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains." 
 
 " Man is born passionate of body, but with an innate 
 though secret tendency to the love of good in his main- 
 spring of mind. But, God help us all! it is at present a 
 sad jar of atoms." 
 
 " Matter is eternal, always changing, but reproduced, 
 and, as far as we can comprehend eternity, eternal ; and 
 why not mind? Why should not the mind act with and 
 upon the universe, as portions of it act upon and with the 
 congregated dust called mankind ? See how one man acts 
 upon himself and others, or upon multitudes! The same 
 agency, in a higher and purer degree, may act upon the 
 stars, &c. ad infinitum." 
 
 "I have often been inclined to materialism in philosophy, 
 but could never bear its introduction into Christianity, 
 which appears to me essentially founded upon the soul. 
 For this reason, Priestley's Christian Materialism always 
 struck me as deadly. Believe the resurrection of the body, 
 if you will, but not without a soul. The deuce is in it, i^ 
 after having had a soul (as surely the mind, or whatever 
 you call it is) in this world, we must part wdth it in the 
 next, even for an immortal materiaUty ! I own my par- 
 tiality for spirit."" 
 
 " I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day, as if 
 there was some association between an internal approach 
 to greater light aud purity, and the kindler of this dark 
 lantern of our external existence." 
 
 " The night is also a religious concern, and even more 
 so when I viewed the moon and stars through Herschell's 
 telescope, and saw that they were worlds." 
 
 "If^ according to some speculations, you could prove the 
 world many thousand years older than the Mosaic chro- 
 nology, or if you could get rid of Adam and Eve, and the 
 apple, and serpent, stiH, what is to be put up in their stead ? 
 or how is the difficulty removed ? Things niust have had 
 a beginning, and what matters it when or how .^" 
 
270 
 
 DETACHED THOUGHTS. 
 
 *' I sometimes think that man may be the relic of some 
 higher material being wrecked in a former world, and de- 
 generated in the hardship and struggle through chaos into 
 conformity, or something like it, — as we see Laplanders, 
 Esquimaux, &c. inferior in the present state, as the ele- 
 ments become more inexorable. But even then this 
 higher pre-Adamite supposititious creation must have 
 had an origin and a Creator, — for a creation is a more 
 natural imagination than a fortuitous concourse of atoms ; 
 all things remount to a fountain, though they may flow 
 to an ocean. 
 
 " Plutarch says, in his Life of Lysander, that Aristo- 
 tle observes ' that in general great geniuses are of a 
 melancholy turn, and instances Socrates, Plato, and Her- 
 cules, (or Heraclitus,) as examples 5 and Lysander, 
 though not while young, yet as inclined to it when ap- 
 proaching towards age,' Whether I am a genius or 
 not, I have been called such by my friends as well as 
 enemies, and in more countries and languages than one, 
 and also within a no very long period of existence. Of 
 my genius I can say nothing, but of my melancholy, that 
 it is ' increasing and ought to be diminished.' But how ? 
 
 " I take it that most men are so at bottom, but that it 
 is only remarked in the remarkable. The Duchesse de 
 Broglio, in reply to a remark of mine on the errors of 
 clever people, said that ' they were not worse than 
 others, only, being more in view, more noted, especially 
 in all that could reduce them to the rest, or raise the rest 
 to them.' In 1816 this was. 
 
 "In fact, (I suppose that) if the follies of fools were 
 all set down like those of the wise, the wise (who seem 
 at present only a better sort of fools) would appear almost 
 intelligent." 
 
 " It is singular how soon we lose the impression of 
 what ceases to be constantly before us : a year impairs ; 
 a lustre obliterates. There is little distinct left without 
 an effort of memory. Then, indeed, the lights are re- 
 kindled for a moment ; but who can be sure that imagi- 
 nation is not the torchbearer ? Let any man try at the 
 end of ten years to bring before him the features, or the 
 mind, or the sayings, or the habits of his best friend, or 
 his greate/tt ma.n, (I mean his favourite, his Buonaparte, 
 his this, that, or t'other,) and he will be surprised at the 
 extreme confusion of his ideas. I speak confidently on 
 this point, having always passed for one who had a good, 
 ay, an excellent memory. I except, indeed, our recol- 
 lection of womankind ; there is no forgetting them (and 
 be d — d to them) any more than any other remarkable 
 era, such as ' the revolution,' or ' the plague,' or ' the 
 invasion,' or ' the comet,' or ' the war' of such and such 
 an .epoch, — being the favourite dates of mankind, who 
 have so many blessings in their lot, that they never make 
 their calendars from them, being too common. For in- 
 stance, you see, ' the great drought,' ' the Thames fro- 
 zen over,' * the seven years' war broke out,' the ' Eng- 
 lish, or French, or Spanish revolution commenced,' ' the 
 Lisbon earthquake,' ' the Lima earthquake,' ' the earth- 
 
 quake of Calabria,' ' the plague of London,' ditto 'of 
 Constantinople,' ' the sweatmg sickness,' ' the yellow 
 fever of Philadelphia,' &c. &c. &c. ; but you don't see ' the 
 ' abundant harvest,' 'the fine summer,' ' the long peace,' 
 ' the wealthy speculation,' ' the reckless voyage,' re- 
 corded so emphatically ! By- the- way, there has been 
 a thirty years' war and a seventy years' war ; was there 
 ever a seventy or a thirty years' peace ? or was there 
 evern a day's universal peace ? except perhaps in China, 
 where they have found out the miserable happiness of a 
 stationary and unwarlike mediocrity. And is all this 
 because nature is niggard or savage, or mankind un- 
 grateful ? Let philosophers decide. I am none." 
 
 " In general I do not draw well with literary men ; not 
 that I dislike them — but I never know what to say to 
 them after I have praised their last publication. There 
 are several exceptions, to be sure; but then they have 
 either been men of the world, such as Scott and Moore, 
 &c. ; or visionaries out of it, such as Shelley, &c. : but 
 your literary every-day man and I never went well in 
 company, especially your foreigner, whom 1 never could 
 abide; except Giordani, and — and — and — (I really can't 
 name any other) — I don't remember a man among them 
 whom 1 ever wished to see twice, except perhaps Mez- 
 zophanti, who is a monster of languages, the Briareus of 
 parts of speech, a walking Polyglolt, and more, who 
 ought to have existed at the time of the Tower of Ba- 
 bel as universal interpreter. He is indeed a marvel — 
 unassuming also. I tried him in all the tongues of 
 which I knew a single oath, (or adjuration to the gods 
 against post-boys, savages, Tartars, boatmen, sailors, 
 pilots, gondoliers, muleteers, camel-drivers, Vetturini, 
 postmasters, posthorses, posthouses, post every thing,) 
 and, egad ! he astounded me — even to my English." 
 
 " ' No man would live his life over again,' is an old 
 and true saying which all can resolve for themselves. 
 At the same lime, there are probably moments in most 
 men's lives which they would live over the rest of life to 
 regain 7 Else why do we live at all ? because Hope 
 recurs to Memory, both false but — but — but — but and 
 this but drags on till — what ? I do not know : and who 
 does ? He that died o' Wednesday ?" 
 
 " Alcibiades is said to have been ' successful in all 
 his battles' — but what battles ? Name them ! If you 
 mention Csesar, or Hannibal, or Napoleon, you at once 
 rush upon Pharsalia, Munda, Alesia, Cannae, Thrasy- 
 mene, Trebia, Lodi, Marengo, Jena, Austerlitz, Fried- 
 land, Wagram, Moskwa : but it is less easy to pitch 
 upon the victories of Alcibiades ; though they may be 
 named too, though not so readily as the Leuctra and 
 Mantingea of Epaminondas, the Marathon of Miltia- 
 des, the Salamis of Themistocles, and the Thermopylae 
 of Leonidas. Yet, upon the whole, it may be doubled 
 whether there be a name of antiquity which comes down 
 with such a general charm as that of Alcibiades. Why? 
 I cannot answer. Who can?" 
 
REVIEW OF WORDSWORTH'S POEMS, 
 
 TWO VOLS. 1807.* 
 (from " MONTHLY LITERARY RECREATIONS," FOR AUGUST, 1807.) 
 
 The volumes before us are by the author of Lyrical 
 Ballads, a collection which has not undeservedly met 
 with a considerable share of public applause. The 
 characteristics of Mr. W.'s muse are simple and flow- 
 ing, though occasionally inharmonious verse, strong, and 
 sometimes irresistible appeals to the feelings, with un- 
 exceptionable sentiments. Though the present work 
 may not equal his former efforts, many of the poems 
 possess a native elegance, natural and unaffected, totally 
 devoid of the tinsel embellishments and abstract hyper- 
 boles of several contemporary sonneteers. The last 
 sonnet in the first volume, p. 152., is perhaps the best, 
 without any novelty in the sentiments, which we hope 
 are common to every Briton at the present crisis ; the 
 force and expression is that of a genuine poet, feeling as 
 he writes : — 
 
 " Another year ! another deadly blow ! 
 Another mighty empire overthrown ! 
 And we are left, or shall be left, alone — 
 The last that dares to struggle with the foe. 
 'Tis well ! — from this day forward we shall know 
 That in ourselves our safety must be sought, 
 That by our own right-hands it must be wrought ; 
 That we must stand unprop'd, or be laid low. 
 O dastard ! whom such foretaste doth not cheerl 
 We shall exult, if they who rule the land 
 Be men who hold its many blessings dear, 
 Wise, upright, valiant, not a venal band, 
 Who are to judge of danger which they fear, 
 And honour which they do not understand." 
 
 The song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, the Se- 
 ven Sisters, the Affliction of Margaret of , 
 
 possess all the beauties, and few of the defects, of this 
 writer : the following lines from the last are in his first 
 style : — 
 
 «• Ah ! little doth the young one dream 
 When full of play and childish cares, 
 What power hath e'en his wildest scream, 
 Heard by his mother unawares : 
 He knows it not, he cannot guess : 
 Years to a mother bring distress, 
 But do not make her love the less." 
 
 • I hare been a reviewer. In 1807, in a Magazine called " Monthly 
 Literary Recreations," I reviewed Wordsworth's trash of that time. 
 In the Monthly Review I wrote some articles which were inserted. 
 This was in the latter part of 1811. 
 
 The pieces least worthy of the author are those enti- 
 tled " Moods of my own Mind." We certainly wish 
 these " Moods" had been less frequent, or not permitted 
 to occupy a place near works which only make their 
 deformity more obvious ; when Mr. W. ceases to please, 
 it is by '* abandoning" his mind to the most common- 
 place ideas, at the same time clothing them in language 
 not simple, but puerile. What will any reader or 
 auditor, out of the nursery, say to such namby-pamby 
 as " Lines written at the Foot of Brother's Bridge?" 
 
 " The cock is crowing, 
 The stream is flowing, 
 The small birds twitter, 
 The lake doth glitter. 
 The gi-een field sleeps in the sun ; 
 The oldest and youngest. 
 Are at work with the strongest ; 
 T he cattle are grazing, 
 Their heads never raising, 
 There are forty feeding like one. 
 Like an army defeated. 
 The snow hath retreated, 
 And now doth fare ill. 
 On the top of the bare hill." 
 
 " The plough-boy is whooping anon, anon," &c. &c. 
 is in the same exquisite measure. This appears to us 
 neither more nor less than an imitation of such min- 
 strelsy as soothed our cries in the cradle, with the shrill 
 ditty of 
 
 " Hey de diddle, 
 The cat and the fiddle : 
 The cow jump'd over the moon, 
 The little dog laugh'd to see such sport, 
 And the dish ran away with the spoon." 
 
 On the whole, however, with the exception of the 
 above, and other innocent odes of the same cast, we 
 think these volumes display a genius worthy of higher 
 pursuits, and regret that Mr. W. confines his muse to 
 such trifling subjects. We trust his motto will be in 
 future, " Paulo majora canamus." Many, with inferior 
 abilities, have acquired a loftier seat on Parnassus, 
 merely by attempting strains in which Mr. Wordsworth 
 is more qualified to excel. 
 
 REVIEW OF GELL'S GEOGRAPHY OF ITHACA, AND 
 ITINERARY OF GREECE. 
 
 (from THE "MONTHLY REVIEW" FOR AUGUST, 1811.) 
 
 That laudable curiosity concerning the remains of 
 classical antiquity which has of late years increased 
 among our countrymen, is in no traveller or author 
 more conspicuous than in Mr. Gell. Whatever differ- 
 ence of opinion may yet exist with regard to the success 
 of the several disputants in the famous Trojan contro- 
 versy,* or, indeed, relating to the present author's 
 merits as an inspector of the Troad, it must universally 
 
 * We have it from the best authority that the venerable leader of the 
 Anti-Homeric sect, Jacob Bryant, several years before his death, ex- 
 pressed re<n-et for his ungi-ateful attempt to destroy some of the most 
 pleasing associations of our youthful studies, '^"= "•" •-'- •»■■♦ -;=i.«= 
 was — ''Trojaque nunc starea," &e. 
 
 One of his last wishes 
 
 be acknowledged that any work, which more forcibly 
 impresses on our imaginations the scenes of heroic ac- 
 tion, and the subjects of immortal song, possesses claims 
 on the attention of every scholar. 
 
 Of the two works which now demand our report, we 
 conceive the former to be by far the most interesting to 
 the reader, as the latter is indisputably the most ser- 
 viceable to the traveller. Excepting, indeed, the run- 
 ning commentary which it contains on a number of 
 extracts from Pausanias and Strabo, it is, as the title 
 imports, a mere itinerary of Greece, or rather of Argo- 
 lis only, in its present circumstances. This being the 
 case, surely it would have answered every purpose of 
 
272 
 
 REVIEW OF GELL'S GEOGRAPHY OF ITHACA. 
 
 utility mucli better by being printed as a pocket road- 
 book of that part of the Morea ; for a quarto is a very 
 unmanageable travelling companion. The maps* and 
 drawings, we shall be told, would not permit such an 
 arrangement : but as to the drawings, they are not in 
 general to be admired as specimens of the art 5 and 
 several of them, as we have been assured by eye.v»'it- 
 nesses of the scenes which they describe, do not com- 
 pensate for their mediocrity in point of execution, by 
 any extraordinary fidelity of representation. Others, 
 indeed, are more faitliful, according to our informants. 
 The true reason, however, for this costly mode of publi- 
 cation is in course to be found in a desire of gratifying 
 the public passion for large margins, and all the luxury 
 of typography ; and we have before expressed our dis- 
 satisfaction with Mr. Gell's aristocratical mode of com- 
 municating a species of knowledge which ought to be 
 accessible to a much greater portion of classical students 
 than can at present acquire it by his means : — but, as 
 such expostulations are generally useless, we shall be 
 thankful for what we can obtain, and that in the manner 
 in which Mr. Gell has chosen to present it. 
 
 The former of these volumes, we have observed, is 
 the most attractive in tlie closet. It comprehends a 
 very full survey of the far-famed island which the hero 
 of the Odyssey has immortalized ; for we really are in- 
 clined to daink that the author has established the iden- 
 tity of the modern Theaki with the Ithaca of Homer. 
 At all events, if it be an illusion, it is a very agreeable 
 deception, and is effected by an ingenious interpretation 
 of the passages in Homer that are supposed to be de- 
 scriptive of the scenes which our traveller has visited. 
 We shall extract some of these adaptations of the an- 
 cient picture to the modern scene, marking the points of 
 resemblance which appear to be strained and forced, as 
 well as those which are more easy and natural : but we 
 must first insert some preliminary matter from the open- 
 ing chapter. The following passage conveys a sort of 
 general sketch of the book, which may give our readers 
 a tolerably adequate notion of its contents : — 
 
 " The present work may adduce, by a simple and cor- 
 rect survey of the island, coincidences in its geography, 
 in its natural productions, and moral state, before unno- 
 ticed. Some will be directly pointed out ; the fancy or in- 
 genuity of the reader may be employed in tracing others ; 
 the mind familiar with the imagery of the Odyssey will 
 recognise with satisfaction the scenes themselves ; and 
 this volume is offered to the public, not entirely without 
 hopes of vindicating the poem of Homer from the scepti- 
 cism of those critics who imagine that the Odyssey is a 
 mere poetical composition, unsupported by history, and 
 unconnected with the localities of any particular situation. 
 
 " Some have asserted that, in the comparison of places 
 now existing with the descriptions of Homer, we ought not 
 to expect coincidence in minute details ; yet it seems only 
 by these that the kingdom of Ulysses, or any other, can 
 be identified, as, if such an idea be admitted, every small 
 and rocky island in the Ionian Sea, containing a good port, 
 might, with equal plausibility, assume the appellation of 
 Ithaca. 
 
 " The Venetian geographers have in a great degree con- 
 tributed to raise those doubts which have existed on the 
 identity of the modern with the ancient Ithaca, by giving, 
 in their charts, the name of Val di Compare to the island. 
 That name is, however, totally unknown in the country, 
 where the isle is invariably called Ithaca by the upper 
 ranks, and Theaki by the vulgar. The Venetians have 
 equally corrupted the name of almost every place in 
 Greece ; yet, as the natives of Epactos or Naupactos never 
 heard of Lepanto, those of Zacynthos of Zante, or the 
 Athenians of Settines, it would be as unfair to rob Ithaca 
 of its name, on such authority, as it would be to assert 
 that no such island existed, because no tolerable represen- 
 tation of its form can be found in the Venetian surveys. 
 
 "The rare medals of the island, of which three are 
 represented in the tille-page, might be adduced as a proof 
 that the name of Ithaca was not lost during the reigns of 
 
 • Or, rather, Map ; for we have only one in the volume, and that is 
 on too small a scale to give more than a general idea of the relative posi- 
 tion of places. The excuse about a larger map not folding well is 
 trifling ; see, for instance, the author's owu map of Illiaca, 
 
 the Roman emperors. They have the head of Ulysses, 
 recognised by the pileum, or pointed cap, while the re- 
 verse of one presents the figure of a cock, the emblem of 
 his vigilance, with the legend IGAKGN. A few of these 
 medals are preserved in the cabinets of the curious, and 
 one also, with the cock, foimd in the island, is in the pos- 
 session of Signer Zavo, of Bathi. The uppermost coin ia 
 in the collection of Dr. Huiiter ; the second is copied from 
 Newman, and the third is the property of R. P. Knight, 
 Esq. 
 
 " Several i'lscripiions, which will be hereafter produced, 
 will tend to the confirmation of the idea that Ithaca was 
 inhabited about the time when the Romans were masters 
 of Greece ; yet there is every reason to believe that few, 
 if any, of the present proprietors of the soil are descended 
 from ancestors who had long resided successively in the 
 island. Even those who lived, at the time of Ulysses, in 
 Ithaca, seem to have been on the point of emigrating to 
 Argos, and no chief remained, after the second in descent 
 from that hero, worthy of being recorded in history. It 
 appears tiiat the isle has been twice colonised from Cepha- 
 lonia in modern times, and I was informed that a grant 
 had been made by the Venetians, entitling each settler in 
 Ithaca to as much land as his cuxumstances would enable 
 him to cultivate." 
 
 Mr. Gell then proceeds to invalidate the authority of 
 previous writers on the subject of Ithaca. Sir George 
 Wheeler and M. le Chevalier fall under his severe 
 animadversion; and, indeed, according to his account, 
 neither of these gentlemen had visited the island, and 
 the description of the latter is " absolutely too absurd 
 for refutation." In another place, he speaks of M. le 
 C. " disgracing a work of such merit by the introduction 
 of such fabrications;" again, of the inaccuracy of the 
 author's maps ; and, lastly, of his inserting an island at 
 the southern entry of the Channel between Cephalonia 
 and Ithaca, which has no existence. This observation 
 very nearly approaches to the use of that monosyllable 
 which Gibbon,* without expressing it, so adroitly ap- 
 plied to some assertion of his antagonist, Mr. Davies. 
 In truth, our traveller's words are rather bitter towards 
 his brother tourist : but we must conclude that their 
 justice warrants their severity. 
 
 In the second chapter, the author describes his landiitg 
 in Ithaca, and arrival at the rock Korax and the foun- 
 tain Arethusa, as he designates it with sufficient posi- 
 tiveness. — This rock, now known by the name of Korax, 
 or Koraka Petra, he contends to be the same with that 
 which Homer mentions as contiguous to the habitation 
 of Eumseus, the faitliful swine-herd of Ulysses. — We 
 shall take the liberty of adding to our extracts from 
 Mr. Gell some of the passages in Homer to which he 
 refers only, conceiving this to be the fairest method of 
 exhibiting the strength or the weakness of his argument. 
 " Ulysses," he observes, " came to the extremity of the 
 isle to visit Eumseus, and that extremity w^as the most 
 southern ; for Telemachus, coming from Pylos, touched 
 at the first south-eastern part of Ithaca with the same 
 intention." 
 
 Kai TOTS fij p' 'OSva-Tja KaKos TTo9tv i}yayt f^aifiuiv 
 Ayps in' ic7xaTi.-ijv, bdi dM/xara i'at£ o-u/jwrijj- 
 Ev3' ijXSev (piXos iiio^ 'Ofvcrcrrjosdiioio, 
 'Kk VlvXs i]iui6otvros laiv crvv vr,i iitXaLvrf 
 
 'Odvo-aw (2. 
 'AvTun lirf)v TtgoiTiqv dtCTTjv 'IOoktis AfiKrjai 
 Njja /t£V is TCoXiv brpvvai Kai Tvavras iraipovs' 
 'Avros ce rrpuiri-a (TviSairrjV ii.<ja(^i.Kzo-&ai, 
 
 K. T. X. 'Odro-o-Ef O. 
 
 These citations, we think, appear to justify the author 
 in his attempt to identify the situation of his rock and 
 fountain with the place of those mentioned by Homer. 
 But let us now follow him in the closer description of the 
 scene. — After some account of the subjects in the plate 
 affixed, Mr. Gell remarks: "It is impossible to visit 
 this sequestered spot without being struck with the re- 
 collection of the Fount of Arethusa and the rock Korax, 
 which the poet mentions in the same line, adding, that 
 
 * See his Vindication of the 15ih and 16th chapters of the Decline 
 and Fall, <ic. 
 
REVIEW OF GELL'S GEOGRAPHY OF ITHACA. 
 
 273 
 
 there tlie swine eat the sweet* acorns, and drank the 
 black water." 
 
 Ar]us Tov yt <TVi.(r(n naprjiicvov al de vzjiovrcu 
 Hap Kopaicos rrerg-q, ini Tzup-qv-r) 'AoeSsctt;, 
 Ecrflfccat j3a\avov ft-zvouiua, km i^sXav voag 
 Ihvacyaf ' 
 
 0Sv<T<7Bi- N. 
 
 " Having passed some time at the fountain, taken a 
 drawin?, and made the necessary dbservations on the situ- 
 ation of the place, we proceeded to an examination of tlie 
 precipice, climbing over the terraces above the source, 
 among tiliady fig-trees, which, however, did not prevent 
 us from feeling tlie powerful effects of the mid-day sun. 
 Afier a short but fatiguing ascent, we arrived at the rock, 
 which extends in a vast perpendicular semicircle, beauti- 
 fully fringed with trees, facing to the south-east. Under 
 tlie crag we f lund two caves of inconsiderable extent, the 
 entrance ol' one of which, not ditlicult of access, is seen 
 in the view of the fount. They are still the resort of sheep 
 and go;;ts, and in one of them are small natural recep- 
 tacle-^ for the water, covered by a staiagmitic incrustation. 
 
 "These caves, being at the e>.tremity of the curve 
 furmedby the precipice, open toward the south, and pre- 
 sent us with another accompaniment to the fount of Are- 
 thusa, mentioned by the poet, who informs us that the 
 swineherd Euni'eus left hU guests in the house, whilst 
 he, putting on a thick garment, went to sleep near the 
 herd, under the hollow of the rock, which sheltered him 
 from the northern blast. Now we know that the herd fed 
 near the fount ; for Minerva tells Ulysses that he is to go 
 first to Enmaeus, whom he should find with the swine, 
 near the rock Korax and the fount of Arethusa. As the 
 swine then fed at the fountain, so it is necessary that a 
 cavern shoul'l be ftund in its vicinity ; and this seems to 
 coincide, in distance and situation, with that of the poem. 
 Near the fount also was the fold or staihmos of Eumasus ; 
 for the goddess informs Ulysses that he should find his 
 faithful servant at or above the fount. 
 
 " Now the hero meets the swineherd close to the fold, 
 which was consequently very near that source. At the 
 top of the rock, and just above (he spot where the water- 
 fall shoots down the precipice, is at this day a stagni or 
 pastoral dwelling, which the herdsmen of Ithaca still in- 
 habit, on account of the water necessary f t their cattle. 
 One of thc'^-e people walked on the verge of the precipice 
 at the time of our visit to the place, and seemed so anxious 
 to know how we had been conveyed to the spot, that his 
 enquiries reminded us of a question probably not uncom- 
 mon in the days of Homer, who more than once repre- 
 sents the Ithacences demanding of strangers what ship 
 had brought tht^rn (o the island, it being evident they 
 could not come on iboi. He told us that there was, on the 
 summit where he stood, a small cistern of water, and a 
 kaiybea, or shepherd's hut. There are also vestiges of 
 ancient habitations, and the place is now called Araarathia. 
 
 " Convenience, as well as safety, seems to have pointed 
 out the lofty situation of Amarathia as a fit place fir the 
 residence of the herdsmen of this part of the island from 
 the earliest ages. A small source of water is a treasure 
 in these climates; and if the inhabitants of Ithaca now 
 select a rugged and elevated spot, to secure them from 
 the rubbersof the Echinades, it is to be recollected that 
 the Taphian pirates were not less formiilable, even in the 
 days of Ulysses, and that a residence in the solitary part 
 of "the island, far from the fortress, and close to a cele- 
 brated fountain, must at ail times have been dangerous, 
 without some such security as the rocks of Kcrax. In- 
 deed, there can be no doubt that the house of Eumsus 
 was on the toj) of the precipice ; for Ulysses, in order to 
 evince the truth of his story to the swineherd, desires to 
 be thrown from the summit if his narration does not prove 
 correct. 
 
 " Near the bottom of the precipice is a curious natural 
 gallery, about seven feet high, which is expressed in the 
 plate. It may be fairly presumed, from the very remark- 
 able coincidence between this place and the Homeric ac- 
 count, that this was the scene designated by the poet as 
 ihe fountain of Areihusa, and the residence of Eunifeus ; 
 and, perhaps, it would be impossible to find another spot 
 which bears, at this day, so strong a resemblance to a 
 poetic description composed at a period so very remote. 
 There is no other fountain in this part of the island, nor 
 any n^ck which bears the slightest resemblance to the 
 Korax of Homer. 
 
 " The stuhmos of the good Eumesus appears to have 
 been little difierent, either in use or consiruction, from the 
 stagni and kaiybea of the present day. The poet express- 
 ly mentions that other herdsmen drove tlieir flocks into 
 
 * " Siceer acorns.'' Does Mr. Gell translate from the Latin? To 
 RToid similar cause of mistake, ncvoiwea should not, be rendered suafew 
 but gratam, as Barnes has giviin il. 
 
 35 
 
 the city at sunset, — a custom which still prevails through 
 out Greece during the winter, and that was the season in 
 which Ulysses visited Eumjeus. Yet Homer accounts for 
 this deviation from the prevailing custom, by observing 
 that he had retired from the city to avoid the suitors of 
 Penelope. These trifling occurrences afford a strong pre- 
 sumption that the Ithaca of Homer was something more 
 than the creature of his own fancy, as some have sup- 
 posed it; for though the grand outline of a fable maybe 
 easily imagined, yet the consistent adaptation of minute 
 incidents to a long and elaborate falsehood is a task of the 
 most arduous and complicated nature." 
 
 After this long extract, by which we have endea- 
 voured to do justice to Mr. Gell's argument, we cannot 
 allow room for any farther quotations of such extent ; 
 and we must offer a brief and imperfect analysis of the 
 remainder of the work. 
 
 In the third chapter, the traveller arrives at the capi- 
 tal, and in the fourth, he describes it in an agreeable 
 manner. We select his account of the mode of cele- 
 brating a Christian festival in the Greek church : — 
 
 "We were present at the celebration of the feast of the 
 Ascension, when the citizens appeared in their gayest 
 dresses, and saluted each other in the streets with demon- 
 strations of pleasure. As we sate at breakfast in the house 
 of Zignor Zavo, we were siuldenly roused by the discharge 
 of a gun, succeeded by a u-emendous crash of pottery, 
 which fell on the tik-s, steps, and pavements, in every di- 
 rection. The bells of the numerous churches commenced 
 a most discordant jingle ; ci lours were hoisted on every 
 mast in the port, and a general shout of joy announced 
 some great event. Our host informed us that the feast of 
 the Ascension was annually commemorated in this man- 
 ner at Bathi, the populace exclaiming aves^ o Xptjoj, aKr,- 
 Oivos 0£os, Christ is risen, the true God." 
 
 In another passage, he continues this account as fol- 
 lows :— " In the evening of the festival, the inhabitants 
 danced before their houses; and at one we saw the 
 figure which is said to have been first used by the youths 
 and virgins of Delos, at the happy return of Theseus 
 from the expedition of the Cretan Labyrinth. It has now 
 lost much of that intricacy which was supposed to al- 
 lude to the windings of the habitation of the Minotaur," 
 &c. &c. This is rather too much for even the inflexi- 
 ble gravity of our censorial muscles. When the author 
 talks, with all the reality (if we may use tiie expression) 
 of a Lempriere, on the stories of the fabulous ages, we 
 cannot refrain from indulging a momentary smile ; nor 
 can we seriously accompany him in tlie learned archi- 
 tectural detail by which he endeavours to give us, from 
 the Odyssey, the ground-plot of the house of Ulysses. — 
 of which he actually offers a plan in drawing ! " show- 
 ing how the description of the house of Ulysses iii the 
 Odyssey may be supposed to correspond with the foun- 
 dations yet visible on the hill ofAito!" — Oh, Foote! 
 Foote ! why are you lost to such inviting subjects for 
 your ludicrous pencil I In his account of this cele- 
 brated mansion, Mr. Gell says, one side of the court 
 seems to have been occupied by the Thalamos, or sleep- 
 ing apartments of the men, &c. &c. ; and, in confirmaliou 
 of this hypothesis, he refers to the lOtli Odyssey, line 
 340. On examining his reference, we read, 
 
 'EsfiaAa/tov r' Uvai, Katc-tjs i7rijSi)^£Vat ivr^s' 
 where Ulysses records an invitation which he received 
 from Circe to take a part of her bed. How this illus- 
 trates the above conjecture, we are at a loss to divine : 
 but we suppose that some numerical error has occurred 
 in the reference, as we have detected a trilling mistake 
 or two of the same nature. 
 
 Mr. G. labours hard to identify the cave of Dexia, 
 near Bathi (the capital of the island), with the grotto 
 of the Nymphs described in the IS'h Odyssey. We 
 are disposed to arant that he has succeeded: but we 
 cannot here enter into th.e proofs by wliich he supports 
 his opinion ; and wo can only extract one of the con- 
 I eluding sentences of the chapter, which appears to us 
 ' candid and judicious :— 
 
274 
 
 REVIEW OF GELL'S GEOGRAPHY OP ITHACA. 
 
 " Whatever opinion may be formed as to tiie identity 
 of the cave of Dexia with the grotto of the Nymphs, it is 
 fair to Slate, that Strabo positively asserts that no such 
 cave as that described by Homer existed in his time, and 
 that geosrrapher tliought it better to assign a physical 
 change, rather than ignorance in Homer, to account for a 
 difference whicli he imagined to exist between the Ithaca 
 of his time and that of the poet. But Strabo, who was 
 an uncommonly accurate observer with respect to coun- 
 tries surveyed by himself, appears to have been wretch- 
 edly misled by his informers on many occasions. 
 
 "That Strabo had never visited this country is evident, 
 not only from his inaccurate account of it, but from his 
 citation of AppoUodorus and Scepsius, whose relations 
 are in direct opposition to each other on the subject of 
 Ithaca, as will be demonstrated on a future opportunity." 
 
 We must, however, observe that '* demonstration" is 
 a strong term. — In his description of the Leucadian 
 Promontory (of which we have a pleasing representation 
 in the plate), the author remarks that it is " celebrated 
 for the leap of Sappho, and the death of Artemisia." 
 From this variety in the expression, a reader would 
 hardly conceive that both the ladies perished in the 
 same manner: in fact, the sentence is as proper as it 
 would be to talk of the decapitation of Russell, and the 
 death of Sidney. The view from this promontory in- 
 cludes the island of Corfu ; and the name suggests to 
 Mr. Gell the following note, which, though rather irre- 
 levant, is of a curious nature, and we therefore con- 
 clude our citations by transcribing it: — 
 
 " It has been generally supposed that Corfu, or Corcyra, 
 was the Phasacia of Homer ; but Sir Henry Enslefield 
 thinks the position of that island inconsistent with the 
 voyage of Ulysses as described in the Odyssey. That 
 gentleman has also observed a number of such remarkable 
 coincidences between the courts of Alcinous and Solomon, 
 that they may be thought curious and interesting. Homer 
 was familiar with the names of Tyre, Sidon, and Egypt ; 
 and, as he lived about the time of Solomon, it would not 
 have been extraordinary if he had introduced some account 
 of the magnificence of that prince into his poem. As 
 Solomon was famous for wisdom, so the name of Alcinous 
 signifies strength of knowledge ; as the gardens of Solo- 
 mon were celebrated, so are those of Alcinous (Od. 7. 
 112.) ; as the kingdom of Solomon was distinguished by 
 twelve tribes under twelve princes (1 Kings ch. 4), so that 
 of Alcinous (Od. 8. 390) was ruled by an equal number; 
 as the throne of Solomon was supported by lions of gold 
 (1 Kings, ch. 10), so that of Alcinous was placed on dogs 
 of silver and gold (Od. 7. 91) ; as the fleets of Solomon 
 were famous, so were those of Alcinous. It is perhaps 
 worthy of remark, that Neptune sate on the mountains of 
 the SoLYMi, as he retvurned from jEthiopia to ^gss, while 
 he raised the tempest which threw Ulysses on the coast 
 of Phaeacia; and that the Solymi of Pamphilia are very 
 considerably distant from the route. — The suspicious cha- 
 racter, also, which Nausicaa attributes to her countryman 
 agrees precisely with that which the Greeks and Romans 
 gave of the Jews.'' 
 
 The seventh chapter contains a description of the 
 Monastery of Kathara, and several adjacent places. 
 The eighth, among other curiosities, fixes on an imagi- 
 nary site for the farm of Laertes : but this is the agony 
 of conjecture indeed ! — and the ninth chapter mentions 
 another Monastery, and a rock still called the school of 
 Homer. Some sepulchral inscriptions of a very simple 
 nature are included. — The tenth and last chapter brings 
 us round to the Port of Schcenus, near Bathi ; after we 
 have completed, seemingly in a very minute and accurate 
 manner, the tour of the island. 
 
 We can certainly recommend a perusal of this volume 
 to every lover of classical scene and story. If we may 
 indulge the pleasing belief that Homer sang of a real 
 kingdom, and that Ulysses governed it, though we dis- 
 cern many feeble links in Mr. Gell's chain of evidence, 
 we are on the whole induced to fancy that this is the 
 Ithaca of the bard and of the monarch. At all events, 
 Mr. Gell has enabled every future traveller to form a 
 clearer judgment on the question than he could have 
 established without such a " Vademecum to Ithaca," 
 or a " Have with you, to the House of Ulysses," as the 
 
 present. With Homer in his pocket, and Gell on his 
 sumpter-horse or mule, the Odyssean tourist may now 
 make a very classical and delightful excursion ; and we 
 doubt not that the advantages accruing to the Ithacences, 
 from the increased number of travellers who will visit 
 them in consequence of Mr. Gell's account of their 
 country, will induce them to confer on that gentleman 
 any heraldic honours which they may have to bestow, 
 should he ever look in upon them again. — Baron Bathi 
 would be a pretty title : — 
 
 " Hoc Ithacus velii, et magnomercentur AtridcB."~-YiT^\. 
 For ourselves, we confess that all our old Grecian feel- 
 ings would be alive on approaching the fountain of 
 Melainudros, where, as the tradition runs, or as tho 
 priests relate, Homer was restored to sight. 
 
 We now come to the " Grecian Patterson," or 
 " Cary," which Mr. Gell has begun to publish ; and 
 really he has carried the epic rule of concealing the 
 person of the author to as great a length as either of 
 the above-mentioned heroes of itinerary writ. We hear 
 nothing of his " hair-breadth 'scapes" by sea or land ; 
 and we do not even know, for the greater part of his 
 journey through Argolis, whether he relates what he 
 has seen or what he has heard. From other parts of 
 the book, we find the former to be the case : but, though 
 there have been tourists and " strangers" in other coun- 
 tries, who have kindly permitted their readers to learn 
 rather too much of their sweet selves, yet it is possible 
 to carry delicacy, or cautious silence, or whatever it 
 may be called, to the contrary extreme. We think that 
 Mr. Gell has fallen into this error, so opposite to that 
 of his numerous brethren. It is offensive, indeed, to 
 be told what a man has eaten for dinner, or how pathetic 
 he was on certain occasions ; but we like to know that 
 there is a being yet living who describes the scenes to 
 which he introduces us; and that it is not a mere 
 translation from Strabo or Pausanias which we are 
 reading, or a commentary on those authors. This re- 
 flection leads us to the concluding remark in Mr. Gell's 
 preface (by much the most interesting part of his book) 
 to his Itinerary of Greece, in. which he thus expresses 
 himself": — 
 
 " The confusion of the modern with the ancient names 
 of places in this volume is absolutely unavoidable ; ihey 
 are, however, mentioned in such a manner, that the reader 
 will soon be accustomed to the indiscriminate use of them. 
 The necessity of applying the ancient appellations to the 
 different routes, will be evident from the total ignorance 
 of the public on the subject of the modern names, which, 
 having never appeared in print, are only known to the 
 few individuals who have visited the country. 
 
 " What could appear less intelligible to the reader, or 
 less useful to the traveller, than a route from Chione and 
 Zaracca to Kutchukmadi, from thence to Krabata to 
 Schcenochorio, and by the mills of Peali, while every one 
 is in some degree acquainted with the names of Stympha- 
 lus, Nemea, Mycenae, Lyrceia, Lerna, and Tegea ?'' 
 
 Although this may be very true inasmuch as it relates 
 to the reader, yet to the traveller we must observe, in 
 opposition to Mr. Gell, that nothing can be less useful 
 than the designation of his route according to the ancient 
 names. We might as well, and with as much chance 
 of arriving at the place of our destination, talk to a 
 Hounslow post-boy about making haste to AugTista, as 
 apply to our Turkish guide in modern Greece for a di- 
 rection to Stymphalus, Nemea, Mycenae, &c. &c. 
 This is neither more nor less than classical affectation ; 
 and it renders Mr. Gell's book of much more confined 
 use than it would otherwise have been : — but we have 
 some other and more important remarks to make on his 
 general directions to Grecian tourists ; and we beg 
 leave to assure our readers that they are derived from 
 travellers who have lately visited Greece. In the first 
 place, Mr. Gell is absolutely incautious enough to re- 
 commend an interference on the part of English travel- 
 lers with the Minister at the Porte, in behalf of the 
 
REVIEW OP GELL'S GEOGRAPHY OF ITHACA. 
 
 275 
 
 Greeks. " The folly of such neglect (page 16. preface,) 
 in many instances, where the emancipation of a district 
 might often be obtained by the present of a snuff-box or 
 a watch, at Constantinople, and without the smallest 
 danger of exciting the jealousy of such a court as that 
 of Turkey, will be acknowledged when we are no 
 longer able to rectify the error.'' We have every rea- 
 son to believe, on the contrary, that the folly of half a 
 dozen travellers taking this advice, might bring us into 
 a war. " Never interfere with any thing of the kind," 
 is a much sounder and more political suggestion to all 
 English travellers in Greece. 
 
 Mr. Gell apologises for the introduction of " his pa- 
 noramic designs," as he calls them, on the score of the 
 great difficulty of giving any tolerable idea of the face 
 of a country in writing, and the ease with which a very 
 accurate knowledge of it may be acquired by maps and 
 panoramic designs. We are informed that this is not 
 the case with many of these designs. The small scale 
 of the single map we have already censured ; and we 
 have hinted that some of the drawings are not remarka- 
 ble for correct resemblance of their originals. The two 
 nearer views of the Gate of the Lions at Mycenae are 
 indeed good likenesses of their subject, and the first of 
 them is unusually well executed ; but the general view 
 of Mycenae is not more than tolerable in any respect ; 
 and the prospect of Larissa, &c. is barely equal to the 
 former. The view from this last place is also indiffer- 
 ent; and we are positively assured that there are no 
 windows at Nauplia which look like a box of dominos, 
 — the idea suggested by Mr. Gell's plate. We must 
 not, however, be too severe on these picturesque baga- 
 telles, which, probably, were very hasty sketches ; and 
 the circumstances of weather, &c. may have occasioned 
 some difference in the appearance of the same objects 
 to different spectators. We shall therefore return to 
 Mr. Gell's preface ; endeavouring to set him right in 
 his directions to travellers, where we think that he is 
 erroneous, and adding what appears to have been omitted. 
 In his first sentence, he makes an assertion which is by 
 no means correct. He says, " We are at present as 
 ignorant of Greece, as of the interior of Africa." 
 Surely not quite so ignorant ; or several of our Grecian 
 Mungo Parks have travelled in vain, and some very 
 sumptuous works have been published to no purpose ! 
 As we proceed, we find the author observing that 
 " Athens is now the most polished city of Greece," 
 when we believe it to be the most barbarous, even to a 
 proverb — 
 
 Tt yaiJdpBS t^k^u^ roopa ;* 
 
 is a couplet of reproach now applied to this once famous 
 city ; whose inhabitants seem little worthy of the in- 
 spiring call which was addressed to them within these 
 twenty years, by the celebrated Riga : — 
 
 Atvrs naiSzs nav EXXijvtov— /c. t. X. 
 
 lannina, the capital of Epirus, and the seat of Ali Pa- 
 cha's government, is in truth deserving of the honours 
 which Mr. Gell has improperly bestowed on degraded 
 Athens. As to the correctness of the remark concern- 
 ing the fashion of wearing the hair cropped in Molossia, 
 as Mr. Gell informs us, our authorities cannot depose : 
 but why will he use the classical term of EleulJiero- 
 Lacones, when that people are so much better known by 
 their modern name of Mainotes ? " The court of the 
 Pacha of Tripolizza" is said "to realise the splendid 
 visions of the Arabian Nights." This is true with re- 
 gard to the court : but surely the traveller ought to have 
 added that the city and palace are most miserable, and 
 form an extraordinary contrast to the splendour of the 
 
 * We write these lines from tlie recitation of the travellers to whom 
 we have alluded ; but we cannot vouch for the correctness of the Romaic. 
 
 court. — Mr. Gell mentions gold mines in Greece : he 
 should have specified their situation, as it certainly is 
 not universally known. When, also, he remarks that 
 " the first article of necessity in Greece is a firman, or 
 order from the Sultan, permitting the traveller to pass 
 unmolested," we are much misinformed if he be right. 
 On the contrary, we believe this to be almost the only 
 part of the Turkish dominions in which a firman is not 
 necessary ; since the passport of the Pacha is absolute 
 within his territory (according to Mr. G.'s own admis- 
 sion), and much more effectual than a firman. — " Mo- 
 ney," he remarks, " is easily procured at Salonica, or 
 Patrass, where the English have Consuls." It is much 
 better procured, we understand, from the Turkish go- 
 vernors, who never charge discount. The Consuls for 
 the English are not of the most magnanimous order of 
 Greeks, and far from being so liberal, generally speak- 
 ing; although there are, in course, some exceptions, 
 and Strune of Patrass has been more honourably men- 
 tioned. — After having observed that " horses seem the 
 best mode of conveyance in Greece," Mr. Gell pro- 
 ceeds : " Some travellers would prefer an English sad- 
 dle ; but a saddle of this sort is always objected to by 
 the owner of the horse, and not without reason" &c. 
 This, we learn, is far from being the case ; and, indeed, 
 for a very simple reason, an English saddle must seem 
 to be preferable to one of the country, because it is 
 much lighter. When, too, Mr. Gell calls the postilion 
 Menzilgi," he mistakes him for his betters : Serru- 
 gees are postilions ; Menzilgis are postmasters: — Our 
 traveller was fortunate in his Turks, who are hired to 
 walk by the side of the baggage-horses. They "are 
 certain," he says, "of performing their engagement 
 without grumbling." We apprehend that this is by no 
 means certain : — but Mr. Gell is perfectly right in pre- 
 ferring a Turk to a Greek for this purpose ; and in his 
 general recommendation to take a Janissary on the 
 tour: who, we may add, should be suffered to act as he 
 pleases, since nothing is to be done by gentle means, or 
 even by offers of money, at the places of accommoda- 
 tion. A courier, to be sent on before to the place at 
 which the traveller intends to sleep, is indispensable to 
 comfort : but no tourist should be misled by the author's 
 advice to suffer the Greeks to gratify their curiosity, in 
 permitting them to remain for some time about him on 
 his arrival at an inn. They should be removed as soon 
 as possible ; for, as to the remark that " no stranger 
 would think of intruding when a room is pre-occupied," 
 our informants were not so well convinced of that fact. 
 
 Though we have made the above exceptions to the 
 accuracy of Mr. Gell's information, we are most ready 
 to do justice to the general utility of his directions, and 
 can certainly concede the praise which he is desirous 
 of obtaining, — namely, " of having facilitated the re- 
 searches of future travellers, by affording that local 
 information which it was before impossible to obtain." 
 This book, indeed, is absolutely necessary to any person 
 who wishes to explore the Morea advantageously ; and 
 we hope that Mr. Gell will continue his Itinerary over 
 that and every other part of Greece. He allows that 
 his volume " is only calculated to become a book of re- 
 ference, and not of general entertainment :" but we do 
 not see any reason against the compatibility of both 
 objects in a survey of the most celebrated country of 
 the ancient world. To that country, we trust, the at- 
 tention not only of our travellers, but of our legislators, 
 will hereafter be directed. The greatest caution will, 
 indeed, be required, as we have premised, in touching 
 on so delicate a subject as the amelioration of the 
 possessions of an ally: but the field for the exercise of 
 political sagacity is wide and inviting in this portion of 
 the globe ; and Mr. Gell, and all other writers who in- 
 terest us, however remotely, in its extraordinary capa^ 
 h'dilies, deserve well of the British empire. We shall 
 
276 
 
 REVIEW OF GELL'S GEOGRAPHY OP ITHACA. 
 
 conciude by an extract from the author's work: which, 
 even if it fails of exciting that general interest which 
 we hope most earnestly it may attract, towards its im- 
 portant subject, cannot, as he justly observes, " be en- 
 tirely uninteresting to the scholar ;" since it is a work 
 " which gives him a faithful description of the remains 
 of cities, the very existence of which was doubtful, as 
 they perished before the era of authentic history." The 
 subjoined quotation is a good specimen of the author's 
 minuteness of research as a topographer ; and we trust 
 that the credit which must accrue to him from the 
 present performance will ensure the completion of his 
 Itinerary; — 
 
 " The inaccuracies of the maps of Anacharsis are in 
 many respects very glaring. The situation of Phlius is 
 marked by Strabo as surrounded by the territories of 
 Sicyon, Argos, Cleonae, and Stymphalus. Mr. Hawkins 
 observed, that Phlius, the ruins of which still exist near 
 Agios Giorgios, lies in a direct line between CleonsB and 
 Stymphalus, and another from Sicyon to Argos ; so that 
 Strabo was correct in saying that it lay between those four 
 towns ; yet we see Phlius, in the map of Argolis by M. 
 Barbie du Socage, placed ten miles to the north of Stym- 
 phalus, contradicting both history and tact. D'Anville is 
 guilty of the same error. 
 
 " M. du Bocage places a town named Phlius, and by 
 him Phlionte, on tlie point of land which forms the port 
 of Drepano : there are not at present any ruins there. 
 The maps of D'Anville are generally more correct than 
 any others where ancient geography is concerned. A mis- 
 take occurs on the subject of Tiryns, and a place named 
 by him Vathia, but of which nothing can be understood. 
 It is possible that Vathi, or the profound valley, may be a 
 name sometimes used for the valley of Barbitsa, and that 
 the place named by D'Anville Claustra may be the outlet I 
 of that valley called Kleisuura, which has a corresponding I 
 £igiiiAcati.m. I 
 
 " The city of Tiryns is also placed in two different posi- 
 tions, once by its Greek name, antl again as Tirynlhus. 
 The mistake between the islands of Pphuriaand Calaura 
 has been noticed in page ISo. The Pontinus, which D'An- 
 ville represents as a river, and the Erasinus are equally 
 ill placed in his map. There was a place called Creopolis, 
 somewhere toward Cynouria ; but its situation is not easily 
 fixed. The pons called Bucephalium and Piraus seem to 
 have been nothing more than little bays in the country 
 between Corinth and Epidaurus. The town'called Athe- 
 nae, in Cynouria, by Pausaniae, is called Anthena by 
 Thucydides, book 5. 41. 
 
 " In general, the map of D'Anville will be found more 
 accurate than those which have been published since his 
 time ; indeed the mistakes of that geographer are in ge- 
 neral such as could not be avoided without visiting the 
 country. Two errors of D'Anville may he mentioned, lest 
 the opportunity of publishing the itinerary of Arcadia 
 should never occur. The first is, that the rivers Malajtas 
 and Myiaon, near Methydiium, are represented as run- 
 ning toward the south, whereas they How northwards to 
 the Ladon ; and the second is, that the Aroanius, which 
 fails into the Erymanihus at Psophis, is represented as 
 flowing from the lake of Pheneos ; a mistake which arises 
 from the ignorance of the ancients themselves who have 
 written on the subject. The fact is that the Ladon receives 
 the waters of the lakes of Orchomenos and Pheneos : but 
 the Aroanius rises at a spot not two hours distant from 
 Psophis." 
 
 In furtherance of our principal object in this critique, 
 we have only to add a wish that some of our Grecian 
 tourists, among the fresh articles of information con- 
 cerning Greece which they have lately imported, would 
 turn their minds to the language of the country. So 
 strikingly similar to the ancient Greek is the modern 
 Romaic as a written language, and so dissimilar in 
 somid, that even a few general rules concerning pro- 
 nunciation would be of most extensive use. 
 
THE FIRST CHAPTER OF A NOVEL, 
 
 CONTEMPLATK D BY LORD EVROJf IJT THE SPRIXG OF 1812 ; (AFTERWARDS PUBLISHED IN ONE OF 
 
 MR. Dallas' novels.) 
 
 DaRrelL to g. V. 
 
 180—. 
 
 * * + * So much for your preseht pursuits. I ^\ill 
 now resume the subject of my last. How I wish you 
 were upon the spot ; your taste for the ridiculous would 
 be fliUy gratified; and if you felt inclined for more serious 
 amusement, there b no "lack of argument." Within 
 this last week our guests have been doubled in number, 
 some of them my old acquaintance. Our host you already 
 know — absurd as ever, but rather duller, and I should 
 conceive, troublesome to such of his very good friends as 
 find his house more agreeable than its owner. I confine 
 myself to observation, and do not find him at all in the 
 way, though Veramore and Asply are of a different 
 opinion. The former, in particular, imparts to me many 
 pathetic complaints of the want of opportunities (nothing 
 else being wanting to the success of the said Veramore) 
 created by the fractious and but ill concealed jealousy of 
 poor BramblebeEir, whose Penelope seems to have as 
 many suitors as her namesake, and for aught I can see to 
 the contrary, with as much prospect of carrying their 
 point. In the mean time, I look on and laugh, or rather 
 I should laugh were you present to share in it ; sackcloth 
 and sorrow are excellent wear for soliloquy ; but for a 
 laugh there should be two, but not many more, except at 
 the first night of a modern tragedy. 
 
 You are very much mistaken in the design you impute 
 to myself; I have none here or elsewhere. I am sick of 
 old intrigues, and too indolent to engage in new ones. 
 Besides, I am, that is, I used to be, apt to find my heart 
 gone at the very time when you fastidious gentlemen 
 begin to recover yours. I agree with you that the world, 
 as well as yourseUj are of a different opinion. I shall 
 never be at the trouble to undeceive either ; my follies 
 have seldom been of my o\vn seeking. " Rebellion came 
 in my way, and I found it." This may appear as cox- 
 combical a speech as Veramore could maJce, yet you 
 partly know its truth. You talk to me too of " my cha- 
 racter," and yet it is one which you and fifty others have 
 been struggling these seven years to obtain for yourselves. 
 I wish you had it, you would make so much better^ that is, 
 worse use of it ; relieve me, and gratify an ambition which 
 is unworthy of a man of sense. It has always appeared 
 to me extraordinary that you should value women so 
 highly, and yet love them so little. The height of your 
 gratification ceases with its accomplishment; you bow, 
 and you sigh, and you worship, — and abandon. For my 
 part I regard them as a very beautifiil, but inferior animal. 
 J think them as much out of place at our tables as they 
 
 would be in our senates. The whole present system, 
 with regard to that sex, is a remnant of the chivahous 
 barbarism of our ancestors ; I look upon them as gro^vn- 
 up children, but, lilie a foolish mamma, am always the 
 slave of some only one. With a contempt for the race, I 
 am ever attached to the mdividual, in spite of myself. 
 You know that, though not rude, I am inattentive ; any 
 thing but a « beau garcon." I would not hand a woman 
 out of her carriage, but I would leap into a river after her. 
 However I grant you that, as they must walk oftener out 
 of chariots than into the Thames, you gentlemen servitors, 
 Cortejos and Cicisbei, have a better chance of bein* 
 agreeable and useful: you might, very probably, do both" 
 but as you can't swim, and I can, I recommend you to 
 invite me to your first water-party. 
 
 Bramblebear's Lady Penelope puzzles me. She is 
 very beautiful, but not one of my beauties. You know I 
 admire a different complexion, but the figure is perfect. 
 She is accomplished, if her moflier and music-master 
 may be believed ; amiable, if a soft voice and a sweet 
 smile could make her so; young, even by the register of 
 her baptism ; pious and chaste, and doting on her hus- 
 band according to Bramblebear's observation; equally 
 loving, not of her husband, though rather less pious, and 
 ^ other thing, according to Veramore's ; and if raine hath 
 any discernment, she detests the one, despise& the cdier, 
 and loves — herself. That she dishkes Bramfalebear b 
 evident; poor soul, I can't blame her ; she has found \ma 
 out to be mighty weak and little-tempered; she has also 
 discovered that she married too early to know whai she 
 hked, and that there are many likeable people who would 
 have been less discordant and more creditable partners. 
 Still, she conducts herself well, and in point of good 
 humour, to admiration. A good deal of religion, {not 
 enthusiasm, for that leads the contrary way,) a prying 
 husband who never leaves her, and, as I think, a very 
 temperate pulse, will keep her out of scrapes. I am glad 
 of it, first, because, though Bramblebear is bad, I don't 
 think Veramore much better ; and next, because Bram- 
 blebear is ridiculous enough already, and it would be 
 throum away upon him to make him more so ; thirdly, it 
 would be a pity, because nobody would pity him ; and, 
 fourthly, (as Scrub says,) he would then become a melan- 
 choly and sentimental harlequin, instead of a merry, fret- 
 ful pantaloon, and I like the pantomime better as it is now 
 cast. More in my next. Yours, truly, 
 
 Darrell. 
 
PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 DEBATE ON THE FRAME-WORE BILL, IN THE HOUSE 
 OF LORDS, FEBRUARY 27, 1812. 
 
 The order of the day for the second reading of this 
 bill being read, 
 
 LORD BYRON rose, and (for the first time) ad- 
 dressed their lordships, as follows : 
 
 My Lords — The subject now submitted to your lord- 
 ships for the first time, though new to the House, is by 
 no means new to the country. I believe it had occupied 
 the serious thoughts of all descriptions of persons, long 
 before its introduction to the notice of that legislature, 
 whose interference alone could be of real service. As a 
 person in some degree connected with the suffering 
 county, though a stranger not only to this House in gene- 
 ral, but to almost every individual whose attention I pre- 
 sume to solicit, I must claim some portion of your lord- 
 ships' indulgence whilst I offer a few observations on a 
 question in which I confess myself deeply interested. 
 
 To enter into any detail of the riots would be super- 
 fluous : the House is already aware that every outrage 
 short of actual bloodshed has been perpetrated, and that 
 the proprietors of the frames obnoxious to the rioters, and 
 all persons supposed to be connected with them, have 
 been liable to insult and violence. During the short time 
 I recently passed in Nottinghamshire, not twelve hours 
 elapsed viithout some fresh act of violence ; and on the 
 day I left the county, I was informed that forty frames had 
 been broken the preceding evening, as usual, without 
 resistance and without detection. 
 
 Such was then the state of that county, and such I 
 have reason to believe it to be at this moment. But whilst 
 these outrages must be admitted to exist to an alarming 
 extent, it cainnot be denied that they have arisen from 
 circumstances of the most unparalleled distress. The 
 perseverance of these miserable men in their proceed- 
 ings, tends to prove that nothing but absolute want could 
 have driven a large, and once honest and industrious, 
 body of the people, into the commission of excesses so 
 hazardous to themselves, their famiUes, and the commu- 
 nity. At the time to which I allude, the town and county 
 were burdened with large detachments of the military ; 
 the police was in motion, the magistrates assembled ; yet 
 all the movements, civil and military, had led to — nothing. 
 Not a single instance had occurred of the apprehension 
 of any real delinquent actually taken in the fkct, against 
 whom there existed legal evidence sufficient for convic- 
 tion. But the police, however useless, were by no means 
 idle: several notorious delinquents had been detected; 
 men, liable to conviction, on the clearest evidence, of the 
 capital crime of poverty ; men who had been nefariously 
 guilty of lawfully begetting several children, whom, thanks 
 to the times ! they were unable to maintain. Considera- 
 ble injury has been done to the proprietors of the improved 
 frames. These machines were to them an advantage, 
 inasmuch as they superseded the necessity of employing 
 a number of workmen, who were left in consequence to 
 starve. By the adoption of one species of frame m par- 
 ticular, one man performed the work of many, and the 
 superfluous labourers were thrown out of employment. 
 Yet it is to be observed, that the work thus executed was 
 inferior in quality ; not marketable at home, and merely 
 
 hurried over with a view to exportation. It was called, in 
 the cant of the trade, by the name of " Spider work." 
 The rejected workmen, in the blindness of their igno- 
 rance, instead of rejoicing at these improvements in arts 
 so beneficial to mankind, conceived themselves to be 
 sacrificed to improvements in mechanism. In the foolish- 
 ness of their hearts they imagmed, that the maintenance 
 and well-doing of the industrious poor were objects of 
 greater consequence than the enrichment of a few indi- 
 viduals by any improvement, in the implements of trade, 
 which threw the workmen out of employment, and ren- 
 dered the labourer unworthy of his hire. And it must be 
 confessed that although the adoption of the enlarged ma- 
 chinery, in that state of our commerce which the country 
 once boasted, might have, been beneficial to the master 
 without being detrimental to the servant ; yet, in the pre- 
 sent situation of our manufactures, rotting in warehouses, 
 without a prospect of exportation, wdth the demand for 
 work and workmen equally diminished ; frames of this 
 description tend materially to aggravate the distress and 
 discontent of the disappointed sufferers. But the real 
 cause of these distresses and consequent disturbances 
 lies deeper. When we are told that these men are 
 leagued together not only for the destruction of their own 
 comfort, but of their very means of subsistence, can we 
 forget that it is the bitter pohcy, the destructive warfare of 
 the last eighteen years, which has destroyed their com- 
 fort, your comfort, all men's comfort? That pohcy which, 
 originating with "great statesmen now no more," has 
 survived the dead to become a curse on the living, unto 
 the third and fourth generation! These men never 
 destroyed their looms till they were become useless, 
 worse than useless ; till they were become actual impedi- 
 ments to their exertions in obtaining their daily bread. 
 Can you, then, wonder that in times hke these, when 
 bankruptcy, convicted fraud, and imputed felony are found 
 in a station not far beneath that of your lordships, the 
 lowest, though once most usefiil portion of the people, 
 should forget their duty in their distresses, and become 
 only less guilty than one of their representatives ? But 
 while the exalted offender can find means to bafHe the 
 law, new capital punishments must be devised, new- 
 snares of death must be spread for the wretched mecha- 
 nic, who is famished into guilt. These men were willing 
 to dig, but the spade was in other hands : they were not 
 ashamed to beg, but there was none to relieve them : their 
 own means of subsistence were cut off, all other employ- 
 ments preoccupied, and their excesses, however to be 
 deplored and condemned, can hardly be subject of sur- 
 prise. 
 
 It has been stated that the persons in the temporary 
 possession of frames connive at their destruction ; if this 
 be proved upon inquiry, it were necessary that such mate- 
 rial accessaries to the crime should be principals in the 
 punishment. But I did hope, that any measure proposed 
 by his majesty's government, for your lordships' decision, 
 would have had conciUation for its basis ; or, if that were 
 hopeless, that some previous inquiry, some deliberation 
 would have been deemed requisite ; not that we should 
 have been called at once without examination, and with- 
 out cause, to pass sentences by wholesale, and sign death- 
 
PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 279 
 
 warrants blindfold. But admitting that these men had no 
 cause of complaint ; that the grievances of them and 
 their employers were alike groundless ; that they deserved 
 the worst; what inefficiency, what imbecility has been 
 evinced in the method chosen to reduce them! Why 
 Were the military called out to be made a mockery of, if 
 they were to be called out at all ? As far as the differ- 
 ence of seasons would permit, they have merely parodied 
 the summer campaign of Major Sturgeon ; and, indeed, 
 ihe whole proceedings, civil and military, seemed on the 
 model of those of the Mayor and Corporation of Gar- 
 ratt. — Such marchings and countermarchings ! from 
 Nottingham to BullweD, from Bullwell to Banford, from 
 Banford to Mansfield ! and when at length the detach- 
 ments arrived at their destmations, in all "the pride, 
 pomp, and circumstance of glorious war," they came just 
 in time to \vitness the mischief which had been done, and 
 ascertain the escape of the perpetrators, to collect the 
 "spolia opima'^ in the fragments of broken frames, and 
 return to their quarters amidst the derision of old women, 
 and the hootings of children. Now, though in a free 
 "Countiy, it were to be wished that our military should 
 never be too formidable, at least to ourselves, I cannot see 
 the policy of placing them in situations where they can 
 only be made ridiculous. As the sword is the worst 
 argument that can be used, so should it be the last. In 
 this instance it has been the first ; but providentially as 
 yet only in the scabbard. The present measure will, 
 indeed, pluck it from the sheath ; yet had proper meet- 
 ings been held in the earlier stages of these riots, — had 
 the grievances of these men and their masters (for they 
 also had their grievances) been fairly weighed and justly 
 examined, I do thiidc that means might have been devised 
 to restore these workmen to their avocations, and tran- 
 ciuillity to the county. At present the county suffers from 
 ■die double infliction of an idle military, and a starving 
 population. In what state of apathy have we been 
 plunged so long, tliat now for the first time the House has 
 been officially apprized of these disturbances ! All this 
 lias been transacting vidthin 130' miles of London, and yet 
 we, ■* good easy men, have deemed full surely our great- 
 ness was a-ripening," and have sat down to enjoy our 
 foreign triumphs in the midst of domestic calamity. But 
 all the cities you have taken, all the armies which have 
 retreated before your leaders, are but paltry subjects of 
 «elf-congratulation, if your land divides against itself^ and 
 your dragoons and your executioners must be let loose 
 against your fellow-citizens. — You call these men a mob, 
 •desperate, dangerous, and ignorant ; and seem to think 
 that the only way to quiet the ^^Bellua multorum capitum" 
 is to lop off a few of its superfluous heads. But even a 
 ■mob may be better reduced to reason by a mixture of 
 conciliation and firmness, than by additional irritation and 
 redoubled penalties. Are we aware of our obligations 
 to a mob ? It is the mob that labour in your fields, and 
 serve in your houses, — that man your navy, and recruit 
 your army, — that have enabled you to defy all the world, 
 and can also defy you when neglect and calamity have 
 -driven them to despair. You may call the people a mob ; 
 but do not forget, tliat a mob too often speaks the senti- 
 ments of the people. And here I must remark, with 
 what alacrity you are accustomed to fly to the succour of 
 your distressed allies, leaving the distressed of your own 
 country to the care of Providence, or — the parish. When 
 the Portuguese suffered under the retreat of the French, 
 every aiTn was stretched out, every hand was opened, 
 from the rich man's largess to the widow's mite, all was 
 bestowed to enable them to rebuild their villages and 
 replenish their granaries. And at this moment, when 
 thousands of misguided but most unfortunate fellow- 
 countrymen are struggling with the extremes of hardships 
 and hunger, as your charity began abroad, it should end 
 at home. A much less sum, a tithe of the bounty be- 
 stowed on Portugal, even if those men (which I cannot 
 admit without inquiry) could not have been restored to 
 
 their employments, would have rendered unnecessary the 
 tender mercies of the bayonet and the gibbet. But 
 doubtless our friends have too many foreign claims to 
 admit a prospect of domestic relief; though never did 
 such objects demand it. I have traversed the seat of 
 war in the Peninsula, I have been in some of the most 
 oppressed provinces of Turkey, but never under the most 
 despotic of infidel governments did I behold such squahd 
 wretchedness as I have seen since my return in the very 
 heart of a Christian country. And what are your reme- 
 dies ? After months of inaction, and months of action 
 worse than inacti\aty, at length comes forth the grand 
 specific, the never-failing nostrum of all state physicians, 
 from the days of Draco to the present time. After feel- 
 ing the pulse and shaking the head over the patient, pre- 
 scribing the usual course of warm water and bleeding, the 
 warm water of your maukisli poHce, and the lancets of 
 your military, these convulsions must terminate in death, 
 the sure consummation of the prescriptions of all politi- 
 cal Sangrados. Setting aside tlie palpable injustice, and 
 the certain inefficiency of the bill, are there not capital 
 punishments sufficient in your statutes? Is there not 
 blood enough upon your penal code, that more must be 
 poured forth to ascend to Heaven and testify against you ? 
 How will you carry the bill into effect ? Can you com- 
 mit a whole county to their own prison ? WiU you erect 
 a gibbet in every field, and hang up men like scarecrows? 
 or will you proceed (as you must, to bring this measure 
 into effect) by decimation ? place the county under mar- 
 tial law? depopulate and lay waste all around you? and 
 restore Sherwood Forest as an acceptable gift to the 
 crown, in its former condition of a royal chase and an 
 asylum for outlaws ? Are these the remedies for a starv- 
 ing and desperate populace? Will the famished wretch 
 who has braved your bayonets, be appalled by your gib- 
 bets ? When death is a relief, and the only reUef it 
 appears that you wiU afford him, will he be dragooned 
 into tranquillity ? Will that which could not be effected 
 by your grenadiers be accomplished by your execution- 
 ers ? If you proceed by the forms of law, where is your 
 evidence? Those who have refused to impeach their 
 accomplices, when transportation only was the punish- 
 ment, will hardly be tempted to witness against them 
 when death is the penalty. With all due deference to 
 the noble lords opposite, I think a little investigation, some 
 pre\aous inquiry, would induce even them to change their 
 purpose. That most favourite state measure, so marvel- 
 lously efficacious in many and recent instances, temporiz- 
 ing, would not be without its advantages in this. When 
 a proposal is made to emancipate or relieve, you hesitate, 
 you deliberate for years, you temporize and tamper with 
 the minds of men ; but a death-bill must be passed off 
 hand, mthout a thought of the consequences. Sure I am, 
 from what I have heard, and from what I have seen, that 
 to pass the Bill under all the existing circumstances, 
 without inquiiy, without deliberation, would only be to add 
 injustice to irritation, and barbarity to neglect. The 
 framers of such a Bill must be content to inherit the 
 honours of that Athenian lawgiver whose edicts were 
 said to be written not in ink, but in blood. But suppose 
 it past ; suppose one of these men, as I have seen them, 
 — meagre with famme, sullen with despair, careless of a 
 life which your lordships are perhaps about to value at 
 something less than the price of a stocldng-frame — sup- 
 pose this man surrounded by the children for whom he is 
 unable to procure bread at the hazard of his existence, 
 about to be torn for ever from a family which he lately 
 supported in peaceful industry, and which it is not his 
 fault that he can no longer so support — suppose this man, 
 and there are ten thousand such from whom you may 
 select your victims, dragged into court, to be tried for this 
 new offence, by this new law ; still, there are two things 
 wanting to convict and condemn him ; and these are, in 
 my opinion, — twelve Butchers for a Jury, and a Jefferies 
 for a Judge ! 
 
280 
 
 PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 DEBATK ON THE EARL OF DONOUGHJIORE S MOTIOX 
 
 FOR A COMMITTEE ON THE ROMAN CATHOLIC 
 
 CLAIMS, APRIL 2], 1812. 
 
 Mr Lords — The question before the House has been 
 so frequently, fully, and ably discussed, and never perhaps 
 more ably llian on this night, that it would be difficult to 
 adduce new arguments for or against it. But vdth each 
 discussion difficulties have been removed, objections have 
 been canvassed and refuted, and some of tlie former 
 opponents of Catholic Emancipation have at length con- 
 ceded to tlie expediency of relieving the petitioners. In 
 conceding thus much, however, a new objection is started ; 
 it is not tifie time, say they, or it is an improper time, or 
 there is tmie enough yet. In some degree I concur with 
 those who say it is not the time exactly; that time is 
 passed ; better had it been for die country, that the Ca- 
 tholics possessed at this moment their proportion of our 
 privileges, that their nobles held their due weight in our 
 councils, than that we should be assembled to discuss 
 their claims. It had indeed been better 
 
 " Kon tempore tali 
 Cogere concilium cum muros obsidet hostls." 
 
 The enemy is \^itlioul, and distress within. It is too late 
 to cavil on doctrinal points, when we must unite in defence 
 of tilings more important than the mere ceremonies of 
 religion. It is indeed singular, that we are called together 
 to deliberate, not on the God we adore, for m that we are 
 agreed ; not about the king we obey, for to liim we are 
 loyal ; but how far a difference in tlie ceremonials of wor- 
 ship, how far believing not too little, but too much, (the 
 worst that can be imputed to the Catholics,) how far 
 too much devotion to their God, may incapacitate our 
 fellow-subjects from effectually serving their king. 
 
 Much has been said, within and without doors, of 
 Church and State, and although those venerable words 
 have been too often prostituted to the most despicable of 
 party purposes, we cannot hear them too often ; all, I 
 presume, are the advocates of Church and State, the 
 Church of Christ, and tiie State of Great Britain : but 
 not a state of exclusion and despotism ; not an intolerant 
 church ; not a church militant, which renders itself hable 
 to the very objection urged against the Romish commu- 
 nion, and in a greater degree, for the Catholic merely with- 
 holds its spiritual benediction, (and even that is doubtful.) 
 but our church, or rather our churchmen, not only refuse 
 to the Catholic their spiritual grace, but all temporal bless- 
 ings whatsoever. It was an observation of tlie great 
 Lord Peterborough, made uithin these walls, or within the 
 walls where the Lords then assembled, that he was for a 
 "parliamentary king and a pai'Uamentary constitution, but 
 not a parliamentary God, and a parliamentary' religion." 
 The interval of a centu.-}^ has not weakened the force of 
 the remark. It is indeed time that we should leave off 
 these petty cavils on frivolous points, these Lilliputian 
 sophistries, whether our "eggs are best broken at the 
 broad or narrow end." 
 
 The opponents of the Catholics may be divided into 
 two classes ; those who assert that the Catholics have too 
 much already, and those who allege that the lower orders, 
 at least, have nothing more to require. We are told by 
 the former, that the Catholics never vrHl be contented : 
 by the latter, that they are already too happy. The last 
 paradox is sufficiently refuted by the present, as by all past 
 petitions : it might as v.-ell be said, diat the negroes did 
 not desire to be emancipated — but this is an unfortunate 
 comparison, for you have already delivered them out of 
 the house of bondage without any petition on their part, 
 but many from their taskmasters to a contrary effect ; 
 and for myself, when I consider this, I pity the Cathohc 
 peasantry for not having the good fortune to be bom black. 
 But the Cathohcs are contented, or at least ought to be, 
 as we are told : I shall therefore proceed to touch on a 
 few of those circumstarices which so marvellously contri- 
 bute to dieir exceeding contentment. They are not 
 allowed the free exercise of their religion in the regular 
 
 army; the Catholic soldier cannot absent liimself from 
 the service of die Protestant clerg}Tnan, and, unless he is 
 quartered in Ireland, or in Spain, where can he find eligi- 
 ble opportunities of attending his own ? The permission 
 of Catholic chaplains to the Irish miUtia regiments was 
 conceded as a special favour, and not till after years of 
 remonstrance, although an act, passed in 1793, established 
 it as a right. But are the Catliolics properly protected in 
 Ireland ? Can the church purchase a rood of land where- 
 on to erect a chapel? No ; all the places of worship are 
 built on leases of trust or. sufferance from the laity, easily 
 broken and often betrayed. The moment any irregular 
 wish, any casual caprice of the benevolent landlord meets 
 widi opposition, die doors are barred against the congre- 
 gation. This has happened continually, but in no instance 
 more glaringly, than at the town of Newtown Barry, 
 in the coimty of Wexford. The CathoUcs, enjo}"ing no 
 regular chapel, as a temporary expedient, hired two bams, 
 which, being thrown into one, served for pubUc worship. 
 At tliis time diere was quartered opposite to the spot an 
 officer, whose mind appears to have been deeply imbued 
 vdth those prejudices which tlie Protestant petitions, now 
 on the table, prove to have been fortunately eradicated 
 from the more rational portion of the people ; and when 
 the CathoUcs were assembled on the Sabbath as usual, in 
 peace and good- will towards men, for the worship of their 
 God and yours, they found tlie chapel door closed, and 
 were told that if they did not immediately retire, (and 
 they were told this by a yeoman officer and a magistrate,) 
 the riot act should be read, and the assembly dispersed at 
 tlie point of the bayonet! This was complained of to 
 the middle-man of government, the secretary at the Cas- 
 tle in 1S06, and the answer was, (in lieu of redress,) that 
 he would cause a letter to be written to the colonel, to 
 prevent, if possible, the recurrence of similar disturb- 
 ances. Upon this fkct, no verj- great stress need be laid ; 
 but it tends to prove that while the Catholic church has 
 not power to purchase land for its chapels to stand upon, 
 the laws for its protection are of no avail. In the mean 
 time, the Cadiolics are at the mercy of ever}' "pelting 
 petty officer," who may choose to play his "fantastic 
 tricks before high heaven," to insult his God, and injure 
 his fellow-creatures. 
 
 Every schoolboy, any footboy (such have held com- 
 missions in our service,) any footboy who can exchange 
 his shoulderknot for an epaulet, may perform all this and 
 more against the Catholic, by virtue of that very authority 
 delegated to him by his sovereign, for the express purpose 
 of defending his fellow-subjects to the last drop of his 
 biood, without discrimination or distinction between 
 Catholic and Protestant. 
 
 Have the Irish Catholics tlie full benefit of trial by 
 jury ? They have not ; they never can have until they 
 are permitted to share the prinlege of ser^'ing as sheriffs 
 and imdersherifFs. Of this a striking example occurred 
 at the last Enniskillen assizes. A yeoman was arraigned 
 for the murder of a Catholic named Macvoumagh : three 
 respectable uncontradicted witnesses deposed that they 
 saw the prisoner load, take aim, fire at, and kill the said 
 Macvoumagh. This was properly commented on by 
 the judge ; but, to the astonishment of the bar, and 
 indignation of the court, the Protestant jury acquitted 
 the accused. So glaring was the partiality, that Mr. 
 Justice Osbome feh it his duty to bind over the acquitted, 
 but not absolved assassin, in large recognizances, thus 
 for a time taking away his license to kill Catholics. 
 
 Are the very laws passed in their favour observed? 
 They are rendered nugatory in tri\-ial as in serious cases. 
 By a late act, CathoUc chaplains are permitted in jails, 
 but in Fermanagh coimty the grand jury lately persisted 
 
 presenting a suspended clerg^-man for die office, there- 
 bv evading the statute, notwithstanding the most pressing 
 remonstrances of a most respectable magistrate, named 
 Fletcher, to the contrar}'. Such is law, such is justice, 
 for the happy, free, contented Catholic! 
 
PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 281 
 
 It has been asked in another place, why do not the 
 rich Cathohcs endow foundations for the education of the 
 priesthood ? Why do you not permit them to do so ? 
 Why are all such bequests subject to the interference, 
 the vexatious, arbitrary, peculating interference of the 
 Orange commissioners for charitable donations? 
 
 As to Maynooth college, in no instance, except at the 
 time of its foundation, when a noble Lord (Camden,) at 
 the head of the Irish administration, did appear to inte- 
 rest himself in its advancement ; and during the govern- 
 ment of a noble Duke (Bedford,) who, like his ancestors, 
 has ever been the friend of freedom and mankind, and 
 who has not so far adopted the selfish policy of the day 
 as to exclude the Catholics from the number of his fellow- 
 creatures ; with these exceptions, in no instance has that 
 institution been properly encouraged. There was indeed 
 a time when the Catholic clergy were conciliated, while 
 the Union was pending, that Union which could not be 
 carried without them, while their assistance was requisite 
 in procuring addresses from the Catholic counties ; then 
 they were cajoled and caressed, feared and flattered, and 
 given to understand that " the Union would do every 
 thing ;" but, the moment it was passed, they were driven 
 back with contempt into their former obscurity. 
 
 In the contempt pursued towards Maynooth college, 
 every thing is done to irritate and perplex — every thing 
 is done to efface the slightest impression of gratitude 
 from the Catholic mind ; the very hay made upon the 
 lawn, the fat and tallow of the beef and mutton allowed, 
 must be paid for and accounted upon oath. It is true, 
 this economy in miniature cannot be sufficiently com- 
 mended, particularly at a time when only the insect 
 defaulters of the Treasury, your Hunts and your Chin- 
 nerys, when only these "gilded bugs" can escape the 
 microscopic eye of ministers. But when you come for- 
 ward session after session, as your paltry pittance is 
 wnmg from you with wrangling and reluctance, to boast 
 of your liberality, well might the Catholic exclaim, in the 
 words of Prior, — 
 
 " To John I owe some obligation, 
 But John unluckily thinlts fit 
 To publish it to all the nation, 
 So John and I are more than quit." 
 
 Some persons have compared the Catholics to the 
 beggar in Gil Bias. Who made them beggars ? Who 
 are enriched with the spoils of their ancestors? And 
 cannot you relieve the beggar when your fathers have 
 made him such ? If you are disposed to relieve him at 
 all, cannot you do it without flinging your farthings in his 
 face? As a contrast, however, to this beggarly bene- 
 volence, let us look at the Protestant Charter Schools ; 
 to them you have lately granted 41,000Z. : thus are they 
 supported, and how are they recruited? Montesquieu 
 observes, on the English constitution, that the model may 
 be found in Tacitus, where the historian describes the 
 policy of the Germans, and adds, " this beautiful system 
 was taken from the woods ;" so in speaking of the charter 
 schools, it may be observed, that this beautiful system 
 was taken from the gipsies. These schools are recruit- 
 ed in the same manner as the Janizaries at the time of 
 their enrolment under Amurath, and the gipsies of the 
 present day, with stolen children, with children decoyed 
 and kidnapped from their Catholic connexions by their 
 rich and powerful Protestant neighbours: this is noto- 
 rious, and one instance may suffice to show in what 
 manner. The sister of a Mr. Carthy (a Catholic gen- 
 tleman of very considerable property) died, leaving two 
 girls, who were immediately marked out as proselytes, 
 and conveyed to the charter school of Coolgreny. Their 
 imcle, on being apprized of the fact, which took place 
 during his absence, appUed for the restitution of his 
 nieces, offering to settle an independence on these rela- 
 tions; his request was refused, and not till after five 
 years' struggle, and the interference of very high autho- 
 rity, could this Catholic gentleman obtain bocli his 
 
 36 
 
 nearest of kindred from a charity charter school. In 
 this manner are proselytes obtained, and mingled with 
 the offspring of such Protestants as may avail themselves 
 of the institution. And how are they taught? A cate- 
 chism is put into their hands consisting o^ I beheve, 
 forty-five pages, in which are three questions relative to 
 the Protestant religion ; one of these queries is, "Where 
 was the Protestant rehgion before Luther?" Answer, 
 "In the Gospel." The remainmg forty- four pages and a 
 half regard the damnable idolatry of Papists ! 
 
 Allow me to ask our spiritual pastors and masters, is 
 this training up a child in the way which he should go ? 
 Is this the religion of the gospel before the time of Lu- 
 ther? that rehgion which preaches "Peace on earth, 
 and glory to God ?" Is it bringing up infants to be men 
 or devils? Better would it be to send them anywhere 
 than teach them such doctrines ; better send them to 
 those islands in the South Seas, where they might more 
 humanely learn to become cannibals; it would be less 
 disgusting that they were brought up to devour the dead, 
 than persecute the living. Schools do you call them ? 
 call them rather dunghills, where the viper of intolerance 
 deposits her young, that, when their teeth are cut and 
 their poison is mature, they may issue forth, filthy and 
 venomous, to sting the Catholic. But are these the doc- 
 trines of the Church of England, or of churchmen? 
 No ; the most enlightened churchmen are of a different 
 opinion. What says Paley? "I perceive no reason 
 why men of different religious persuasions, should not 
 sit upon the same bench, deliberate in the same council, 
 or fight in the same ranks, as well as men of various 
 religious opinions, upon any controverted topic of natural 
 history, philosophy, or ethics." It may be answered that 
 Paley was not strictly orthodox ; I know nothing of his 
 orthodoxy, but who will deny that he was an ornament 
 to the church, to human nature, to Christianity ? 
 
 I shall not dwell upon the grievance of tithes, so 
 severely felt by the peasantry, but it may be proper to 
 observe that there is an addition to the burden, a per- 
 centage to the gatherer, whose interest it thus becomes 
 to rate them as highly as possible, and we know that in 
 many large livings in Ireland, the only resident Protest- 
 ants are the tithe- proctor and his family. 
 
 Among many causes of irritation, too numerous for 
 recapitulation, there is one in the militia not to be passed 
 over, I mean the existence of Orange lodges amongst the 
 privates ; can the ofTicers deny this ? And if such lodges 
 do exist, do they, can they tend to promote harmony 
 amongst the men, who are thus individually separated 
 in society, although mingled in the ranks ? And is this 
 general system of persecution to be permitted, or is it to 
 be believed that with such a system the Catholics can or 
 ought to be contented ? If they are, they belie human 
 nature ; they are then, indeed, unworthy to be any thing 
 but the slaves you have made them. The facts stated 
 are from most respectable authority, or I should not have 
 dared in this place, or any place, to hazard this avowal. 
 If exaggerated, there are plenty, as willing as I believe 
 them to be unable, to disprove them. Should it be 
 objected that I never was in Ireland, I beg leave to 
 observe, that it is as easy to know something of Ireland 
 without having been there, as it appears with some to 
 have been born, bred, and cherished there, and yet remain 
 ignorant of its best interests. 
 
 But there are, who assert that the Cathohcs have 
 already been too much indulged : see (cry they) what 
 has been done : we have given them one entire college, 
 we allow them food and raiment, the full enjoyment of 
 the elements, and leave to fight for us as long as they 
 have hmbs and lives to offer ; and yet they are never to 
 be satisfied! Generous and just declaimers ! To this, 
 and to this only, amount the whole of your arguments 
 when stript of tiieir sophistry. These personages remind 
 me of the story of a certain drummer, who being called 
 upon in the course of duty to administer punishment to 
 
282 
 
 PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 a friend tied to the halberts, was requested to flog high, 
 he did — to flog low, he did — to flog in the middle, he did 
 —high, low, down the middle, and up again, but all in 
 vain, the patient continued his complaints with the most 
 provoking pertinacity, until the drummer, exhausted and 
 angry, flung down his scourge, exclaiming, " the devil burn 
 you, there 's no pleasing you, flog where one will !" Thus 
 it is, you have flogged the Catholic, high, low, here, there, 
 and every where, and then you wonder he is not pleased. 
 It is true, that time, experience, and that weariness which 
 attends even the exercise of barbarity, have taught you 
 to flog a little more gently, but still you continue to lay 
 on the lash, and will so continue, till perhaps the rod may 
 be wrested from your hands, and applied to the backs of 
 yourselves and your posterity. 
 
 It was said by somebody in a former debate, (I forget 
 by whom, and am not very anxious to remember,) if the 
 Catholics are emancipated, why not the Jews ? If this 
 sentiment was dictated by compassion for the Jews, it 
 might deserve attention, but as a sneer against the Catho- 
 lic, what is it but the language of Shylock transferred 
 from liis daughter's marriage to Catholic emancipation 
 
 " Would any of the tribe of Barrabbas 
 
 I have it rather than a Christian." 
 
 I presume a Catholic is a Christian, even in the opi 
 nion of him whose taste only can be called in question 
 for his preference of the Jews. 
 
 It is a remark often quoted of Dr. Johnson, (whom I 
 take to be almost as good authority as the gentle apostle 
 of intolerance, Dr. Duigenan,) that he who could enter- 
 tain serious apprehensions of danger to the Church in 
 these times, would have "cried fire in the deluge." This 
 is more than a metaphor, for a remnant of these ante- 
 diluvians appear actually to have come down to us, with 
 fire in their mouths and water in their brains, to disturb 
 and perplex mankind with their whimsical outcries. 
 And as it is an infallible symptom of that distressing 
 malady with which I conceive them to be afflicted, (so 
 any doctor will inform your lordships,) for the unhappy 
 invaUds to perceive a flame perpetually flashing before 
 their eyes, particularly when their eyes are shut, (as 
 those of the persons to whom I allude have long been,) 
 it is impossible to convince these poor creatures, that the 
 fire against which they are perpetually warning us and 
 themselves, is nothing but an igyiis fatuus of their own 
 drivelling imaginations. What rhubarb, senna, or " what 
 purgative drug can scour that fancy thence ?" — It is im- 
 possible, they are given over,- theirs is the true 
 
 " Caput insanabile tribus Anticyris." 
 
 These are your true Protestants. Like Bayle, who pro- 
 tested against all sects whatsoever, so do they protest 
 against Catholic petitions, Protestant petitions, all re- 
 dress, all that reason, humanity, policy, justice, and com- 
 mon sense, can urge against the delusions of their absurd 
 delirium. These are the persons who reverse the fable 
 of the mountain that brought forth a mouse ; they are the 
 mice who conceive themselves in labour with mountains. 
 To return to the Catholics, suppose the Irish were 
 actually contented under their disabilities, suppose them 
 capable of such a bull as not to desire deliverance, ought 
 we not to wish it for ourselves ? Have we nothing to 
 gain by their emancipation ? What resources have been 
 wasted! What talents have been lost by the selfish 
 system of exclusion ! You already know the value of 
 Irish aid ; at this moment the defence of England is 
 intrusted to the Irish militia : at tliis moment, while the 
 starving people are rising in the fierceness of despair, 
 the Irish are faithful to their trust. But till equal energy 
 is imparted throughout by the extension of freedom, you 
 cannot enjoy the full benefit of the strength which you 
 are glad to interpose between you and destruction. Ire- 
 land has done much, but will do more. At this moment 
 the only triumph obtained through long years of con- 
 tinental disaster has been achieved by an Irish general ; 
 
 it is true he is not a Catholic ; had he been so, we should 
 have been deprived of his exertions ; but I presume no 
 one will assert that his religion would have impaired hia 
 talents or diminished his patriotism, though in that case 
 he must have conquered in the ranks, for he never could 
 have commanded an army. 
 
 But while he is fighting the battles of the Catholics 
 abroad, his noble brother has this night advocated their 
 cause, with an eloquence which I shall not depreciate by 
 the humble tribute of my panegyric, whilst a third of his 
 kindred, as unlike as unequal, has been combating against 
 his Catholic brethren in Dublin, with circular letters, 
 edicts, proclamations, arrests, and dispersions — all the 
 vexatious implements of petty warfare that could be 
 wielded by the mercenary guerillas of government, clad 
 in the rusty armour of their obsolete statutes. Your 
 lordships will, doubtless, divide new honours between the 
 saviour of Portugal, and the dispenser of delegates. It 
 is singular, indeed, to observe the difference between our 
 foreign and domestic policy ; if Cathohc Spain, faithful 
 Portugal, or the no less Catholic and faithful king of the 
 one Sicily, (of which, by the by, you have lately deprived 
 him,) stand in need of succour, away goes a fleet and an 
 army, an ambassador and a subsidy, sometimes to fight 
 pretty hardly, generally to negotiate very badly, and 
 always to pay very dearly for our Popish allies. But 
 let four millions of fellow-subjects pray for relief, who 
 fight and pay and labour in your behalf, they must be 
 treated as aliens, and although their "father's house has 
 many mansions," there is no resting-place for them. 
 Allow me to ask, are you not fighting for the emancipa- 
 tion of Ferdinand the Seventh, who certainly is a fool, 
 and consequently, in all probability, a bigot; and have 
 you more regard for a foreign sovereign than your own 
 fellow-subjects, who are not fools, for they know your 
 interest better than you know your own; who are not 
 bigots, for they return you good for evil ; but who are in 
 worse durance than the prison of an usurper, inasmuch 
 as the fetters of the mind are more galling than those of 
 the body. 
 
 Upon the consequences of your not acceding to the 
 claims of the petitioners, I shall not expatiate ; you know 
 them, you will feel them, and your children's children 
 when you are passed away. Adieu to that Union so 
 called, as ^^ Laicios a non lucendo" a Union from never 
 uniting, which, in its first operation, gave a death-blow 
 to tlie independence of Ireland, and in its last may be 
 the cause of her eternal separation from tliis country. If 
 it must be called a Union, it is the union of the shark 
 with his prey; the spoiler swallows up his victim, and 
 thus they become one and indivisible. Thus has Great 
 Britain swallowed up the parliament, the constitution, 
 the independence of Ireland, and refuses to disgorge even 
 a suigle privilege, although for the rehef of her swollen 
 and distempered body poUlic. 
 
 And now, my lords, before I sit down, will his majesty's 
 ministers permit me to say a few words, not on their 
 merits, for that would be superfluous, but on the degree 
 of estimation in which they are held by the people of 
 these realms. The esteem in which they are held has 
 been boasted of in a triumphant tone on a late occasion 
 within these walls, and a comparison instituted between 
 their conduct, and that of noble lords on tliis side of the 
 house. 
 
 What portion of popularity may have fallen to the 
 share of my noble friends, (if such I may presume to call 
 them,) I shall not pretend to ascertain ; but that of his 
 majesty's ministers it were vain to deny. It is, to be sure, 
 a little like the wind, " no one knows whence it cometh 
 or whither it goeth," but they feel it, they enjoy it, they 
 boast of it. Indeed, modest and unostentatious as they 
 are, to what part of the kingdom, even the most remote, 
 can they flee to avoid the triumph which pursues them ? 
 If they plunge into the midland counties, there they will 
 be greeted by the manufacturers, with ppurned petitions 
 
PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 
 
 283 
 
 in their hands, and those halters round their necks recent- 
 ly voted in their behalf, imploring blessings on the heads 
 of those who so simply, yet ingeniously contrived to re- 
 move them from their miseries in this to a better vvorld. 
 If they journey on to Scotland, from Glasgow to Johnny 
 Groat's, every where wiH they receive similar marks of 
 approbation. If they take a trip from Portpatrick to 
 Donaghadee, there will they rush at once into the em- 
 braces of four Catholic millions, to whom their vote of 
 tliis night is about to endear them for ever. When they 
 return to the metropoUs, if they can pass under Temple 
 Bar without unpleasant sensations at the sight of the 
 greedy niches over that ominous gateway, they cannot 
 escape the acclamations of the livery, and the more tre- 
 mulous, but not less sincere, applause, the blessings " not 
 loud but deep" of bankrupt merchants and doubting stock- 
 holders. If they look to the army, what wi'eaths, not of 
 laurel, but of nightshade, are preparing for the heroes of 
 Walcheren ! It is true there are few living deponents 
 left to testify to their merits on that occasion ; but a 
 " cloud of witnesses" are gone above from that gallant 
 army which they so generously and piously despatched, 
 to recruit the "noble army of martyrs." 
 
 What i^ in the course of tliis triumphal career, (in 
 which they will gather as many pebbles as Caligula's 
 army did on a similar triumph, the prototype of their 
 own,) they do not perceive any of those memorials which 
 a grateful people erect in honour of their benefactors ; 
 what although not even a signpost will condescend to 
 depose the Saracen's head in favour of the likeness of the 
 conquerors of Walcheren, they will not want a picture 
 who can always have a caricature ; or regret the omission 
 of a statue who will so often see themselves exalted in 
 effigy. But their popularity is not limited to the narrow 
 bounds of an island ; there are other countries vv'hnre 
 their measures, and, above all, their conduct to the Ca- 
 tholics, must render them pre-eminently popular. If they 
 are beloved here, in France they must be adored. There 
 is no measure more repugnant to the designs and feelings 
 of Buonaparte than Catholic emancipation; no line of 
 conduct more propitious to his projects, than that which 
 has been pursued, is pursuing, and, I fear, will be pui-sued, 
 towards Ireland. What is England without Ireland, and 
 what is Ireland without the Catholics ? It is on the basis 
 of your tyrarmy Napoleon hopes to build his own. So 
 grateful must oppression of the Catholics be to his mind, 
 that doubtless (as he has lately permitted some renewal 
 of intercourse) the next cartel will convey to this counti-y 
 cargoes of Sevres china and blue ribands, (things in great 
 request, and of equal value at this moment,) blue ribands 
 of the legion of honour for Dr. Duigenan and his minis- 
 terial disciples- Such is that well-eanied popularity, the 
 result of those extraordinary expeditions, so expensive to 
 ourselves, and so useless to our allies ; of those singular 
 inquiries, so exculpatory to the accused and so dissatis- 
 factory to the people ; of those paradoxical victories, so 
 honourable, as we are told, to the British name, and so 
 destructive to the best interests of the British nation ; 
 above all, such is the reward of a conduct pursued by 
 ministers towards the Catholics. 
 
 I have to apologize to the House, who will, I trust, 
 pardon one, not often in the habit of intruding upon their 
 indulgence, for so long attempting to engage their atten- 
 tion. My most decided opinion is, as my vote will be, in 
 favour of the motion. 
 
 DEBATE ON MAJOR CARTWRIGHT S PETITION, JUNE 
 1, 1813. 
 
 My Lords — The Petition which I now hold for the 
 purpose of presenting to the House, is one which I 
 humbly conceive requires the particular attention of your 
 lordships, inasmuch as, though signed but by a single 
 individual, it contains statements which (if not disproved) 
 demand most serious investigation. The grievance of 
 which the petitioner complains is neither selfish nor 
 
 imaginary. It is not his own only, for it has been, and 
 is still felt by numbers. No one without these walls, nor 
 indeed within, but may to-morrow be made liable to the 
 same insult and obstruction, in the discharge of an im- 
 perious duty for the restoration of the true constitution 
 of these realms by petitioning for reform in parhament. 
 The petitioner, my Lords, is a man whose long life has 
 been spent in one unceasing struggle for the liberty of 
 the subject, against that undue influence which " has in- 
 creased, is increasing, and ought to be diminished ;" and, 
 whatever difference of opinion may exist as to his politi- 
 cal tenets, few will be found to question the integrity of 
 his intentions. Even now, oppressed with years, and 
 not exempt from the infirmities attendant on his age, 
 but still unimpaired in talent, and unshaken in spirit — 
 '■''frayigas non fledes''' — he has received many a wound in 
 the combat against corruption 5 and the new grievance, 
 the fresh insult of which he complains, may inflict another 
 scar, but no dishonour. The petition is signed by John 
 Cartwright, and it was in behalf of the people and par- 
 liament, in the lawful pursuit of that reform in the 
 representation which is the best service to be rendered 
 both to parhament and people, that he encountered the 
 wanton outrage which forms the subject matter of his 
 petition to your lordships. It is couched in firm, yet 
 respectful language — in the language of a man, not re- 
 gardless of what is due to himself, but at the same time 
 1 trust, equally mindful of the deference to be paid to 
 this House. The petitioner states, among other mat- 
 ter of equal, if not greater importance, to all who are 
 British in their feelings, as well as blood and birth, that 
 on the 21st January, 1813, at Huddersfield, himself and 
 six other persons, who, on hearing of his arrival, had 
 waited on him merely as a testimony of respect, were 
 seized by a military and civil force, and kept in close 
 custody for several hours, subjected to gross and abusive 
 insinuations from the commanding officer relative to the 
 character of the petitioner ; that he (the petitioner) was 
 finally carried before a magistrate ; and not released till 
 an exammation of his papers proved that there was not 
 only no just, but not even statutable charge against him ; 
 and that, notwithstanding the promise and order from the 
 presiding magistrates of a copy of the warrant agamst 
 your petitioner, it was afterwards withheld on divers pre- 
 texts, and has never until this hour been granted. The 
 names and condition of the parties will be found in the 
 petition. To the other topics touched upon in the peti» 
 tion, I shall not now advert, from a wish not to encroach 
 upon the time of the House ; but I do most sincerely 
 call the attention of your lordships to its general con- 
 tents — it is in the cause of the parliament and people 
 that the rights of this venerable freeman have been vio- 
 lated, and it is, in my opinion, the highest mark of respect 
 that could be paid to the House, tliat to your justice, 
 rather than by appeal to any inferior court, he now com- 
 mits himself. Whatever may be the fate of his remon- 
 strance, it is some satisfaction to me, though mixed with 
 regret for the occasion, that I have this opportunity of 
 publicly stating the obstruction to which the subject is 
 liable, in the prosecution of the most lawful and imperious 
 of his duties, the obtaining by petition reform in parlia- 
 ment. I have shortly stated his complaint; the petitioner 
 has more fully expressed it. Your lordships will, I hope, 
 adopt some measure fully to protect and redress him, 
 and not him alone, but the whole body of the people 
 insulted and aggrieved in his person by the interposi- 
 tion of an abused civil, and unlawful military force, be- 
 tween them and their right of petition to their own 
 representatives. 
 
 His lordship then presented the petition from Major 
 Cartwright, which was read, complaining of the circum- 
 stances at Huddersfield, and of interruptions given to the 
 right of petitioning, in several places in the northern 
 parts of the kingdom, and wliich his lordship moved 
 should be laid on the table. 
 
284 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Several Lords having spoken on the question, 
 LORD BYRON rephed, that he had, from motives of 
 duty, presented this petition to their lordships" considera- 
 tion. The noble Earl had contended that it was not a 
 petition but a speech ; and tliat, as it contained no prayer, 
 it should not be received. What was the necessity of a 
 prayer? If that word were to be used in its proper sense, 
 
 their lordships could not expect that any man should 
 pray to others. He had only to say that the petition, 
 though in some parts expressed strongly perhaps, did not 
 contain any improper mode of address, but was couched 
 in respectful language towards their lordships ; he should 
 therefore trust their lordships would allow tlie petition to 
 be received. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 June 17, 1816. 
 
 In the year 17 — , having for some time determined on 
 a journey through countries not hitlierto much frequented 
 by travellers, I set out, accompanied by a friend whom I 
 shall designate by the name of Augustus Darvell. He 
 was a few years my elder, and a man of considerable for- 
 tune and ancient family — advantages which an extensive 
 capacity prevented him alike from undervaluing or over- 
 rating. Some peculiar circumstances in his private his- 
 tory had rendered him to me an object of attention, of 
 interest, and even of regard, which neither the reserve of 
 his manners, nor occEisional indications of an inquietude at 
 times nearly approaching to alienation of mind, could 
 extinguish. 
 
 I was yet young in life, which I had begun early ; but 
 my intimacy ^^i^h him was of a recent date : we had been 
 educated at the same schools and universitA' ; but Ms pro- 
 gress through these had preceded mine, and he had been 
 deeply initiated into what is called the world, while I was 
 yet in my noviciate. While thus engaged. I had heard 
 much both of his past and present life ; and, although in 
 these accoimts there were many and irreconcilable con- 
 tradictions, I could still gather from the whole tliat he was 
 a being of no common order, and one who, whatever pains 
 he might take to avoid remark, would still be remarkable. 
 [ had cultivated his acquaintance subsequently, and en- 
 ieavoured to obtain his friendship, but this last appeared 
 to be unatt£iinable ; whatever ciffections he might have 
 possessed seemed now, some to have been extuiguished, 
 and others to be concentred: that his feelings were acute, 
 £ had sufficient opportunities of obser\-ing: for, although 
 he could control, he could not altogether disguise them : 
 still he had a power of giving to one passion the appear- 
 ance of another in such a manner that it was difficult to 
 define the nature of what was working within him ; and 
 the expressions of his features would vary so rapidly, tliough 
 sUghtly, that it was useless to trace them to their sources. 
 It was evident that he was a prey to some cureless dis- 
 quiet ; but whether it arose from ambition, love, remorse, 
 grief, from one or all of these, or merely from a morbid tem- 
 perament akin to disease, I could not discover : there were 
 circumstances alleged which might have justified the ap- 
 plication to each of these causes ; but, as I have before 
 said, these were so contradictory and contradicted, that 
 none could be fixed upon with accuracy. Where there 
 is mystery, it is generally supposed that there must also 
 be evil : I know not how this may be, but in him there 
 certainly was tlie one, though I could not ascertain the 
 extent of the other — and felt loth, as far as regarded hira- 
 BclfJ to beUeve in its existence. My advances were re- 
 ceived with sufficient coldness ; but I was young, and not 
 easily discouraged, and at length succeeded in obtaining, 
 to a certain de;gree^ that commonplace btercourse and 
 
 moderate confidence of common and every-day concema^ 
 created and cemented by similarity of pursuit and fre- 
 quency of meeting, which is called intimacy, or friendship, 
 according to the ideas of him who uses those words to 
 express them. 
 
 DarveU had already travelled extensively, and to him I 
 had applied for information with regard to the conduct of 
 my intended journey. It was my secret wish that he 
 might be prevailed on to accompany me : it was also a 
 probable hope, founded upon the shadowy restlessness 
 which I had observed in him, and to which the animation 
 which he appeared to feel on such subjects, and his appa- 
 rent indifference to all by which he was more immediately 
 surrounded, gave fi-esh strength. This wish I first hinted, 
 and then expressed : his answer, though 1 had partly ex- 
 pected it, gave me all the pleasure of surprise — ^he con- 
 sented ; and, after the requisite airangements, we com- 
 menced our voyages. After journeying through various 
 countries of the south of Europe, our attention was turned 
 towards the east, according to our original destination ; 
 and it was in my progress tlirough those regions that the 
 incident occurred upon which will turn what I may have to 
 relate. 
 
 The constitution of DaryeW, which must, from his ap- 
 pearance, have been in early hfe more than usually robust, 
 had been for some time gradually giving way, without the 
 intervention of any apparent disease: he had neither 
 cough nor hectic, yet he became daily more enfeebled: 
 his habits were temperate, and he neither declined nor 
 complained of fatigue, yet he was e\idently wasting away : 
 he became more and more silent and sleepless, and at 
 length so seriously altered, that my alarm grew proportion- 
 ate to what I conceived to be his danger. 
 
 We had determined, on our arrival at Smyrna, on an 
 excursion to the ruins of Ephesus and Sardis, from which 
 I endeavoured to dissuade him, in his present state of in- 
 disposition — but in vain: there appeared to be an oppres- 
 sion on his mind, and a solemnity in his manner, which ill 
 corresponded with liis eagerness to proceed on what I 
 regarded as a mere party of pleasure, little suited to a 
 valetudinarian ; but I opposed him no longer — and in a few 
 days we set off together, accompanied only by a serrugee 
 and a single janizary. 
 
 We had passed half-way towards the remains of Ephe- 
 sus, leaving behind us the more fertile environs of Smyrna, 
 and were entering upon that wild and tenantless track 
 through the marshes and defiles which lead to the few huts 
 yet lingering over the broken columns of Diana — the roof- 
 less walls of expelled Christianity, and the still more recent 
 but complete desolation of abandoned mosques — when the 
 sudden and rapid illness of my companion obUged us to 
 halt at a Turkish cemetery, the turbaned tombstones of 
 which T\-ere the sole indication that human life bad ever 
 
A FRAGMENT. 
 
 285 
 
 been a sojourner in tUs wilderness. The only caravan- 
 sera we had seen was left some hours behind us ; not a 
 vestige of a town or even cottage, was within sight or 
 hope, and this " city of the dead" appeared to be the sole 
 refuge for my unfortunate friend, who seemed on the verge 
 of becoming the last of its inhabitants. 
 
 In this situation, I looked round for a place where he 
 might most conveniently repose: — contrary to the usual 
 aspect of Mahometan burial-grounds, the cypresses were 
 in this few in number, and these thinly scattered over its 
 extent : the tombstones were mostly fallen, and worn with 
 age : upon one of the most considerable of these, and be- 
 neath one of the most spreading trees, Darvell supported 
 himselfj in a half-reclining posture, with great difficulty. 
 He asked for water. I had some doubts of our being able 
 to find any, and prepared to go in search of it with hesita- 
 ting despondency — but he desired me to remain; and, 
 turning to Suleiman, our janizary, who stood by us smoking 
 with great tranquillity, he said, " Suleiman, verbana su. 
 (i. e. bring some water,) and went on describing the spot 
 where it was to be found with great minuteness, at a small 
 well for camels, a few hundred yards to the right : the 
 janizary obeyed. T said to Darvell, " How did you know 
 this?" — He replied, "From our situation; you must per- 
 ceive that this place was once inhabited, and could not 
 have been so without springs : I have also been here before." 
 " You have been here before ! — How came you never 
 to mention this to me ? and what could you be doing in a 
 place where no one would remain a moment longer than 
 they could help it?" 
 
 To this question I received no answer. In the mean 
 time, Suleiman returned with the water, leaving the ser- 
 rugee and the horses at the fountain. The quenching of 
 his thirst had the appearance of reviving him for a mo- 
 ment ; and I conceived hopes of his being able to proceed, 
 or at least to return, and I urged the attempt. He was 
 silent — and appeared to be collecting his spirits for an 
 effort to speak. He began, 
 
 " This is the end of my journey, and of my life — I came 
 here to die : but I have a request to make, a command — 
 for such my Isist words must be. — You will observe it ?" 
 " Most certainly ; but have better hopes." 
 •I have no hopes, nor wishes, but this — conceal my 
 death from every human being." 
 
 "I hope there will be no occasion; that you will re- 
 cover, and " 
 
 "Peace! it must be so: promise this." 
 «I do." 
 
 « Swear it by all that" He here dictated an oath of 
 
 great solenmity. 
 
 " There is no occasion for this — I will observe your re- 
 quest ; and to doubt me is " 
 
 " It cannot be helped, you must swear." 
 I took the oath : it appeared to relieve him. He re- 
 moved a seal-ring from his finger, on which were some I 
 Arabic characters, and presented it to me. He proceeded — | 
 
 "On the ninth day of the month, at noon precisely, (what 
 month you please, but this must be the day,) you must 
 fling this ring into the salt springs which run into the Bay 
 of Elcusis : the day after, at the same hour, you must 
 repair to the ruins of the temple of Ceres, and wait one 
 hour." 
 «Wliy?" 
 " You will see." 
 
 " The ninth day of the month, you say?" 
 « The ninth." 
 
 As I observed that the present was the ninth day of the 
 month, his countenance changed, and he paused. As he 
 sate, evidently becoming more feeble, a stork, with a snake 
 in her beak, perched upon a tombstone near us; and, with- 
 out devouring her prey, appeared to be steadfastly regard- 
 ing us. I know not what impelled me to drive it away, 
 but the attempt was useless ; she made a few circles in 
 the air, and returned exacdy to the same spot. Darvell 
 pointed to it, and smiled : he spoke — I know not whether 
 to himself or to me — but the words were only, " Tis well !" 
 " What is well ? what do you mean ?" 
 " No matter : you must bury me here this evening, and 
 exactly where that bird is now perched. You know the 
 rest of my injunctions." 
 
 He then proceeded to give me several directions as 
 to the manner in which his death might be best concealed. 
 After these were finished, he exclaimed, " You perceive 
 that bird ?" 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "And the serpent writhing in her beak ?" 
 "Doubtless: there is nothing uncommon in it; it is 
 her natural prey. But it is odd that she does not 
 devour it." 
 
 He smiled in a ghastly manner and said, faintly, "It is 
 not yet time !" As he spoke, the stork flew away. My 
 eyes followed it for a moment ; it could hardly be longer 
 than ten might be counted. I felt Darvell's weight, as it 
 were, increase upon my shoulder, and, turning to look upon 
 his face, perceived that he was dead ! 
 
 I was shocked with the sudden certainty which could 
 not be mistaken — his countenance in a few minutes be- 
 came nearly black. I should have attributed so rapid a 
 change to poison, had I not been aware that he had no 
 opportunity of receiving it unperceived. The day was 
 declining, the body was rapidly altering, and nothing re- 
 mained but to fulfil his request. With the aid of Sulei- 
 man's ataghan and my own sabre, we scooped a shallow 
 grave upon the spot which Darvell had indicated : the 
 earth easily gave way, having already received some Ma- 
 hometan tenant. We dug as deeply as the time per- 
 mitted us, and throwing the dry earth upon all that 
 remained of the singular being so lately departed, we cut 
 a few sods of greener turf from the less withered soil 
 around us, and laid them upon his sepulchre. 
 Between astonishment and grief, 1 was tearless. 
 
LETT ER 
 
 TO JOHN MURRAY ON 
 THE REV. W. L. BOWLES'S STRICTURES 
 
 ON 
 
 THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF POPE. 
 
 I '11 play at Bowles -wilh the sun and moon. 
 
 OLD SONG. 
 
 My mither 's auld, sir, and she has rather forgotten hersell in 
 speaking to ray Leddy, that canna weel bide to be contradickit, 
 (as 1 ken naebody hkes it if Ihev could help themsells.) 
 
 TALES OF MY LANDLORD, Old Mortality, vol. U. 
 
 Ravenna, February 1th, 1821. 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 In the different pamphlets which you have had the 
 goodness to send me, on tlie Pope and Bowles' contro- 
 versy, I perceive that my name is occasionally introduced 
 by both parties. Mr. Bowles refers more than once to 
 what he is pleased to consider "a remarkable circum- 
 stance," not only in his letter to Mr. Campbell, but in his 
 reply to the Quarterly. The Quarterly also and Mr. 
 Gilchrist have conferred on me the dangerous honour of 
 a quotation ; and Mr. Bowles indirectly makes a kind of 
 appeal to me personally, by saying, "Lord B}Ton, if Ae 
 ranembers the circumstance, will witness — {witness in 
 ITALIC, an ominous character for a testimony at pre- 
 sent.)* 
 
 I shall not avail myself of a " non mi ricordo" even 
 after so long a residence in Italy ; — I do " remember the 
 circumstance" — and have no reluctance to relate it (since 
 called upon so to do) as correctly as the distance of time 
 and the impression of intervening events will permit me 
 In the year 1812, more than three years after the publica- 
 tion of "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," I had the 
 honour of meeting Mr. Bowles in the house of our vene 
 rable host of " Human Life, etc." the last Argonaut of 
 Classic English poetry, and tlie Nestor of our inferior 
 race of living poets. Mr. Bowles calls this " soon after" 
 the publication ; but to me three years appear a consi- 
 derable segment of the immortality of a modern poem. 
 t recollect nothing of " the rest of the company going into 
 another room" — nor, though I well remember the topogra- 
 phy of our host's elegant and classically- furnished man- 
 sion, could I swear to the very room where the conversa- 
 tion occurred, though the "taking down the poem" seems 
 to fix it in the library. Had it been " taken up," it would 
 probably have been in the drawing-room. I presume 
 %lso that the " remarkable circumstance" took place after 
 dinner, as I conceive that neither Mr. Bowles's politeness 
 nor appetite would have allow^ed him to detain " the rest 
 of the company" standing round their chairs in the " other 
 room" while we were discussing " the Woods of Madei- 
 ra" instead of circulating its vintage. Of Mr. Bowles's 
 " good-humour" I have a full and not ungrateful recollec- 
 tion ; as also of his gentlemanly manners and agreeable 
 conversation. I speak of the whole, and not of particu- 
 lars ; for whether he did or did not use the precise words 
 printed in the pamphlet, I cannot say, nor could he with 
 accuracy. Of " the tone of seriousness" I certainly 
 recollect nothing : on the contrary, I thought Mr. Bow^les 
 rather disposed to treat the subject lightly ; for he said (I 
 have no objection to be contradicted if incorrect) that 
 
 ' He allude* to Majocchi, and the oiher Italian witnesses on the trial 
 the tiueen. 
 
 some of his good-natured friends had come to him and 
 exclaimed, " Eh 1 Bowles ! how came you to make the 
 Woods of Madeira," etc. etc. and that he had been at 
 some pains and pulling down of the poem to convince 
 them that he had never made " the Woods" do any thing 
 of the kind. He was right, and I was wrong, and have 
 been wrong still up to this acknowledgment ; fori ought to 
 have looked twice before I wrote that which involved an 
 inacciu-acy capable of giving pain. The fact was, that 
 although I had certainly before read " the Spirit of Dis- 
 covery," I took the quotation from the review. But the 
 mistake was mine, and not the review's, which quoted the 
 passage correctly enough, I believe. I blundered — God 
 knoW'S how — into attributing the tremors of the lovers to 
 the "Woods of Madeira," by which they were sur- 
 rounded. And I hereby do fully and freely declare and 
 asseverate, that the Woods did not tremble to a kiss, and 
 that the lovers did. I quote from memory — 
 
 A kiss 
 
 Stole on the list'ning silence, etc. etc. 
 
 They (the lovers) trembled, even as if the power, etc. 
 
 And if I had been aware that this declaration would have 
 been in the smallest degree satisfactory to Mr. Bowles, I 
 should not have waited nine years to make it, notwith- 
 standing that "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" 
 had been suppressed some time previously to my meeting 
 him at Mr. Rogers's. Our worthy host might indeed 
 have told him as much, as it was at his representation 
 that I suppressed it. A new edition of that lampoon was 
 preparing for the press, when Mr. Rogers represented to 
 me, that "I was now acquainted with many of the per- 
 sons mentioned in it, and with some on terms of inti- 
 macy;" and that he knew "one family in particular to 
 whom its suppression would give pleasure." I did not 
 hesitate one moment ; it was cancelled instantly ; and it 
 is no fault of mine that it has ever been republished. 
 Wh«n lleft England, in April, 1816, with no very violent 
 intentions of troubling that country again, and amidst 
 scenes of various kinds to distract my attention — almost 
 ray last act, I believe, was to sign a power of attorney, to 
 yourself, to prevent or suppress any attempts (of which 
 several had been made in Ireland) at a republication. It 
 is proper that I should state, that the persons with whom 
 I was subsequently acquainted, whose names had occur- 
 red in that publication, were made my acquaintances at 
 their own desire, or through the unsought intervention of 
 others. I never, to the best of my knowledge, sought a 
 personal introduction to any. Some of them to this day 
 I laiow only by correspondence ; and with one of those it 
 was begun by myself, in consequence, however, of a poUte 
 erbal communication from a third person. 
 I have dwelt for an instant on these circumstances 
 
ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 287 
 
 because it has sometimes been made a subject of bitter 
 reproach to me to have endeavoured to suppress that 
 satire. I never shrunk, as those who know me know, 
 from any personal consequences which could be attached 
 to its publication. Of its subsequent suppression, as I 
 possessed the copyright, I was the best judge and the sole 
 master. The circumstances which occasioned the sup- 
 pression I have now stated ; of the motives, each must 
 j udge according to his candour or malignity. Mr . Bowles 
 does me the honour to talk of " noble mind," and " gene- 
 rous magnanimity ;" and all this because " the circumstance 
 would have been explained had not the book been sup- 
 pressed." I see no " nobility of mind" in an act of sim- 
 ple justice ; and I hate the word ^^ magnanimity,^^ because 
 I have sometimes seen it applied to the grossest of impos- 
 tors by the greatest of fools ; but I would have "explained 
 the circumstance," notwithstandiag " the suppression of 
 the book," if Mr. Bowles had expressed any desire that I 
 should. As the " gallant Galbraith" says to " BaiUie Jar- 
 vie," " Well, the devil take the mistake and all that occa- 
 sioned it." I have had as great and greater mistakes 
 made about me personally and poetically, once a month 
 for these last ten years, and never cared very much about 
 correcting one or the other, at least after the first eight- 
 and-forty hours had gone over them. 
 
 I must now, however, say a word or two about Pope, of 
 whom you have my opinion more at large in the unpub- 
 lished letter on or to (for I forget which) the editor of 
 " Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine ;" — and here I doubt 
 that Mr. Bowles will not approve of my sentiments. 
 
 Although I regret having published "EngUsh Bards 
 and Scotch Reviewers," the part which I regret the least 
 is that which regards Mr. Bowles with reference to Pope. 
 Whilst I was writing that publication, in 1807 and 1808, 
 Mr. Hobhouse was desirous that I should express our 
 mutual opinion of Pope, and of Mr. Bowles's edition of 
 his works. As I had completed my outhne, and felt lazy, 
 I requested that he would do so. He did it. His fourteen 
 lines on Bowles's Pope are in the first edition of " Eng- 
 lish Bards and Scotch Reviewers ;" and are quite as 
 severe and much more poetical than my o\vn in the 
 second. On reprinting the work, as I put my name to it, 
 I omitted Mr. Hobhouse's lines, and replaced them with 
 my own, by which the work gained less than Mr. Bowles. 
 I have stated this in the preface to the second edition. It 
 is many years since I have read that poem; but the 
 (Quarterly Review, Mr. Octavius Gilchrist, and Mr. 
 Bowles himself, have been so obliging as to refresh my 
 memory, and that of the public. I am grieved to say, 
 that in reading over those lines, I repent of their having so 
 far fallen short of what I meant to express upon the sub- 
 ject of Bowles's edition of Pope's Works. Mr. Bowles 
 says that " Lord Byron knows he does not deserve this 
 character." I know no such thing. I have met Mr. 
 Bowles occasionally, in the best society in London ; he 
 appeared to me an amiable, well-informed, and extremely 
 able man. I desire nothing better than to dine in com- 
 pany with such a mannered man every day in the week : 
 but of " his character" I know nothing personally ; I can 
 only speak of his manners, and these have my warmest 
 approbation. But I never judge from manners, for I once 
 had my pocket picked by the civilest gentleman I ever 
 met with ; and one of the mildest persons I ever saw was 
 Ali Pacha. Of Mr. Bowles's " character'" I will not do 
 him tlie injustice to judge from the edition of Pope, if he 
 prepared it heedlessly ; nor the jiistice, should it be other- 
 wise, because I would neither become a literary execu- 
 tioner, nor a personal one. Mr. Bowles the individual, 
 and Mr. Bowles the editor, appear the two most opposite 
 things imaginable. 
 
 " And he himself one ——antithesis." 
 
 I won't say " vile," because it is harsh ; nor " mistaken," 
 because it has two syllables too many ; but every one 
 must fill up the blank as he pleases. 
 
 What I saw of Mr. Bowles increased my surprise and 
 regret that he should ever have lent his talents to such a 
 task. If he had been a fool, there would have been some 
 excuse for him ; if he had been a needy or a bad man, his 
 conduct would have been intelligible ; but he is the oppo- 
 site of all these ; and thinking and feeling as I do of Pope, 
 to me the whole thing is unaccountable. However, I must 
 call things by their right names. I cannot call his edition 
 of Pope a " candid" work ; and I still think that there is 
 an affectation of that quality not only in those volumes, 
 but in the pamphlets lately published. 
 
 " Wliy yet he doth deny his prisoners." 
 
 Mr. Bowles says, that" he has seen passages in his 
 letters to Martha Blount, which were never published by 
 me, and I hope never will be by others ; which are so gross 
 as to imply the grossest hcentiousness." Is this fair play ? 
 It may, or it may not be, that such passages exist ; and 
 that Pope, who was not a monk, although a catholic, may 
 have occasionally sinned in word and in deed with woman 
 in his youth ; but is this a sufficient ground for such a 
 sweeping denunciation ? Where is the unmarried Eng- 
 lishman of a certain rank of life, who (provided he has not 
 taken orders) has not to reproach himself between the 
 ages of sixteen and thirty with far more licentiousness 
 than has ever yet been traced to Pope ? Pope lived in 
 the public eye from his youth upwards ; he had all the 
 dunces of his own time for his enemies, and, I am sorry 
 to say, some, who have not the apology of dubess for de- 
 traction, since his death ; and yet to what do all their 
 accumulated hints and charges amount ; — to an equivocal 
 liaison v.'ith INlartha Blount, which might arise as much 
 from his infirmities as from his passions ; to a hopeless 
 flirtation with Lady Mary W. Montagu ; to a story of 
 Gibber's ; and to two or three coarse passages in his 
 works. Who could come forth clearer from an invidious 
 inquest on a Hfe of fifty-six years ? Why are we to be 
 officiously reminded of such passages in his letters, pro- 
 vided that they exist? Is Mr. Bowles aware to what 
 such rummaging among "letters" and "stories" might 
 lead? I have myself seen a collection of letters of 
 another eminent, nay, pre-eminent, deceased poet, so 
 abominably gross, and elaborately coarse, that I do not 
 believe that they could be paralleled in our language. 
 What is more strange, is, that some of these are couched 
 as postscripts to his serious and sentimental letters, to 
 which are taclced either a piece of prose, or some verses, 
 of the most hyperbolical indecency. He himself says, 
 that if " obscenity (using a much coarser word) be the 
 sin against the Holy Ghost, he most certainly cannot be 
 saved." These letters are in existence, and have been 
 seen by many besides myself; but would his edit^ have 
 been " candid" in even alluding to them ? Nothing would 
 have even provoked me, an indifferent spectator, to allude 
 to them, but this further attempt at the depreciation of 
 Pope. 
 
 What should we say to an editor of Addison, who 
 cited the following passage from Walpole's letters to 
 George Montagu? "Dr. Young has published a new 
 book, etc. Mr. Addison sent for the young Earl of 
 Warwick, as he was dying, to show him in what peace a 
 Christian could die ; unluckily he died of brandy : no- 
 thing makes a Christian die in peace like being maudlin ! 
 but do n't say this in Gath where you are." Suppose the 
 editor introduced it v.'ith this preface : " One circumstance 
 is mentioned by Horace Walpole, which, if true, was 
 \nAeeA flagitious. Walpole informs Montagu that Addi- 
 son sent for the young Earl of Warwick, when dying, to 
 show him in what peace a Christian could die ; but un- 
 luckily he died drunk, etc. etc." Now, although there 
 might occur on the subsequent, or on the same page, a 
 faint show of disbelief, seasoned with the expression of 
 "the same candour,^'' (the same exactly as throughout the 
 book,) I should say that this editor was either foolish or 
 false to his trust : such a story ought not to have been 
 
288 
 
 ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 admitted, except for one brief mark of crushing indigna- 
 tion \ unless it were completely proved. Why the words 
 "i/" true ?" That " if" is not a peacemaker. Why talk 
 of " Gibber's testimony" to his Ucentiousness ? To what 
 does this amount? tliat Pope, when very young, was 
 once decoyed by some noblemen and the player to a house 
 of cai-nai recreation. Mr. Bowles was not always a 
 clergyman ; and when he was a very young man, was he 
 never seduced into as much ? If I were in the humour 
 for story-telling, and relating Uttle anecdotes, I could tell 
 a much better story of Mr. Bowles than Gibber's, upon 
 much better authority, viz. tliat of Mr. Bowles himself. 
 It was not related by him in my presence, but in that of 
 a third person, whom Mr. Bowles names oftener than 
 once in the course of his replies. This gentleman related 
 it to me as a humorous and witty anecdote ; and so it 
 was, whatever its other characteristics might be. But 
 should Ij from a youthful frolic, brand Mr. Bowles with a 
 "libertine sort of love," or with "Ucentiousness?" is he 
 the less now a pious or a good man for not having always 
 been a priest ? No such thmg ; I am willing to believe 
 him a good man, almost as good a meui as Pope, but no 
 better. 
 
 The truth is, that in these days the grand " primum 
 mobile" of England is cant ; cant political, cant poetical, 
 cant religious, cant moral ; but always cant, multiphed 
 through all the varieties of hfe. It is the fashion, and 
 while it lasts will be too powerful for those who can only 
 exist by taking the tone of the time. I say cant, because 
 it is a thing of words, without the smallest influence upon 
 human actions ; the Enghsh being no wiser, no better, 
 and much poorer, and more divided among themselves, 
 as well as far less moral, than they were before the preva- 
 lence of this verbal decorum. This hysterical horror of 
 poor Pope's not very well ascertained, and never fully 
 proved amours, (for even Gibber owns that he prevented 
 the somewhat perilous adventure in which Pope was 
 embarking,) sounds very virtuous in a controversial 
 pamphlet ; but all men of the world who know what life 
 is, or at least what it w^as to them in their youth, must 
 laugh at such a ludicrous foundation of the charge of a 
 " libertine sort of love ;" while the more serious w^ill look 
 upon those who bring forward such charges upon an 
 insulated fact, as fanatics or hypocrites, perhaps both. 
 The two are sometimes compounded in a happy mix- 
 tm-e. 
 
 Mr. Octavius Gilchrist speaks rather irreverently of a 
 * second tumbler of hot white-wine negus." What does 
 he mean? Is there any harm in negus? or is it the 
 worse for being hot ? or does Mr. Bowles drink negus ? I 
 had a better opinion of him. I hoped that whatever wine 
 he drank was neat ; or at least that, like the ordinary in 
 Jonathan Wild, " he preferred punch, the rather as there 
 was nothing against it in scripture." I should be sony to 
 beUeve that Mr. Bowles was fond of negus ; it is such a 
 "candid" liquor, so like a wishy-washy compromise 
 between the passion for wme and the propriety of water. 
 But different writers have divers tastes. Judge Black- 
 stone composed his " Gommentaries," (he was a poet too 
 in his youth,) with a bottle of port before him. Addi- 
 son's conversation was not good for much till he had 
 taken a similar dose. Perhaps the prescription of these 
 two great men was not inferior to the very different one of 
 a soi-disant poet of this day, who, after wandering among 
 the hills, returns, goes to bed, and dictates his verses, 
 being fed by a by-stander with bread and butter, during 
 the operation. 
 
 I now come to Mr. Bowles's " invariable principles of 
 poetry." These Mr. Bowles and some of his con-e- 
 spondents pronounce "unemswerable ;" and they are 
 "unanswered," at least by Gampbell, who seems to have 
 been astounded by the title. The sultan of the time 
 being, offered to ally himself to the king of France, 
 because " he hated the word league :" which proves that 
 the Padishan understood French. Mr. Gampbell has no 
 
 need of my alUance, nor shall I presume to offer it ; but 
 I do hate that word '171^0^06^." What is there of 
 human, be it poetry, philosophy, wit, wisdom, science, 
 power, glory, mind, matter, life or death, which is " inva^ 
 riable?" Of course I put things cUvine out of the ques- 
 tion. Of all arrogant baptisms of a book, this tide to a 
 pamphlet appears tlie most complacently conceited. It 
 is Mr. Gampbell's part to answer the contents of this per- 
 formance, and especially to vindicate his own "Ship," 
 which Mr. Bowles most triumphantly proclaims to have 
 struck to his very first fire. 
 
 " Q,uoth he, there was a Skip ; 
 
 Now let me go, thou gray-hair'd loon, 
 
 Or roy stafif shall make thee skip ;" 
 
 It is no affair of mine, but having once begun, (certainly 
 not, by my own wish, but called upon by the frequent 
 recurrence to my name in the pamphlets,) I am like an 
 Irishman in a "row," "any body's customer." I shaJl 
 therefore say a word or two on the "Ship." 
 
 Mr. Bowles asserts that Gampbell's " Ship of the Line" 
 derives all its poetry not from " art" but from " nature.*^ 
 " Take away the waves, the winds, the sun, etc. etc. one 
 will become a stripe of blue bunting ; and the other a 
 piece of coarse canvass on three tall poles." Very true ; 
 take away " the waves," " the winds," and there will be no 
 ship at all, not only for poetical, but for any other purpose ; 
 and take away " the sun," and we must read Mr. Bowles's 
 pamphlet by candleUght. But the "poetry" of the 
 " Ship" does not depend on " the waves," etc. ; on the con- 
 trary, the "Ship of the Line" confers its own poetry upon 
 the waters, and heightens theirs. I do not deny, that the 
 " waves cmd winds," and above all " the sun," are highly 
 poetical; we know it to our cost, by the many descrip- 
 tions of them in verse : but if the waves bore only the 
 foam upon their bosoms, if the winds wafted only the 
 sea-weed to the shore, if the sim shone neither upon 
 pyramids, nor fleets, nor fortresses, would its beams be 
 equally poetical? I think not: the poetry is at least 
 reciprocal. Take away " the ship of the Une" " swing- 
 ing round" the " calm water," and the calm water becomes 
 a somewhat monotonous thing to look at, particularly if 
 not transparently clear ; witness the thousands who pass 
 by without looking on it at all. What was it attracted 
 the thousands to the launch ? they might have seen the 
 poetical " cahn water," at Wapping, or in the "London 
 Dock," or in the Paddington Ganal, or in a horsepond, or 
 in a slop-basin, or in any other vase. They might have 
 heard the poetical winds howhng through the chinks of a 
 pig-sty, or the garret-window; they might have seen the 
 sun shining on a footman's livery, or on a brass warming- 
 pasi ; but could the " calm water," or the " wind," or the 
 "sun," make all, or any of these, "poetical?" I think 
 not. Mr. Bowles admits " the ship" to be poetical, but 
 only from those accessories : now if they confer poetry so 
 as to make one thing poetical, they would make other 
 things poetical ; the more so, as Mr. Bowles calls a "ship 
 of the hne" without them, that is to say, its " masts and 
 sails and streamers," " blue bunting," and " coarse canvass," 
 and " taU poles." So they are ; and porcelain is clay, and 
 man is dust, and flesh is grass, and yet the two latter at 
 least are the subjects of much poesy. 
 
 Did Mr. Bowles ever gaze upon the sea? I presume 
 that he has, at least upon a sea-piece. Did any painter 
 ever paint the sea only, without the addidon of a ship, 
 boat, wreck, or some such adjunct ? Is the sea itself a 
 more attractive, a more moral, a more poetical object 
 with or w ithout a vessel, breaking its vast but fatiguing 
 monotony ? Is a storm more poetical without a ship ? 
 or, in the poem of the Shipwreck, is it the storm or the 
 ship which most interests? both much, undoubtedly; but 
 without the vessel, what should we care for the tempest ? 
 It would sink into mere descriptive poetry, which in itself 
 was never esteemed a high order of that art. 
 
 I look upon myself as entided to talk of naval matters, 
 at least to poets ; — with the exception of Walter Scott, 
 
ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 289 
 
 Moore, and Southey, perhaps, (who have been voyagers,) 
 I have swum more miles than all the rest of them together 
 now living ever nailed^ and have lived for months and 
 months on shipboard; and during the whole period of 
 my life abroad, have scarcely ever passed a month out 
 of sight of the ocean: besides being brought up from two 
 years till ten on the brink of it. I recollect, when an- 
 chored off Cape Sigaeum, in 1810, in an English frigate, 
 a violent squall coming on at sunset, so violent as to 
 make us imagine that the ship would part cable, or drive 
 from her anchorage. Mr. Hobhouse and myself, and 
 some officers, had been up the Dardanelles to Abydos, 
 and were just returned in time. The aspect of a storm 
 in the Archipelago is as poetical as need be, the sea 
 being particularly short, dashing, and dangerous, and the 
 navigation intricate and broken by the isles and currents. 
 Cape Sigaeum, the tumuh of the Troad, Lenmos, Tene- 
 dos, all added to the associations of the time. But what 
 seemed the most ^•poetical" of all at the moment, were 
 the numbers (about two hundred) of Greek and Turkish 
 craft, which were obliged to "cut and mn" before tlie 
 wind, from their unsafe anchorage, some for Tenedos, 
 some for other isles, some for the main, and some it might 
 be for eternity. The sight of these little scudding ves- 
 sels, darting over the foam in the twilight, now appearing 
 and now disappearing between the waves in the cloud of 
 night, with their peculiarly white sails (tlie Levant sails 
 not being of ^'-coarse canvas,''^ but of white cotton) skim- 
 ming along as quickly, but less safely than the seamews 
 which hovered over them : their evident distress, their 
 reduction to fluttering specks in the distance, their crowd- 
 ed succession, their littleness, as contending with the giant 
 element, which made our stout forty-four's teak timbers 
 (she was built in India) creak again ; their aspect and 
 their motion, all struck me as something far more " poeti- 
 cal" than the mere broad, brawUng, shipless sea, and the 
 sullen winds, could possibly have been \'s-ithout them. 
 
 The Euxine is a noble sea to look upon, and the port 
 of Constantinople the most beautiful of harbours, and 
 yet I cannot but think that the twenty sail of the line, 
 some of one hundred and forty guns, rendered it more 
 " poetical" by day in the sun, and by night perhaps still 
 more, for the Turks illuminate their vessels of war in a 
 manner the most picturesque — and yet all this is artifi- 
 cial. As for the Euxine, I stood upon the Symplegades 
 — I stood by the broken altar still exposed to the winds 
 upon one of them — I felt all the "poetry'^ of the situa- 
 tion, as I repeated the first lines of Medea ; but would 
 not that " poetry" have been heightened by the Argo ? 
 It was so even by the appearance of any merchant vessel 
 arriving from Odessa. But Mr. Bowles says, "why 
 bring your ship off the stocks ?" for no reason that I 
 know, except that ships are built to be launched. The 
 water, etc. undoubtedly heightens the poetical associa- 
 tions, but it does not make them ; and the ship amply 
 repays the obligation : they aid each other ; the water is 
 more poetical wth the ship — the ship less so without the 
 water. But even a ship, Isdd up in dock, is a grand and 
 poetical sight. Even an old boat, keel upwards, wrecked 
 upon the barren sand, is a " poetical" object, (and Words- 
 worth, who made a poem about a washing-tub and a blind 
 boy, may tell you so as well as I ;) whilst a long extent of 
 sand and unbroken water, without the boat, would be as 
 like dull prose as any pamphlet lately published. 
 
 What makes the poetry in the image of the " marble 
 waste of Tadmor,^^ or Grainger's "Ode to Solitude," so 
 much admired by Johnson ? Is it the " marble" or the 
 " waste" the artificial or the natural object '! The "waste" 
 is like all other wastes; but the '^marble" of Palmyra 
 makes the poetry of the passage as of the place. 
 
 The beautiful but barren Hymettus, the whole coast of 
 Attica, her hills and mountains, Pentehcus, Anchesmus, 
 Philopappus, etc. etc. are in themselves poetical, and 
 would be so if the name of Athens, of Athenians, and 
 her very ruins, were swept from the earth. But am I 
 
 37 
 
 to be told that the " nature" of Attica would be more 
 poetical without the "art" of the Acropolis ? of the Tem- 
 ple of Theseus ? and of the still all Greek and glorious 
 inonuments of her exquisitely artificial genius ? Ask the 
 traveller what strikes him as most poetical, the Parthe- 
 non, or the rock on v.'hich it stands ? The columns of 
 Cape Colonna, or the Cape itself? The rocks, at the 
 foot of it, or the recollection that Falconer's sMp was 
 bulged upon them. There are a thousand rocks and 
 capes, far more picturesque than those of the AcropoUs 
 and Cape Sunium in themselves ; what are they to a 
 thousand scenes in the wilder parts of Greece, of Asia 
 Minor, Switzerland, or even of Cintra in Portugal, or to 
 many scenes of Italy, and the Sierras of Spain ? But it 
 is the " art," the columns, the temples, the wrecked vessel, 
 Vvhich give them their antique and their modem poetry, 
 and not the spots themselves. Without them, the spots 
 of earth would be unnoticed and unknown ; buried, like 
 Babylon and Nineveh, in indistinct confusion, without 
 poetry, as without existence: but to whatever spot of 
 earth these ruins were transported, if they were capable 
 of transportation, like the obelisk, and the sphinx, and the 
 Memnon's head, there they would still exist in the perfec- 
 tion of their beauty, and in the pride of their poetrv. I 
 opposed, and will ever oppose, the robbery of ruins from 
 Athens, to instruct the English in sculpture ; but why did 
 I so ? The ruins are as poetical in Piccadilly as they 
 were in the Parthenon ; but the Parthenon and its rock 
 are less so without them. Such is the poetry of art. 
 
 Mr. Bowles contends, again, that the pyramids of 
 Eg}-pt are poetical, because of " the association with 
 boundless deserts," and that a "pyramid of the same 
 dimensions" would not be sublirne in "Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields ;" not so poetical, certainly ; but take away the 
 " pyramids," and what is the " desert .?" Take away 
 Stone-henge from Salisbury plain, and it is nothing more 
 than Hounslow Heath, or any other unenclosed down, li 
 appears to me that St. Peters, the Coliseum, the Pan- 
 theon, the Palatine, the Apollo, the Laocoon, the Venus 
 di Medicis, the Hercules, the dying Gladiator, the Moses 
 of Michael Angelo, and all the higher works of Canova, 
 (I have already spoken of those of ancient Greece, still 
 extant in tliat country, or transported to England,) are as 
 poetical as Mont Blanc or Mount ^tna, perhaps still 
 more so, as they are direct manifestations of mind, and 
 presuppose poetry in their very conception ; and have, 
 moreover, as being such, a something of actual life, 
 which cannot belong to any part of inanimate nature, 
 unless we adopt the system of Spinosa, that the world 
 is the deity. There can be nothing more poetical in its 
 aspect than the city of Venice : does this depend upon 
 the sea, or the ceinals ? — 
 
 " The dirt and seaweed whence proud Venice rose!" 
 
 Is it the canal which runs between the palace and the 
 prison, or the " Bridge of Sighs" which connects them, 
 that render it poetical? Is it the "Canal Grande," or 
 the Rialto which arches it, the churches which tower 
 over it, the palaces which line, and the gondolas which 
 glide over the waters, that render this city more poetical 
 than Rome itself? Mr. Bowles will say, perhaps, that 
 the Rialto is but marble, the palaces and churches only 
 stone, and the gondolas a " coarse" black cloth, throvra 
 over some planks of carved wood, with a shining bit of 
 fantastically- formed iron at the prow, ^^ without" the 
 water. And I tell him that without these the water 
 would be nothing but a clay-coloured ditch, and who- 
 ever says the contrary, deserves to be at the bottom of 
 that where Pope's heroes are embraced by the mud- 
 nymphs. There would be nothing to make the canal of 
 Venice more poetical than that of Paddington, were it 
 not for the artificial adjuncts above mentioned, although it 
 is a perfecdy natural canal, formed by the sea, and the 
 innumerable islands which constitute the site of this 
 extraordinary city. 
 
290 
 
 ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 The very Cloacae of Tarquin at Rome are as poetical 
 as Richmond Hill ; many will think more so. Take away 
 Rome, and leave the Tiber and the seven hills, in the 
 nature of Evander's time ; let Mr. Bowles, or ]\Ir. 
 Wordsworth, or Mr. Southey, or any of the other " na- 
 turals," make a poem upon them, and then see which is 
 most poetical, tlieir production or the commonest guide- 
 book which tells you the road from St. Peter's to the 
 Coliseum, and informs you what you will see by the way. 
 The ground interests in Virgil, because it ivill be Rome, 
 and not because it is Evander's rural domain. 
 
 Mr. Bowles then proceeds to press Homer into his 
 service, in answer to a remark of Mr. Campbell's, that 
 " Homer was a great describer of works of art." Mr. 
 Bowies contends, that all his great power, even in this, 
 depends upon their connexion with nature. The " shield 
 of Achilles derives its poelical interest from the subjects 
 described on it." And from what does the spear of 
 Achilles derive its interest? and the helmet and the mail 
 worn by Patroclus, and the celestial armour, and the 
 very brazen greaves of the well-booted Greeks ? Is it 
 solely from the legs, and the back, and the breast, and the 
 human body, which they enclose ? In that case, it would 
 have been more poetical to have made them fight naked ; 
 and Gully and Gregson, as bemg nearer to a state of 
 nature, are more poetical, boxing in a pair of drawers, 
 than Hector and Achilles in radiant armour, and with 
 heroic weapons. 
 
 Instead of the clash of helmets, and the rushing of 
 chariots, and the whizzing of spears, and the glancing of 
 swords, and the cleaving of shields, and the piercing of 
 breastplates, why not represent the Greeks and Trojans 
 like two savage tribes, tugging and tearing, and kicking, 
 and biting, and gnashing, foaming, grinning, and gouging, 
 in all the poetry of martial nature, unincumbered with 
 gross, prosaic, artificial arms, an equal superfluity to the 
 natural warrior, and his natural poet? Is there any 
 thing unpoetical in Ulysses striking the horses of Rhesus 
 with his bow, (having forgotten his thong,) or ^vould Mr. 
 Bowles have had him kick them with his foot, or smack 
 them with his hand, as beng more unsophisticated? 
 
 In Gray's Elegy, is there an image more striking than 
 his " shapeless sculpture ?'' Of sculpture in general, it 
 may be observed, that it is more poetical tlian nature 
 itself, inasmuch as it represents and bodies forth that 
 ideal beauty and sublimity which is never to be found in 
 actual nature. This at least is the general opinion ; but, 
 always excepting the Venus di Medicis, I differ from that 
 opinion, at least as far as regards female beauty, for the 
 head of Lady Charlemont (when I first saw her, nine 
 years ago) seemed to possess all that sculpture could 
 require for its ideal. I recollect seeing something of the 
 same kind in the head of an Albanian girl, who was 
 actually employed in mending a road in the mountains, 
 and in some Greek, and one or two Italian faces. But 
 of sublimitj/, I have never seen any thing in human nature 
 at all to approach the expression of sculpture, either in 
 the Apollo, the INloses, or other of the sterner works of 
 ancient or modern art. 
 
 Let us examine a little further this "babble of green 
 field.-," and of bare nature in general, as superior to arti- 
 ficial imagery, for the poetical purposes of the fine arts. 
 In landscape painting, the great artist does not give you 
 a literal copy of a country, but he invents and composes 
 one. Nature, in her actual aspect, does not furnish him 
 with such existing scenes as he requires. Even where 
 he presents you with some famous city, or celebrated 
 scene from mountain or other nature, it must be taken 
 from some particular point of view, and with such light, 
 and shade, and distance, etc. as serve not only to heighten 
 its beauties, but to shadow its deformities. The poetry 
 of nature alone, exactly as she appears, is not sufficient 
 to bear him out. The very sky of his painting is not the 
 portrait of the sky of nature ; it is a composition of diffe- 
 rent skies, observed at different times, and not the whole 
 
 copied from any particular day. And why ? Because 
 
 Nature is not lavish of her beauties ; they are widely 
 scattered, and occasionally displayed, to be selected with 
 care, and gathered with difficulty. 
 
 Of sculpture I have just s[)oken. It is the great scope 
 of the sculptor to heighten nature into heroic beauty, i. e. 
 in plain English, to surpass his model. When Canova 
 forms a statue, he takes a limb from one, a hand from 
 another, a feature from a third, and a shape, it may be, 
 from a fourth, probably at the same time improving upon 
 all, as the Greek of old did in embodying his Venus. 
 
 Ask a portrait painter to describe his agonies in accom- 
 modating the faces with which Nature and his sitters have 
 crowded his painting-room to the principles of his art ; 
 with the exception of perhaps ten faces in as many mil- 
 hons, there is not one which he can venture to give with- 
 out shading much and adding more. Nature, exactly, 
 simp]}-, barely nature, will make no great artist of any 
 kind, and least of all a poet — the most artificial, perhaps, 
 of all artists in his very essence. With regard to natural 
 imagery, the poets are obliged to take some of their best 
 illustrations from art. You say that " a fountain is as clear 
 or clearer than glass,^' to express its beauty — 
 
 " foils Bandusiae, spleatliclior vitro!" 
 
 In the speech of Mark Antony, the body of Caesar is 
 
 displayed, but so also is his mantle — 
 You all do know this mantle," etc. 
 
 " Look ! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through." 
 
 If the poet had said that Cassius had run his^f through 
 the rent of the mantle, it would have had more of Mr. 
 Bowles's "nature" to help it; but the artificial dagger is 
 more poetical than any natural hand without it. In the 
 sublime of sacred poetry, "Who is this that cometh from 
 Edom ? with dyed garments from Bozrah ?" Would " the 
 comer" be poetical without his " dyed garments ?" which 
 strike and startle the spectator, and identify the approach- 
 mg object. 
 
 The mother of Sisera is represented hstening for the 
 "wAeeZs 0/ his chariot." Solomon, in his Song, compares 
 the nose of his beloved to a " tower," which to us appears 
 an eastern exaggeration. If he had said, that her statue 
 was like that of " a tower," it would have been as poetical 
 as if he had compared her to a tree. 
 
 " The virtuous ^larcia towers above her sex," 
 
 is an instance of an artificial image to express a moral 
 superiority. But Solomon, it is probable, did not compare 
 his beloved's nose to a " tower" on account of its length, 
 but of its symmetry ; and, making allowance for eastern 
 hyperbole and the difficulty of finding a discreet image for 
 a female nose in nature, it is perhaps as good a figure as 
 any other. 
 
 Art is not inferior to nature for poetical purposes. What 
 makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble object of view 
 than the same mass of mob? Their arms, their dresses, 
 their banners, and the art and artificial symmetry of their 
 position and movements. A Highlander's plaid, a Mus- 
 sulman's turban, and a Roman toga, are more poetical 
 than the tattooed or untattooed buttocks of a New Sand- 
 wich savaoe, although they were described by Wilham 
 Wordsworth himself hke the "idiot in his glory." 
 
 I have seen as many mountains as most men, and more 
 fleets than the generaUty of landsmen: and, to my mind, 
 a large convoy, with a few sail of the line to conduct them, 
 is as noble and as poetical a prospect as all that inanimate 
 nature can produce. I prefer the " mast of some great 
 ammiral,' with all its tackle, to the Scotch fir or the Alpine 
 tannen : and think that more poetry has been made out of 
 it. In what does the infinite superiority of "Falconer's 
 Shipwreck," over all other shipwrecks, consist ? In his 
 admirable application of the terms of his art; in a poet- 
 sailor's description of the sailor's fate. These very terms, 
 by his application, make the strength and reaUty of his 
 poem. Why ? because he was a poet, and in the hands 
 
ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 291 
 
 of a poet art will not be found less ornamental than nature. 
 It is precisely in general nature, and in stepping out of 
 his element, that Falconer fails ; where he digresses to 
 speak of ancient Greece, and "such branches of learning." 
 In Dyer's Grongar Hill, upon which his fame rests, the 
 very appearance of Nature herself is moralized into an 
 artificial image : 
 
 " Thus is Nature's vesture wrought, 
 To instruct our wandering thought ; 
 Thus she dresses green and gay, 
 To disperse our cares away." 
 
 And here also we have the telescope, the misuse of 
 which, from Milton, has rendered Mr. Bowles so tri- 
 umphant over Mr. Campbell: 
 
 " So we mistake the future's face, 
 Eyed through Hope's deluding glass." 
 
 And here a word, en passant, to Mr. Campbell : 
 
 " As yon summits, soft and fair, 
 Clad in colours of the air, 
 Which, to those who journey near, 
 Barren, brown, and rough appear, 
 Still we tread the same coarse way — 
 The present's still a cloudy day." 
 
 Is not this the original of the far-famed, 
 
 " 'T is distance lends enchantment to the view. 
 And robes the mountain in its azure hue ?" 
 
 To return once more to the sea. Let any one look on 
 the long wall of Malamocco, which curbs the Adriatic, and 
 pronounce between the sea and its master. Surely that 
 Roman work, (I mean Romanin conception and perform- 
 ance,) which says to the ocean, " thus far shalt thou come, 
 and no further," and is obeyed, is not less sublime and 
 poetical than the angry waves which vainly break be 
 neath it. 
 
 Mr. Bowles malces the chief part of a ship's poesy 
 depend on the " wind :" then why is a ship under sail more 
 poetical than a hog in a high wind ? The hog is all nature, 
 the ship is all art, " coarse canvas," " blue bunting," and 
 " tall poles ;" both are violently acted upon by the wind, 
 tossed here and there, to and fi-o ; and yet nothing but 
 excess of hunger could make me look upon the pig as the 
 more poetical of the two, and then only in the shape of a 
 oriskin. 
 
 Will Mr. Bowles tell us that the poetry of an aqueduct 
 ronsists in the waler which it conveys ? Let him look on 
 that of Justinian, on those of Rome, Constantinople, Lisbon, 
 and Elvas, or even at the remains of that in Attica. 
 
 We are asked "what makes the venerable towers of 
 Westminster Abbey more poetical, as objects, than the 
 tower for the manufactory of patent shot, surrounded by 
 
 the 
 
 same scenerv .' 
 
 ?" I will answer — the architecture. 
 
 Turn Westminster Abbey, or Saint Paul's, into a powder 
 magazine, their poetry, as objects, remains the same ; the 
 Parthenon was actually converted into one by the Turks, 
 during Morosini's Venetian siege, and part of it destroyed 
 in consequence. Cromwell's dragoons stalled their steeds 
 in Worcester cathedral ; was it less poetical, as an ob- 
 ject, than before ? Ask a foreigner on his approach to 
 London, what strikes him as the most poetical of the 
 towers before him ; he will point out St. Paul's and West- 
 minster Abbey, without, perhaps, knowing the names or 
 associations of cither, and pass over the " tower for patent 
 Bhot,'' not that, for any thing he knows to the contrary, it 
 might not be the mausoleum of a monarch, or a Waterloo 
 column, or a Trafalgar monument, but because its archi- 
 tecture is obviously inferior. 
 
 To the question, "whether the description of a game of 
 cards be as poetical, supposing the execution of the artists 
 equal, as a description of a v/alk in a forest ?" it may be 
 answered, that the materials are certainly not equal ; but 
 that "the artist^'^ who has rendered the "game of cards 
 poetical," is by far the greater of the two. But all this 
 "ordering" of poets is purely arbitrary on the part of Mr. 
 Bowles. There may or may not be, in fact, different 
 * orders" of poetry, but the poet is always ranked according 
 
 to his execution, and not according to his branch of 
 
 the art. 
 
 'I'ragedy is one of the highest presumed orders. Hughes 
 has written a tragedy, and a veiy successful one ; Fenton 
 another; and Pofie none. Did any man, however, — will 
 even Mr. Bowles himself rank Hughes and Fenton as poets 
 above Pope! Was even Addison, (the author of Cato,) 
 or Rowe (one of the higher order of dramatists, as far as 
 success goes,) or Yoimg, or even Otway and Southerne, 
 ever raised for a moment to the same rank with Pope in 
 the estimation of the reader or the critic, before his death 
 or since ? If Mr. Bowles will contend for classifications 
 of this kind, let him recollect that descriptive poetry has 
 been ranked as among the lowest branches of the art, and 
 description as a mere ornament, but which should never 
 form " the subject" of a poem. The Italians, with the 
 most poetical language, and the most fastidious taste in 
 Europe, possess now five great poets, they say, Dante, 
 Petrarch, Ariosto, Tasso, and lastly Alfieri ; and whom do 
 they esteem one of the highest of these, and some of them 
 the very highest? Petrarch, the sonnetteer : it is true that 
 some of his Canzoni are not less esteemed, but not more-, 
 who ever dream.s of his Latin Africa ? . 
 
 Were Petrarch to be ranked according to the " order" 
 of his compositions, where would the best of sonnets place 
 him ? with Dante and the others ? No : but, as I have 
 before said, the poet who executeshest is the highest, what- 
 ever his department, and will ever be so rated in the 
 world s esteem. 
 
 Had Gray written not'ning but his Elegy, high as he 
 stands, I am not sure that he would not stand higher ; it 
 is the corner-stone of his glory ; without it, his odes would 
 be insutficient for his fame. The depreciation of Pope is 
 partly founded upon a false idea of the dignity of his order 
 of poetry, to which he has partly contributed by the in- 
 genuous boast, 
 
 " That not in fancy's maze he wander'd long, 
 But stoop'd to truth, and moralized his song." 
 
 Pie should have written " rose to truth." In my mind, the 
 highest of all poetry is ethical poetry, as the highest of all 
 earthly objects must be moral truth. Religion does not 
 make a part of mv subject ; it is something beyond human 
 powers, and has failed in all human hands except Milton's 
 and Dante's, and even Dante's powers are involved in the 
 delineation of human passions, though in supernatural cir- 
 cumstances. What made Socrates the greatest of men? 
 His moral truth — his ethics. What proved Jesus Christ 
 the Son of God hardly less than his miracles ? Hi's moral 
 precepts. And if ethics have made a philosopher the first 
 of men, and have not been disdained as an adjunct to his 
 gospel by the Deity himself, are we to be told that ethical 
 poetry, or didactic poetry, or by whatever name you term 
 it, whose object is to make men better and wiser, is not 
 the very first order of poetry ? and are we to be told ttiis 
 too by one of the priesthood ') It requires more mind, 
 more wisdom, more power, than all the " forests" that ever 
 were " walked" for their " description," and all the epics 
 that ever were founded upon fields of buttle. The 
 Georgics are indisputably, and, I believe, undisputedly, 
 even a finer poem than the vEneid. Virgil knew this ; he 
 did not order them to be burnt. 
 
 " The properstudy of mankind is man." 
 
 It is the fashion of the day to lay great stress upon what 
 they call "imagination" and "invention," the two com- 
 monest of qualities : an Irish peasant, with a little whisky 
 in his head, will imagine and invent more than would fur- 
 nish forth a modern poem. If Lucretius had not been 
 spoiled by the Epicurean system, we should have had a 
 far superior poem to any now in existence. As mere 
 poetry, it is the first of Latin poems. What then has 
 ruined it? His ethics. Pope has not tliis defect ; his moral 
 is as pure as his poetry is glorious. In speaking of arti- 
 ficial objects, I have omitted to touch upon one which I 
 will new mention. Cannon may he presumed to be as 
 
292 
 
 ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 highly poetical as art can make her objects. Mr. Bowles 
 will, perhaps, tell me that this is because they resemble 
 that grand natural article of sound in heaven, and simile 
 upon earth — thunder. I shall be told triumphcmtly, that 
 Milton made sad work with his artillery, when he armed 
 his devils therewithal. He did so ; and this artificial ob- 
 ject must have had much of the sublime to attract his 
 attention for such a conllict. He has made an absurd use 
 of it : but the absurdity consists not in using cannon against 
 the angels of God, but any viatericd weapon. The thun- 
 der of the clouds would have been as ridiculous and vain 
 in the hands of the devils, as the " villanoa<? saltpetre :" 
 the angels were as impervious to the one as to the other. 
 The thunderbolts became sublime in the handsof the Al- 
 mighty, not as such, but because he deigns to use them as 
 a means of repelling the rebel spirits; but no one can at- 
 tribute tJieir defeat to this grand piece of natural electri- 
 city: the Almighty willed, and they fell; his word would 
 have been enough; and IVIilton is as absurd (and in fact, 
 blasphemous) in putting material lightnings into the hands 
 of the Godhead as in giving huii hands at all. 
 
 The artillery of the demons was but the first step of 
 his mistake, tlie thunder the next, and it is a step lower. 
 It would have been fit for Jove, but not for Jehovah. 
 The subject altogether was essentially unpoetical ; he 
 has made more of it than another could, but it is beyond 
 him and all men. 
 
 In a portion of his reply, Mr. Bowles asserts that 
 Pope " envied PhiUips" because he quizzed his pastorals 
 b the Guardian, in that most admirable model of irony, 
 his paper on the subject. If there was any thing envi- 
 able about Phillips, it could hardly be his pastorals. 
 They were despicable, and Pope expressed his contempt. 
 If Mr. Fitzgerald published a volume of sonnets, or a 
 "Spirit of Discovery." or a "Missionary," and Mr. 
 Bowles wrote in any periodical journal an ironical paper 
 upon them, would this be " env^ ?" The authors of the 
 " Rejected Addresses" have ridiculed the sixteen or twenty 
 " first living poets'' of the dav : but do they " envV' them ? 
 "Envy" writhes, it don't laugh. The authors of the 
 "Rejected Addresses"' may despise some, but they can 
 hardly " envT'" any of the persons whom they have paro- 
 died ; and Pope could have no more envied Phillips than 
 he did Welsted, or Theobalds, or Smedly, or any other 
 given hero of the Dunciad. He could not have envied 
 him, even had he himself not been the greatest poet of 
 his age. Did Mr. Ings " envy" Mr. Phillips, when he 
 asked Ifim, " how came your PjTrhus to drive oxen, and 
 say, I am goaded on by love ?" This question silenced 
 poor Phillips ; but it no more proceeded from " envy" 
 than did Pope's ridicule. Did he envj' Swift 7 Did he 
 envy Bolmgbroke ? Did he envy Gay the unparalleled 
 success of his " Beggars' Opera?" We may be answered 
 that these were his friends — true ; but does friendship 
 prevent eniy 7 Study the first woman you meet with, 
 or the first scribbler, let Mr. Bowies himself (wiiom I 
 acquit fully of such aii odious quality) study some of 
 his own poetical intimates : the most envious man I 
 ever heard of is a poet, and a high one ; besides it is an 
 umverscd passion. Goldsmith envied not only the pup- 
 pets for their dancing, and broke his shins in the attempt 
 at rivalry, but was seriously angry because two pretty 
 women received more attention than he did. l^his is 
 envy ; but where does Pope show a sign of the passion ? 
 In that case, Drvden envied the hero of his Mac Fleck- 
 noe. Mr. Bowles compares, when and where he can. 
 Pope with Cowper, (the same Cowper whom, in his 
 edition of Pope, he laughs at for his attachment to an 
 old woman, Mrs. Unwin: search and you will find it; I 
 remember the passage, though not the page ;) in parti- 
 cular he re-quotes Cowper's Dutch delineation of a wood, 
 drawn up like a seedsman's catalogue.* with an affected 
 
 • I will submit to Mr. Bowles's own judgment a passage from another 
 poem of Cowper's, to be compared with the same writer's Sylvan Sam- 
 pler. Id the lines 10 Mnry, 
 
 imitation of Milton's style, as burlesque as the * Splendid 
 Shilling." These two writers (for Cowper is no poet) 
 come into comparison in one great work — the translation 
 of Homer. Now, with all the great, and manifest, and 
 manifold, and reproved, and acknowledged, and uncon- 
 troverted faults of Pope's translation, and all the scholar- 
 ship, and pains, and lime, and trouble, and blank verse 
 of the other, who can ever read Cowper? and who wUl 
 ever lay down Pope, unless for the original ? Pope's wa3 
 " not Homer, it was Spondanus ;" but Cowper's is not 
 Homer, either, it is not even Cowper. As a child I first 
 read Pope's Homer with a rapture which no subsequent 
 work could ever afford ; and children are not the worst 
 judges of their own language. As a boy I read Homer 
 in the original, as we have all done, some of us by force, 
 and a few by favour ; under w^hich description I come is 
 nothing to the purpose, it is enough that I read him. As 
 a man I have tried to read Cowper's version, and I found 
 it impossible. Has any human reader ever succeeded? 
 
 And now that we have heard the Catholic reproached 
 with envy, duphcity, Ucentiousness, avarice — what was 
 the Calvinist? He attempted the most atrocious of 
 crimes in the Christian code, viz. suicide — and why? 
 Because he was to be examined whether he was fit for 
 an office which he seems to wish to have made a sine- 
 cure. His connexion with Mrs. Unwin was pure enough, 
 for the old lady was devout, and he was deranged ; but 
 w^hy then is the infirm and tlien elderly Pope to be re- 
 proved for his connexion with Martha Blount ? Cowper 
 was the almoner of Mrs. Throgmorton ; but Pope's chari- 
 ties were his o%vn, and they were noble and extensive, far 
 beyond his fortune's warrant. Pope was the tolerant yet 
 steady adherent of the most bigoted of sects ; and Cow- 
 per the most bigoted and despondent sectary that ever 
 anticipated damnation to himself or others. Is this harsh ? 
 I know it is, and I do not assert it as my opinion of Cow- 
 per personally, but to show what might be said, with just 
 as great an appearance of truth ajid candour, as all the 
 odium which has been accumulated upon Pope in similar 
 speculations. Cowper was a good man, and lived at a 
 fortunate time for his works. 
 
 Mr. Bowles, apparently not relying entirely upon his 
 own arguments, has, in person or by proxy, brought for- 
 ward the names of Southey and Moore. Mr. Southey 
 '•' agrees entirely with Mr. Bowies in his invariable prin- 
 ciples of poetry." The least that Mr. Bowies can do in 
 return is to approve the "invariable principles of Mr. 
 Southey." I should have thought that the word "invari- 
 
 " Thy needles, once a shining store, 
 For my sake restless heretofore, 
 Now rust disused, and shine no more, 
 
 My Mary," 
 
 contain a simple, household, " indoor," artificial, and ordinary image. 
 I refer Mr. Bowles to the stanza, and ask if these three lines about " nee- 
 dies" are not worth all the boasted twaddlingabout trees, so triumphantly 
 re-quoted ? and yet in fact what do they convey .■* A homely collection 
 of images and ideas associated with the darning of stockingS; and the 
 hemming of shirts, and the mending of breeches ; hut will any one deny 
 that they are eminently poetical and pathetic as addressed by Cowper to 
 his nurse ? The trash of trees reminds me of a saying of Sheridan's. 
 Soon after the " Reiected Address" scene, in 1812, 1 met Sheridan, lu 
 the course of dinner, he said, '• Lord iiyroii, did you know that among 
 the writei-s of addresses was Whitbread himself?" I answered by an 
 inquiry of what sort of an address he hi'.d made. " Of that," replied 
 Sheridan, " I remember little, except that there was a phcenix in it." 
 " A ),hcEnix ! ! Well, how did he describe it ?" " Like a poulterer," 
 answered Sheridan: " it was green, and yellow, and red, and blue: he 
 did not let us off for a einsle feather." And just such as this poulterer'i 
 account of a phcenix, is (Cowper's stick-picker's detail of a wood, with 
 all its petty miuutis of this, that, and the other. 
 
 One more poetical instance of the power of art, and even its sw;je- 
 rioHty over nature, in poetry, and I have done :— the bust of Antinous! 
 Is there any thing in nature like this marble, excepting the Venus .' Can 
 there be more poetry gathered into existence than in that wonderful 
 creation of perfect beauty? But the poetry of this bust is in no respect 
 derived from nature, nor from any association of moral exaltetJoess ; 
 lor what is there in common with moral nature and the male minion of 
 Adrian ? The very execution is not natural, but supernatural, or 
 rather super-artificial, for nature has never done so much. 
 
 Awav, then, with this cant about nature and "invariable principles 
 of poetry !" A great artist will make a block of stone as sublime as a 
 mountain, and a good poet can imbue a pack of cards with more poetry 
 than inhabits the forests of America. It is the business and the proof 
 of a poet to give the lie to the proverb, and sometimes to " male a silken 
 purse out of a sow^s ear ;" and to conclude with another homely pro- 
 verb, "a good workmao will not find fault with hi* tooH." 
 
ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 293 
 
 a6^e" might have stuck in Southey's throat, like Macbeth's 
 " Amen !" I am sure it did in mine, and I am not the 
 least consistent of the two, at least as a voter. Moore 
 (et tu Brute!) also approves, and a Mr. J. Scott. There 
 is a letter also of two lines from a gentleman in asterisks 
 who, it seems, is a poet of " the highest rank" — who can 
 this be ? not my friend. Sir Walter, surely. Campbell it 
 can't be ; Rogers it won't be. 
 
 "You have hit the nail in the head, and **** [Pope, I presume] on 
 the head also." 
 
 I remain, yours, affectionately, 
 
 (Four Asterisks.) 
 
 And in asterisks let him remain. Whoever this person 
 may be, he deserves, for such a judgment of Midas, that 
 " the nail" which Mr. Bowles has hit in the head should 
 be driven through his own ears ; I am sure that they are 
 long enough. 
 
 The attention of the poetical populace of the present 
 day to obtain an ostracism against Pope is as easily ac- 
 counted for as the Athenian's shell against Aristides ; 
 they are tired of hearing him always called " the Just." 
 They are also fighting for life ; for if he maintains his 
 station, they will reach their own falling. They have 
 raised a mosque by the side of a Grecian temple of the 
 purest architecture ; and, more barbarous than the bar- 
 barians from whose practice I have borrowed the figure, 
 'they are not contented with their own grotesque edifice, 
 unless they destroy the prior and purely beautiful fabric 
 which preceded, and which shames them and theirs for 
 ever and ever. I shall be told that amongst those I have 
 been (or it may be still am) conspicuous — true, and I 
 am ashamed of it. I have been among the builders of 
 this Babel, attended by a confusion of tongues, but never 
 among the envious destroyers of the classic temple of 
 our predecessor. I have loved and honoured the fame 
 and name of that illustrious and unrivalled man, far 
 more than my own paltry renown, and the trashy gin- 
 gle of the crowd of "schools" and upstarts, who pretend 
 to rival, or even surpass him. Sooner than a single leaf 
 should be torn from his laurel, it were better that all 
 which these men, and I, as one of their set, have ever 
 written, should 
 
 " Line trucks, clothe spice, or, fluttering in a row, 
 Befringe the rails of Bedlam or Soho !" 
 
 There are those who will believe this, and those who 
 will not. You, sir, know how far I am sincere, and 
 whether my opinion, not only in the short work intended 
 for publication, and in private letters which can never 
 be published, has or has not been the same. I look 
 upon this as the declining age of English poetry; no 
 regard for others, no selfish feehng, can prevent me from 
 seeing this, and expressing the truth. There can be no 
 worse sign for the taste of the tim.es than the deprecia- 
 tion of Pope. It would be better to receive for proof 
 Mr. Cobbet's rough but strong attack upon Shakspeare 
 and Milton, than to allow this smooth and "candid" 
 undermining of the reputation of the most perfect of our 
 poets and the purest of our moralists. Of his power in 
 the passions, in description, in the mock-heroic, I leave 
 others to descant. I take him on his strong ground, as 
 an ethical poet : in the former none excel, in the mock- 
 heroic and the ethical none equal him ; and, in my mind, 
 the latter is the highest of all poetry, because it does 
 ihat in verse, which the greatest of men have wished to 
 accomplish in prose. If the essence of poetry must be 
 4 lie, throw it to the dogs, or banish it from your republic, 
 •is Plato would have done. He who can reconcile poetry 
 with truth and wisdom, is the only true "poef in its real 
 sense; "the rrta/cer," « the creator"— why must this mean 
 the " liar," the "feigner," " the tale-teller ?" A man may 
 make and create better things than these. 
 
 I shall not presume to say that Pope is as high a poet 
 as Shakspeare and JMilton, though his enemy, Warton, 
 places him immediately imder them. I would no more 
 
 say this than I would assert in the mosque, (once St. 
 Sophia's,) that Socrates was a greater man than Maho- 
 met. But if I say that he is very near them, it is no 
 more than has been asserted of Burns, who is supposed 
 
 " To rival all but Shakspeare'a name below." 
 
 I say notliing against this opinion. But of what ^^order,^' 
 according to the poetical aristocracy, are Burns's poems ? 
 These are his opus magnum, " Tam O'Shariter," a tale ; 
 the " Cotter's Saturday Night," a descriptive sketch ; 
 some others in the same style ; the rest are songs. . So 
 much for the rank of his productions ; the rank of Bums 
 is the very first of his art. Of Pope I have expressed 
 my opinion elsewhere, as also of the effect which the 
 present attempts at poetry have had upon our literature. 
 If any great national or natural convulsion could or should 
 overwhelm your coimtry, in such sort as to sweep Great 
 Britain from the kingdoms of the earth, and leave only 
 that, after all the most hving of human things, a dead 
 language, to be studied and read, and imitated, by the 
 wise of future and far generations upon foreign shores ; 
 if your literature should become the learning of mankind, 
 divested of party cabals, temporary fashions, and national 
 pride and prejudice ; an Englishman, anxious that the 
 posterity of strangers should know that there had been 
 such a thing as a British Epic and Tragedy, might wish 
 for the preservation of Shakspeare and Milton ; but the 
 surviving world would snatch Pope from the wreck, and 
 let the rest sink v,ith the people. He is the moral poet 
 of all civilization, and, as such, let us hope that he will 
 one day be the national poet of mankind. He is the only 
 poet that never shocks ; the only poet whose faultkssness 
 has been made his reproach. Cast your eye over his 
 productions ; consider their extent, and contemplate their 
 variety: — pastoral, passion, mock-heroic, translation, sa- 
 tire, ethics, — all excellent, and often perfect. If his great 
 charm be his melody, how comes it that foreigners adore 
 him even in their diluted translation ? But 1 have made 
 this letter too long. Give my comphments to Mr. Bowles, 
 Yours ever, very truly, 
 
 BYRON. 
 To J. Murray, Esq. 
 
 Post scriptum. — Long as this letter has grown, I find 
 it necessary to append a postscript, — if possible, a short 
 one. Mr. Bowles denies that he has accused Pope of 
 " a sordid money-getting passion ;" but he adds " if I had 
 ever done so, I should be glad to find any testimony that 
 might show me he was not so." This testimony he may 
 find to his heart's content in Spence and elsewhere. 
 First, there is Martha Blount, who, Mr. Bowles charit- 
 ably says, " probably thought he did not save enough for 
 her as legatee." Whatever she thought upon this point, 
 her words are in Pope's favour. Then there is Alder- 
 man Barber — see Spence's Anecdotes. There is Pope's 
 cold answer to Halifax, when he proposed a pension ; his 
 behaviour to Craggs and to Addison upon like occasions ; 
 and his own two lines — 
 
 " And, thanks to Homer, since I live and thrive. 
 Indebted to no prince or peer alive — '' 
 
 written when princes would have been proud to pension, 
 and peers to promote him, and when the whole army of 
 dunces were in array against him, and would have been 
 but too happy to deprive him of this boast of indepen- 
 dence. But there is something a little more serious in 
 Mr. Bowles's declaration, that he " would have spoken" 
 of his "noble generosity to the outcast, Richard Savage," 
 and other instances of a compassionate and generous 
 heart, " had they occurred to his recollection when he wrote." 
 What ! is it come to this ? Does Mr. Bowles sit down 
 to write a minute and laboured life and edition of a great 
 poet ? Does he anatomize his character, moral and po- 
 etical ? Does he present us with his faults and with his 
 foibles ? Does he sneer at his feelings, and doubt of his 
 sincerity ? Does he unfold his vanity and duplicity 7 and 
 
294 
 
 ON liOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 
 
 then omit the yood qr.alities which might, in part, have 
 "covered this multitude of sins'/" and then plead that 
 " they did not occur to his recollection ?" Is this the frame 
 of mind arid of memory with which the illustrious dead 
 are to be reproached ? If Mr. Bowles, who must have 
 had access to all the means of refreshing his memory, 
 did not recollect these facts, he is unfit for his task ; but 
 if he did recollect, and omit them, I know not what he 
 is fit for, but I know what would be fit for him. Is the 
 plea of " not recollecting" such prominent facts to be 
 admitted ? Mr. Bowles has been at a public school, 
 and, as 1 have been publicly educated also, I can sym- 
 pathize with his predilection. When we were in the 
 third form even, had we pleaded on the Monday morning, 
 that we had not brought up the Saturday's exercise be- 
 cause ** we had forgotten it," what would have been the 
 reply? And is an excuse, which would not be pardoned 
 to a schoolboy, to pass current in a matter which so 
 nearly concerns the fame of the first poet of his age, if 
 not of his country ? If Mr. Bowles so readily forgets 
 the virtues of others, why complain so grievously that 
 others have a better memory for his own faults ? They 
 are but the faults of an author ; while the virtues he 
 omitted from his catalogue are essential to the justice 
 due to a man. 
 
 Mr. Bowles appears, indeed, to be susceptible beyond 
 the privilege of authorship. There is a plaintive dedi- 
 cation to Mr. Gifford, in which he is made responsible 
 for all the articles of the (Quarterly. Mr. Southey, it 
 seems, " the most able and eloquent writer in that Re- 
 view," approves of Mr. Bowles's publication. Now, it 
 seems to me the more impartial, that notwithstanding 
 that the great writer of the (Quarterly entertains opinions 
 opposite to the able article on Spence, nevertheless that 
 essay was permitted to appear. Is a review to be de- 
 voted to the opinions of any one man 1 Must it not 
 vary according to circumstances, and according to the 
 subjects to be criticised ? I fear that writers must take 
 the sweets and bitters of the public journals as they 
 occur, and an author of so long a standing as Mr. 
 Bowles might have become accustomed to such inci- 
 dents ; he might be angry, but not astonished. I have 
 been reviewed in the (Quarterly almost as often as Mr. 
 Bowles, and have had as pleasant things said, and some 
 
 as unpleasant, as could well be pronounced. In the rc>- 
 viev/ of '• The fall of Jerusalem," ir is stated that I 
 have devoted " my powers, etc. to the wors^t parts of 
 manicheism," which being interpreted, means that I 
 worship the devil. Now, I have neither written a reply, 
 nor complained to Gifford. I believe that I observed in 
 a letter to you, that I thought " that the critic might 
 have praised Milman without finding it necessary to 
 abuse me ;" but I did not add at the same time, or soon 
 after, (apropos, of the note in the book of travels,) that 
 I would not, if it were even in my power, have a single 
 line cancelled on my account in that nor in any other 
 publication ? — Of course, I reserve to myself the privi- 
 lege of response when necessary. Mr. Bowies seems 
 in a whimsical state about the article on Spence. You 
 know very well that I am not in your confidence, nor in 
 that of the conductor of the journal. The moment I 
 saw that article, I was morally certain that I knew the 
 author " by his style." You will tell me that I do not 
 know him : that is all as it should be : keep the secret, 
 so shall I, though no one has ever intrusted it to me. 
 He is not the person whom Mr. Bowles denounces. 
 Mr. Bowles's extreme sensibility reminds me of a cir- 
 cumstance which occurred on board of a frigate, in 
 which I was a passenger and guest of the captain's for 
 a considerable time. The surgeon on board, a very 
 gentlemanly young man, and remarkably able in his 
 profession, wore a wig. Upon this ornament he was 
 extremely tenacious. As naval jests are sometimes a 
 little rough, his brother-officers made occasional allu- 
 sions to this delicate appendage to the doctor's person. 
 One day a young lieutenant, in the course of a facetious 
 discussion, said, " Suppose, now, doctor, I should take 
 off your hat." " Sir," replied the doctor, "' I shall talk 
 no longer with you ; you grovv scurrilous.^^ He would 
 not even admit so near an approach as to the hat which 
 protected it. In like manner, if any body approaches 
 Mr. Bowles's laurels, even in his outside capacity of an 
 editor, " they grow scurrilous.^^ You say that you are 
 about to prepare an edition of Pope; you cannot do 
 better for your own credit as a publisher, nor for the re- 
 demption of Pope from Mr. Bowles, and of the public 
 taste from rapid degeneracy. 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 
 
 Pasre 291. 
 
 7%e Italians, with the most poetical language, and the 
 most fastidious taste in Europe, possess )iow five great 
 poets, they say, Dame, Petrarch, Jlriosto, Tasso, and 
 lastly ^Ifieri. 
 
 Of these there is one ranked with the others for his 
 Sonnets, and tioo for composiiions which belong to no 
 class at all.'' Where is Dante 1 His poem is nt)C an epic ; 
 then what is it .' He himself calls it a " divine comedy ;" 
 and why .'' This is more than all his thousand commen- 
 tators have been able to explain. Ariosto's Is not an epic 
 poem ; and if p lets are to be classed according to the 
 genus of their poetry, where is he to be placed r "Of these 
 five, Tasso and Alfleri only come within Aristotle".^ ar- 
 ransement, and Mr. Bowles's class-bonk. But the whole 
 pisition is false. Poets are classed by the power of their 
 performance, and not according to its rank in a ^rradus. 
 In the contrary case, the forgntten epic poets of all coun- 
 tries would rank ab^ive Petrarch, Dante, Ariosto, Burns, 
 Gray, Drydeii, and the highest names of various countries. 
 Mr. B')Wle3"s title of " invariable principles of poetry,"' 
 is, perhaps, the most arrogant ever prelixed to a volume. 
 So far are the principles of poetry from being " invaiia- 
 ble," that they never were nor ever will be seuled. These 
 "principles" menn nothing more than the predilections 
 of a particular age ; and every age has its own, and a 
 different from ita predece.-3sor. It is iio>v Homer, and now 
 
 "Virgil; once Dryden, and since Walter Scott; now Cor- 
 neille, and now Racine; now Crebillon, now Voltaire. 
 The Homerists and Virgilians in France disputed for half 
 a century. Not fifty years ago the Italians neglected 
 Dante— Bettinelli reproved Monti for reading " that bar- 
 barian ;" at present they adore him. Shakspeaie and 
 Milton have had their rise, and they will have their de- 
 cline. Already they have more than once fluctuated, as 
 must be the case with all the dramatists and poets of a 
 living language. This does not depend upon their merits, 
 but upon the ordinary vicissitudes of human opinions. 
 Schlegel and Madame de Stael have endeavoured also to 
 reduce poetry to two systems, classical and romantic. 
 The effect is only beginning. 
 
 Note 2. Page 293. 
 
 I shall not presitme to say that Pope is as high a poet 
 as Shakspeaie and Milton, though his enemy, Warton, 
 places him immediately under them. 
 
 If the opinions cited by Mr. Bowles, of Dr. Johnson 
 against Pope, are to be taken as decisive auihoriry, they 
 will also hold gond against Gray, Milton, Swift, Thomson, 
 and Dryden : in that case what becomes of Gray's poetical 
 and Milton's moral character.' even of Milton's poetical 
 character, or, indeed, of English poetry in general? for 
 Johnson strips many a It-af from every laurel. Still 
 Johnson's is the finest critical work extant, and can never 
 be read without instruction and delight. 
 
OBSERVATIONS UPON "OBSERVATIONS." ^ 
 
 A SECOND LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY, ESQ. 
 
 THE REV. W. L. BOWLES'S STRICTURES 
 
 ON THE 
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS OF POPE 
 
 Ravenna, March 25, 1821. 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 In the further " Observations" of Mr. Bowles, in re- 
 joinder to the charges brought against his edition of 
 Pope, it is to be regretted that he has lost his temper. 
 Whatever the language of his antagonists may have been, 
 I fear that his replies have afforded more pleasure to 
 Ihem than to the public. That Mr. Bowles should not 
 be pleased is natural, whether right or wrong ; but a 
 temperate defence would have answered his purpose in 
 the former case — and, in the latter, no defence, how- 
 ever violent, can tend to any thing but his discomfiture. 
 I have read over this third pamphlet, which you have 
 been so obliging as to send me, and shall venture a few 
 observations, in addition to those upon the previous con- 
 troversy. 
 
 Mr. Bowles sets out with repeating his " confirmed 
 conviction" that " what he said of the moral part of 
 Pope's character was, generally speaking, true ; and 
 that the principles oi poetical criticism which he has laid 
 down are invariable and invulnerable,'^ &c. ; and that he 
 is the more persuaded of this by the " exaggerations of 
 his opponents." This is all very well, and highly na- 
 tural and sincere . Nobody ever expected that either Mr. 
 Bowles or any other author, would be convinced of hu- 
 man fallibility in their own persons. But it is nothing 
 to the purpose — for it is not what Mr. Bowles thinks. 
 but what is to be thought of Pope, that is the question. 
 It is what he has asserted or insinuated against a name 
 which is the patrimony of posterity, that is to be tried ; 
 and Mr. Bowles, as a party, can be no judge. The 
 more he is persuaded, the better for himself, if it give 
 him any pleasure ; but he can only persuade others by 
 the proofs brought out in his defence. 
 
 After these prefatory remarks of " conviction," &c. 
 Mr. Bowles proceeds to Mr. Gilchrist ; whom he charges 
 with " slang" and " slander," besides a small subsidiary 
 indictment of "abuse, ignorance, malice," and so forth. 
 Mr. Gilchrist has, indeed, shown some anger ; but it 
 is an honest indignation, which rises up in defence of 
 the illustrious dead. It is a generous rage which in- 
 terposes between our ashes and their disturbers. There 
 appears also to have been some slight personal pro- 
 vocation. Mr. Gilchrist, with a chivalrous disdain of 
 the fury of an incensed poet, put his name to a letter 
 avowing the production of a former essay in defence of 
 Pope, and consequently of an attack upon Mr. Bowles. 
 Mr. Bowles appears to be angry with Mr. Gilchrist for 
 four reasons : — firstly, because he wrote an article in 
 " The London Magazine ;" secondly, because he after- 
 wards avowed it ; thirdly, because he was the author of 
 a still more extended article in " The Quarterly Re- 
 view ;" and, fourthly, because he was not the author 
 of the said duarterly article, and had the audacity to 
 disown it — for no earthly reason but because he had not 
 written it. 
 
 Mr. Bowles declares, that " he will not enter into a 
 particular examination of the pamphlet," which by a 
 misnomer is called " Gilchrist's Answer to Bowles," 
 when it should have been called " Gilchrist's Abuse of 
 Bowles." On this error in the baptism of Mr, Gil- 
 christ's pamphlet, it may be observed, that an answer 
 may be abusive and yet no less an answer, though in- 
 disputably a temperate one might be the better of the 
 two ; but if abuse is to cancel all pretensions to reply, 
 what becomes of Mr. Bowles's answers to Mr. Gil- 
 christ ? 
 
 Mr. Bowles continues : — " But as Mr. Gilchrist de- 
 rides my peculiar sensitiveness to criticism, before I show 
 how destitute of truth is this representation, I will here 
 explicitly declare the only grounds, &c. &c. &c. — Mr. 
 Bowles's sensibility in denying his " sensitiveness to 
 criticism" proves perhaps too much. But if he has 
 been so charged, and truly — what then ? There is no 
 moral turpitude in such acuteness of feeling: it has 
 been, and may be, combined with many good and great 
 qualities. Is Mr. Bowles a poet, oris he not? If he 
 be, he must, from his very essence, be sensitive to criti- 
 cism ; and even if he be not, he need not be ashamed of 
 the common repugnance to being attacked. All that is 
 to be wished is, that he had considered how disagreeable 
 a thing it is, before he assailed the greatest moral poet 
 of any age, or in any language. 
 
 Pope himself " sleeps well," — nothing can touch 
 him further ; but those who love the honour of their 
 country, the perfection of her literature, the glory of her 
 language — are not to be expected to permit an atom of 
 his dust to be stirred in his tomb, or a leaf to be stripped 
 from the laurel which grows over it. 
 
 Mr. Bowles assigns several reasons why and when 
 *' an author is justified in appealing to every upright 
 and honourable mind in the kingdom." If Mr. Bowles 
 limits the perusal of his defence to the " upright and 
 honourable" only, I greatly fear that it will not be ex- 
 tensively circulated. I should rather hope that some 
 of the downright and dishonest will read and be con- 
 verted, or convicted. But the whole of his reasoning is 
 here superfluous — " an author is justified in appeal- 
 ing" &c. when and why he pleases. Let him make 
 out a tolerable case, and few of his readers will quarrel 
 with his motives. 
 
 Mr. Bowles " will now plainly set before the literary 
 public all the circumstances which have led to his name 
 and Mr. Gilchrist's being brought together," &c. 
 Courtesy requires, in speaking of others and ourselves, 
 that we should place the name of the former first — and 
 not " Ego et Rex mens." Mr. Bowles should have 
 written " Mr. Gilchrist's name and his." 
 
 This point he wishes " particularly to address to 
 those most respectable characters, who have the direction 
 and management of the periodical critical press." That 
 the press may be, in some instances, conducted by re- 
 
296 
 
 OBSERVATIONS ON 'OBSERVATIONS:" 
 
 spectable characters is probable enough ; but if ihey are 
 so, there is no occasion to tell them of it ; and if :hey 
 are not, it is a base adulation. In either case, it looks 
 like a kind of flattery, by which those gentry are not 
 very likely to be softened; since it would be difficult to 
 find two passages in fifteen pages more at variance, 
 than Mr. Bowles's prose at the beginning of this 
 pamphlet, and his verse at the end of it. In page 4. 
 he speaks of " those most respectable characters who 
 have the direction, &c. of the periodical press," and in 
 page 10. we find — 
 
 " Ye dark inquisitors, a monk-like band, 
 Who o'er some shrinking victirn-author stand, 
 A solemn, secret, and vindictive brood, 
 Only terrific in your cowl and hood." 
 
 And so on — to " bloody law" and " red scourges," with 
 other similar phrases, which may not be altogether 
 agreeable to the above-mentioned " most respectable 
 characters." Mr. Bowles goes on, " I concluded my 
 observations in the last Pamphleteer with feelings not 
 unkind towards Mr. Gilchrist, or" [it should be nor] 
 *' to the author of the review of Spence, be he whom he 
 might." — " I was in hopes, as I have always been ready 
 to admit any errors I might have been led into, or pre- 
 judice I might have entertained, that even Mr. Gilchrist 
 might be disposed to a more amicable mode of discussing 
 what I had advanced in regard to Pope's moral cha- 
 racter." As Major Sturgeon observes, " There never 
 was a set of more amicable officers — with the exception 
 of a boxing-bout between Captain Shears and the 
 Colonel." 
 
 A page and a half— nay only a page before — Mr. 
 Bowles re-affirms his conviction, that "what he has 
 said of Pope's moral character is (generally speaking) 
 true, and that his " poetical principles are invariable 
 and invidnerabuy He has also published three pam- 
 phlets, — ay, four of the same tenour, — and yet, with this 
 declaration and these declaTwations staring him and his 
 adversaries in the face, he speaks of his " readiness to 
 admit errors or to abandon prejudices ! I !" His use of 
 the word " amicable" reminds me of the Irish Institu- 
 tion (which I have somewhere heard or read of) called 
 the " Friendly Society," where the president always 
 carried pistols in his pocket, so that when one amicable 
 gentleman knocked down another, the difference might 
 be adjusted on the spot, at the harmonious distance of 
 twelve paces. 
 
 But Mr. Bowles "has since read a publication by 
 him (Mr. Gilchrist) containing such vulgar slander, 
 affecting private life and character,'' &c. &c. ; and Mr. 
 Gilchrist has also had the advantage of reading a pub- 
 lication bv Mr. Bowles sufficiently imbued with per- 
 sonality ; for one of the first and principal topics of 
 reproach is that he is a grocer, that he has a " pipe in 
 his mouth, ledger-book, green canisters, dingy shop-boy, 
 half a hogshead of brown treacle," &c. Nay, the same 
 delicate raillery is upon the very title-page. When 
 controversy has once commenced upon this footing, as 
 Dr. Johnson said to Dr. Percy, " Sir, there is an end of 
 politeness— we are to be as rude as we please — Sir, 
 you said that I was short-sighted.''^ As a man's pro- 
 fession is generally no more in his own power than his 
 person — both having been made out for him — it is 
 hard that he should be reproached with either, and still 
 more that an honest calling should be made a reproach. 
 If there is any thing more honourable to Mr. Gilchrist 
 than another it is, that being engaged in commerce he 
 has had the taste, and found the leisure, to become so 
 able a proficient in the higher literature of his own and 
 other countries. Mr. Bowles, who will be proud to 
 own Glover, Chatterton, Burns, and Bloomfield for his 
 peers, should hardly have quarrelled with Mr. Gilchrist 
 for his critic. Mr. Gilchrist's station, however, which 
 might conduct him to the highest civic honours, and to 
 
 boundless wealth, has nothing to require apology ; but 
 even if it had, such a reproach was not very gracious 
 on the part of a clergyman, nor graceful on that of a 
 gentleman. The allusion to " Cliristian criticism" is 
 not particularly happy, especially where Mr. Gilchrist is 
 accused of having " set thejirst example of this mode in 
 Europe.''^ "What Pagan criticism may have been we 
 know but little ; the names of Zoilus and Aristarchus 
 survive, and the works of Aristotle, Longinus, and 
 duintilian: but of "Christian criticism" we have 
 already had some specimens in the works of Philel- 
 phus, Poggius, Scaliger, Milton, Salmasius, the Crus- 
 canti (versus Tasso,) the French Academy (against the 
 Cid.) and the antagonists of Voltaire and of Pope — to 
 say nothing of some articles in most of the reviews, 
 since their earliest institution in ihe person of their 
 respectable and still prolific parent, " The Monthly." 
 Why, then, is Mr. Gilchrist to be singled out " as 
 having set the first example ?" A sole page of Mihon 
 or Salmasius contains more abuse — rank, rancorous, 
 unleavened abuse — than all that can be raked forth 
 from the whole works of many recent critics. There 
 are some, mdeed, who still keep up the good old custom ; 
 but fewer English than foreign. It is a pity that 
 Mr. Bowles cannot witness some of the Italian contro- 
 versies, or become the subject of one. He would then 
 look upon Mr. Gilchrist as a panegyrist. * * * * 
 
 To me it appears of no very great consequence whe- 
 ther Martha Blount was or was not Pope's mistress, 
 though I could have wished him a better. She appears 
 to have been a cold-hearted, interested, ignorant, dis- 
 agreeable woman, upon whom the tenderness of Pope's 
 heart in the desolation of his latter days was cast away, 
 not knowing whither to turn, as he drew towards his 
 premature old age, childless and lonely, — like the needle 
 which, approaching within a certain distance of the pole, 
 becomes helpless and useless, and, ceasing to tremble, 
 rusts. She seems to have been so totally unworthy of 
 tenderness, that it is an additional proof of the kindness 
 of Pope's heart to have been able to love such a being. 
 But we must love something. I agree with Mr. B. that 
 she " could at no time have regarded Pope personally 
 with attachment," because she was incapable of attach- 
 ment ; but I deny that Pope could not be regarded with 
 personal attachment by a worthier woman. It is not 
 probable, indeed, that a woman would have fallen in love 
 with him as he walked along the Mall, or in a box at 
 the opera, nor from a balcony, nor in a ball-room ; but 
 in society he seems to have been as amiable as unassum- 
 ing, and, with the greatest disadvantages of figure, his 
 head and face were remarkably handsome, especially his 
 eyes. He was adored by his friends — friends of the 
 most opposite dispositions, ages, and talents — by the 
 old and wayward Wycherley, by the cynical Swift, the 
 rough Atterbury, the gentle Spence, the stern attorney- 
 bishop Warburton, the virtuous Berkeley, and the 
 '•' cankered Bolingbroke." Bolingbroke wept over him 
 like a child ; and Spence's description of his last mo- 
 ments is at least as edifying as the more ostentatious 
 account of the deathbed of x'Vddison. The soldier Peter- 
 borough and the poet Gay, the witty Congreve and the 
 laughing Rowe, the eccentric Cromwell and the steady 
 Bathurst, were all his intimates. The man who could 
 conciliate so many men of the most opposite description, 
 not one of whom but was a remarkable or a celebrated 
 character, might well have pretended to all the attach- 
 ment which a reasonable man would desire of em amiable 
 woman. 
 
 Pope, in fact, wherever he got it, appears to have 
 understood the sex well. Bolingbroke, " a judge of the 
 subject," says Warton, thought his '"Epistle on the 
 Characters of Women" his " masterpiece." And even 
 with respect to the grosser passion, which takes occa- 
 sionally the name of " romantic," accordingly as the 
 
A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES. 
 
 297 
 
 degree of sentiment elevates it above the definition of 
 love by BufFon, it may be remarked, that it does not 
 always depend upon personal appearance, even in a 
 woman. Madame CoUin was a plain woman, and 
 might have been virtuous, it may be presumed, without 
 much interruption. Virtuous she was, and the conse- 
 quences of this inveterate virtue were that two different 
 admirers (one an elderly gentleman) killed themselves 
 in despair (see Lady Morgan's " France.") 1 would 
 not, however, recommend this rigour to plain women in 
 general, in the hope of securing the glory of two suicides 
 apiece. I believe that there are few men who, in the 
 course of their observations on life, may not have per 
 ceived that it is not the greatest female beauty who 
 forms the longest and the strongest passions. 
 
 But, apropos of Pope.— Voltaire tells us that the 
 Marechal Luxembourg (who had precisely Pope's figure) 
 was not only somewhat too amatory for a great man, but 
 fortunate in his attachments. La Valiere, tiie passion 
 of Louis XL v., had an unsightly defect. The Princess 
 of Eboli, the mistress of Philip U. of Spain, and 
 Maugiron, the minion of Henry HI. of France, had 
 each of them lost an eye ; and the famous Latin epigram 
 was written upon them, which has, I believe, been either 
 translated or imitated by Goldsmith :— 
 
 " Lumine Aeon dextro, capta est Leonilla sinistro, 
 
 Et polls est forma vincere uterque Deos ; 
 Blande puer, lumen quod habes concede sorrori, 
 
 Sie tu ceecus Amor, sic erlt ilia Venus." 
 
 Wilkes, with his ugliness, used to say that " be was 
 but a quarter of an hour behind the handsomest man in 
 England ;" and this vaunt of his is said not to have been 
 disproved by circumstances. Swift, when neither young, 
 nor handsome, nor rich, nor even amiable, inspired die 
 two most extraordinary passions upon record, Vanessa's 
 and Stella's. 
 
 " Vanessa, aged scarce a score, 
 Sighs for a gown of forty-four.^' 
 
 He requited them bitterly; for he seems to have 
 broken the heart of the one, and worn out that of the 
 other ; and he had his reward, for he died a solitary 
 idiot in the hands of servants. 
 
 For my own part, I am of the opiuif n of Pausanias, 
 that success in love depends upon Fortune. " They 
 particularly renounce Celestial Venus, into whose tem- 
 ple, &c. &c. &c. I remember, too, to have seen a 
 building in jEgina in which there is a statue of Fortune, 
 holding a horn of Amalthea ; and near her there is a 
 winged Love. The meaning of this is, that the success 
 of men in love affairs depends more on the assistance 
 of Fortune than the charms of beauty. I am persuaded, 
 too, with Pindar (to whose opinion I submit in other 
 particulars), that Fortune is one of the Fates, and that 
 in a certain respect she is more powerful than her sis- 
 ters." — See Pausanias, Achaics, book vii. chap. 26. p. 
 246. Taylor's " Translation." 
 
 Grimm has a remark of the same kind on the different 
 destinies of the younger Crebillon and Rousseau. The 
 former writes a licentious novel, and a young English 
 girl of some fortune and family (a Miss Strafford) runs 
 away, and crosses the sea to marry him ; while Rous- 
 seau, the most tender and passionate of lovers, is obliged 
 to espouse his chambermaid. If I recollect rightly, this 
 remark was also repeated in the Edinburgh Review of 
 Grimm's correspondence, seven or eight years ago. 
 
 In regard " to the strange mixture of indecent, and 
 sometimes profane levity, which his conduct and lan- 
 guage often exhibited," and which so much shocks Mr. 
 Bowles, I object to the indefinite word " often -^^ and in 
 extenuation of the occasional occurrence of such lan- 
 guage it is to be recollected, that it was less the tone of 
 Pope, than the tone of the time. With the exception 
 of the correspondence of Pope and his friends, not many 
 private letters of the period have come down to us ; but 
 those, such as they are — a few scattered scraps from 
 38 
 
 Farquhar and others — are more indecent and coarse 
 than any thing in Pope's letters. The comedies of 
 Congreve, Vanbrugh, Farquhar, Cibber, &c., which 
 naturally attempted to represent the manners and con- 
 versation of private life, are decisive upon this point ; 
 as are also some of Steele's papers, and even Addison's. 
 We all know what the conversation of Sir R. Walpole, 
 for seventeen years the prime minister of the country, 
 was at his own table, and his excuse for his licentious 
 language, viz. "that every body understood that, but 
 few could talk rationally upon less common topics." 
 The refinement of latter days, — which is perhaps the 
 consequence of vice, which wishes to mask and soften 
 itself, as much as of virtuous civilisation, — had not yet 
 made sufficient progress. Even Johnson, in his " Lon- 
 don," has two or three passages which cannot be read 
 aloud, and Addison's " Drummer" some indelicate al- 
 lusions. 
 
 To return to Mr. Bowles. " If what is here ex- 
 tracted can excite in the mind (I will not say of any 
 ' layman,' of any ' Christian,' but) of any humanbeing," 
 &c. &c. Is not Mr. Gilchrist a *' human being?" 
 Mr. Bowles asks " whether in attributing an article," 
 &c. &c. " to the critic, he had any reason for distin- 
 guishing him with that courtesy," &c. &c. But Mr. 
 Bowles was wrong in " attributing the article" to Mr. 
 Gilchrist at all ; and would not have been right in call- 
 ing him a dunce and a grocer, if he had written it. 
 
 Mr. Bowles is here " peremptorily called upon to 
 speak of a circumstance which gives him the greatest 
 pain, — the mention of a letter he received from the 
 editor of 'The London Magazine.'" Mr. Bowles 
 seems to have embroiled himself on all sides ; whether 
 by editing, or replying, or attributing, or quoting, — it 
 has been an awkward affair for him. 
 
 Poor Scott is now no more. In the exercise of his 
 vocation, he contrived at last to make himself the sub- 
 ject of a coroner's inquest. But he died like a brave 
 man, and he lived an able one. I knew him personally, 
 though slightly. Although several years my senior, we 
 had been schoolfellows together at the " grammar-schule" 
 (or, as the Aberdonians pronounce it, "sgt^eeZ") of New 
 Aberdeen. He did not behave to me quite handsomely 
 in his capacity of editor a few years ago, but he was 
 under no obligation to behave otherwise. The moment 
 was too tempting for many friends and for all enemies. 
 At a time when all my relations (save one) fell from me 
 like leaves from the tree in autumn winds, and my 
 few friends became still fewer, — when the whole peri- 
 odical press (I mean the daily and weekly, not the 
 literary press) was let loose against me in every shape 
 of reproach, with the two strange exceptions (from their 
 usual opposition) of " The Courier" and " The Exami- 
 ner," — the paper of which Scott had the direction was 
 neither the last nor the least vituperative. Two years 
 ago I met him at Venice, when he was bowed in griefs 
 by the loss of his son, and had known, by experience, 
 the bitterness of domestic privation. He was then ear- 
 nest with me to return to England ; and on my telling 
 him, with a smile, that he was once of a different opi- 
 nion, he replied to me, 'that he and others had been 
 greatly misled ; and that some pains, and rather extraor- 
 dinary means, had been taken to excite them.' Scott is 
 no more, but there are more than one living who were 
 present at this dialogue. He was a man of very consi- 
 derable talents, and of great acquirements. He had 
 made his way, as a literary character, with high success, 
 and in a few years. Poor fellow ! I recollect his joy at 
 some appointment which he had obtained, or was to 
 obtain, through Sir James Mackintosh, and which pre- 
 vented the further extension (unless by a rapid run to 
 Rome) of his travels in Italy. I little thought to what 
 it would conduct him. Peace be with him ! — and may 
 all such other faults as are inevitable to humanity be as 
 readily forgiven hiin, as the little injury which he had 
 
298 
 
 OBSERVATIONS ON "OBSERVATIONS:" 
 
 done to one who respected his talents, and regrets his 
 loss. 
 
 I pass over Mr. Bowles's page of explanation, upon 
 
 the correspondence between him and Mr. S . It is 
 
 of little importance in regard to Pope, and contains 
 merely a re-contradiction of a contradiction of Mr. Gil- 
 christ's. We now come to a point where Mr, Gilchrist 
 has, certainly, rather exaggerated matters; and, of 
 course, Mr. Bowles makes the most of it. Capital 
 letters, like Kean's name, " large upon the bills," are 
 made use of six or seven times to express his sense of 
 the outrage. The charge is, indeed, very boldly made ; 
 but, like "Ranold of the Mist's" practical joke of put- 
 ting the bread and cheese into a dead man's mouth, is, 
 as Dugald Dalgetty says, " somewhat too wild and sal- 
 vacre, besides wasting the good victuals." 
 
 Mr. Bowles appeals to the " Christian reader!" upon 
 this " Gilchrisiian criticism." Is not this play upon 
 such words " a step beyond decorum" in a clergyman? 
 But I admit the temptation of a pun to be irresistible. 
 
 But " a hasty pamphlet was published, in which some 
 personalities respecting Mr. Gilchrist were suffered to 
 appear." If Mr. Bowles will write "hasty pamphlets," 
 why is he so surprised on receiving short answers ? 
 The grand grievance to which he perpetually returns is 
 a charge of" Hypochondriacism ,^^ asserted or insinuated 
 in the duarterly, I cannot conceive a man in perfect 
 health being much affected by such a charge, because 
 his complexion and conduct must amply refute it. But 
 were it true, to what does it amount ? — to an impeach- 
 ment of a liver complaint. " I will tell it to the world," 
 exclaimed the learned Smelfungus. — You had better," 
 said I, " tell it to your physician." There is nothing 
 dishonourable in such a disorder, which is more pecu- 
 liarly the malady of students. It has been the complaint 
 of the good, and the wise, and the witty, and even of 
 the gay. Regnard, the author of the last French co- 
 medy after Moliere, was atrabilious ; and Moliere him- 
 self, saturnine. Dr. Johnson, Gray, and Burns, were 
 all more or less affected by it occasionally. It was the 
 prelude to the more awful malady of Collins, Cowper, 
 Swift, and Smart ; but it by no means follows that a 
 partial affliction of this disorder is to terminate like 
 theirs. But even were it so, — 
 
 " Nor best, nor wisest, are exempt from thee ; 
 Folly— Folly's only tree." . Penrose. 
 
 If this be the criterion of exemption, Mr. Bowles s last 
 two pamphlets form a better certificate of sanity than a 
 physician's. Mendehlson and Bayle were at times so 
 overcome with this depression, as to be obliged to recur 
 to seeing " puppet-shows, and counting tiles upon the 
 opposite houses," to divert themselves. Dr. Johnson at 
 times " would have given a limb to recover his spirits 
 Mr. Bowles, who is (strange to say) fond of quoting 
 Pope, may perhaps answer, — 
 
 •' Go on, obliging creatures, let me see 
 All which disgrac'd my betters met in me." 
 
 But the charge, such as it is, neither disgraces them nor 
 him. It is easily disproved if false ; and even if proved 
 true, has nothing in it to make a man so very indignant. 
 Mr. Bowles himself appears to be a little ashamed of his 
 "hasty pamphlet;" for he attempts to excuse it by the 
 " great provocation ;" that is to say, by Mr. Bowles's 
 supposing that Mr. Gilchrist was the writer of the article 
 in the duarterly, which he was not. 
 
 " But, in extenuation, not only the great provocation 
 should be remembered, but it ought to be said, that 
 orders were sent to the London booksellers, that the 
 most direct personal passages should be omitted entirely, ^^ 
 &c. This is what the proverb calls " breaking a head 
 and giving a plaster ;" but, in this instance, the plaster 
 was not spread in time, and Mr. Gilchrist does not seem 
 at present disposed to regard Mr. Bowles's courtesies 
 
 like the rust of the spear of Achilles, which had such 
 
 " skill in surgery." 
 
 But " Mr. Gilchrist has no right to object, as the 
 reader will see." I am a reader, a " gentle reader," and 
 I see nothing of the kind. Were I in Mr. Gilchrist's 
 place, I should object exceedingly to being abused ; 
 firstly, for what I did write, and, secondly, for what I 
 did not write ; merely because it is Mr, Bowles's will 
 and pleasure to be as angry with me for having written 
 in the Ijondon Magazine, as for not having wrilten in 
 the duarterly Review. 
 
 " Mr. Gilchrist has had ample revenge ; for he has, 
 in his answer, said so and so," &c. &c. There is no 
 great revenge in all this ; and I presume that nobody 
 either seeks or wishes it. What revenge ? Mr. Bowles 
 calls names, and he is answered. Bui Mr. Gilchrist and 
 the duarterly Review are not poets, nor pretenders to 
 poetry ; therefore they can have no envy nor malice 
 against Mr. Bowles ; they have no acquaintance with 
 Mr. Bowles, and can have no personal pique ; they do 
 not cross his path of life, nor he theirs. There is no 
 political feud between them. What, then, can be the 
 motive of their discussion of his deserts as an editor? — 
 veneration for the genius of Pope, love for his memory, 
 and regard for the classic glory of their country. Why 
 would Mr. Bowles edite ? Had he limited his honest 
 endeavours to poetry, very little would have been said 
 upon the subject, and nothing at all by his present an- 
 tagonists. 
 
 Mr. Bowles calls the pamphlet a " mud-cart," and the 
 writer a " scavenger." Afterwards he asks, " Shall he 
 fling dirt and receive rose-water ?^^ This metaphor, by 
 the way, is taken from Marmontel's Memoirs ; who, la- 
 menting to Chamfort the shedding of blood during the 
 French revolution, was answered, "' Do you think that 
 revolutions are to be made with rose-water 7" 
 
 For my own part, I presume that " rose-water" 
 would be infinitely more graceful in the hands of Mr. 
 Bowles than the substance which he has substituted for 
 that delicate liquid. It would also more confound his 
 adversary, supposing him a " scavenger." I remember, 
 (and do you remember, reader, that it was in my ear- 
 liest youth, " Consule Planco,") — on the morning of 
 the great battle, (the second) — between Gulley and 
 Gregson, — Cribh, who was matched against Horton 
 for the second fight, on the same memorable day, 
 awaking me (a lodger at the inn in the next room) by 
 a loud remonstrance to the waiter against the abomina- 
 tion of his towels, which had been laid in lavender. 
 Cribb was a coal-heaver — and was much more discom- 
 fitted by this odoriferous effeminacy of fine linen, than 
 by his adversary Horton, whom he " finished in 
 style," though with some reluctance; for I recollect 
 that he said, " he disliked hurting him, he looked so 
 pretty," — Horton being a very fine fresh-coloured young 
 man. 
 
 To return to " rose-water" — that is, to gentle 
 means of rebuke. Does Mr. Bowles know how to re- 
 venge himself upon a hackney-coachman, when he has 
 overcharged his fare ? In case he should not, I will 
 tell him. It is of little use to call him a " rascal, a 
 scoundrel, a thief, an impostor, a blackguard, a villain, a 
 raggamuffin, a — what you please ;" all that he is used 
 to — it is his mother-tongue, and probably his mother's. 
 But look him steadily and quietly in the face, and say — 
 " Upon my word, I think you are the ugliest fellow I 
 ever saw in my life," and he will instantly roll forth the 
 brazen thunders of the charioteer Salmoneus as follows : 
 — " Hugly ! what the h — 11 are you ? You a gentleman ! 
 
 Why !" So much easier it is to provoke — and 
 
 therefore to vindicate — (for passion punishes him who 
 
 feels it rncre than those whom the passionate would ex- 
 cruciate) — by a few quiet words the aggressor, than by 
 I retorting violently. The " coals of fire" of the Scrip- 
 
A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLE'S STRICTURES. 
 
 299 
 
 ture are benefits ; — ^but they are not the less " coals of 
 >e." 
 
 I pass over a page of quotation and reprobation — 
 "Sin up to my song" — '"Oh let my little bark" — 
 "Arcades ambo" — " Writer in the Quarterly Review 
 and himself" — " In-door avocations, indeed" — " Kings 
 of Brentford" — "One nosegay" — "Perennial nosegay" 
 — " Oh Juvenes," — and the like. 
 
 Page 12. produces " more reasons," — (the task ought 
 not to have been difficult, for as yet there were none) — 
 " to show why Mr. Bowies attributed the critique in the 
 Quarterly to Octavius Gilchrist." All these " reasons" 
 consists of swrmises of Mr. Bowles, upon the presumed 
 character of his opponent. " He did not suppose there 
 could exist a man in the kingdom so impudent, &c. &c. 
 except Octavius Gilchrist." — " He did not think there 
 was a man in the kingdom who wovi]d pretend ignorance, 
 &c. &c. except Octavius Gilchrist." — He did not 
 conceive that one man in the kingdom would utter such 
 stupid flippancy, &c. &c. except Octavius Gilchrist." — 
 " He did not think there was one man in the kingdom 
 who, &c. &c. could so utterly show his ignorance, com- 
 bined with conceit, &c. as Octavius Gilchrist." — "He 
 did not believe there was a man in the kingdom so per 
 feet in Mr. Gilchrist's 'old lunes,' " &c. &c. — "He 
 did not think the mean mind of any one in the king- 
 dom," &c. and so on ; always beginning with " any one 
 in the kingdom," and ending with " Octavius Gilchrist," 
 like the word in a catch. I am not "' in the kingdom," 
 and have not been much in the kingdom since I was one 
 and twenty, (about five years in the whole, since I was 
 of age,) and have no desire to be in the kingdom again, 
 whilst I breathe, nor to sleep there afterwards ; and I 
 regret nothing more than having ever been " in the 
 kingdom" at all. But though no longer a man " in the 
 kingdom," let me hope that when I have ceased to 
 exist, it may be said, as was answered by the master of 
 Clanronald's henchman, his day after the battle of SherifF- 
 Muir, when he was found watching his chief's body. 
 He was asked, " who that was ?" he replied — " it was 
 a man yesterday." And in this capacity, " in or out of 
 the kingdom," I must osvn that I participate in many of 
 the objections urged by Mr. Gilchrist. I participate in 
 his love of Pope, and in his not understanding, and oc- 
 casionally finding fault with, the last editor of our last 
 truly great poet. 
 
 One of the reproaches against Mr. Gilchrist is, that 
 he is (it is sneeringly said) an F. S. >4. If it will 
 give Mr. Bowles any pleasure, I am not an F. S. A. but 
 a Fellow of the Royal Society at his service, in case 
 there should be any thing in that association also which 
 may point a paragraph. 
 
 " There are some other reasons," but " the author is 
 now not unknown." Mr. Bowles has so totally ex- 
 hausted himself upon Octavius Gilchrist, that he has not 
 a word left for the real quarterer of his edition, although 
 now " deterre." 
 
 The following page refers to a mysterious charge of 
 " duplicity, in regard to the publication of Pope's let- 
 ters." Till this charge is made in proper form, we have 
 nothing to do with it: Mr. Gilchrist hints it — Mr. 
 Bowles denies it ; there it rests for the present. Mr. 
 Bowles professes his dislike to Pope's duplicitv, not to 
 Pope" — a distinction apparently without a difference. 
 However, I believe that I understand him. We have a 
 great dislike to Mr. Bowles's edition of Pope, hut not to 
 Mr. Bowles ; nevertheless, he takes up the subject as 
 warmly as if it was personal. With regard to the fact 
 of " Pope's duplicity," it remains to be proved— like 
 Mr. Bowles's benevolence towards his memory. 
 
 _In page 14.^ we have a large assertion, that " the 
 ' Eloisa' alone is sufficient to convict him of gross licen- 
 tiousness.'^ Thus, out it comes at last. Mr. Bowles 
 does accuse Pope of " gross licentiousness," and ^rounds 
 
 the charge upon a poem. The licentiousness is a 
 " grand peut-etre," according to the turn of the times 
 being. The grossness I deny. On the contrary, I do 
 believe that such a subject never was, nor ever could be, 
 treated by any poet with so much delicacy, mingled 
 with, at the same time, such true and intense passion. 
 Is the " Atys" of Catullus licentious ? No, nor even 
 gross ; and yet Catullus is often a coarse writer. The 
 subject is nearly the same, except that Atys was the 
 suicide of his manhood, and Abelard the victim. 
 
 The " licentiousness" of the story was not Pope's, 
 
 it was a fact. All that it had of gross, he has softened ; 
 
 — all that it had of indelicate, he has purified ; all 
 
 that it had of passionate, he has beautified ; — all that it 
 had of holy, he has hallowed. Mr. Campbell has admi- 
 rably marked this in a few words (I quote from me- 
 mory), in drawing the distinction between Pope and 
 Dryden, and pointing out where Dryden was wanting. 
 " I fear," says he, " that had the subject of 'Eloisa' 
 fallen into his (Dryden's) hands, that he would have 
 given us but a coarse draft of her passion." Never was 
 the delicacy of Pope so much shown as in this poem. 
 With the facts and the letters of " Eloisa" he has done 
 what no other mind but that of the best and purest of 
 poets could have accomplished with such materials. 
 Ovid, Sappho (in the Ode called hers)— all that we 
 have of ancient, all that we have of modern poetry, 
 sinks into nothing compared with him in this production. 
 
 Let us hear no more of this trash about " licentious- 
 ness." Is not " Anacreon" taught in our schools ?— 
 translated, praised, and edited? Are not his Odes the 
 amatory praises of a boy? Is not Sappho's Ode on a 
 girl? Is not this sublime and (according to Longinus) 
 fierce love for one of her own sex ? And is not Phil- 
 lip's translation of it in the mouths of all your women ? 
 And are the English schools or the English women the 
 more corrupt for all this ? When you have thrown the 
 ancients into the fire, it will be time to denounce the 
 moderns. " Licentiousness !"— there is more real mis- 
 chief and sapping licentiousness in a single French 
 prose novel, in a Moravian hymn, or a German comedy, 
 than in all the actual poetry that ever was penned, or 
 poured forth, since the rhapsodies of Orpheus. The 
 sentimental anatomy of Rosseau and Mad. de S. are 
 far more formidable than any quantity of verse. They 
 are so, because they sap the principles, by reasoning 
 upon the passions ; whereas poetry is in itself passion, 
 and does not systematise. It assails, but does not argue ; 
 it may be wrong, but it does not assume pretension°s to 
 Optimism. 
 
 Mr. Bowles now has the goodness " to point out the 
 difference between a traducer and him who sincerely 
 states what he sincerely believes." He might have 
 spared himself the trouble. The one is a liar, who lies 
 knowingly ; the other (I speak of a scandal-monger of 
 course) lies, charitably believing that he speaks truth, 
 and very sorry to find himself in falsehood ;— because 
 he 
 
 " Would rather that the dean should die, 
 Than Ms prediction prove a lie . " 
 
 After a definition of a " traducer," which was quite 
 superfluous (though it is agreeable to learn that Mr. 
 Bowles so well understands the character), we are as- 
 sured, that " he feels equally indifferent, Mr. Gilchrist, 
 for what your malice can invent, or your impudence 
 utter." This is indubitable ; for it rests not only on 
 Mr. Bowles's assurance, but on that of Sir Fretful Pla- 
 giary, and nearly in the same words,—" and I shall treat 
 It with exactly the same calm indifference and philo- 
 sophical contempt, and so your servant." 
 
 " One thing has given Mr. Bowles concern." It is 
 " a passage which might seem to reflect on the patro- 
 nage a young man has received." Might seem ! ! The 
 passage alluded to expresses, that if Mr. Gilchrist be 
 
300 
 
 OBSERVATIONS ON ''OBSERVATIONS:" 
 
 the reviewer of " a certain poet of nature," his praise 
 and blame are equally contemptible." — Mr. Bowles, 
 who has a peculiarly ambiguous style, where it suits him, 
 comes off with a " Jiot to \he.poet, but the critic," &c. 
 In my humble opinion, the passage referred to both. 
 Had Mr. Bowles really meant fairly, he would have said 
 so from the first — he would have been eagerly transpa- 
 rent. — " A certain poet of nature" is not the style of 
 commendation. It is the very prologue to the most 
 scandalous paragraphs of the newspapers, when 
 
 •• Willing to wound, and yet afraid to atrike.'* 
 
 " A certain high personage," — " a certain peeress," — 
 <« a certain illustrious foreigner," — what do these words 
 ever precede, but defamation ? Had he feh a spark of 
 kindling kindness for John Clare, he would have named 
 him. There is a sneer in the sentence as it stands. 
 How a favourable review of a deserving poet can " rather 
 injure than promote his cause" is difficult to comprehend. 
 The article denounced is able and amiable, and it has 
 " served" the poet, as far as poetry can be served by 
 judicious and honest criticism. 
 
 With the two next paragraphs of Mr. Bowles's pam- 
 phlet it is pleasing to concur. His mention of " Pen- 
 nie," and his former patronage of " Shoel," do him 
 honour. I am not of those who may deny Mr. Bowles 
 to be a benevolent man. I merely assert, that he is not 
 a candid editor. 
 
 Mr. Bowles has been " a writer occasionally upwards 
 of thirty years," and never wrote one word in reply in 
 his life " to criticisms, merely as criticisms." This is 
 Mr. Lofty in Goldsmith's Good-natured Man ; " and I 
 vow by all that's honourable, my resentment has never 
 done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm, — that 
 is, as mere men. 
 
 " The letter to the editor of the newspaper" is owned 
 but" it was not on account of the criticism. It was 
 because the criticism came down in a frank directed to 
 Mrs. Bowles ! ! !" — (the italics and three notes of ad- 
 miration appended to Mrs. Bowles are copied verbatim 
 from the quotation), and Mr. Bowles was not displeased 
 with the criticism, but with the frank and the address. 
 I agree with Mr. Bowles that the intention was to an- 
 noy^him \ but I fear that this was answered by his no- 
 tice of the reception of the criticism. An anonymous 
 letter-writer has but one means of knowing the effect of 
 his attack. In this he has the superiority over the vi- 
 per ; he knows that his poison has taken effect, when he 
 hears the victim cry ;— the adder is deaf. The best re- 
 ply to an anonymous intimation is to take no notice di- 
 rectly nor indirectly. I wish Mr. Bowles could see only 
 one or two of the thousand which I have received in the 
 course of a literary life, which, though begun early, has 
 not yet extended to a third part of his existence as an 
 author. I speak of literary life only. Were I to add 
 personal, I might double the amount of anonymous letters. 
 If he could but see the violence, the threats, the absurdity 
 of the whole thing, he would laugh, and so should I, and 
 thus be both gainers. 
 
 To keep up the farce, — within the last month of this 
 present writing (1821,) I have had my life threatened 
 in the same way which menaced Mr. Bowles's fame, 
 —excepting that the anonymous denunciation was ad- 
 dressed to the Cardinal Legate of Romagna, instead of 
 to Mrs. Bowles. The Cardinal is, I believe, the elder 
 lady of the two. I append the menace in all its bar- 
 baric but literal Italian, that Mr. Bowles may be con- 
 vinced ; and as this is the only " promise to pay," which 
 the Italians ever keep, so my person has been at least as 
 much exposed to a " shot in the gloaming," from 
 " John Heatherblutter" (see Waverly,) as ever Mr. 
 Bowles's glory was from an editor. I am, nevertheless, 
 on horseback and lonely for some hours {om of them 
 twilight) in the forest daily; and this, because *it was 
 
 my " custom in the afternoon," and that 1 believe if 
 the tyrant cannot escape amidst his guards (should it be 
 so written?) so the humbler individual would find pre- 
 cautions, useless. 
 
 Mr. Bowles has here the humility to say, that " he 
 must succumb ; for with Lord Byron turned against 
 him, he has no chance," — a declaration of self-denial 
 not much in unison with his " promise," five lines 
 afterwards, that *' for every twenty-four lines quoted 
 by Mr. Gilchrist, or his friend, to greet him with as 
 many from the ' Gilchrisiad ;' " but so much the better. 
 Mr. Bowles has no reason to " succumb" but to Mr. 
 Bowles. As a poet, the author of " The Missionary" 
 may compete with the foremost of his contemporaries. 
 Let it be recollected, that all my previous opinions of 
 Mr. Bowles's poetry were written long before the publi- 
 cation of his last and best poem ; and that a poet's last 
 poem should he his best, is his highest praise. But, 
 however, he may duly and honourably rank with his 
 living rivals. There never was so complete a proof of 
 the superiority of Pope, as in the lines with which Mr. 
 Bowles closes his " to be concluded in our next.^* 
 
 Mr. Bowles is avowedly the champion and the poet of 
 nature. Art and the arts are dragged, some before, and 
 others behind his chariot. Pope, where he deals with 
 passion, and with the nature of the naturals of the day, 
 is allowed even by themselves to be sublime ; but they 
 complain that too soon — 
 
 •' He stoop'd to truth and moralised his song." 
 
 and there even they allow him to be unrivalled. He has 
 succeeded, and even surpassed them, when he chose, in 
 their own pretended province. Let us see what their 
 Coryphoeus effects in Pope's. But it is too pitiable, 
 it is too melancholy, to see Mr. Bowles ^' sinning^ ^ not 
 " up" but " doivn" as a poet to his lowest depth as an 
 editor. By the way, Mr. Bowles is always quoting 
 Pope. I grant that there is no poet — not Shakspeare 
 himself — who can be so often quoted, with reference to 
 life ; — but his editor is so like the devil quoting Scrip- 
 ture, that I could wish Mr. Bowles in his proper place, 
 quoting in the pulpit. 
 
 And now for his lines. But it is painful — painful — 
 to see such a suicide, though at the shrine of Pope. I 
 can't copy them all : — 
 
 " Shall the rank, loathsome miscreant of the age 
 Sit, like a night-mare, grinning o'er a page." 
 
 " Whose pye-bald character so aptly suit 
 The two extremes of Bantom and of Brute, 
 Compound grotesque of sullenness and show. 
 The chattering magpie, and the croaking crow." 
 
 " Whose heart contends with thy Saturniau head, 
 A root of hemlock, and a lump of lead. 
 Gilchrist proceed," u:c. &c. 
 
 " And thus stand forth, spite of thy venom'd foam, 
 To give thee bite for bile, or lash thee Umpiug home." 
 
 With regard to the last line, the only one upon which I 
 shall venture for fear of infection, I would advise Mr. 
 Gilchrist to keep out of the way of such reciprocal mor- 
 sure — unless he has more faith in the " Ormskirk me- 
 dicine" than most people, or may wish to anticipate the 
 pension of the recent German professor, (I forget his 
 name, but it is advertised and full of consonants,) who 
 presented his memoir of an infallible remedy for the 
 hydrophobia to the German diet last month, coupled 
 with the philanthropic condition of a large annuity, pro- 
 vided that his cure cured. Let him begin with the 
 editor of Pope, and double his demand. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 Btron, 
 
 To John Murray, Esq. 
 
 P. S. Amongst the above-mentioned lines there oc- 
 curs the following, applied to Pope — 
 
 " The assaasiu's vengeance, and the coward's lie." 
 
A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES. 
 
 301 
 
 And Mr. Bowles persists that he is a well-wisher to 
 Pope!!! He has, then, edited an "assassin" and a 
 **coward" wittingly, as well as lovingly. In my former 
 letter I have remarked upon the editor's forgetfulness of 
 Pope's benevolence. But where he mentions his faults 
 it is " with sorrow " — his tears drop, but they do not 
 blot them out. The *' recording angel " differs from the 
 recording clergyman. A fulsome editor is pardonable 
 though tiresome, like a panegyrical son whose pious sin- 
 cerity would demi-deify his father. But a detracting edi- 
 tor is a paricide. He sins against the nature of his office, 
 and connection — he murders the life to come of his 
 victim. If his author is not worthy to be mentioned, , 
 do not edit at all: if he be, edit honestly, and even 
 flatteringly. The reader will forgive the weakness in 
 favour of mortality, and correct your adulation with a 
 smile. But to sit down " mingere in patriots cineres," 
 as Mr. Bowles has done, merits a reprobation so strong, 
 that I am as incapable of expressing as of ceasing to 
 feel it. 
 
 FURTHER ADDENDA. 
 
 It is worthy of remark that, after all this outcry about 
 *• in-door nature" and " artificial images," Pope was the 
 principal inventor of that boast of the English, Modern 
 Gardening. He divides this honour with Milton. Hear 
 Warton; — "It hence appears, that this enchanting art 
 of modern gardening, in which this kingdom claims a 
 preference over every nation in Europe, chiefly owes its 
 origin and its improvements to two great poets, Milton 
 and Pope.''* 
 
 Walpole (no friend to Pope) asserts that Pope formed 
 Rentes taste, and that Kent was the artist to whom the 
 English are chiefly indebted for difl"using " a taste in 
 laying out grounds." The design of the Prince of 
 Wales's garden was copied from Pope's at Twickenham. 
 Warton applauds " his singular effort of art and taste, 
 in impressing so much variety and scenery on a spot of 
 five acres." Pope was \hejirst who ridiculed the "for- 
 mal, French, Dutch, false and unnatural taste in gar- 
 dening," both in prose and verse. (See, for the former, 
 • " The Guardian.") 
 
 "Pope has given not only some of our first, but best 
 rules and observations on Architecture and Gardening.'' 
 (See Warton's Essay, vol. ii. p. 237, &c. &c.) 
 
 Now, is it not a shame, after this, to hear our Lakers 
 in " Kendal Green," and our Buccolical Cockneys, cry- 
 ing out (the latter in a wilderness of bricks and mortar) 
 about " Nature," and Pope's " artificial in-door habits ?" 
 Pope had seen all of nature that England alone can sup- 
 ply. He was bred in Windsor Forest, and amidst the 
 beautiful scenery of Eton ; he lived familiarly and fre- 
 quently at the country seats of Bathurst, Cobham, Bur- 
 lington, Peterborough, Digby, and Bolingbroke ; amongst 
 whose seats was to be numbered Stowe. He made his 
 own little " five acres" a model to princes, and to the 
 first of our artists who imitated nature. Warton thinks 
 *' that the most engaging of Kent's works was a! 
 planned on the model of Pope's, — at least in the opening 
 and retiring shades of Venus's Vale." 
 
 It is true that Pope was infirm and deformed ; but 
 he could walk, and he could ride (he rode to Oxford 
 from London at a stretch,) and he was famous for an 
 exquisite eye. On a tree at Lord Barthurst's is carved 
 " Here Pope sang," — he composed beneath it. Boling- 
 broke, in one of his letters, represents them both writing 
 in the hay-field. No poet ever admired Nature more, 
 or used her better, than Pope has done, as I will under- 
 take to prove from his works, prose and verse, if not 
 anticipated in so easy and agreeable a labour. I re- 
 member a passage in Walpole, somewhere, of a gentle- 
 man who wished to give directions about some willows 
 to a man who had long served Pope in his grounds : 
 
 "I understand, sir," he replied: "you would have 
 them hang down, sir, somewhat poetical.'" Now, if no- 
 thing existed but this little anecdote, it would suffice to 
 prove Pope's taste for Nature, and the impression which 
 he had made on a common-minded man. But I have 
 already quoted Warton and Walpole {both his ene- 
 mies ) and, were it necessary, I could amply quote Pope 
 himself for such tributes to Nature as no poet of the pre- 
 sent day has even approached. 
 
 His various excellence is really wonderful : architec- 
 ture, painting, gardening, all are alike subject to his 
 genius. Be it remembered, that English gardening is the 
 purposed perfectioning of niggard Nature, and that with- 
 out it England is but a hedge-and-ditch, double-post- 
 and-rail, Hounslow Heath and Clapham Common sort 
 of country, since the principal forests have been felled. It 
 is, in general, far from a picturesque country. The case 
 is different with Scotland, Wales, and Ireland ; and I 
 except also the lake countries and Derbyshire, together 
 with Eton, Windsor, and my own dear Harrow on the 
 Hill, and some spots near the coast. In the present 
 rank fertility of" great poets of the age," and " schools 
 of poetry" — a word which, like " schools of eloquence" 
 and of "philosophy," is never introduced till the decay 
 of the art has increased with the number of its profes- 
 sors—in the present day, then, there have sprung up 
 two sorts of Naturals; — the Lakers, who whine about 
 Nature because they live in Cumberland; and their 
 under-sect (which some one has maliciously called the 
 " Cockney School,") who are enthusiastical for the 
 country because they live in London. It is to be ob- 
 served, that the rustical founders are rather anxious to 
 disclaim any connexion with their metropolitan followers, 
 whom they ungraciously review, and call cockneys, 
 atheists, foolish fellows, bad writers, and other hard 
 names not less ungrateful than unjust. I can under- 
 stand the pretensions of the aquatic gentlemen of Win- 
 dermere to what Mr. Braliam terms " entusumu^," for 
 lakes, and mountains, and daffodils, and buttercups ; but 
 I should be glad to be apprised of the foundation of the 
 London propensities of their imitative brethren to the 
 same " high argument." Southey, Wordsworth, and 
 Coleridge have rambled over half Europe, and seen Na- 
 ture in most of her varieties (although I think that they 
 have occasionally not used her very well ;) but what on 
 earth — of earth, and sea, and Nature — have the others 
 seen ? Not a half, nor a tenth part so much as Pope. 
 While they sneer at his Windsor Forest, have they 
 ever seen any thing of Windsor except its brick ? 
 
 The most rural of these gentlemen is my friend 
 Leigh Hunt, who lives at Hampstead. I believe that I 
 need not disclaim any personal or poetical hostility 
 against that gentleman. A more amiable man in society 
 I know not; nor (when he will allow his sense to pre- 
 vail over his sectarian principles) a better writer. When 
 he was writing his " Rimini," I was not the last to 
 discover its beauties, long before it was published. 
 Even then I remonstrated against its vulgarisms ; which 
 are the more extraordinary, because the author is any 
 thing but a vulgar man. Mr. Hunt's answer was, thai 
 he wrote ihem upon principle ; they made part of his 
 " system ! .'" I then said no more. When a man talks 
 of his system, it is like a woman's talking of her virtue. 
 I let them talk on. Whether there are writers who 
 could have written " Rimini," as it might have been 
 written, I know not ; but Mr. Hunt is, probably, the 
 only poet who could have had the heart to spoil his 
 ov/n Capo d'Opera. 
 
 With the rest of his young people I have no ac- 
 quaintance, except through some things of theirs (which 
 have been sent out without my desire,) and I confess 
 that till f had read them I was not aware of the full 
 extent of human absurdity. Like Garrick's " Ode to 
 Shakspeare," they " defy criticism." These are of the 
 
302 
 
 OBSERVATIONS ON "OBSERVATIONS: 
 
 personages who decry Pope. One of them, a Mr. John 
 Ketch, has written some lines against him, of which 
 it were better to be the subject than the author. Mr. 
 Hunt redeems himself by occasional beauties ; but the 
 rest of these poor creatures seem so far gone that I 
 would not " march through Coventry with them, that's 
 flat !" were I in Mr. Hunt's place. To be sure, he has 
 *' led his ragamuffins where they will be well pep- 
 pered ;" but a system-maker must receive all sorts of 
 proselytes. When they have really seen life — when 
 they have felt it — when they have travelled beyond the 
 far distant boundaries of the wilds of Middlesex— 
 when they have overpassed the Alps of Highgate, and 
 traced to its sources the Nile of the New River — then, 
 and not till then, can it properly be permitted to them 
 to despise Pope ; who had, if not in Wales, been near 
 it, when he described so beautifully the " artificial" 
 works of the Benefactor of Nature and mankind, the 
 "Man of Ross," whose picture, still suspended in the 
 parlour of the inn, I have so often contemplated with 
 reverence for his memory, and admiration of the poet, 
 without whom even his own still existing good works 
 could hardly have preserved his honest renown. 
 
 I would also observe to my friend Hunt, that I shall be 
 very glad to see him at Ravenna, not only for my sin- 
 cere pleasure in his company, and the advantage which 
 a thousand miles or so of travel might produce to a 
 " natural" poet, but also to point out one or two little 
 things in " Rimini," which he probably would not have 
 placed in his opening to that poem, if he had ever seen 
 Ravenna ; — unless, indeed, it made " part of his 
 system ! !" I must also crave his indulgence for having 
 spoken of his disciples — by no means an agreeable or 
 self-sought subject. If they had said nothing of Pope, 
 they might have remained " alone with their glory" for 
 aught I should have said or thought about them or 
 their nonsense. But if they interfere with the " little 
 Nightingale" of Twickenham, they may find others 
 who will bear it — / won't. Neither time, nor dis- 
 tance, nor grief, nor age, can ever diminish my vene- 
 ration for him, who is the great moral poet of all 
 times, of all climes, of all feelings, and of all stages 
 of existence. The delight of my boyhood, the study 
 of my manhood, perhaps (if allowed to me to attain 
 it) he may be the consolation of my age. His poetry 
 is the Book of Life. Without canting, and yet without 
 neglecting religion, he has assembled all that a good 
 and great man can gather together of moral wisdom 
 clothed in consummate beauty. Sir William Temple 
 observes, " that of all the members of mankind that 
 live within the compass of a thousand years, for one man 
 that is born capable of making a. great poet, there may 
 be a thousand born capable of making as great generals 
 and ministers of state as any in story." Here is a 
 statesman's opinion of poetry : it is honourable to him 
 and to the art. Such a " poet of a thousand years" 
 was Pope. A thousand years will roll away before such 
 another can be hoped for in our literature. But it can 
 want them — he himself is a literature. 
 
 One word upon his so brutally abused translation of 
 Homer. " Dr. Clarke, whose critical exactnes is well 
 known, has not been able to point out above three or 
 four mistakes in the sense through the whole Iliad. The 
 real faults of the translation are of a different kind." So 
 says Warton, himself a scholar. It appears by this, 
 then, that he avoided the chief fault of a translator. As 
 to its other faults, they consist in his having made a 
 beautiful English poem of a sublime Greek one. It will 
 always hold. Cowper and all the rest of the blank 
 pretenders may do their best and their worst : they will 
 never wrench Pope from the hands of a single reader of 
 sense and feeling 
 
 The grand distinction of the under forms of the new 
 
 school of poets is their vulgarity. By this* I do not 1 cockney again— if he can. 
 
 mean that they are coarse, but " shabby-genteel," as it 
 is termed. A man may be coarse and yet not xmlgar, 
 and the reverse. Burns is often coarse, but never xmlgar. 
 Chatterton is never vulgar, nor Wordsworth, nor the 
 higher of the Lake school, though they treat of low life 
 in all its branches. It is in their finery that the new 
 under school are most vulgar, and they may be known 
 by this at once ; as what we called at Harrow " a Sunday 
 blood" might be easily distinguished from a gentleman, 
 although his clothes might be the better cut, and his 
 boots the best blackened, of the two ; — probably because 
 he made the one, or cleaned the other, with his own 
 hands. 
 
 In the present case, I speak of writing not of persons. 
 Of the latter, I know nothing; of the former, I judge 
 as it is found. Of my friend Hunt, 1 have already said, 
 that he is any thing but vulgar in his manners ; and of 
 his disciples, therefore, I will not judge of their manners 
 from their verses. They may be honourable and gen- 
 tlemanly men, for what I know ; but the latter quality 
 is studiously excluded from their publications. They 
 remind me of Mr. Smith and the Miss Broughtons at 
 the Hampstead Assembly, in " Evelina." In these 
 things (in private life, at least,) I pretend to some small 
 experience ; because, in the course of my youth, I have 
 seen a little of all sorts of society, from the Christian 
 prince and the Mussulman sultan and pacha, and the 
 higher ranks of their countries, down to the London 
 boxer, the ''flash and the swell," the Spanish muleteer, 
 the wandering Turkish dervise, the Scotch highlander, 
 and the Albanian robber ; — to say nothing of the curious 
 varieties of Italian social life. Far be it from me to 
 presume that there ever was, or can be such a thing as 
 an aristocracy of poets ; but there is a nobility of 
 thought and of style, open to all stations, and derived 
 partly from talent, and partly from education, — which 
 is to be found in Shakspeare, and Pope, and Burns, no 
 less than in Dante and Alfieri, but which is nowhere to 
 be perceived in the mock birds and bards of Mr. Hunt's 
 little chorus. If I were asked to define what this gen- 
 tlemanliness is, I should say that it is only to be defined 
 by examples — of those who have it, and those who have 
 it not. In life, I should say that most military men have 
 it, and few naval ; — that several men of rank have it, and 
 few lawyers ; — that it is more frequent among authors 
 than divines (when they are not pedants) ; that fencing- 
 masters have more of it than dancing-masters, and 
 singers than players ; and that (if it be not an Irishism 
 to say so) it is far more generally diffused among women 
 than among men. In poetry, as well as writing in 
 general, it will never make entirely a poet or a poem ; 
 but neither poet nor poem will ever be good for any thing 
 without it. It is the salt of society, and the seasoning 
 of composition. Vulgarity is far worse than down- 
 right blackguardism; for the latter comprehends wit, 
 humour, and strong sense at times ; while the former is 
 a sad abortive attempt at all things, " signifying nothing." 
 It does not depend upon low themes, or even low lan- 
 guage, for Fielding revels in both ; — but is he ever 
 vulgar ? No. You see the man of education, the gen- 
 tleman, and the scholar, sporting with his subject, — its 
 master, not its slave. Your vulgar writer is always 
 most vulgar, the higher, his subject ; as the man who 
 showed the menagerie at Pidcock's was wont to say, — 
 " This, gentlemen, is the eagle of the sun, from Arch- 
 angel in, Russia ; the otterer it is, the igherer he flies." 
 But to the proofs. It is a thing to be felt more than ex- 
 plained. Let any man take up a volume of Mr. Hunt's 
 subordinate writers, read (if possible) a couple of pages, 
 and pronounce for himself, if they contain not the kind 
 of writing which may be likened to " shabby-genteel" 
 in actual life. When he has done this, let him take up 
 Pope ; — and when he has laid hira down, take up the 
 
A SECOND LETTER ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES. 
 
 303 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 Note referring to some remarks of Mr. Bowles, relative 
 to Pope's lines upon Lady Mary W. Montague.'] I think 
 thati could show, ifnecessary, that Lady Mary W. Monta- 
 gue was also greatly to blame in that quarrel, not for having 
 rejected, but for having encouraged him : but I would rather 
 decline the task — though she should have remembered her 
 own line, '■'■He comes too near, that comes to be denied." 
 I admire her so much — her beauty, her talents — that I 
 should do this reluctantly. I, besides, am so attached to 
 the very name of Mary, chat as Johnson once said, " If 
 you called a dog Hervey, I should love him ;" so, if you 
 were to call a female of the same species >•' Mary," I 
 should love it better tiian others (biped or quadruped) of 
 the same sex with a different appellation. She Vv'as an 
 extraordinary woman ; she could translate Epictetus, 
 and yet write a song worthy of Aristippus. The lines, 
 
 " And when the long hours of the public are past, 
 Aad we meet, with champaigne and a chicken, at last, 
 
 May every fond pleasure that moment endear I 
 Be banish'd afar both discretion and fear ! 
 Forgetting or scorning the airs of the crowd, 
 He may cease to be formal, and I lo be proud, 
 TiU," &c -kc. 
 
 There, Mr. Bowles !— what say you to such a supper with 
 such a woman ? and her own description too ? Is not her 
 " champaigne and chicken" yvonh a forest or two ? Is 
 it not poetry .'' It appears to me that this stanza contains 
 the "■purie"'' of the whole philosophy of Epicurus: — I 
 mean the practical philosophy of his school, not the precepts 
 of the master ; for I have been too long at the university 
 not to know that the philosopher was himself a moderate 
 man. But, after all, would not some of us have been as 
 great fools as Pope ? For my part, I wonder that, with his 
 quick feelings, her coquetry, and his disappointment, he 
 did no more, — instead of writing some lines, which are to 
 be condemned if false, and regretted if true. 
 
 SOME OBSERVATIONS 
 
 UPON 
 
 AN ARTICLE IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE, 
 No. XXIX., August, 1819. 
 
 Why, how now, Hecate ? you look angrily." 
 Macbeth. 
 
 TO J. D. ISRAELI, ESQ. 
 
 THE AMIABLE AND INGENIOUS AUTHOR OF " THE CALAMITIES" AND " ^UAEHEJLS OF AUTHORS;'* 
 THIS ADDITIONAL Q,UARREL AND CALAMITY IS INSCRIBED BY 
 
 ONE OF THE NUMBER. t 
 
 Ravenna, March 15, 1820. 
 
 « The life of a writer" has been said, by Pope, I 
 believe, to be " a warfare upon earth." As far as 
 my own experience has gone, I have nothing to say 
 against the proposition ; and, like the rest, having once 
 plunged into this state of hostility, must, however reluc- 
 tantly, carry it on. An article has appeared in a peri- 
 odical work, entitled " Remarks on Don Juan," which 
 has been so full of this spirit, on the part of the writer, 
 as to require sorao observations on mine. 
 
 In the first place, I am not aware by what right the 
 writer assumes this work, which is anonymous, to be my 
 production. He will answer, that there is internal evi- 
 dence; that is to say, that there are passages which 
 appear to be written in my name, or in my manner. But 
 might not this have been done on purpose by another ? 
 He will say, why not then deny it? To this I could 
 answer, that of all the things attributed to me within the 
 last five years, — Pilgrimages to Jerusalem, Deaths 
 upon Pale Horses, Odes to the Land of the Gaul, Adieus 
 to England. Songs to Madame La Valette, Odes to St. 
 Helena, Vampires, and what not, — of which, God 
 knows, I never composed nor read a syllable beyond 
 their titles in advertisements, — I never thought it worth 
 while to disavow any, except one which came linked 
 with an account of my *' residence in the isle of 
 Mitylene," where I never resided, and appeared to be 
 carrying the amusement of those persons, who think 
 my name can be of any use to them, a little too far. 
 
 I should hardly, therefore, if I did not take the trouble 
 
 to disavow these things published in my name, and yet 
 not mine, go out of my way to deny an anonymous 
 work; which might appear an act of supererogation. 
 With regard to Don Juan, I neither deny nor admit it 
 to be mine— every body may form their own opinion ; 
 but, if there be any who now, or m the progress of that 
 poem, if it is to be continued, feel, or should feel them- 
 selves so aggrieved as to require a more explicit answer, 
 privately and personally, they shall have it. 
 
 I have never shrunk from 'the responsibility of what 
 I have written, and have more than once incurred oblo- 
 quy by neglecting to disavow what was attributed to my 
 pen without foundation. 
 
 The greater part, however, of the "Remarks on Don 
 Juan" contain but little on the work itself, which re- 
 ceives an extraordinary portion of praise as a composi- 
 tion. With the exception of some quotations, and a 
 few incidental remarks, the rest of the article is neither 
 more nor less than a personal attack upon the imputed 
 author. It is not the first in the same publication : for 
 I recollect to have read, some time ago, similar remarks 
 upon "Beppo" (said to have been written by a cele- 
 brated northern preacher) ; in which the conclusion 
 drawn was, that " Childe Harold, Byron, and the Count 
 in Beppo, were one and the same person;" thereby 
 making me turn out to be, as Mrs. Malaprop says, 
 "like Cerberus, three gentlemen at once." That article 
 was signed " Presbyter Anglicanus ;" which, I presume, 
 being interpreted, means Scotch Presbyterian. I must 
 here observe, — and it is at once ludicrous and vexatious 
 
304 
 
 OBSERVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE 
 
 to be compelled so frequently to repeat the same thing, 
 — that my case, as an author, is peculiarly hard, in 
 being everlastingly taken, or mistaken for my own pro- 
 tagonist. It is unjust and particular. I never heard 
 that my friend Moore was set down for a fire-worshipper 
 on account of his Guebre ; that Scott was identified 
 with Roderick Dhu, or with Balfour of Burley ; or that, 
 notwithstanding all the magicians in Thalaba, any bod}' 
 has ever taken Mr. Southey for a conjuror ; whereas I 
 have had some difficulty in extricating me even from 
 Manfred, who, as Mr. Southey slily observes in one of 
 his articles in the Q^uarterly, " met the devil on the 
 Junafrau, and bullied him :" and I answer Mr. Southey, 
 who has apparently, in his poetical life, not been so 
 successful against the great enemy, that, in this, Man- 
 fred exactly followed the sacred precept, — " Resist the 
 devil, and he will flee from you." — I shall have no more 
 to say on the subject of this person — not the devil, but 
 his most humble servant Mr. Southey — before I con- 
 clude ; but, for the present, I must return to the article 
 in the Edinburgh Magazine. 
 
 In the course of this article, amidst some extraordinary 
 observations, there occur the following words: — " It 
 appears, in short, as if this miserable man, having ex- 
 hausted every species of sensual gratification, — having 
 drained the cup of sin even to its bitterest dregs, were 
 resolved to show us that he is no longer a human being 
 even in his frailties, — but a cool, unconcerned fiend, 
 laughing with a detestable glee over the whole of the 
 better and worse elements of which human life is com- 
 posed." In another place there appears, "the lurking 
 place of his selfish and polluted exile." — " By my troth, 
 these be bitter words !" — With regard to the first sen- 
 tence, I shall content myself with observing, that it 
 appears to have been composed for Sardanapalus, Tibe- 
 rius, the Regent Duke of Orleans, or Louis XV.; and 
 that I have copied it with as much indifference as I 
 would a passage from Suetonius, or from any of the 
 private memoirs of the regency, conceiving it to be 
 amply refuted by the terms in which it is expressed, and 
 fco be utterly inapplicable to any private individual. On 
 the words, " lurking-place," and '' selfish and polluted 
 exile," I have something more to say. — How far the 
 capital city of a government, which survived the vicis- 
 situdes of thirteen hundred years, and might still have 
 existed but for the treachery, of Buonaparte, and the 
 iniquity of his imitators, — a city which was the empo- 
 rium of Europe when London and Edinburgh were dens 
 of barbarians, — may be termed a " lurking-place," I 
 leave to those who have seen or heard of Venice to de- 
 cide. How far my exile may have been " polluted," it 
 is not for me to say, because the word is a wide one, 
 and, with some of its branches, may chance to over- 
 shadow the actions of most men ; but that it has been 
 " selfish'^ I deny. If, to the extent of my means and 
 my power, and my information of their calamities, to 
 have assisted many miserable beings, reduced by the 
 decay of the place of their birth, and their consequent 
 loss of substance — if to have never rejected an applica- 
 tion which appeared founded on truth — if to have ex- 
 pended in this manner sums far out of proportion to 
 my fortune, there and elsewhere, be selfish, then have 
 I been selfish. To have done such things I do not deem 
 much ; but it is hard indeed to be compelled to recapi- 
 tulate them in my own defence, by such accusations as 
 that before me, like a panel before a jury calling testi- 
 monies to his character, or a soldier recording his services 
 to obtain his discharge. If the person who has made 
 the charge of " selfishness" wishes to inform himself 
 further on the subject, he may acquire, not what he 
 would wish to find, but what will silence and shame him, 
 by applying to the Consul-General of our nation, resi- 
 dent in the place, who will be in tlie case either to con- 
 firm or deny what I have asserted. 
 
 I neither make, nor have ever made, pretensions to 
 sanctity of demeanour, nor regularity of conduct ; but 
 my means have been expended principally on my own 
 gratification, neither now nor heretofore, neither in 
 England nor out of it ; and it wants but a word from 
 me, if I thought that word decent or necessary, to call 
 forth the most willing witnesses, and at once witnesses 
 and proofs, in England itself, to show that there are 
 those who have derived not the mere temporary relief of 
 a wretched boon, but the means which led them to im- 
 mediate happiness and ultimate independence, by my 
 want of that very " selfishness" as grossly as falsely 
 now imputed to my conduct. 
 
 Had I been a selfish man — had I been a grasping 
 man — had I been, in the worldly sense of the word even 
 a -prudent man, — I should not be where I now am ; I 
 should not have taken the step which was the first that 
 led to the events which have sunk and swoln a gulf be- 
 tween me and mine ; but in this respect the truth will 
 one day be made known : in the mean time, as Duran- 
 dearte says, in* the Cave of Montesinos, " Patience, 
 and shuffle the cards." 
 
 I bitterly feel the ostentation of this statement, the 
 first of the kind I have ever made : I feel the degrada- 
 tion of being compelled to make it ; but I also feel its 
 truth, and I trust to feel it on my death-bed, should it be 
 my lot to die there. I am not less sensible of the ego- 
 tism of all this ; but, alas ! who have made me thus 
 egotistical in my own defence, if not they, who, by per- 
 versely persisting in referring fiction to truth, and tracing 
 poetry to life, and regarding characters of imagination 
 as creatures of existence, have made me personally 
 responsible for almost every poetical delineation which 
 fancy and a particular bias of thought, may have tended 
 to produce ? 
 
 The writer continues : — " Those who are acquainted, 
 as who is not 7 with the main incidents of the private 
 life of Lord B.," &c. Assuredly, whoever may be ac- 
 quainted with these " main incidents," the writer of the 
 " Remarks on Don Juan" is not, or he would use a very 
 different language. That which I believe he alludes to 
 as a " main incident," happened to be a very subordi- 
 nate one, and the natural and almost inevitable conse- 
 quence of events and circumstemces long prior to the 
 period at which it occurred. It is the last drop which 
 makes the cup run over, and mine was already full. — 
 But, to return to this man's charge : he accuses Lord 
 B. of " an elaborate satire on the character and man- 
 ners of his wife." From what parts of Don Juan the 
 writer has inferred this he himself best knows. As far 
 as I recollect of the female characters in that produc- 
 tion, there is but one who is depicted in ridiculous co- 
 lours, or that could be interpreted as a satire upon any 
 body. But here my poetical sins are again visited upon 
 me, supposing that the poem be mine. If I depict a 
 corsair, a misanthrope, a libertine, a chief of insurgents, 
 or an infidel, he is set down to the author ; and if, in a 
 poem by no means ascertained to be my production, there 
 appears a disagreeable, casuistical, and by no means 
 respectable female pedant, it is set down for my wife. 
 Is there any resemblance ? If there be, it is in those 
 who make it : I can see none. In my writings I have 
 rarely described any character under a fictitious name : 
 those of whom I have spoken have had their own — in 
 many cases a stronger satire in itself than any which 
 could be appended to it. But of real circumstances I 
 have availed myself plentifully, both" in the serious and 
 the ludicrous — they are to poetry what landscapes are to 
 the painter ; but my figures are not portraits. It may 
 even have happened, that I have seized on some events 
 that have occurred under my own observation, or in my 
 own family, as I would paint a view from my grounds, 
 did it harmonise with my picture ; but I never would 
 introduce the likenesses of its living members, unless 
 
IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE 
 
 305 
 
 their features could be made as favourable to themselves 
 as to the effect ; which, in the above instance, v»rould be 
 extremely difficult. 
 
 My learned brother proceeds to observe, that " it is 
 in vain for Lord B. to attempt in any way to justify his 
 own behaviour in that affair ; and now that he has so 
 openly and audaciously invited enquiry and reproach, we 
 do not see any good reason why he should not be plainly 
 told so by the voice of his countrymen. How far the 
 " openness" of an anonymous poem, and the " audacity" 
 of an imaginary character, which the writer supposes 
 to be meant for Lady B., may be deemed to merit this 
 formidable denuncialion from their " most sweet voices," 
 I neither know nor care ; but when he tells me that I 
 cannot " in any way justify my own behaviour in that 
 affair," I acquiesce, because no man can '■^justify'''' 
 himself until he knows of what he is accused ; and I 
 have never had — and, God knows, my whole desire has 
 ever been to obtain it — any specific charge, in a tan- 
 gible shape, submitted to me by the adversary, nor by 
 others, unless the atrocities of public rumour and the 
 mysterious silence of the lady's legal advisers may be 
 deemed such. But is not the writer content with what 
 has been already said and done ? Has not " the general 
 voice of his countrymen" long ago pronounced upon the 
 subject — sentence without trial, and condemnation with- 
 out a charge? Have I not been exiled by ostracism, 
 except that the shells which proscribed me were anony- 
 mous? Is the writer ignorant of the publicopinion and the 
 public conduct upon that occasion ? If he is, I am not : 
 the public will forget both, long before I shall cease to 
 remember either. 
 
 The man who is exiled by a faction has the consola- 
 tion of thinking that he is a martyr ; he is upheld by 
 hope and the dignity of his cause, real or imaginary : 
 he who withdraws from the pressure of debt may indulge 
 in the thought that time and prudence will retrieve his 
 circumstances : he who is condemned by the law, has a 
 term to his banishment, or a dream of its abbreviation ; 
 or, it may be, the knowledge or the belief of some in- 
 justice of the law, or of its administration in his own 
 particular ; but he who is outlawed by general opinion, 
 without the intervention of hostile politics, illegal judg- 
 ment, or embarrassed circumstances, whether he be in- 
 nocent or guilty, must undergo all the bitterness of exile, 
 without hope, without pride, without alleviation. This 
 case was mine. Upon what grounds the public founded 
 their opinion, I am not aware ; but it was general, and 
 it was decisive. Of me or of mine they knew little, 
 except that I had written what is called poetry, was a 
 nobleman, had married, became a father, and was in- 
 volved in differences with my wife and her relatives, no 
 one knew why, because the persons complaining refused 
 to state their grievances. The fashionable world was 
 divided into parties, mine consisting of a verv small 
 minority : the reasonable world was naturally on the 
 stronger side, which happened to be the lady's, as was 
 most proper and polite. The press was active and 
 scurrilous ; and such was the rage of the day, that the 
 unfortunate publication of two copies of verses, rather 
 complimentary than otherwise to the subjects of both, 
 was tortured into a species of crime, or constructive 
 petty treason. I was accused of every monstrous vice 
 by public rumour and private rancour: my name, which 
 had been a knightly or a noble one since my fathers 
 helped to conquer the kingdom for William the Norman, 
 was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and 
 muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for Eng- 
 land ; if false, England was unfit for me. I withdrew: 
 but this was not enough. In other countries, in Swit- 
 zerland, in the shadow of the Alps, and by the blue 
 depth of the lakes, I was pursued and breathed upon by 
 the same blight. I crossed the mountains, but it was 
 the same ; so I weat a little farther, and settled myself 
 39 
 
 by the waves of the Adriatic, like the stag at bay, who 
 betakes him to the waters. 
 
 If I may judge by the statements of the few friends 
 who gathered round me, the outcry cS the period to 
 which I allude was beyond all precedent, all parallel, 
 even in those cases where political motives have shar- 
 pened slander and doubled enmity, I was advised not 
 to go to the theatres, lest I should be hissed, nor to my 
 duty in parliament, lest I should be insulted by the way ; 
 even on the day of my departure, my most intimate 
 friend told me afterwards, that he was under apprehen- 
 sions of violence from the people who might be assem- 
 bled at the door of the carriage. However, I was not 
 deterred by these covmsels from seeing Kean in his best 
 characters, nor from voting according to my principles; 
 and with regard to the third and last apprehensions of 
 my friends, I could not share in them, not being made 
 acquainted with their extent, till some time after I had 
 crossed the Channel. Even if I had been so, I am not 
 of a nature to be much affected by men's anger, though 
 I may feel hurt by their aversion. Against all indivi- 
 dual outrage, I could protect or redress myself; and 
 against that of a crowd, I should probably have been 
 enabled to defend myself, with the assistance of others, 
 as has been done on similar occasions. 
 
 I retired from the country, perceiving that I was the 
 object of general obloquy ; 1 did not indeed imagine, like 
 Jean Jacques Rousseau, that all mankind was in a con- 
 spiracy against me^ though I had perhaps as good grounds 
 for such a chimera as ever he had : but I perceived that 
 I had to a great extent become personally obnoxious in 
 Endand, perhaps through my own fault, but the fact 
 was indisputable ; the public in general would hardly 
 have been so much excited against a more popular cha- 
 racter, without at least an accusation or a charge of 
 some kind actually expressed or substantiated, for I can 
 hardly conceive that the common and every-day occur- 
 rence of a separation between man and wife could in 
 itself produce so great a ferment. I shall say nothing 
 of the usual complaints of " being prejudged," "con- 
 demned unheard," " unfairness," " partiality," and so 
 forth, the usual changes rung by parties who have had, 
 or are to have, a trial ; but I was a little surprised to 
 find myself condemned without being favoured with the 
 act of accusation, and to perceive in the absence of 
 this portentous charge or charges, whatever it or they 
 were to be, that every possible or impossible crime was 
 rumoured to supply its place, and taken for granted. 
 This could only occur in the case of a person very much 
 disliked, and I knew no remedy, having already used 
 to their extent whatever little powers I might possess 
 of pleasing in society. I had no party in fashion, 
 though I was afterwards told that there was one — but it 
 was not of my formation, nor did I then know of its 
 existence — none in literature ; and in politics I had voted 
 with the Whigs, with precisely that importance which 
 a Whig vote possesses in tliese Tory days, and with 
 such personal acquaintance with the leaders in both 
 houses as the society in which I lived sanctioned, but 
 without claim or expectation of any thing like friend- 
 ship from any one, except a few young men of my own 
 age and standing, and a few others more advanced in 
 life, which last it had been my fortune to serve in cir- 
 cumstances of difficulty. This was, in fact, to stand 
 alone: and I recollect, some time after, Madame de 
 Stael said to me in Switzerland, " You should not have 
 warred with the world — it will not do — it is too strong 
 always for any individual : I myself once tried it in 
 early life, but it will not do." I perfectly acquiesce in 
 the trutli of this remark ; but the world had done me the 
 honour to begin the war ; and, assuredly, if peace is 
 only to be obtained by courting and paying tribute to it, 
 I am not qualified to obtain its countenance. I thought, 
 in the words of Campbell, 
 
306 
 
 OBSERVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE 
 
 " Then wed thee to an exiled lot, 
 And if the world hath loved thee not, 
 Its abeence may be borne." 
 
 I recollect, however, that, having been much hurt by 
 Romilly's conduct, (he, having a general retainer for 
 me, had acted as adviser to the adversary, alleging, on 
 being reminded of his retainer, that he had forgotten ii, 
 as his clerk had so many,) I observed that some of 
 those who were now eagerly laying the axe to my roof- 
 tree, might see their own shaken, and feel a portion of 
 what they had inflicted. — His fell, and crushed him. 
 
 I have heard of, and believe, that there are human 
 beings so constituted as to be insensible to injuries ; 
 but I believe that the best mode to avoid taking ven- 
 geance is to get out of the way of temptation. I hope 
 that I may never have the opportunity, for I am not 
 quite sure that I could resist it, having derived from 
 my mother something of the " perfervidum ingenium 
 Scotorum.^' I have not sought, and shall not seek it, 
 and perhaps it may never come in my path. I do not 
 in this allude to the party who might be right or wrong ; 
 but to many who made her cause the pretext of their own 
 bitterness. She, indeed, must have long avenged me 
 in her own feelings ; for whatever her reasons may have 
 been (and she never adduced them to me at least) , she 
 probably neither contemplated nor conceived to what 
 she became the means of conducting the father of her 
 child, and the husband of her choice. 
 
 So much for " the general voice of his countrymen :" 
 I will now speak of some in particular. 
 
 In the beg-inning of the year 1817, an article appeared 
 in the Quarterly Review, written, I believe, by Walter 
 Scott*, doing great honour to him, and no disgrace to 
 me, though both poetically and personally more than 
 sufficiently favourable to the work and the author of 
 whom it treated. It was written at a time when a 
 selfish man would not, and a timid one dared not, have 
 said a word in favour of either; it was written by one to 
 whom temporary public opinion had elevated me to the 
 rank of a rival — a proud distinction, and unmerited ; 
 but which has not prevented me from feeling as a friend, 
 nor him from more than corresponding to that sentiment. 
 The article in question was written upon the Third 
 Canto of Childe Harold ; and after many observations, 
 which it would as ill become me to repeat as to forget, 
 concluded with " a hope that I might yet return to 
 England." How this expression was received in Eng- 
 land itself I am not acquainted, but it gave great offence 
 at Rome to the respectable ten or twenty thousand 
 English travellers then and there assembled. I did not 
 visit Rome till some time after, so that I had no oppor- 
 tunity of knowing the fact ; but I was informed, long 
 afterwards, that the greatest indignation had been mani- 
 fested in the enlightened Anglo-circle of that year, which 
 happened to comprise within it — amidst a considerable 
 leaven of Welbeck street and Devonshire Place, broken 
 loose upon their travels — several really well-born and 
 well-bred families, who did not the less participate in the 
 feeling of the hour. " Why should he return to Eng- 
 land ?" was the general exclamation — I answer why 7 
 It is a question I have occasionally asked myself, and I 
 never yet could give it a satisfactory reply. I had then 
 no thoughts of returning, and if I have any now, they are 
 of business, and not of pleasure. Amidst the ties that 
 have been dashed to pieces, there are links yet entire, 
 though the chain itself be broken. There are duties, 
 and connections, which may one day require my pre- 
 sence — and I am a father. I have still some friends 
 whom I wish to meet again, and it may be an enemy. 
 These things, and those minuter details of business, 
 which time accumulates during absence, in every man's 
 affairs and properly , may, and probably will, recall me to 
 
 See Quarterly Review, Vol. xvi. p. 172. 
 
 England ; but I shall return with the same feelings with 
 which I left it, in respect to itself, though altered with 
 regard to individuals, as I have been more or less in- 
 formed of their conduct since my departure ; for it was 
 only a considerable time after it that I was made ac- 
 quainted with the real facts and full extent of some of 
 their proceedings and language. My friends, like other 
 friends, from conciliatory motives, withheld from me 
 much that they could, and some things which they should 
 have unfolded ; however, that which is deferred is not 
 lost — but it has been no fault of mine that it has been de- 
 ferred at all. 
 
 I have alluded to what is said to have passed at Rome 
 merely to show that the sentiment which I have descri- 
 bed was not confined to the English in England, and as 
 forming part of my answer to the reproach cast upon 
 what has been called my *' selfish exile," and my " vo- 
 luntary exile." " Voluntary" it has been ; for who 
 would dwell among a people entertaining strong hosti- 
 lity against him? How far it has been " selfish" has 
 been already explained. 
 
 I have now arrived at a passage describing me as 
 having vented my " spleen against the lofty -minded 
 and virtuous men," men " whose virtues few indeed can 
 equal ;" meaning, I humbly presume, the notorious tri- 
 umvirate known by the name of" Lake Poets" in their 
 aggregate capacity, and by Southey, Wordsworth, and 
 Coleridge, when taken singly. I wish to say a word or 
 two upon the virtues of one of those persons, public and 
 private, for reasons which will soon appear. 
 
 When I left England in April, 1816, ill in mind, in 
 body, and in circumstances, I took up my residence at 
 Coligny, by the lake of Geneva. The sole companion 
 of my journey was a young physician,* who had to make 
 his way in the world, and having seen very little of it, 
 was naturally and laudably desirous of seeing more so- 
 ciety than suited my present habits or my past expe- 
 rience. I therefore presented him to those gentlemen 
 of Geneva for whom I had letters of introduction ; and 
 having thus seen him in a situation to make his own 
 way. retired for my own part entirely from society, 
 with the exception of one English family, living at 
 about a quarter of a mile's distance from Diodati, and 
 with the further exception of some occasional intercourse 
 with Coppet at the wish of Madame de Stael. The 
 English family to which I allude consisted of two ladies, 
 a gentleman and his son, a boy of a year old.f 
 
 One of " these lofty-minded and virtuous men," in the 
 words of the Edinburgh Magazine, made, I understand, 
 about this time, or soon after, a tour in Switzerland. 
 On his return to England, he circulated — and for any 
 thing I know, invented — a report, that the gentleman to 
 whom I have alluded and myself were living in promis- 
 cuous intercourse with two sisters, " having formed a 
 league of incest" (I quote the words as they were stated 
 to me), and indulged himself on the natural comments 
 upon such a conjunction, which are said to have been 
 repeated publicly, with great complacency, by another 
 of that poetical fraternity, of whom I shall say only, 
 that even had the story been true, he should not have 
 repeated it, as far as it regarded myself, except in sor- 
 row. The tale itself requires but a word in answer 
 — the ladies were not sisters, nor in any degree con- 
 nected, except by the second marriage of their respective 
 parents, a widower with a widow, both being the off- 
 spring of former marriages ; neither of them were, in 
 1816, nineteen years old. "Promiscuous intercourse** 
 could hardly have disgusted the great patron of panti- 
 socracy, (does Mr. Southey remember such a scheme ?) 
 but there was none. 
 
 How far this man, who, as author of Wat Tyler, has 
 
 Dr. Polidori — author of the " Vampire." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Shelley, Miss Clermont, and Master Shelley. 
 
IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 
 
 307 
 
 been proclaimed by the Lord Chancellor guilty of a trea- 
 sonable and blasphemous libel, and denounced in the 
 House of Commons, by the upright and able member 
 for Norwich, as a " rancorous renegado," be fit for sit- 
 ting as a judge upon others, let others judge. He has 
 said that for this expression " he brands William Smith 
 on the forehead as a calumniator," and that " the mark 
 will outlast his epitaph." How long William Smith's 
 epitaph will last, and in what words it will be written, 
 I know not, but William Smith's words form the epitaph 
 itself of Robert Southey. He has written Wat Tyler, 
 and taken the office of poet laureate — he has, in the 
 Life of Henry Kirke White, denominated reviewing 
 •' the ungentle craft," and has become a reviewer — he 
 was one of the projectors of a scheme, called " pantiso- 
 cracy," for having all things, including women, in com- 
 mon, {query, common women ?) and he sets up as a 
 moralist — he denounced the battle of Blenheim, and he 
 praised the battle of Waterloo — he loved Mary Woll- 
 stoncraft, and he tried to blast the character of her 
 daughter (one of the young females mentioned) — he 
 wrote treason, and serves the king — he was the butt of 
 the Anti-jacobin, and he is the prop of the Gtuarterly 
 Review ; licking the hands that smote him, eating the 
 bread of his enemies, and internally writhing beneath 
 his own contempt, — he would fain conceal, under anony- 
 mous bluster, and a vain endeavour to obtain the esteem 
 of others, after having for ever lost his own, his leprous 
 sense of his own degradation. What is there in such a 
 man to "envy?" Who ever envied the envious? Is 
 it his birth, his name, his fame, or his virtues, that I am 
 to "envy?" I was born of the aristocracy, which he 
 abhorred ; and am sprung, by my mother, from the kings 
 who preceded those whom he has hired himself to sing. 
 It cannot, then, be his birth. As a poet, I have, for the 
 past eight years, had nothing to apprehend from a com- 
 petition ; and for the future, " that life to come in every 
 poet's creed," it is open to all. I will only remind Mr. 
 Southey, in the words of a critic, who, if still living, 
 would have annihilated Southey's literary existence 
 now and hereafter, as the sworn foe of charlatans and 
 impostors, from Macpherson downwards, that " those 
 dreams were Settle's once and Ogilby's ;" and for my 
 own part, I assure him, that whenever he and his sect 
 are remembered, I shall be proud to be " forgot." That 
 he is not content with his success as a poet may reason- 
 ably be believed — he has been the nine-pin of reviews ; 
 the Edinburgh knocked him down, and the (Quarterly 
 set him up ; the government found him useful in the pe- 
 riodical line, and made a point of recommending his 
 works to purchasers, so that he is occasionally bought, 
 (I mean his books, as well as the author,) and may be 
 found on the same shelf, if not upon the table, of most 
 of the gentlemen employed in the different offices. With 
 regard to his private virtues, I know nothing — of his 
 principles, I have heard enough. As far as having been, 
 to the best of my power, benevolent to others, I do not 
 fear the comparison ; and for the errors of the passions, 
 was Mr. Southey always so tranquil and stainless ? Did 
 he never covet his neighbour's wife ? Did he never ca- 
 lumniate his neighbour's wife's daughter, the offspring 
 of her he coveted ? So much for the apostle of pan- 
 tisocracy. 
 
 Of the " lofty-minded, virtuous" Wordsworth, one 
 anecdote will suffice to speak his sincerity. In a con- 
 versation with Mr. upon poetry, he concluded 
 
 with, " After all, I would not give five shillings for all 
 that Southey has ever written." Perhaps this calcula- 
 tion might rather show his esteem for five shillings than 
 his low estimate of Dr. Southey ; but considering that 
 when he was in his need, and Southey had a shilling, 
 Wordsworth is said to have had generally a sixpence out 
 of it, it has an awkward sound in the way of valuation. 
 This anecdote was told me by persons who, if quoted by 
 
 name, would prove that its genealogy is poetical as well 
 as true. I can give my authority for this ; and am ready 
 to adduce it also for Mr. Southey's circulation of the 
 falsehood before mentioned. 
 
 Of Coleridge, I shall say nothing — why, he may 
 divine. 
 
 I have said more of these people than I intended in 
 this place, being somew^hat stirred by the remarks which 
 induced me to commence upon the topic. I see nothing 
 in these men as poets, or as individuals — little in their 
 talents, and less in their characters, to prevent honest 
 men from expressing for them considerable contempt, in 
 prose or rhyme, as it may happen. Mr. Southey has 
 the Quarterly for his field of rejoinder, and Mr. Words- 
 worth his postscripts to " Lyrical Ballads," where the 
 two great instances of the sublime are taken from him- 
 self and Milton. " Over her own sweet voice the stock- 
 dove broods;" that is to say, she has the pleasure of 
 listening to herself, in common with Mr. Wordsworth 
 upon most of his public appearances. " What divinity 
 doth hedge" these persons, that we should respect them? 
 Is it Apollo ? Are they not of those who called Dry- 
 den's Ode "a drunken song?" who have discovered 
 that Gray's Elegy is full of faults, (see Coleridge's 
 Life, vol. i. note, for Wordsworth's kindness in point- 
 ing this out to him,) and have published what is allowed 
 to be the very worst prose that ever was written, to 
 prove that Pope was no poet, and that William Words- 
 worth is ? 
 
 In other points, are they respectable, or respected ? 
 Is it on the open avowal of apostasy, on the patronage 
 of government, that their claim is founded ? Who is 
 there who esteems those parricides of their own prin- 
 ciples 7 They are, in fact, well aware that the reward 
 of their change has been any thing but honour. The 
 times have preserved a respect for political consistency, 
 and, even though changeable, honour the unchanged. 
 Look at Moore: it will be long ere Southey meets with 
 such a triumph in London as Moore met with in Dub- 
 lin, even if the government subscribe for it, and set the 
 money down to secret service. It was not less to the 
 man than to the poet, to the tempted but unshaken pa- 
 triot, to the not opulent but incorruptible fellow citizen, 
 that the warm-hearted Irish paid the proudest of tri- 
 butes. Mr. Southey may applaud himself to the world, 
 but he has his own heartiest contempt; and the fury 
 with which he foams against all who stand in the pha- 
 lanx which he forsook, is, as William Smith described 
 it, " the rancour of the renegado," the bad language of 
 the prostitute who stands at the corner of the street, 
 and showers her slang upon all, except those who may 
 have bestowed upon her her " little shilling." 
 
 Hence his quarterly overflowings, political and lite- 
 rary, in what he has himself termed " the ungentle 
 craft," and his especial wralh against Mr. Leigh Hunt, 
 notwithstanding that Hunt has done more for Words- 
 worth's reputation as a poet (such as it is), than all the 
 Lakers could in their interchange of self-praises for the 
 last twenty-five years. 
 
 And here I wish to say a few words on the present 
 state of English poetry. That this is the age of the 
 decline of English poetry will be doubted by few who 
 have calmly considered the subject. That there are 
 men of genius among the present poets makes little 
 against the fact, because it has been well said, that 
 " next to him who forms the taste of his country, the 
 greatest genius is he who corrupts it." No one has 
 ever denied genius to Marino, who corrupted not merely 
 the taste of Italy, but that of all Europe for nearly a 
 century. The great cause of the present deplorable 
 state of English poetry is to be attributed to that absurd 
 and systematic depreciation of Pope, in which, for the 
 last few years, there has been a kind of epidemical con- 
 currence. Men of the most opposite opinions have 
 
308 
 
 OBSERVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE 
 
 united upon this to{>ic. Warton Jind Churchill began spur Streer, and with the epic jioeuy alluded lo,) than 
 it, having borrowed the hint probably from the heroes sacrifice wliat I firmly believe in as the Christisuiity of 
 of the Dunciad, and their own internal conviction that English poetry, the poetry of Pope. 
 
 their proper reputation can be as nothing till the most 
 perfect and harmonious of poets — ho who, having no 
 fault, has had reason made his reproach — was reduced 
 to what they conceived to be his level ; but even they 
 dared not degrade him below Dryden. Goldsmith, and 
 Rogers, and Campbell, his most successful disciples; 
 and Hayley, who, however feeble, has left one poem 
 «' that will not be willingly let die" (the Triumphs of 
 Temper) , kept up the reputation of that pure and per- 
 fect style ; and Crabbe, the first of living poets, has 
 almost equalled the master. Then came Darwin, who 
 was put down by a single poem in the Antijaoobin;* 
 and the Cruscans, from Merry to Jerningham, who 
 were annihilated (if Nothing can be said to be anni- 
 hilated) by Gilford, the last of the wholesome satirists. 
 At the same time Mr. Southey was favouring the 
 public with Wat Tyler and Joan of Arc, to the great 
 glory of the Drama and Epos. I beg pardon, Wat 
 Tyler, with Peter Bell, was still in M. S., and it was 
 not till after Mr. Southey had received his Malmsey 
 butt, and Mr. Wordsworthf became qualified to guage 
 it, that the great revolutionary tragedy came before the 
 public and the Court of Chancery. Wordsworth was 
 peddling his lyrical ballads, and brooding a preface, 
 to be succeeded in due course by a postscript ; both | of Dryden, has thought fit to sacrifice his genius and his 
 
 But the Edinburgh Reviewers, and the Lakers, and 
 Hunt and his school, and every body else with their 
 school, ajid even Moore without a school, and dilettanti 
 lecturers at institutions, and elderly gentlemen who 
 translate and imitate, and young ladies who listen and 
 repeat, baronets who draw indifferent frontispieces for 
 bad poets, and noblemen who let them dine with them 
 in the country, the small body of the wits and the great 
 body of the blues, have latterly united in a depreciation, 
 of which their fathers would have been as much ashamed 
 as their children will be. In the mean time, what have 
 we got instead ? The Lake school, which begun with 
 an epic poem, written in six weeks," (so Joan of 
 Arc proclaimed herself,) and finished with a ballad 
 composed in twenty years, as "Peter Bell's" creator 
 takes care to inform the few who will enquire. What 
 have we got instead? A deluge of flimsy and unin- 
 telligible romances, imitated from Scott and myself, who 
 have both made the best of our bad materials and erro- 
 neous system. What have we got instead ? Madoc, 
 which is neither an epic nor any thing else ; Thalaba, 
 Keharaa, Gebir, and such gibberish, written in all 
 metres and in no language. Hunt, who had powers to 
 have made " the Story of Rimini" as perfect as a fable 
 
 couched in such prose as must give peculiar delight to 
 those who have read the prefaces of Pope and Dryden ; 
 scarcely less celebrated for the beauty of their prose, 
 than for the charms of their verse. Wordsworth is the 
 reverse of Moliere's gendeman who had been " talking 
 prose ail his life, without knowing it;" for he thinks 
 that he has been all his life writing both prose and verse, 
 and neither of what he conceives to be such can be 
 properly said to be either one or the other. Mr. Cole- 
 ridge, the future vates, poet and seer of the Morning 
 Post, (an honour also claimed by Mr. Fitzgerald, of the 
 "Rejected Addresses,") who ultimately prophesied the 
 downfall of Buonaparte, to which he himself mainly 
 contributed, by giving him the nickname of " the Corsi- 
 can,^^ was then employed in predicating the damnation 
 of Mr. Put, and the desolation of England, in the two 
 very best copies of verses he ever wrote : to wit, the 
 infernal eclogue of " Fire, Famine, and Slaughter," 
 and the " Ode to the departing Year." 
 
 These three personages, Southey, Wordsworth, and 
 Coleridge, had all of them a very natural antipathy 
 to Pope ; and I respect them for it, as the only ori- 
 ginal feeling or principle which they have contrived 
 to preserve. But they have been joined in it by those 
 who have joined them in nothing else : by the Edinburgh 
 Reviewers, bv the whole heterogeneous mass of living 
 English poets', excepting Crabbe, Rogers, Gilford, and 
 Campbell, who, both by precept and practice, have 
 proved their adherence ; and by me, who have shame- 
 fully deviated in practice, but have ever loved and ho- 
 noured Pope's poetry with my whole soul, and hope to 
 do so till my dying day. I would rather see all I have 
 ever written lining the same trunk in which I actually 
 read the eleventh book of a modern epic poem at Malta, 
 in 1811, (I opened it to take out a change after the 
 paroxysm ofa tertian, in the absence of my servant, and 
 found it lined with the name of the maker, Eyre, Cock- 
 
 • " The Loves of the Triangles," the joint production of Messrs. 
 Canning and Frere. 
 
 t Goldsmith has anticipated the definition of the Lake poetry, as far 
 as Buch things can be defined. "Gentlemen, the present piece is not 
 of your common epic poems, which come from the press like paper 
 kites in summer ; there are none of your Turnuses or Didos in it ; it 
 it anhialoTical description of nature. I only beg you'll endeavour to 
 make your souls in unison with mine , and hear with the same enthusiasm 
 loith which I have written." Would not this have made a proper proem 
 to the Excursion, and the poet and his pedler ? U would have answered 
 perfectly for that purpose, had it not unfortunately been written in good 
 English. 
 
 taste to some unintelligible notions of Wordsworth, 
 
 which I defy him to explain. Moore has But 
 
 why continue? — All, with the exception of Crabbe, 
 Rogers, and Campbell, who may be considered as 
 having talien their station, will, by the blessing of God, 
 survive their own reputation, without attaining any very 
 extraordinary period of longevity. Of course there must be 
 aatill further exception in favour of those who, having 
 never obtained any reputation at all, unless it be among 
 provincial literati, and their own families, have none to 
 lose ; and of Moore, who, as the Burns of Ireland, pos- 
 sesses a fame which cannot be lost. 
 
 The greater part of the poets mentioned, however, 
 have been able to gather together a few followers. 
 A paper of the Connpisseur says, that " it is observed 
 by the French, that a cat, a priest, and an old woman, 
 are sufficient lo constitute a religions sect in England." 
 The same number of animals, with some difference in 
 kind, will suffice for a poetical one. If we take Sir 
 George Beaumont instead of the priest, and Mr. Words- 
 worth for the old woman, we shall nearly complete the 
 quota required ; but I fear that Mr. Southey will but in- 
 differently represent the cat, having shown himself but 
 too distinctly to be ofa species to which that noble crea- 
 ture is peculiarly hostile. 
 
 Nevertheless,' I will not go so far as Wordsworth 
 in his postscript, who pretends that no great poet ever 
 had immediate fame ; which being interpreted, means 
 that WiUiam Wordsworth is not quite so much read 
 by his cotemporaries as might be desirable. This as- 
 sertion is as false as it is foolish. Homer's glory de- 
 pended upon his present popularity : he recited, — and, 
 without the strongest impression of the moment, who 
 would have gotten the Iliad by heart, and given it to 
 tradition ? Ennius, Terence, Plautus, Lucretius, Ho- 
 race, Virgil, JEschylus. Sophocles, Euripides, Sappho, 
 Anacreon, Theocritus, all the great poets of antiquity, 
 were the delight of their cotemporaries. The very ex- 
 istence ofa poet, previous to the invention of printing, 
 depended upon his present popularity ; and how often 
 has it impaired his future fame ? Hardly ever. History 
 informs us that the best have come down to us. The 
 reason is evident ; the most popular found the greatest 
 number of transcribers for their MSS., and that the 
 taste of their cotemporaries was corrupt can hardly be 
 avouched bv the moderns, the mightiest of whom have 
 
IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 
 
 309 
 
 but barely approached them. Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, 
 and Tasso, were all the darlings of ihe cotemporary 
 reader. Dante's Poem was celebrated long before his 
 death : and, not long after it, States negotiated for his 
 ashes, and disputed for the sites of the composition of 
 the Divina Commedia. Petrarch was crowned in the 
 Capitol. Ariosto was permitted to pass free by the 
 pubhc robber who had read the Orlando Furioso. I 
 would not recommend Mr. Wordsworth to try the same 
 experiment with his Smugalers. Tasso, notwithstand- 
 ing the criticisms of the Cruscanti, would have been 
 crowned in the Capitol, but for his death. 
 
 It is easy to prove the immediate popularity of the 
 chief poets of the only modern nation in Europe that 
 has a poetical language, the Italian. In our own, 
 Sliakspeare, Spencer, Jonson, Waller, Dryden, Con- 
 greve, Pope, Young, Shenstone, Thomson, Johnson, 
 Goldsmith, Gray, were all as popular in their lives as 
 since. Gray's Elegy pleased instantly, and eternally. 
 His Odes did not, nor yet do they, please like his Elegy. 
 Milton's politics kept him down. But the Epigram of 
 Dryden,* and the very sale of his work, in proportion 
 to the less reading time of its publication, prove him to 
 have been honoured by his cotemporaries, I will ven 
 ture to assert, that the sale of the Paradise Lost was 
 greater in the first four years after its publication, than 
 that of " The Excursion" in the same number, with 
 the difference of nearly a century and a half between 
 them of time, and of thousands in point of general read- 
 ers. Notwithstanding Mr. Wordsworth's having press- 
 ed Milton into his service as one of those not presently 
 popular, to favour his own purpose of proving that our 
 grandchildren will read him (the said William Words- 
 worth,) I would recommend him to begin first with our 
 grandmothers. But he need not be alarmed; he may 
 yet live to see all the envies pass away, as Darwin and 
 Seward, and Hoole, and Hole, and Hoyle have passed 
 away ; but their declension will not be his ascension : he 
 is essentially a bad writer, and all the failures of others 
 can never strengthen him. He may have a sect, but 
 he will never have a public ; and his " audience'- will 
 always be ^'■few" without being '"V?^," — except for 
 Bedlam. 
 
 It may be asked, why, having this opinion of the 
 present state of poetry in England, and having had it 
 long, as my friends and others well knew — possessing, 
 or having possessed too, as a writer, the ear of the public 
 for the time being — I have not adopted a different plan 
 in my own compositions, and endeavoured to correct 
 rather than encourage the taste of the day. To this I 
 would answer, that it is easier to perceive the wrong 
 than to pursue the right, and that I have never contem- 
 plated the prospect " of filling (with Peter Bell, see its 
 Preface) permanently a station in the literature of the 
 country." . Those who know me best, know this, and 
 that I have been considerably astonished at the tempora- 
 ry success of my works, having flattered no person and 
 no party, and expressed opinions which are not those of 
 the general reader. Could I have anticipated the degree 
 of attention which has been accorded me, assuredly 
 I would have studied more to deserve it. But I have 
 lived in far countries abroad, or in the agitating world 
 at home, which was not favourable to study or re- 
 flectKm ; so that almost all I have written has been 
 mere passion, — passion, it is true, of different kinds, 
 but always passion: for in me (if it be not an Irishism 
 to say so) my indifference was a kind of passion, the 
 result of experience, and not the philosophy of nature. 
 Writing grows a habit, like a woman's gallantry : there 
 are women who have had no intrigue, but few who have 
 
 • The well-kuown Hues under Milton's picture, — 
 
 " Three poets in three tlislant ages born,' 
 
 had but one only ; so there are millions of men who have 
 never written a book, but few who have written only 
 one. And thus, having written once, I wrote on; en- 
 couraged no doubt by the success of the moment, yet by 
 no means anticipating its duration, and I will venture 
 to say, scarcely even wishing it. But then I did other 
 things besides write, which by no means contributed 
 either to improve my writings or my prosperity. 
 
 I have thus expressed publicly upon the poetry of 
 the day the opinion I have long entertained and ex- 
 pressed of it to all who have asked it, and to some 
 who would rather not have heard it : as I told Moore 
 not very long ago, " we are all wrong except Rogers, 
 Crabbe, and Campbell." Without being old in years, I 
 am old in days, and do not feel the adequate spirit within 
 me to attempt a work which should show what I think 
 right in poetry, and must content myself with having de- 
 nounced what is wrong. There are, I trust, younger 
 spirits rising up in England, who, escaping the conta- 
 gion which has swept away poetry from our literature, 
 will recall it to their country, such as it once was and 
 may still be. 
 
 In the mean time, the best sign of amendment will 
 be repentance, and new and frequent editions of Pope 
 and Dryden. 
 
 There will be found as comfortable metaphysics, 
 and ten times more poetry in the " Essay on Man," 
 than in the " Excursion." If you search for passion, 
 where is it to be found stronger than in the epistle 
 from Eloisa to Abelard, or in Palamon and Arcite ? 
 Do you wish for invention, imagination, sublimity, 
 character ? ;?eek them in the Rape of the Lock, the 
 Fables of Dryden, the Ode of Saint Cecilia's Day, 
 and Absalom and Achitophel : you will discover in 
 these two poets only, all for which you must ransack 
 innumerable metres, and God only knows how many 
 writers of the day, without finding a tittle of the same 
 qualities, — with the addition, too, of wit, of which the 
 latter have none. I have not, however, forgotten Thomas 
 Brown the Younger, nor the Fudge Family, nor Whis- 
 tlecraft ; but that is not wit — it is humour. I will say 
 nothing of the harmony of Pope and Dryden in compa- 
 rison, for there is not a living poet (except Rogers, 
 Gifford, Campbell, and Crabbe,) who can write an 
 heroic couplet. The fact is, that the exquisite beauty 
 of their versification has withdrawn the public attention 
 from their other excellences, as the vulgar eye will rest 
 more upon the splendour of the uniform than the quality 
 of the troops. It is this very harmony, particularly in 
 Pope, which has raised the vulgar and atrocious cant 
 gainst him: — because his versification is perfect, it is 
 assumed that it is his only perfection ; because his truths 
 are so clear, it is asserted that he has no invention ; and 
 because he is always intelligible, it is taken fiir granted 
 that he has no genius. We are sneeringly told that he 
 is the " Poet of Reason," as if this was a reason for his 
 being no poet. Taking passage for passage, I will 
 undertake to cite more lines teeming with imagina- 
 tion from Pope than from any two living poets, be they 
 who they may. To take an instance at random from a 
 species of composition not very favourable to imagi- 
 nation — Satire : set down the character of Sporus,* 
 
 ' Let Sporiis tremble— .4. Wliat ? that thing of silk, 
 Sporws, that mere wiiite curd of ass's milk? 
 Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel ? 
 Who breaks a hiitterfiy upon a wheel ? 
 P. Yet let nie flap tliis bug with gilded wings, 
 This painted child of din, that stinks and sings ; 
 Whose buzz the witty and the lair annoys. 
 Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys ; 
 So well-bred spaniels civilly delight 
 In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. 
 Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, 
 As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. 
 Whether in florid impotence he speaks, 
 And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks ; 
 Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad. 
 Half froth, half venom, sjiits himself abroad, 
 
310 
 
 OBSERVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE 
 
 with all the wonderful play of fancy which is scattered 
 over it, and place by its side an equal number of verses, 
 from any two existing poets, of the same power and the 
 same variety — where will you find them ? 
 
 I merely mention one instance of many, in reply to the 
 injustice done to the memory of him who harmonised 
 our poetical language. The attorneys' clerks, and other 
 self-educated genii, found it easier to distort themselves 
 to the new models, than to toil after the symmetry of 
 him who had enchanted their fathers. They were be- 
 sides smitten by being told that the new school were to 
 revive the language of Q,ueen Elizabeth, the true En- 
 glish: as every body in the reign of Q,ueen Anne wrote 
 no better than French, by a species of literary treason. 
 
 Blank verse, which, unless in the drama, no one except 
 Milton ever wrote who could rhyme, became the order of 
 the day, — or else such rhyme as looked still blanker than 
 the verse without it. I am aware that Johnson has said, 
 after some hesitation, that he could not "prevail upon 
 himself to wish that Milton had been a rhymer." The 
 opinions of that truly great man, whom it is also the 
 present fashion to decry, will ever be received by me 
 with that deference which time will restore to him from 
 all ; but, with all humility, I am not persuaded that the 
 Paradise Lost would not have been more nobly conveyed 
 to posterity, not perhaps in heroic couplets, although 
 even they could sustain the subject if well balanced, 
 but in the stanza of Spenser or of Tasso, or in the 
 terza rima of Dante, which the powers of Milton could 
 easily have grafted on our language. The Seasons of 
 Thomson would have been better in rhyme, although 
 still inferior to his Castle of Indolence; and Mr. 
 Southey's Joan of Arc no worse, although it might have 
 taken up six months instead of weeks in the composition. 
 I recommend also to the lovers of lyrics the perusal of 
 the present laureate's Odes by the side of Dryden's on 
 Saint Cecilia, but let him be sure to read first those of 
 Mr. Southey. 
 
 To the heaven-born genii and inspired young scrive- 
 ners of the day much of this will appear paradox : it will 
 appear so even to the higher order of our critics ; but it 
 was a truism twenty years ago, and it will be a re- 
 acknowledged truth in ten more. In the mean time, I 
 will conclude with two quotations, both intended for 
 some of my old classical friends who have still enough 
 of Cambridge about them to think themselves honoured 
 by having had John Dryden as a predecessor in their 
 college, and to recollect that their earliest English poet- 
 ical pleasures were drawn from the " little nightingale" 
 of Twickenham. The first is from the notes to the 
 Poem of the " Friends."* 
 
 "It is only within the last twenty or thirty years 
 that those notable discoveries in criticisms have been 
 made which have taught our recent versifiers to un- 
 dervalue this energetic, melodious, and moral poet. 
 The consequences of this want of due esteem for a writer 
 whom the good sense of our predecessors had raised to 
 his proper station have been numerous and degra- 
 ding ENOUGH. This is not the place to enter into the 
 subject, even as far as it affects our poetical numbers alone, 
 and there is matter of more importance that requires 
 present reflection." 
 
 In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies. 
 
 Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies, 
 
 His wit all see-saw, between thai and this. 
 
 Now high, now low, now master up, now miss, 
 
 And he himseirone vile antithesis. 
 
 Amphibious IhingI that acting either part, 
 
 The trifling headj or the corrupted heart, 
 
 Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board, 
 
 Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord. 
 
 Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins haveexpress'd, 
 
 A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest. 
 
 Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, 
 
 Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust." 
 
 Prol. to Sat. 
 Writtea by Lord Byron's early friend, the Rer. Francia Hodg- 
 
 The second is from the volume of a young person 
 learning to write poetry, and beginning by teaching the 
 art. Hear him** 
 
 "But ye were dead 
 To things ye knew not of— were closely wed 
 To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 
 And compass vile , so that ye taught a schoolf 
 OfdoUs to smooth., inlay, and chip, unAfit, 
 Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit. 
 Their verses tallied. Easy was the task : 
 A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 
 Of poesy. Ill-fated, impious race, 
 That blasphemed the bright lyrist to hia face, 
 And did not know it ; no, they went about 
 Holding a poor decrepit standard out 
 Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large 
 The name of one Boileau I 
 
 A little before, the manner of Pope is termed, 
 
 " A scism,% 
 Nurtured hy foppery and barbarism, 
 Made great Apollo blush for this his land." 
 
 I thought ^^foppery,^^ was a consequence o^refinement ; 
 but n^importe. 
 
 The above will suffice to show the notions entertain- 
 ed by the new performers on the English lyre of him who 
 
 * In a manuscript note on this passage of the pamphlet, dated Nor. 
 12, 1821, Lord Byron says, — " Mr. Keats died at Rome about a year af 
 ter this was written, of a decline produced by his having burst a blood- 
 vessel on reading the article on his ' Endymion' in the Quarterly Review. 
 I have read the article before and since ; and although it is bitter, I do 
 not think that a man should permit himself to be killed by it. But a 
 young man little dreams what he must inevitably encounter in the course 
 of a life ambitious of public notice. My indignation at Mr. Keats's de- 
 preciation of Pope has hardly permitted me to do justice to his own 
 genius, which, malgrd all the fantastic fopperies of his style, was un- 
 doubtedly of great promise. His fragment of ' Hyperion' seems actually 
 inspired by the Titans, and is as sublime as jEschylus. He is a loss to 
 our literature ; and the more so, as he himself, before his death, is said to 
 have been persuaded that he had not taken the right line, and was re- 
 forming his style upon the more classical models of the language. 
 
 t It was at least a grammar " school." 
 
 j So spelt by the author. 
 
 I As a balance to these lines, and to the sense and sentiment of tht 
 new school, 1 will put down a passage or two from Pope's earlittt po- 
 ems, taken at random : — 
 
 " Envy her own snakes shall feel, 
 And Persecution mourn her broken wheel, 
 There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain, 
 And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain." 
 
 " Ah ! what avails his glossy varying dyes, 
 His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes*, 
 The vivid green his shining plumes unfold, 
 His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold." 
 
 " Round broken columns clasping ivy twined, 
 O 'er heaps of ruin sialk'd the stately hind ; 
 The foK obscene to gaping tombs retires, 
 And savage bowlings fill the sacred quires." 
 
 " Hail, bards triumphant I born in happier days ; 
 Immortal heirs of universal praise ! 
 Whose honours with increase of ages grow, 
 As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow ; 
 Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, 
 And worlds applaud that must not yet be found 1 
 Oh may some spark of your celestial fire, 
 The last, the meanest of your sons inspire, 
 (That on weak wings, from far pursues your flights ; 
 Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes, 
 To teach vain wits a science little known, 
 T' admire superior sense, and doubt their own I" 
 
 " Amphion there the loud creating lyre 
 Strikes, and behold a sudden Thebes aspire ! 
 Citbaeron's echoes answer to his call, 
 And half the mountain rolls into a wall." 
 
 " So Zembla's rocks, the beauteous work of frost. 
 Rise white in air, and glitter o'er the coast ; 
 Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away, 
 And on th' impassive ice the lightnings play ; 
 Eternal snows the growing mass supply, 
 Till the bright mountains prop the incumbent sky, 
 As Atlas fix'd, each hoary pile appears, 
 Thegather'd winter of a thousand years. 
 
 '• Thus, when we view some well-proportion'd dome, 
 Theworld's just wonder, and even thine, O Rome! 
 No single parts unequally surprise, 
 All comes united to th' admiring eyes ; 
 No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear ; 
 The whole at once is bold and regular." 
 
 A thousand similar passages crowd upon me, all composed by Pope 
 before his two-and-twentieth year ; and yet it is contended that he is no 
 poet, and we are told so in such lines as 1 beg the reader to compare with 
 these youthful verses of the " no poet." Must we repeat the Question of 
 Johnson. " If Pope is not apoet, where is poetry to befound7" Even 
 
 i in descriptive poetry, the lowest department of iheart, he will be found, 
 
 ' on a fair examination, to surpass any living writer. 
 
IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 
 
 311 
 
 made it most tuneable, and the great improvements of 
 their own " variazionx.'' 
 
 The writer of this is a tadpole of the Lakes, a young 
 disciple of the six or seven new schools, in which he 
 has learnt to write such lines and such sentiments as the 
 above. He says " easy was the task" of imitating Pope, 
 or it may be of equalling him, I presume. I recommend 
 him to try before he is so positive on the subject, and then 
 compare what he will have then written and what he has 
 now written with the humblest and earliest compositions 
 of Pope, produced in years still more youthful than those 
 of Mr. Keats when he invented his new " Essay on 
 Criticism," entitled " Sleep and Poetry" (an ominous 
 title,) from whence the above canons are taken. Pope's 
 was written at nineteen, and published at twenty -two. 
 
 Such are the triumphs of the new schools, and such 
 their scholars. The disciples of Pope were Johnson, 
 Goldsmith, Rogers, Campbell, Crabbe, Gifford, Mat- 
 thias, Hayley, and the author of the Paradise of 
 Coquettes ; to whom may be added Richards, Heber, 
 Wrangham, Bland, Hodgson, Merivale, and others who 
 have not had their full fame, because " the race is not 
 always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong," and 
 because there is a fortune in fame as in all other things. 
 Now, of all the new schools — I say all, " for, " like Le- 
 gion, they are many" — has there appeared a single scho- 
 lar who has not made his master ashamed of him ? unless 
 it be Sotheby, who has imitated every body, and occa- 
 sionally surpassed his models. Scott found peculiar 
 favour and imitation among the fair sex : there was Miss 
 Holford, and Miss Mitford, and Miss Francis; but, 
 with the greatest respect be it spoken, none of his 
 imitators did much honour to the original, except Hogg, 
 the Ettrick shepherd, until the appearance of '• The 
 Bridal of Triermain," and " Harold the Dauntless," 
 which in the opinion of some equalled if not surpassed 
 him ; and lo ! after three or four years they turned out to 
 be the Master's own compositions. Have Southey, or 
 Coleridge, or t'other fellow, made a follower of renown ? 
 Wilson never did well till he set up for himself in the 
 •' City of the Plague." Has Moore, or any other living 
 writer of reputation, had a tolerable imitator, or rather 
 disciple? Now, it is remarkable, that almost all the 
 followers of Pope, whom I have named, have produced 
 beautiful and standard works ; and it was not the number 
 of his imitators who finally hurt his fame, but the despair 
 of imitation, and the ease of not imitating him sufficiently. 
 This, and the same reason which induced the Athenian 
 burgher to vote for the banishment of Aristides, " be- 
 cause he was tired of always hearing him called the 
 Just,'^ have produced the temporary exile of Pope from 
 the State of Literature. But the term of his ostracism 
 will expire, and the sooner the better, not for him, but 
 for those who banished him, and for the coming genera- 
 tion, who 
 
 " Will blush to find their fathers were his foes." 
 
 I will now return to the writer of the article which 
 has drawn forth these remarks, whom I honestly take to 
 be John Wilson, a man of great powers and acquire- 
 ments, well known to the public as the author of the 
 " City of the Plague," " Isle of Palms," and other 
 productions. I take the liberty of naming him, by the 
 same species of courtesy which has induced him to de- 
 signate me as the author of Don Juan. Upon the 
 score of the Lake Poets, he may perhaps recall to mind 
 that I merely express an opinion long ago entertained 
 and specified in a letter to Mr. James Hogg, which 
 he the said James Hogg, somewhat contrary to the law 
 of pens, showed to Mr. John Wilson, in the year 1814, 
 as he himself informed me in his answer, telling me by 
 
 way of apology, that " he'd be d d if he could help 
 
 it ;" and I am not conscious of any thing like " envy" 
 or " exacerbation" at this moment which induces me 
 to think better or worse of Southey, Wordsworth, and 
 Coleridge as poets than I do now, although I do know 
 one or two things more which have added to my con- 
 tempt for them as individuals. And, in return for Mr. 
 Wilson's invective, I shall content myself with asking 
 one question ; Did he never compose, recite, or sing 
 any parody or parodies upon the Psalms (of what nature 
 this deponent saith not,) in certain jovial meetings of 
 the youth of Eduiburgh ? It is not that I think any 
 great harm if he did ; because it seems to me that all 
 depends upon the intention of such a parody. If it be 
 meant to throw ridicule on the sacred original, it is a 
 sin ; if it be intended to burlesque the profane subject, 
 or to inculcate a moral truth, it is none. If it were, 
 the unbelievers^ Creed, the many political parodies of 
 various parts of the Scriptures and liturgy, particularly 
 a celebrated one of the Lord's Prayer, and the beautiful 
 moral parable in favour of toleration by Franklin, 
 which has often been taken for a real extract from Ge- 
 nesis, would all be sins of a damning nature. But I 
 wish to know, if Mr. Wilson ever has done this, and 
 if he has, why he should be so very angry with similar 
 portions of Don Juan? — Did no " parody profane" ap- 
 pear in any of the earlier numbers of Blackwood's 
 Magazine ? 
 
 I will now conclude this long answer to a short article, 
 repenting of having said so much in my own defence, 
 and so little on the "crying, left-hand fallings off and 
 national defections" of the poetry of the present day. 
 Having said this, I can hardly be expected lo defend 
 Don Juan, or any other " living" poetry, and shall not 
 make the attempt. And although I do not think that 
 Mr. John Wilson has in this instance treated me with 
 candour or consideration, I trust that the tone I have 
 used in speaking of him personally will prove that I 
 bear him as little malice as I really believe at the bot- 
 tom of his heart he bears towards me ; but the duties of 
 an editor, like those of a tax-gatherer, are paramount 
 and peremptory. I have done. 
 
 BYRON. 
 
LETTER 
 
 TO THE EDITOR OF *MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW.' 
 
 ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE 'LIBERAL.' 
 
 In the First Canto of Don Juan appeared the follow- 
 ing passage: 
 
 " For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, 
 I 've bribed Mj Grandmotlier's Review, — the British 1 
 
 " I sent it in a letter to the editor, 
 
 Who thank'd me duly by return of post— 
 I 'm for a handsome article his creditor ; 
 
 Yet if my gentle Muse he please to roast. 
 And break a promise after having made it her, 
 
 Denying the receipt of what it cost 
 And smear his page with gall instead of honey, 
 
 All I can say is — that he had the money." 
 
 On the appearance of the Poem, the learned editor 
 of the Review in question allowed himself to be de- 
 coved into the ineffable absurdity of taking the charge 
 as serious, and, in his succeeding number, came forth 
 vviih an indignant contradiction of it 5 to which Lord 
 Byron replied in the following letter: — 
 
 «*T0 THE EDITOR OF THE BRITISH REVIEW. 
 ♦* MY DEAR ROBERTS, 
 
 " As a believer in the Church of England — to say 
 nothing of the Stale — I have been an occasional reader, 
 and great admirer of, though not a subscriber to, your 
 Review, which is rather expensive. But I do not know 
 that any part of its contents ever gave me much surprise 
 till the eleventh article of your twenty-seventh number 
 made its appearance. You have there most vigorously 
 refuted a calumnious accusation of bribery and corrup- 
 tion, the credence of which in the public mind might not 
 only have damaged your reputation as a barrister and an 
 editor, but, what would have been still worse, have injured 
 the circulation of your journal ; which, I regret to hear, 
 is not so extensive as the ' purity (as you well observe) 
 of its,'&c. &c. and the present taste for propriety, would 
 induce us to expect. The charge itself is of a solemn 
 nature, and, although in verse, is couched in terms of such 
 circumstantial gravity, as to induce a belief little short 
 of that generally accorded to the thirty-nine articles, to 
 which you so frankly subscribed on taking your degrees. 
 It is a charge the most revolting to the heart of man, from 
 its frequent occurrence ; to the mind of a lawyer, from 
 its occasional truth ; and to the soul of an editor, from its 
 moral impossibility. You are charged then in the last 
 line of one octave stanza, and the whole eight lines of the 
 next, viz. 209th and 210th of the first canto of that ' pes- 
 tilent poem,' Don Juan, with receiving, and still more 
 foolishly acknowledging the receipt of, certain monies, 
 to eulogize the unknown author, who by this account 
 must be known to you, if to nobody else. An impeach- 
 ment of this nature, so seriously made, there is but one 
 way of refliting ; and it is my firm persuasion, that whe- 
 ther you did or did not (and I believe that you did not) 
 receive the said monies, of which I wish that he had 
 specified the sum, you are quite right in denying all 
 knowledge of the transaction. If charges of this ne- 
 farious description are to go forth, sanctioned by all the 
 solemnity of circumstance, and guaranteed by the vera- 
 city of verse (as Counsellor Phillips would say) what 
 is to become of readers hitherto implicitly confident in 
 the not less veracious prose of our critical journals ? 
 what is to become of the reviews ? And if the reviews 
 fail, what is to become of the editors? It is common 
 
 cause, and you have done well to sound the alarm. I 
 myself, in my humble sphere, will be one of your echoes. 
 In the words of the tragedian Listen, ' I love a row,* 
 and you seem justly determined to make one, 
 
 "It is barely possible, certainly improbable, that the 
 writer might have been in jest; but this only aggravates 
 his crime. A joke, the proverb says, ' breaks no bones ;' 
 but it may break a bookseller, or it may be the cause of 
 bones being broken. The jest is but a bad one at the 
 best for the author, and might have been a still worse 
 one for you, if your copious contradiction did not certify 
 to ail whom it may concern your own indignant inno- 
 cence, and the immaculate purity of the British Review. 
 I do not doubt your word, my dear Roberts, yet I can- 
 not help wishing that in a case of such vital importance, 
 it had assumed the more substantial shape of an affida- 
 vit sworn before the Lord Mayor. 
 
 " I am sure, my dear Roberts, that you will take these 
 observations of mine in good part ; they are written in 
 a spirit of friendship not less pure than your own edito- 
 rial integrity. I have always admired you ; and not 
 knowmg any shape which friendship and admiration 
 can assume more agreeable and useful than that of good 
 advice, I shall continue my lucubrations, mixed with 
 here and there a monitory hint as to what I conceive 
 to be the line you should pursue, in case you should 
 ever again be assailed with bribes, or accused of taking 
 them. By the way, you do n't say much akiut the 
 poem, except that it is * flagitious.' This is a pity 
 — you should have cut it up ; because, to say the truth, 
 in not doing so, you somewhat assist any notions which 
 the malignant might entertain on the score of the ano- 
 nymous asseveration which has made you so angry. 
 
 " You say, no bookseller ' was willing to take upon 
 himself the publication, though most of them disgrace 
 themselves by selling it.' Now, my dear friend, though 
 we all know that those fellows will do any thing for 
 money, methinks the disgrace is more with the pur- 
 chasers ; and some such, doubtless, there are, for there 
 can be no very extensive selling (as you will perceive 
 by that of the British Review) without buying. You 
 then add, ' what can the critic say ?' 1 am sure I do n't 
 know ; at present he says very little, and that not much 
 to the purpose. Then comes, < for praise, as far as re- 
 gards the poetry, many passages might be exhibited ; 
 for condemnation, as far as regards the morality, all. 
 Now, my dear good Roberts. I feel for you and for your 
 reputation ; my heart bleeds for both ; and I do ask 
 you, whether or not such language does not come posi- 
 tively under the description of ' the puff collusive,' for 
 which see Sheridan's farce of ' The Critic' (by the way, 
 a little more facetious than your own farce under the 
 same title) towards the close of scene second, act the 
 first. 
 
 " The poem is, it seems, sold as the work of Lord 
 Byron ; but you feel yourself ' at liberty to suppose it 
 not Lord B.'s composition.' Why did you ever sup- 
 pose that it was ? I approve of your indignation — I 
 applaud it — I feel as angry as you can; but perhaps 
 your virtuous wrath carries you a little too far, when 
 you say that ' no misdemeanour, not even that of send- 
 ing into the world obscene and blasphemous poetry, the 
 product of studious lewdness and laboured impiety, ap- 
 
LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF -MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW/ 
 
 313 
 
 pears to you in so detestable a light as the acceptance 
 of a present by the editor of a review, as the condition 
 of praising an author.' The devil it does n't ! Think 
 a little. This is being critical overmuch. In point of 
 Gentile benevolence or Christian charity, it were surely 
 less criminal to praise for a bribe, than to abuse a fel 
 low-creature for nothing ; and as to the assertion of the 
 comparative innocence of blasphemy and obscenity, con 
 fronted with an editor's ' acceptance of a present,' I 
 shall merely observe, that as an editor you say very 
 well, but as a Christian barrister, I would not recommend 
 you to transplant this sentence into a brief. 
 
 " And yet you say, ' the miserable man (for miserable 
 he is, as having a soul of which he cannot get rid') — 
 But here I must pause again, and inquire what is the 
 meaning of this parenthesis. We have heard of people 
 of ' little soul,' or of ' no soul at all,' but never till now 
 of * the misery of having a soul of which we cannot get 
 rid ;' a misery under which you are possibly no great 
 sufferer, having got rid apparently of some of the intel- 
 lectual part of your own when you penned this pretty 
 piece of eloquence. 
 
 " But to continue. You call upon Lord Byron, al- 
 ways supposing him not the author, to disclaim ' with 
 all gentlemanly haste,' &c. &c. I am told that Lord 
 B. is in a foreign country, some thousand miles off it 
 may be ; so that it will be difScult for him to hurry to 
 your wishes. In the mean time, perhaps you yourself 
 have set an example of more haste than gentility ; but 
 * the more haste the worse speed.' 
 
 " Let us now look at the charge itself, my dear Ro- 
 berts, which appears to me to be in some degree not 
 quite explicitly worded : 
 
 " I bribed my Grandmother'' s Review, the British." 
 
 "I recollect hearing, soon after the publication, this 
 subject discussed at the tea-table of Mr. S. the poet, 
 who expressed himself, I remember, a good deal surprised 
 that you had never reviewed his epic poem, nor any of 
 his six tragedies, of which, in one instance, the bad taste 
 of the pit, and in all the rest, the barbarous repugnance 
 of the principal actors, prevented the performance. 
 Mrs. and the Misses S. being in a corner of the room 
 perusing the proof sheets of some new poem5 on Italy, 
 (I wish, by the by, Mrs. S. would make the tea a little 
 stronger,) the male part of the conversazione were at 
 liberty to make a few observations on the poem and 
 passage in question, and there was a difference of opi 
 nion. Some thought the allusion was to the ' British 
 Critic;' others, that by the expression, ' my Grandmo- 
 ther's Review,' it was intimated that ' my grandmother' 
 was not the reader of the review, but actually the 
 writer ; thereby insinuating, my dear Roberts, that you 
 were an old woman ; because, as people often say, 
 * Jeffrey's Review,' ' Gifford's Review,' in lieu of Edin- 
 burgh and (Quarterly ; so ' my Grandmother's Review' 
 and Roberts's might be also synonymous. Now, what- 
 ever colour his insinuation might derive from the cir- 
 cumstance of your wearing a gown, as well as from 
 your time of life, your general style, and various pas- 
 sages of your writings, — I will take upon myself to 
 exculpate you from all suspicion of the kind, and assert, 
 without calling Mrs. Roberts in testimony, that if ever 
 you should be chosen Pope, you will pass through all the 
 previous ceremonies with as much credit as any pontiff 
 since the parturition of Joan, It is very unfair to judge 
 of sex from writings, particularly from those of the 
 British Review. We are all liable to be deceived ; and 
 it is an indisputable fact, that many of the best articles 
 in your journal, which were attributed to a veteran fe- 
 male, were actually written by you yourself; and yet to 
 this day there are people who could never find out the 
 difference. But let us return to the more immediate 
 question. 
 ^ I agree with you that it is impossible Lord Byron 
 
 40 
 
 should be the author, not only because as a British peer, 
 and a British poet, it would be impracticable for him to 
 have recourse to such facetious fiction, but for some other 
 reasons which you have omitted to state. In the first 
 place, his lordship has no grandmother. Now the author, 
 — and we may believe him in this — doth expressly state 
 that the ' British' is his ' Grandmother's Review ;' and 
 if, as I think I have distinctly proved, this was not a 
 mere figurative allusion to your supposed intellectual 
 age and sex, my dear friend, it follows, whether you be 
 she or no, that there is such an elderly lady still extant. 
 And I can the more readily credit this, having a sexa- 
 genary aunt of my own, who perused you constantly, till 
 unfortunately falling asleep over the leading article of 
 your last number, her spectacles fell off and were broken 
 against the fender, after a faithful service of fifteen years, 
 and she has never been able to fit her eyes since ; so 
 that I have been forced to read you aloud to her ; and 
 this is in fact the way in which I becacne acquainted 
 with the subject of my present letter, and thus deter- 
 mined to become your public correspondent. 
 
 " In the next place. Lord B.'s destiny seems in some 
 sort like that of Hercules of old, who became the author 
 of nil unappropriated prodigies. Lord B. has been sup- 
 posed the author of the ' Vampire,' of a ' Pilgrimage to 
 Jerusalem,' 'To the Dead Sea,' of 'Death upon the 
 Pale Horse,' of odes to ' Lavalette,' to ' Saint Helena,' 
 to the ' Land of the Gaul,' and to a sucking child. Now 
 he turned out to have written none of these things. Be- 
 sides, you say, he knows in what a spirit of, &c. you 
 criticise — Are you sure he knows all this ? that he has 
 read you like my poor dear aunt? They tell me he is 
 a queer sort of a man ; and I would not be too sure, if 
 I were you, either of what he has read or what he bus 
 written. I thought his style had been the serious and 
 terrible. As to his sending you money, this is the first 
 time that ever I heard of his paying his reviewers in 
 that coin; I thought it was rather in their own, to judge 
 from some of his earlier productions. Besides, though 
 he may not be profuse in his expenditure, I should con- 
 jecture that his reviewer's bill is not so long as his 
 tailor's. 
 
 " Shall I give you what I think a prudent opinion. I 
 do n't mean to insinuate, God forbid ! but if, by any ac- 
 cident, there should have been such a correspondence 
 between you and the unknown author, whoever he may 
 be, send him back his money : I dare say he will be very 
 glad to have it again : it can't be much, considering the 
 value of the article and the circulation of the journal ; 
 and you are too modest to rate your praise beyond its 
 real wortli. — Don't be angry, — I know you won't, — at 
 this appraisement of your powers of eulogy ; for on the 
 other hand, my dear friend, depend upon it your abuse 
 is worth, not its own weight — that's a feather, — but 
 your weight in gold. So do n't spare it: if he has bar- 
 gained for that, give it handsomely, and depend upon 
 your doing him a friendly office. 
 
 " But I only speak in case of possibility ; for, as I 
 said before, I cannot believe in the first instance, that 
 you would receive a bribe to praise any person whatever ; 
 and still less can I believe that your praise could ever 
 produce such an offer. You are a good creature, ray 
 dear Roberts, and a clever fellow ; else I could almost 
 suspect that you had fallen into the very trap set for you 
 in verse by this anonymous wag, who will certainly be 
 but too happy to see you saving him the trouble of mak- 
 ing you ridiculous. The fact is, that the solemnity of 
 your eleventh article does make you look a little more 
 absurd than you ever yet looked, in all probability, and 
 at the same time does no good ; for if any body believed 
 before in the octave stanzas, they will believe still, and 
 you will find it not less difficult to prove your negative, 
 than the learned Partridge found it to demonstrate his 
 not being dead, to the satisfaction of the readers of 
 almanacs. 
 
314 
 
 LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF 'MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW.' 
 
 " "What the motives of this writer may have been for 
 (as you magnificently translate his quizzing you) ' stating, 
 with the particularity which belongs to fact, the forgery 
 of a groundless fiction,' (do pray, my dear R. talk a 
 little less ' in King Cambyses' vein,') I cannot pretend 
 to say ; perhaps to laugh at you, but that is no reason 
 for your benevolently making all the world laugh also. 
 I approve of your being angry ; I tell you 1 am angry 
 too ; but you should not have shown it so outrageously. 
 Your solemn ' if somebody personating the Editor of 
 the,' &c. &c. ' has received from Lord B. or from any 
 other person,' reminds me of Charley Incledon's usual 
 exordium when people came into the tavern to hear him 
 sing without paying their share of the reckoning — ' If 
 a maun, or ony maun, or ony other maun,' &c. &c. ; 
 you have both the same redundant eloquence. But why 
 should you think any body would personate you J No- 
 body would dream of such a prank who ever read your 
 compositions, and perhaps not many who have heard 
 your conversation. But I have been inoculated with a 
 little of your prolixity. The fact is, my dear Roberts, 
 that somebody has tried to make a fool of you, and what 
 he did not succeed in doing, you have done for him and 
 for yourself. 
 
 " With regard to the poem itself, or the author, whom 
 I cannot find out, (can you ?) I have nothing to say ; 
 my business is with you. I am sure that you will, upon 
 second thoughts, be really obliged to me for the intention 
 
 of this letter, however far short my expressions may 
 have fallen of the sincere good will, admiration, and 
 thorough esteem, with which I am ever, my dear 
 Roberts, 
 
 " Most truly yours, 
 "WORTLEY CLUTTERBUCK. 
 " Sept. — , 1819. 
 " Littie Pidlington. 
 
 " P. S. My letter is too long to revise, and the post 
 is going. I forget whether or not I asked you the 
 meaning of your last words, ' the forgery of a groundless 
 fiction.' Now, as all forgery is fiction, and all fiction 
 a kind of forgery, is not this tautological ? The sentence 
 would have ended more strongly with ' forgery ;' only it 
 hath an awful Bank of England sound, and would have 
 ended like an indictment, besides sparing you several 
 words, and conferring some meaning upon the remain- 
 der. But this is mere verbal criticism. Good bye — 
 once more yours truly, 
 
 " W. C. 
 
 "P. S. 2d.— Is it true that the Saints make up the 
 losses of the review ? — It is very handsome in them to 
 be at so great an expense — Pray pardon my taking up 
 so much of your time from the bar, and from your clients, 
 who I hear are about the same number with the readers 
 of your journal. Tu^ice more yours, 
 
 " W. C." 
 
 LORD BACON'S APOPHTHEGMS. 
 
 BACON'S APOPHTHEGMS. 
 
 91. 
 
 Michael Angelo, the fa- 
 mous painter, painting in 
 the pope's chapel the por- 
 traiture of hell and damned 
 souls, made one of the 
 damned souls so like a car- 
 dinal that was his enemy, 
 as every body at first sight 
 knew it ; whereupon the 
 cardi nal complained to Pope 
 Clement, humbly praying it 
 might be defaced. The pope 
 said to him, Why, you know 
 very well I have power to 
 deliver a soul out of purga- 
 tory, but not out of hell. 
 
 155. 
 
 Alexander, after the bat- 
 tle of Granicum, had very 
 great offers made him by 
 Darius. Consulting with 
 his captains concerning 
 them, Parmenio said, Sure, 
 I would accept of these of- 
 fers, if I were as Alexander. 
 Alexander answered, So 
 would I, if I were as Par- 
 menio. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS. 
 
 This was not the por- 
 trait of a cardinal, but of 
 the pope's master of the 
 ceremonies. 
 
 It was after the batde of 
 Issus, and during the siege 
 of Tyre, and not immedi- 
 ately after the passage of 
 the Granicus, that this is 
 said to have occurred. 
 
 158. 
 Antigonus, when it was 
 told him that the enemy had 
 such volleys of arrows, that 
 they did hide the sun, said, 
 That falls out well, for it 
 is hot weather, and so we 
 shall fight in the shade. 
 
 162. 
 There was a philosopher 
 that disputed with Adrian 
 the Emperor, and did it 
 but weakly. One of his 
 friends that stood by, after- 
 wards said unto him, Me- 
 thinks you were not like 
 yourself last day, in argu- 
 ment with the Emperor : I 
 could have answered better 
 myself. Why, said the phi- 
 losopher, would you have 
 me contend with him that 
 commands thirty legions ? 
 
 164. 
 There was one that found 
 a great mass of money 
 digged under ground in his 
 grandfather's house, and 
 being somewhat doubtful of 
 the case, signified it to the 
 
 This was not said by 
 Antigonus, but by a Spar- 
 tan, previously to the battle 
 of Thermopylae. 
 
 This happened under 
 Augustus Caesar, and not 
 during the reign of Adrian. 
 
 This happened to the fa- 
 ther of Herodes Atticus, 
 and the answer was made 
 by the emperor Nerva, who 
 deserved that his name 
 should have been stated by 
 
LORD BACON'S APOPHTHEGMS. 
 
 315 
 
 emperor thai he had found 
 such treasure. The empe- 
 ror made a rescript thus : 
 Use it. He writ back again, 
 that ihe sum was greatei 
 than his state or condition 
 could use. The emperor 
 writ a new rescript, thus : 
 Abuse it. 
 
 178. 
 One of the seven was 
 wont to say, that laws were 
 like cobwebs: where the 
 small flies were caught, and 
 the great brake through. 
 
 209. 
 An orator of Athens said 
 to Demosthenes, The Athe- 
 nians will kill you if they 
 wax mad. Demosthenes 
 replied. And they will kill 
 you, if they be in good 
 
 221. 
 
 There was a philosopher 
 about Tiberius that, looking 
 into the nature of Caius, 
 said of him, That he was 
 mire mingled with blood. 
 
 97. 
 There was a king of Hun- 
 gary took a bishop in bat- 
 tle, and kept him prisoner ; 
 whereupon the pope writ 
 a monitory to him, for that 
 he had broken the privilege 
 of holy church, and taken 
 his son : the king sent an 
 embassage to him, and sent 
 withal the armour wherein 
 the bishop was taken, and 
 this only in writing — Vide 
 num hoBC sit vestisjilii tui ? 
 Know now whether this be 
 thy son's coat ? 
 
 the " greatest — wisest — 
 meanest of mankind." 
 
 This was said by Ana^ 
 charsis the Scythian, and 
 not by a Greek. 
 
 This was not said hy 
 Demosthenes, but to De- 
 mosthenes by Phocion. 
 
 This was not said of 
 Caius (Caligula, I pre- 
 sume, is intended by Caius,) 
 but of Tiberius himself. 
 
 This reply was not made 
 by a King o? Hungary, but 
 sent by Richard the first, 
 Cceur de Lion, of England 
 to the Pope, with the breast- 
 plate of the bishop of Beau- 
 vais. 
 
 This did not happen to 
 Demetrius, but to Philip 
 King of Macedon. 
 
 267 
 Demetrius, king of Ma- 
 cedon, had a petition offered 
 him divers times by an old 
 woman, and answered he 
 had no leisure ; whereupon 
 the woman said aloud, Why 
 then give over to be king. 
 
 VOLTAIRE, 
 
 Having stated that Bacon was frequently incorrect in 
 his citations from history, I have thought it necessary 
 in what regards so great a name (however trifling,) to 
 support the assertion by such facts as more immediately 
 occur to me. They are but trifles, and yet for such 
 trifles a schoolboy would be whipped (if still in the 
 fourth form) ; and Voltaire for half a dozen similar er- 
 rors has been treated as a superficial writer, notwich- 
 standing the testimony of the learned Warton : — " Vol- 
 taire, a writer of mwcA deeper research than is imagined, 
 and the Jirst who has displayed the literature and cus- 
 toms of the dark ages with any degree of penetration and 
 comprehension." For another distinguished testimony 
 to Voltaire's merits in literary research, see also Lord 
 Holland's excellent Account of the Life and Writings 
 of Lope de Vega, vol. i, p. 215. edition of 1817. 
 
 Voltaire has even been termed " a shallow fellow," 
 by some of the same school who called Dryden's Ode 
 " a drunken song ;"— a school (as it is called, I presume, 
 from their education being still incomplete) the whole 
 of whose filthy trash of Epics, Excursions, &c. &c. &c. 
 is not worth the two words in Zaire, " Vous pleurez," 
 or a single speech of Tancred: — a school, the apostate 
 lives of whose renegadoes, with their tea-drinking neu- 
 trality of morals, and their convenient treachery in 
 politics— in the record of their accumulated pretences 
 to virtue can produce no actions (were all their good 
 deeds drawn up in array) to equal or approach the scle 
 defence of the family of Calas, by that great and une- 
 qualled genius — the universal Voltaire. 
 
 I have ventured to remark on these little inaccuracies 
 of " the greatest genius that England or perhaps any 
 other country ever produced,"* merely to show our na- 
 tional injustice in condemning generally, the greatest 
 genius of France for such inadvertencies as these, of 
 which the highest of England has been no less guilty. 
 Cluery, was Bacon a greater intellect than Newton ? 
 
 * Pope, in Spence's Anecdotes, p. 1 
 
 Alalone's edition. 
 
TRANSLATION OF 
 
 TWO EPISTLES FROM THE ARMENIAN VERSION. 
 
 THE EPISTLE OF THE CORINTHIANS 
 TO ST. PAUL THE APOSTLE.* 
 
 1 STEPHEN,t and the elders w-ith him, Dabnus, Eu- 
 bulus, Theophilus, and Xinon, to Paul, our father and 
 evangelist, and faithful master in Jesus Christ, health. j 
 
 2 Two men have come to Corinth, Simon, by name, 
 and Cleobus,§ who vehemently disturb the faith of some 
 with deceitful and corrupt words ; 
 
 3 Of which words thou shouldst inform thyself: 
 
 4 For neither have we heard such words from thee, 
 nor from the other apostles : 
 
 5 But we know only that what we have heard from 
 thee and from them, that we have kept firmly. 
 
 6 But in this chiefly has our Lord had compassion, 
 that, whilst thou art yet widi us in the flesh, we are again 
 about to hear from thee. 
 
 7 Therefore do thou write to us, or come thyself 
 among us quickly. 
 
 8 We believe in tlie Lord, that, as it was revealed to 
 Theonas, he hath dehvered thee from the hands of the 
 unrighteous. II 
 
 9 But these are the sinful words of these impure men, 
 for thus do they say and teach : 
 
 10 That it behooves not to admit the Prophets.^T 
 
 11 Neither do they affirm the omnipotence of God : 
 
 12 Neither do they affirm the resurrection of the flesh: 
 
 13 Neither do they affirm that man was altogether 
 created by God : 
 
 14 Neither do they affirm that Jesus Christ was bom 
 in the flesh from the Virgin Mary : 
 
 15 Neither do they affirm that the world was the work 
 of God, but of some one of the angels. 
 
 16 Therefore do thou make haste** to come among us. 
 
 17 That this city of the Corinthians may remain with- 
 out scandal, 
 
 18 And that the folly of these men maybe made mani- 
 fest by an open refutation. Fare thee well.f f 
 
 The deacons Thereptus and TichusJJ received and 
 conveyed this Epistle to the city of the Philippians.§§ 
 
 When Paul received the Epistle, although he was then 
 in chains on account of Stratonice;||j| the wife of Apofo- 
 lanus,iri[ yet, as it were forgetting his bonds, he mourned 
 over these words, and said, weeping, " It were better fo 
 me to be dead, and with the Lord. For while I am in 
 this body, and hear the wretched words of such false 
 
 • Some MSS. have the title thus : Epistle of Stephen the Elder to 
 Paul the Apostle, from the Corinthians. 
 
 t In the MSS. the marginal verses published by the Whistous are 
 wanting. 
 
 I In some MSS. we find, The eldern Numenus, Eubulus, Theo- 
 philus, and Nomeson, lo Paul their brother, health! 
 
 § Others read, There came certain men, . . , and Clobeus, who 
 vehemently shake. 
 
 il Some MSS. have, We believe in the Lord, that his presence 
 teas made manifest ; and by this hath the Lord delivered us from 
 the hands of the unrighteous. 
 
 ^ Othera read. To read the Prophets. 
 
 •• Some MS.S. have, Therefore, brother, do thou make haste. 
 
 tt Others read, Fare thee well in the Lord. 
 
 It Sinae MSS. have. The Deacons Therepus and Technt. 
 
 §§ The Whistons have. To the cily of Phcmicia: but in all the 
 MSS. we find. To the city of the Philippians. 
 
 nn Oihers read, On account of Onotice. 
 
 HIT ThtsWhistons have, Of Apollophamis : but in all the MSS, we 
 ttad, Apofolanug. 
 
 doctrine, behold, grief arises upon grief, and my trouble 
 adds a weight to my chains ; when I behold this calamity, 
 and progress of the machinations of Satan, who searcheth 
 to do wrong." 
 
 And thus with deep affliction Paul composed his reply 
 to the Epistle.* 
 
 EPISTLE OF PAUL TO THE CORINTHIANS.f 
 
 1 Paul, in bonds for Jesus Christ, disturbed by so 
 many errors, J to his Corinthian brethren, health. 
 
 2 I nothing marvel that the preachers of evil have 
 made this progress. 
 
 3 For because the Lord Jesus is about to fulfil his 
 coming, verily on this account do certain men pervert and 
 despise his words. 
 
 4 But I, verily, from the beginning, have taught you 
 that only which I myself received from the former apos- 
 tles, who always remained with the Lord Jesus Christ. 
 
 5 And I now say unto you, that the Lord Jesus Christ 
 was born of the Virgin Mary, who was of the seed of 
 David, 
 
 6 According to the annunciation of the Holy Ghost, 
 sent to her by our Father from heaven ; 
 
 7 That Jesus might be introduced into tue world,§ 
 and deliver our flesh by his flesh, and that he might raise 
 us up from the dead ; 
 
 8 As in this also he himself became the example : 
 
 9 That it might be made manifest that man was 
 created by the Father, 
 
 10 He has not remained in perdition unsought ;|| 
 
 11 But he is sought for, that he might be revived by 
 adoption. 
 
 12 For God, who is the Lord of all, the Father of our 
 Lord Jesus Christ, who made heaven and earth, sent, 
 firstly, the Prophets to the Jews : 
 
 13 That he would absolve them from their sins, and 
 bring them to his judgment. 
 
 14 Because he wished to save, firstly, the house of 
 Israel, he bestowed and poured forth his Spirit upon the 
 Prophets ; 
 
 15 That they should for a long time preach the wor- 
 ship of God, and the nativity of Christ. 
 
 16 But he who was the prince of e\TJ, when he wished 
 to make himself G&d, laid his hand upon them, 
 
 17 And bound all men in sin,1I 
 
 18 Because the judgment of the world was approach- 
 ing. 
 
 19 But Almighty God, when he willed to justify, was 
 unwilling to abandon his creature ; 
 
 20 But when he saw his affliction, he had compassion 
 upon him : 
 
 * In the text of this Epistle there are some other variations in thi 
 words, but the sense is the same. 
 
 t Some MSS. have. Paul's Epistle from prison, for the instruc- 
 tion of tlie Corinthians. 
 
 X Others read. Disturbed bi/ various compunctions. 
 
 § Some MSS. have. Thai Jesus might comfort the world. 
 
 II Others read, He has not remained indifferent. 
 
 H Some MSS. have, Laid his hand, and them and all body hound 
 
TRANSLATION FROM THE ARMENIAN. 
 
 317 
 
 21 And at the end of a time he sent the Holy Ghost 
 into the Virgin foretold by the Prophets. 
 
 22 Who, beheving readily,* was made worthy to con- 
 ceive, and bring forth our Lord Jesus Christ. 
 
 23 That from this perishable body, in which the evil 
 spirit was glorified, he should be cast out, and it should be 
 made manifest 
 
 24 That he was not God: For Jesus Christ, in his 
 flesh, had recalled and saved this perishable flesh, and 
 drawn it into eternal life by faith, 
 
 25 Because in his body he would prepare a pure 
 temple of justice for all ages ; 
 
 26 In whom we also, when we believe, are saved. 
 
 27 Therefore know ye that these men are not the 
 children of justice, but the children of wrath ; 
 
 28 Who turn away from themselves the compassion 
 of God ; 
 
 29 Who say that neither the heavens nor the earth 
 were altogether works made by the hand of tlie Father 
 of all things. f 
 
 30 But these cursed menj have the doctrine of the 
 serpent. 
 
 31 But do ye, by the power of God, wdthdraw your- 
 selves far from these, and expel from among you the 
 doctrine of the wicked. 
 
 32 Because you are not the children of rebellion,§ but 
 the sons of the beloved church. 
 
 33 And on this account the time of the resurrection is 
 preached to all men. 
 
 34 Therefore they who affirm that there is no resurrec- 
 tion of the flesh, they indeed shall not be raised up to 
 eternal life ; 
 
 35 But to judgment and condemnation shall the unbe- 
 liever arise in the flesh: 
 
 36 For to that body which denies the resurrection of 
 the body, shall be denied the resurrection: because such 
 are found to refuse the resurrection. 
 
 37 But you also, Corinthians ! have known, from the 
 seeds of wheat, and from other seeds, 
 
 38 That one grain fallsH dry into the earth, and within 
 it first dies, 
 
 39 And afterward rises again, by the will of the Lord, 
 endued with the same body : 
 
 40 Neither indeed does it arise with the same simple 
 body, but manifold, and filled with blessing. 
 
 41 But we produce the example not only from seeds, 
 but from the honourable bodies of men.JT 
 
 42 Ye also have known Jonas, the son of Amittai.** 
 
 * Olliers read. Believing with a pure heart. 
 t Some MSS. have, O/^God the Father of all things. 
 X Others read, Tkey curse themselves in this thing. 
 § Others read, Children of the disobedient. 
 
 II Some MSS. have. That one grain falls not dry into the earth. 
 TI Others read. But we have not only produced from seed), but 
 from the honourable body of man. 
 
 ' ' Others reati, TAe son of Emaltihus. 
 
 43 Because he delayed to preach to the Ninevites, he 
 was swallowed up in the belly of a fish for three days 
 and three nights : 
 
 44 And after three days God heard his supplication, 
 and brought him out from the deep abyss ; 
 
 45 Neither was any part of his body corrupted ; neither 
 was his eyebrow bent down.* 
 
 46 And how much more for you, oh men of little faith ! 
 
 47 If you believe in our Lord Jesus Christ, will he 
 raise you up, even as he himself hath arisen. 
 
 48 If the bones of Ehsha the prophet, falling upon the 
 dead, revived the dead, 
 
 49 By how much more shall ye, who are supported by 
 the flesh and the blood and the Spirit of Christ, arise 
 again on that day with a perfect body ? 
 
 50 Elias the prophet, embracing the widow's son, raised 
 him from the dead : 
 
 51 By how much more shall Jesus Christ revive you, 
 on that day, with a perfect body, even as he himself hath 
 arisen ? 
 
 52 But if ye receive otlier things vainly,f 
 
 53 Henceforth no one shall cause me to travail ; for I 
 bear on my body these fetters,^ 
 
 54 To obtain Christ ; and I suffer with patience these 
 afflictions to become worthy of the resurrection of the 
 dead. 
 
 55 And do each of you, having received the law from 
 the hands of the blessed Prophets and the holy go?pel,§ 
 firmly maintain it ; 
 
 56 To the end that you may be rewarded in the resur- 
 rection of the dead, and the possession of the life eternal. 
 
 57 But if any of ye, not beheving, shall trespass, he 
 shall be judged with the misdoers, and punished with 
 those who have false behef. 
 
 58 Because such are the generations of vipers, and 
 the children of dragons and basilisks. 
 
 59 Drive far from among ye, and fly from such, with 
 the aid of our Lord Jesus Christ. 
 
 60 And the peace and grace of the beloved Son be 
 upon you.jl Amen. 
 
 Done into English by me, January- February, 1817, at 
 the Convent of San Lazaro, with the aid and exposition 
 of the Armenian text by the Father Paschal Aucher, Ar- 
 menian Friar. Byron. 
 
 Venice, AprU 10, 1817. 
 / had also the Latin text, but it is in many places very 
 corrupt, and with great omissions. 
 
 * Others add, Nor did a hair of his body fall therefrom. 
 
 t Some MSS. have. Ye shall not receive other things in vain. 
 
 X Others finished here thus, Henceforth no one can troublt me far- 
 ther, for I bear in my body the sufferings of Christ. The grace of 
 our Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit, my brethren. AiTien, 
 
 § Some MSS. have, Of the holy evangelist. 
 
 II Others add, Our Lord be with ye all. Amen. 
 
THE WILL OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 (extkacted from the registry of the prerogative court of canterbury.) 
 
 This is the last will and testament of me, George Gor- 
 don, Lord Byron, Baron Byron, of Rochdale, in the 
 county of Lancaster, as follows : — I give and devise all 
 that my manor or lordship of Rochdale, in the said county 
 of Lancaster, with all its rights, royalties, members, and 
 appurtenances, and all my lands, tenements, heredita- 
 ments, and premises situate, lying, and being within the 
 parish, manor, or lordship of Rochdale aforesaid, and all 
 other my estates, lands, hereditaments, and premises 
 whatsoever and wheresoever, unto my friends John Cam 
 Hobhouse, late of Trinity College, Cambridge, Esquire, 
 and John Hanson, of Chancery-lane, London, Esquire, to 
 the use and behoof of them, their heirs and assigns, upon 
 trust that they the said John Cam Hobhouse and John 
 Hanson, and the survivor of them, and the heirs and 
 assigns of such survivor, do and shall, as soon as conveni- 
 ently may be after my decease, sell and dispose of all my 
 said manor and estates for the most money that can or 
 may be had or gotten for the same, either by private con- 
 tract or public sale by auction, and either together or in 
 lots, as my said trustees shall thbk proper ; and for the 
 facilitating such sale and sales, I do direct that the receipt 
 and receipts of my said trustees, and the survivor of them, 
 and the heirs and assigns of such survivor, shall be a good 
 and sufficient discharge, and good and sufficient dis- 
 charges to the purchaser or purchasers of my said estates, 
 or any part or parts thereof, for so much money as in such 
 receipt or receipts shall be expressed or acknowledged to 
 be received ; and that such purchaser or purchasers, his, 
 her, or their heirs and assigns, shall not afterward be in 
 any manner answerable or accountable for such purchase- 
 moneys, or be obliged to see to the application thereof: 
 And I do will and direct that my said trustees shall stand 
 possessed of the moneys to arise by the sale of my said 
 estates upon such trusts and for such intents and purposes 
 as I have hereinafter directed of and concerning the 
 same : And whereas I have by certain deeds of convey- 
 ance made on my marriage with my present wife conveyed 
 all my manor and estate of Newstead, in the parishes of 
 Newstead and Linley, in the county of Nottingham, unto 
 trustees, upon trust to sell tlie same, and apply the sum 
 of sixty thousand pounds, part of the money to arise by 
 such sale, upon the trusts of my marriage settlement : 
 Now I do hereby give and bequeath all the remainder of 
 the purchase-money to arise by sale of my said estate at 
 Newstead, and all the whole of the said sixty thousand 
 pounds, or such part thereof as shall not become vested 
 and payable under the trusts of my said marriage settle- 
 ment, unto the said John Cam Hobhouse and John Han- 
 son, their executors, administrators, and assigns, upon 
 such trusts and for such ends, intents, and purposes as 
 hereinafter dii'ected of and concerning the residue of my 
 personal estate. J give and bequeath unto the said John 
 Cam Hobhouse and John Hanson the sum of one thou- 
 sand pounds each. I give and bequeath all the rest, resi- 
 due, and remainder of my personal estate whatsoever and 
 wheresoever unto the said John Cam Hobhouse and John 
 Hanson, their executors, administrators, and assigns, upon 
 trust that they, my said trustees, and the survivor of them, 
 and the executors and administrators of such survivor, do 
 and shall stand possessed of all such rest and residue of 
 my said personal estate and the money to arise by sale of 
 
 my real estates hereinbefore devised to them for sale and 
 such of the moneys to arise by sale of my said estate at 
 Newstead as I have power to dispose o^ after payment 
 of my debts and legacies hereby given, upon the trusts 
 and for the ends, intents, and purposes hereinafter men- 
 tioned and directed of and concerning the same, that is to 
 say, upon trust, that they, my said trustees, and the sur- 
 vivor of them, and the executors and administrators of 
 such survivor, do and shall lay out and mvest the same in 
 the public stocks or funds, or upon government or red 
 security at interest, with power from time to time to 
 change, vary, and transpose such securities, and from time 
 to time during the life of my sister Augusta Mary Leigh, 
 the wife of George Leigh, Esquire, pay, receive, apply, 
 and dispose of the interest, dividends, and annual produce 
 thereof when and as the same shall become due and 
 payable into the proper hands of the said Augusta Mary 
 Leigh, to and for her sole and separate use and benefit, 
 free from the control, debts, or engagements of her present 
 or any future husband, or unto such person or persons as 
 she my said sister shall from time to time, by any writing 
 under her hand, notwithstanding her present or any future 
 coverture, and whether covert or sole, direct or appoint ; 
 and from and immediately after the decease of my said 
 sister, then upon trust that they, my said trustees, and the 
 survivor of them, his executors or administrators, do and 
 shall assign and transfer all my said personal estate and 
 other the trust property hereinbefore mentioned, or the 
 stocks, funds, or securities wherein or upon which the 
 same shall or may be placed out or invested unto and 
 among all and every the child and children of my said 
 sister, if more than one, in such parts, shares, and propor- 
 tions, and to become a vested interest, and to be paid and 
 transferred at such time and times, and in such manner, 
 and with, under, and subject to such provisions, conditions, 
 and restrictions, as my said sister at any time during her 
 life, whether covert or sole, by any deed or deeds, instru- 
 ment or instruments, in writing, with or without power of 
 revocation, to be sealed and deUvered in the presence of 
 two or more credible witnesses, or by her last will and 
 testament in writing, or any writing of appointment in the 
 nature of a will, shall direct or appoint, and in default of 
 any such appointment, or in case of the death of my said 
 sister in my lifetime, then upon trust that they, my said 
 trustees, and the survivor of them, his executors, adminis- 
 trators, and assigns, do and shall assign and transfer all 
 the trust, property, and fimds unto .and among the children 
 of my said sister, if more than one, equally to be divided 
 between them, share and share alike, and if only one such 
 child, then to such only child tlie share and shares of such 
 of them as shall be a son or sons, to be paid and trans- 
 ferred unto him and them when and as he or they shall 
 respectively attain his or theii- age or ages of twenty-one 
 vears ; and the share and shares of such of them as shall 
 be a daughter or daughters, to be paid and transferred unto 
 her or them when and as she or they shall respectively 
 attain his or their age or ages of twenty-one years, or be 
 married, which shall first happen, and in case any of such 
 children shall happen to die, being a son or sons, before he 
 or they shall attain the age of twenty-one years, or being 
 a daughter or daughters, before she or they shall attain 
 the said age of twenty-one, or be married; then it ia my 
 
LORD BYRON'S WILL. 
 
 319 
 
 will and I do direct that the share and shares of such of 
 the said children as shall so die shall go to the survivor or 
 survivors of such children, with the benefit of further 
 accruer in case of the death of any such surviving chil- 
 dren before tlieir shares shall become vested. And I do 
 direct that my said trustees shall pay and apply the inte- 
 rest and dividends of each of the said children's shares in 
 the said trust funds for his, her, or their maintenance and 
 education durmg their minorities, notwithstanding their 
 shares may not become vested interests, but that such 
 interest and dividends as shall not have been so applied 
 shall accumulate, and follow, and go over with the princi- 
 pal. And I do nominate, constitute, and appoint the said 
 John Cam Hobhouse and John Hanson executors of this 
 my will. And I do will and direct that my said trustees 
 shall not be answerable the one of them for the other of 
 them, or for the acts, deeds, receipts, or defaults of the 
 other of them, but each of them for his own acts, deeds, 
 receipts, and wilful defaults only, and that they my said 
 trustees shall be entitled to retain and deduct out of the 
 moneys which shall come to theii- hands under the trusts 
 aforesaid all such costs, charges, damages, and expenses 
 which they or any of them shall bear, pay, sustain, or be 
 put unto, in the execution and performance of the trusts 
 herein reposed in them. I make the above provision for 
 my sister and her children, in consequence of my dear 
 wife Lady Byron and any children I may have, being 
 otherwise amply provided for ; and, lastly, I do revoke all 
 former wiUs by me at any time heretofore made, and do 
 declare this only to be my last will and testament. In 
 witness whereof, I have to this my last will, contained in 
 three sheets of paper, set my hand to tlie first two sheets 
 thereofj and to this third and last sheet my hand and seal 
 this 29th day of July, in the year of our Lord 1815. 
 
 BYRON, (L. S.) 
 Signed, sealed, published, and declared by the said Lord 
 Byron, the testator, as and for his last will and testament, 
 in the presence of us, who, at his request, in his presence, 
 and in the presence of each other, have hereto subscribed 
 ournames as witnesses. 
 
 Thomas Jones Mawse, 
 Edmund Griffin, 
 Frederick Jervis, 
 Clerks to Mr. Hanson, Chancery-lane. 
 
 CODICIL. — This is a Codicil to the last wiU and 
 testament of me, the Right Honourable George Gordon, 
 Lord Byron. I give and bequeath unto Allegra Biron, 
 an infant of about twenty months old, by me brought up, 
 and now residing at Venice, the sum of five thousand 
 pounds, which I direct the executors of my said will to 
 pay to her on her attaining the age of twenty-one years, 
 or on the day of her marriage, on condition that she does 
 not many with a native of Great Britain, which shall first 
 happen. And I direct my said executors, as soon as 
 conveniently may be after my decease, to invest the said 
 sum of five thousand pounds upon government or real 
 security, and to pay and apply the annual income thereof 
 in or towards the maintenance and education of the said 
 Allegra Biron, until she attains her said age of twenty- 
 one years, or shall be married as aforesaid ; but in case 
 she shall die before attaining the said age and without 
 having been married, then I direct the said sum of five 
 thousand pounds to become part of the residue of my 
 personal estate, and in all other respects I do confirm my 
 said will, and declare this to be a codicil thereto. In wit- 
 ness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and seal, at 
 Venice, this 17th day of November, in the year of our 
 Lord 1818. 
 
 BYRON, (L. S.) 
 
 Signed, sealed, published, and declared by the said Lord 
 Byron, as and for a codicil to his will, in the presence of 
 us, who, in his presence, at his request, and in the presence 
 of each other, have subscribed our names as witnesses. 
 Newton Hanson, 
 William Fletcher. 
 
 Proved at London, (with a codicil,) 6th of July, 1824^ 
 before the Worshipful Stephen Lushington, Doctor of 
 Laws, and surrogate, by the oaths of John Cam Hobhouse 
 and John Hanson, Esquires, the executors to whom 
 administration was granted, having been first sworn duly 
 to administer. 
 
 Nathaniel Griskins, 
 George Jenner, 
 Charles Dyneley, 
 
 Deputy Registrars. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 A ROMAUNT. 
 
 L'univers est une espfice de \iv^e, doul on n'a lu que la preniidre page quand on n'a ru que son pays. J'en 
 ai feuiUetfe un assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouvfe fegalemenl mauvaises. Cetexamen ne m'a point fetfe in- 
 fructueux. Je haissais raa patrie. Touies les impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vecu, 
 m'onlrfeconcilifeavec elle. Q,uand je n'aurais tirfe d'aulre bfeneflce de mes voyages que celui-la, je n'en 
 
 regretterais ni les frais, ni les fatigues. „^ , ^„^ . „ 
 
 LE COSMOPOLITE. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The following poem was written, for the most part 
 amid the scenes which it attempts to describe. It was 
 begun in Albania ; smd the parts relative to Spain and 
 Portugal were composed from the author's observations 
 in those countries. Thus much it may be necessary to 
 state for the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes 
 attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, 
 Acarnania, and Greece. There for the present the poem 
 stops : its reception will determine whether the author 
 may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the 
 East, through Ionia and Phrygia : these two cantos are 
 merely experimental. 
 
 A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of 
 giving some connexion to the piece ; which, however, 
 makes no pretension to regularity. It has been suggest- 
 ed to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high value, 
 that in this fictitious character, " Childe Harold," I may 
 incur the suspicion of having intended some real person- 
 age : this I beg leave, once for all, to disclaim — Harold is 
 the child of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. 
 In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, 
 there might be grounds for such a notion ; but in the main 
 points, 1 should hope, none whatever. 
 
 It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation 
 " Childe," as " Childe Waters," " Childe Childers," 
 &c. is used as more consonant with the old structure of 
 versification which I have adopted. The " Good Night," 
 in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by 
 "Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in the Border Minstrelsy, 
 edited by Mr. Scott. 
 
 AVith the different poems which have been published 
 on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight co- 
 incidence in the first part, which treats of the Peninsula, 
 but it can only be casual ; as, with the exception of a 
 few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was writ- 
 ten in the Levant. 
 
 A 
 
 The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most 
 successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie 
 makes the following observation: " Not long ago I began 
 a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I 
 propose to give full scope to my inclination, and be either 
 droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or 
 satirical, as the humour strikes me ; for, if I mistake not, 
 the measure which I have adopted admits equally of all 
 these kinds of composition."* — Strengthened in my 
 opinion by such authority, and by the example of some 
 in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no 
 apology for attempts at similar variations in the following 
 composition ; satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, 
 their failure must be in the execution, rather than in the 
 design sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, 
 and Beattie. 
 
 ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 
 
 I HAVE now waited till almost all our periodical jour- 
 nals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. To 
 the justice of the generality of their criticisms I have 
 nothing to object ; it would ill become me to quarrel with 
 their very slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if 
 they had been less kind they had been more candid. 
 Returning, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for 
 their liberality, on one point alone shall I venture an 
 observation. Among the many objections justly urged 
 to the very indifferent character of the " vagrant Childe," 
 (whom, notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I 
 still maintain to be a fictitious personage,) it has been 
 stated, that, besides the anachronism, he is very un- 
 
 Beattie's Letters. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 knightly, as the times of the Knights were times of love, 
 honour, and so forth. Now it so happens that the good 
 old times, when " I'amour du bon vieux terns, I'amour 
 antique" flourished, were the most profligate of all pos- 
 sible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this 
 subject may consult St. Palaye, passim, and more parti- 
 cularly vol. ii. page 69. The vows of chivalry were no 
 better kept tlian any other vows whatsoever ; and the 
 songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and 
 certainly were much less refined, than those of Ovid. 
 The " Cours d'amour, parlemens d'amour ou de cour- 
 tesie et de gentilesse" had much more of love than o 
 courtesy or gentleness. See Holland on the same subject 
 with St. Palaye. Whatever other objection may be 
 urged to that most unamiable personage Childe Harold, 
 he was so far perfectly knighily in his attributes — "No 
 waiter, but a knight templar."* By the by, I fear that 
 Sir Tristram and Sir Lancelot were no better than they 
 should be, although very poetical personages and true 
 knights " sans peur," though not " sans reproche." I 
 the story of the institution of the "Garter" be not a 
 fable, the knights of that order have for several centuries 
 
 The Rorera. AnUjacobin. 
 
 borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent 
 memory. So much for chivalry. Burke need not have 
 regretted that its days are over, though Maria Antoinette 
 was quite as chaste as most of diose in whose honours 
 lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed. 
 
 Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir 
 ' Joseph Banks, (the most chaste and celebrated of ancient 
 and modern times,) few exceptions will be found to this 
 statement, and I fear a little investigation will teach us not 
 . to regret these monstrous mummeries of the middle ages, 
 . I now leave " Childe Harold" to live his day, such as 
 j he is ; it had been more agreeable, and certainly more 
 ; easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It had been 
 I easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more and 
 i express less, but he never was intended as an example, 
 I further than to show that early perversion of mind and 
 morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappoint- 
 ment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature, 
 and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most 
 powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so consti- 
 tuted, or radier misdirected. Had I proceeded with the 
 poem, this character would have deepened as he drew to 
 the close ; for the outline which I once meant to fill up 
 for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modem 
 Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco. 
 
 TO lANTHE. 
 
 Not in those climes where I have late been straying, 
 Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd ; 
 Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
 Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, 
 Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : 
 Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
 To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd — 
 To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
 To those who gaze on thee what language could they 
 speak ? 
 
 Ah ! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, 
 Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, 
 As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
 Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
 And guileless beyond Hope's imagining ! 
 And surely she who now so fondly rears 
 Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
 Beholds the rainbow of her future years. 
 Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. 
 
 Young Peri of the West ! — 't is well for me 
 My years already doubly number thine ; 
 My loveless eye unmoved may. gaze on thee, 
 And safely view thy ripening beauties shine 5 
 Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline ; 
 
 Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, 
 Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
 To those whose admiration shall succeed, 
 But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours de- 
 creed. 
 
 Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's, 
 Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
 Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells. 
 Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
 That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, 
 Could I to thee be ever more than friend ; 
 This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question why 
 To one so young my strain I would commend, 
 But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. 
 
 Such is tliy name with this my verse entwined ; 
 And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
 On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined 
 Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
 My days once number'd, should this homage past 
 Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
 Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, 
 Such is the most my memory may desire 
 Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship 
 less require ; 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 Oh, thou I in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
 Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will ! 
 Smce shamed full oft by later lyres on earth. 
 Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill: 
 Yet there 1 've wander'd by thy vaunted rill ; 
 Yes ! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,^ 
 Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; 
 Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
 To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 
 
 II. 
 
 Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, 
 Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight; 
 But spent his days in riot most uncouth, 
 And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night, 
 Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight. 
 Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
 Few earthly things found favour in his sight 
 Save concubines and carnal companie, 
 And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 
 
 Childe Harold was he hight : — ^but whence his name 
 And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
 Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
 And had been glorious in another day : 
 But one sad losel soils a name for aye. 
 However mighty in the olden time : 
 Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay. 
 Nor florid prose, nor honied hes of rhyme, 
 Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 
 
 Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, 
 Disporting there like any other fly ; 
 Nor deem'd before his httle day v^as done 
 One blast might chill him into misery. 
 But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by. 
 Worse than adversity the Childe befell; 
 He felt the fulness of satiety : 
 Then loathed he in his native land to dwell. 
 Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell. 
 
 For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, 
 Nor made atonement when he did anuss, 
 Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one. 
 And that loved one, alas ! could ne'er be his. 
 Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whose kiss 
 Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
 Who soon had left her charms for vulgar blise, 
 Ajid spoil' d her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
 Nor cahn domestic peace had ever deigned to taste. 
 
 And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
 And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
 'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
 But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee: 
 Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
 And from his native land resolved to go. 
 And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; 
 With pleasure drugg'd he ahnost long'd for wo, 
 And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below. 
 
 The Childe departed from his father's hall : 
 It was a vast and venerable pile ; 
 So old, it seemed only not to fall. 
 Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 
 Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 
 Where Superstition once had made her den 
 Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile ; 
 And monks might deem their time was come agen, 
 If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 
 
 Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood 
 Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow, 
 As if the memory of some deadly feud 
 Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 
 But this none knew, nor haply cared to Icnow ; 
 For his was not that open, artless soul 
 That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, 
 Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
 Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
 He gather'd revellers from far and near. 
 He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour ; 
 The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
 Yea ! none did love him — not his lemans dear— 
 But pomp and power alone are woman's care, 
 And where these are light Eros finds a fere ; 
 Maidens, hke moths, are ever caught by glare. 
 And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair. 
 
 Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot. 
 Though parting fi-om that mother he did shun ; 
 A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
 Before his weary pilgrimage begun: 
 If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. 
 Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel ; 
 Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
 A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
 Such partings break die heart they fondly hope to heal. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, 
 The laughing dames in whom he did delight, 
 Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, 
 Might shake the saintship of an anchorite. 
 And long had fed his youiliful appetite ; 
 His goblets brimm'd with every costly wme, 
 And all that more to luxury invite. 
 Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, 
 And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line. 
 
 The sails were fill'd, and fair the hght winds blew, 
 As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
 And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
 And soon were lost in circumambient foam: 
 And then, it may be. of his A\ish to roam 
 Repented he, but in liis bosom slept 
 The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
 One word of wail, whilst others sat and wept, 
 And to the reckless gales uimianly moaning kept. 
 
 But when the sun was sinking in the sea 
 He seized his harp, which h^ 
 And strilce, albeit with untaught melody, 
 When deem'd he no strange ear was listening: 
 And now his fingers o'er it he did flings 
 And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. 
 While flew the vessel on her sno^vy vrmg, 
 And fleeting shores receded from his sight, 
 Thus to the elements he pour'd his last "Good Night." 
 
 1. 
 
 "Adieu, adieu! my native shore 
 
 Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
 The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 
 
 And shrieks the wild seamew. 
 Yon Sun that sets upon the sea 
 
 We follow in his flight ; 
 Farewell awhile to him and thee. 
 
 My native Land — Good Night! 
 
 "A few short hours and He will rise 
 
 To give the Morrow birth ; 
 And I shall hail the main and skies. 
 
 But not my mother Earth. 
 Deserted is my o%vn good hall, 
 
 Its hearth is desolate ; 
 Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; 
 
 My dog howls at the gate. 
 
 •'Come hither, hither, my little page! 
 
 Why dost thou weep and wail? 
 Or dost thou di-ead the billows' rage, 
 
 Or tremble at the gale ? 
 But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; 
 
 Our ship is swift and strong; 
 Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 
 
 More merrily along." 
 
 4. 
 
 'Let winds be shriU, let waves roll high^ 
 
 I fear not wave nor wind ; 
 Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 
 
 Am sorrowful in mind ; 
 For I have from my father gone, 
 
 A mother whom I love. 
 And have no friend, save these alone, 
 
 But thee — and one above. 
 
 5. 
 
 'My father bless'd me fervently, 
 
 Yet did not much complain ; 
 But sorely will my mother sigh 
 
 Till I come back again.' — 
 "Enough, enough, my hltle lad! 
 
 Such tears become thine eye ; 
 If I thy guileless bosom had, 
 
 INIine own would not be dry. 
 
 "Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, 
 
 Why dost thou look so pale? 
 Or dost thou dread a French foeman? 
 
 Or shiver at the gale ?" 
 'Deem' St thou I tremble for my life? 
 
 Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; 
 But thinking on an absent wife 
 
 Will blanch a faithM cheek. 
 
 7. 
 
 'My spouse and boys dwell neax thy hall, 
 
 Along the bordering lake, 
 And when they on their father call. 
 
 What answer shall she make?' — 
 "Enough, enough, my yeoman good. 
 
 Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
 But I, who am of hghter mood, 
 
 Will laugh to flee away. 
 
 " For who would trust the seeming sighs 
 
 Of wife or paramour ? 
 Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 
 
 We late saw streaming o'er. 
 For pleasures past I do not grieve. 
 
 Nor perils gathering near ; 
 My greatest grief is that I leave 
 
 No thing that claims a tear. 
 
 "And now I'm in the world alone, 
 
 Upon the wide, wide sea : 
 But why should I for others groan. 
 
 When none will sigh for me ? 
 Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 
 
 Till fed by stranger hands ; 
 But long ere I come back again. 
 
 He'd tear me where he stands. 
 
 10. 
 
 "With thee, my bark, I'll swifUy go 
 
 Athwart the foaming brine ; 
 Nor care what land thou bear'st me to. 
 
 So not again to mine. 
 Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves! 
 
 And when you fail my sight. 
 Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 
 
 My native Land— Good Night!" 
 
 XIV. 
 
 On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone. 
 And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
 Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, 
 New shores descried make every bosom gay; 
 And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, 
 And Tagus dashing onward to the deep. 
 His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
 And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap. 
 And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRUylAGE. 
 
 Oti, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
 What Heaven hath done for this dehcious land ! 
 What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
 What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
 But man would mar them with an impious hand; 
 And when the Almighty hfts his fiercest scourge 
 Xjiainst those wlio most transgress his high command. 
 With treble vengeance ^vill his hot shafts urge 
 Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. 
 
 What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! 
 Her image floating on that noble tide, 
 Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold. 
 But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
 Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
 And to the Lusians did her aid afford : 
 A nation swoki with ignorance and pride. 
 Who Uck yet loathe the hand that waves the sword 
 To save them from the wrath of Gaul's imsparing lord. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But whoso entereth within this town, 
 That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, 
 Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
 'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee ; 
 For hut and palace show like filthily : 
 The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt; 
 Ne personage of high or mean degree 
 Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, 
 Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, 
 unhurt. 
 
 XYIII. 
 
 Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest scenes — 
 Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ? 
 Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
 In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
 Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
 To follow half on which the eye dilates, 
 Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 
 Than those whereof such things the bard relates, 
 Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's gates ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The horrid crags, by toppUng convent crown'd, 
 The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
 The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd, 
 The sunlcen glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep. 
 The tender azure of the unruffled deep, 
 The orange tints that gild the greenest bou^h, 
 The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, 
 The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
 Mbc'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Then slowly climb the many-winding way, 
 And frequent turn to linger as you go. 
 From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, 
 And rest yet at our "Lad^s house of wo;"^ 
 Where frugal monks their little relics show, 
 And simdry legends to the stranger tell : 
 Here impious men have punish'd been, and lo ! 
 Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, 
 Tn hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 
 Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path : 
 Yet deem not these devotion's offering — 
 These are memorials frail of murderous wrath: 
 For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 
 Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, 
 Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
 And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
 Throughout this purple land where law secures not life.^ 
 
 XXII. 
 
 On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
 Are domes where whilome kings did make repair ; 
 But now the wild flowers roimd them only breathe ; 
 Yet ruin'd splendour still is Hngering there. 
 And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair: 
 There thou too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son, 
 Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware 
 When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, 
 Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan, 
 Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow : 
 But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, 
 Thy fairy dv. elling is as lone as thou ! 
 Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
 To halls deserted, portals gaping wide: 
 Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
 Vain are the pleasaunces on earth suppUed ; 
 Swept into wrecks anon by Tune's ungentle tide! 
 
 Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened!* 
 Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
 With diadem hight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
 A Uttle fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
 There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by 
 His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
 Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, 
 And sundry signatures adorn the roU, 
 Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his soul. 
 
 xxr. 
 Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
 That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome: 
 Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
 And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
 Here Folly dash'd to earth the Nactor's plume. 
 And Policy regain'd what arms had lost; 
 For cliiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom ! 
 Wo to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host, 
 Since baffled Triumph di-oops on Lusitania's coast. 
 
 XXTI. 
 
 And ever since that martial s}Tiod met, 
 Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name ; 
 And follcs in office at the mention fret, 
 And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. 
 How will posterity the deed proclaim ! 
 Will not our o\\'n and feUow-nations sneer, 
 To view these champions cheated of their fame. 
 By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet \ictors here. 
 Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming 
 year? 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 So deem'd the Cliilde, as o'er the mountains he 
 Did take his way in soUtary guise : 
 Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee. 
 More restless than the swallow in the skies : 
 Though here a while he leam'd to moralize, 
 For meditation fix'd at times on him ; 
 And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise 
 His early youth, mispent in maddest whim ; 
 But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim. 
 
 XXYIII. 
 
 To horse ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits 
 A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul : 
 Again he rouses from his moping fits, 
 But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
 Onward he flies, nor fbc'd as yet the goal 
 Where he shall rest him on liis pilgrimage ; 
 And o'er him many changing scenes must roll 
 Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage. 
 Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Cakto T. 
 
 Yet ]Matra shall one moment claim delay, ^ 
 Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen ; 
 And church and court did mingle their array, 
 And mass and revel were alternate seen ; 
 Lordlmgs and freres — ill-sorted fry I ween ! 
 But here the Babylonian whore hath built 
 A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, 
 That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, 
 And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt. 
 
 O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 
 (Oh, that such hills upheld a freebom race!) 
 Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 
 Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place, 
 Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, 
 And marvel men should quit their easy chair. 
 The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace. 
 Oh ! there is sweetness in the momitain air, 
 And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. 
 
 More bleak to view the hiUs at length recede. 
 And, less laxuriant, smoother vales extend : 
 Immense horizon-bounded plams succeed ! 
 Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
 Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 
 Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows — 
 Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend: 
 For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, 
 And all must sliield their all, or share Subjection's woes. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Where Lusitania and her sister meet. 
 Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? 
 Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, 
 Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? 
 Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride? 
 Or fence of art, lilce China's vasty wall ? — 
 Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
 Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall. 
 Rise Uke the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 But these between a silver streamlet glides'; 
 And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook. 
 Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
 Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook. 
 And vacant on the rippling waves doth look. 
 That peaceful still hwixt bitterest foemen flow ; 
 For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
 Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
 'TwLxt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.^ 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd, 
 Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
 In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
 So noted ancient roundelays among. 
 Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
 Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendour drest : 
 Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong ; 
 The Pavnim turban and the Christian crest 
 MLx'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd romantic land ! 
 Where is that standard which Pelagio bore. 
 When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band 
 That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore?" 
 Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
 Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 
 And drove at last the spoilers to their shore? 
 Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale, 
 While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' wail. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Teems not each ditty uith the glorious tale? 
 Ah ! such, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! 
 When granite moulders and when records fail, 
 A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
 Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, 
 See how the Mighty shrink into a song ! 
 Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great? 
 Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, 
 When Flattery sleeps \\ith thee, and History does thee 
 
 Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance 1 
 Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries ; 
 But wields not, as of old, her tliirsty lance. 
 Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies: 
 Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, 
 And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar: 
 In every peal she calls — " Awake ! arise !" 
 Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore. 
 When her war-sons was heard on Andalusia's shore ? 
 
 Hark ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ? 
 Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? 
 Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 
 Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
 Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? — the fires of death, 
 The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock 
 Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; 
 Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
 Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Lo! where the Giant on the mountam stands, 
 His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun. 
 With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
 And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
 Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
 Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
 Destruction cowers, to m^ark what deeds are done ; 
 For on this morn three potent nations meet. 
 To shed before liis shrine the blood he deems most sweet. 
 
 By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
 (For one who hath no fi-iend, no brother there) 
 Their rival scarfs of mLx'd embroidery, 
 Their various arms that gUtter in the air ! 
 What gallant war-hounds rouse tliem from their lair. 
 And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for tne prey ! 
 All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 
 The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away. 
 And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
 Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high : 
 Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ; 
 The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 
 The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
 That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
 Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
 To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
 And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. 
 
 There shall they rot — ^Ambition's honour'd fools ! 
 Yes, Honour decks the turf that wTaps their clay ! 
 Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools. 
 The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
 By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 
 With human hearts — to what? — a dream alone. 
 Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? 
 Or call with truth one span of earth their own. 
 Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone? 
 
Canto I. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Ohj Albuera! glorious field of grief! 
 As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed, 
 Who could foresee thee, in a space so brie^ 
 A scene where muigling foes should boast and bleed ! 
 Peace to the perish'd! may the warrior's meed 
 And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
 Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
 Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, 
 And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song ! 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play 
 Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : 
 Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay. 
 Though thousands fall to deck some single name. 
 In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim 
 Who strike, ])lest hirelings ! for their country's good, 
 And die, that hving might have proved her shame ; 
 Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, 
 Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Full s%viftly Harold wends his lonely way 
 Where proud Se villa triumphs unsubdued: 
 Yet is she free — the spoiler's w'ish'd-for prey! 
 Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, 
 Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
 Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive 
 Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood 
 Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, 
 And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 But all imconscious of the coming doom, 
 The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 
 Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, 
 Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds : 
 Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds ; 
 Here Folly still his votaries inthraUs ; 
 And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds: 
 Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, 
 Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls. 
 
 XL VII, 
 
 Not so the rustic — ^with his trembling mate 
 He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar. 
 Lest he should view his vineyard desolate. 
 Blasted below the dun hot breath of w-ar. 
 No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star 
 Fandango twirls his jocmid ca^tanet : 
 Ah, monarchs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, 
 Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret ; 
 The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy 
 yet! 
 
 X7.VIII. 
 
 How carols now the lusty muleteer? 
 Of love, romance, devotion, is his lay, 
 As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 
 His quick bells wildly jmgling on the way? 
 No ! as he speeds, he chants, " Viva el Rey !" 
 And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
 The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
 When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, 
 And gore-faced Treason sprung fi-om her adulterate joy. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd 
 WilJi crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, 
 Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground ; 
 And, scatlied by fire, the greensward's darken'd vest 
 Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest: 
 Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host. 
 Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest ; 
 Still does he mark it with triumphant boast. 
 And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost. 
 
 And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
 Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
 Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet :^ 
 Wo to the man that walks in public view 
 Without of loyalty this token true : 
 Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke ; 
 And sorely would the GaUic foeman rue. 
 If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke. 
 Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the caimon's smoke. 
 
 LI. 
 
 At every turn Morena's dusky height 
 Sustains aloft the batteiy's iron load ; 
 And, far as mortal eye can compass sight. 
 The moimtain-howitzer, the broken road, 
 The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflov^'d, 
 The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, 
 The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, 
 The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, 
 The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match,^*^ 
 
 LII. 
 
 Portend the deeds to come : — ^but he whose nod 
 Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway 
 A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; 
 A Uttle moment deigneth to delay: 
 Soon vnil his legions sweep through these their way. 
 The West must own the Scourger of the world. 
 Ah ! Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, 
 When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unflirl'd, 
 And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 And must they fall ? the young, the proud, the bravc^ 
 To swell one bloated Cliief's unwholesome reign? 
 No step between submission and a grave ? 
 The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain? 
 And doth the Powder that man adores ordain 
 Their doom, nor heed the supphant's appeal? 
 Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain? 
 And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 
 The Veteran's skill, Youth's fii-e, and Manhood's heart 
 of steel? 
 
 Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
 Hangs on the wiUow her mistnmg guitar. 
 And, all vmsex'd, the anlace hath espoused. 
 Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ? 
 And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
 Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd w'ith dread. 
 Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, 
 The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 
 Stallcs with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to 
 tread. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
 Oh ! had you kno^Mi her in her softer hour, 
 Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, 
 Heard her fight, lively tones in Lady's bower. 
 Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 
 Her fairy form, \A'ith more than female grace, 
 Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
 Beheld her smile in Dangei-'s Gorgon face, 
 Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearfiJ chase. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Her lover sinlcs — she sheds no ill-timed tear ; 
 Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post; 
 Her fellows flee — she checl<s their base career ; 
 The foe retires — she heads the salljong host ; 
 Who can appease like her a lover's ghost? 
 Who can avenge so w^ell a leader's fall ? 
 What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost? 
 Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
 Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a balter'd wall?" 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Yet are Spam's ma^ds no race of Amazor>s, 
 But form'd for all the witching arts of love : 
 Though thus in arms thty emulate her sons. 
 And in the horrid phalaax dare to move, 
 'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
 Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
 In softness as in fi-rmness far above 
 Remoter females, fcjned for sickening prate ; 
 Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great, 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
 Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch :i2 
 Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest. 
 Bid man be valiant ere he merit such: 
 Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
 Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, 
 "Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch! 
 Who round the North for paler dames would seek? 
 How poor their forms appear ! how languid, wan, and 
 weak! 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud ; 
 Match me, ye harams of the land ! where now 
 I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
 Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow ; 
 Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow 
 To taste the gale lest Love should ride the yrmdy 
 With Spain's dark- glancing daughters — deign to know 
 There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, 
 His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Oh, thou Parnassus!^' whom I now survey^ 
 Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, 
 Not in the fabled landscape of a lay. 
 But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky 
 In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! 
 What marvel if I thus essay to sing? 
 The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
 Would gladly woo diine Echoes with his string, 
 Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave 
 her wing. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Oft have I dream'd of Thee ! whose glorious name 
 Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : 
 And now I view thee, 'tis, alas ! with shame 
 That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
 When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
 I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
 Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar. 
 But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
 In silent joy to thinli at last I look on Thee ! 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
 Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, 
 Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, 
 Which others rave o^ though they know it not? 
 Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot. 
 And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
 Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot. 
 Sighs in the gale, keeps sUence in the cave. 
 And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Of thee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my strain 
 I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
 Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 
 Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear ; 
 And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
 Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
 Let me some renmant, some memorial bear ; 
 Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, 
 Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaimt. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 But ne'er didst thou, ftiir Moimt ! when Greece was 
 See round thy giant base a brighter choir, [young, 
 Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 
 The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, 
 Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
 The song of love than Andalusia's maids, 
 Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
 Ah ! that to these were given such peaceful shades 
 As Greece can stiU bestow, though Glory fly her glades. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
 Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days;'* 
 But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
 Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
 Ah, Vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
 While boyish blood is mantling who can 'scape 
 The fascination of thy magic gaze ? 
 A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
 And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 When Paphos fell by time — accursed Time ! 
 The queen who conquers all must yield to thee — 
 The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime ; 
 And Venus, constant to her native sea. 
 To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee ; 
 And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white : 
 Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 
 Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
 A thousand altars lise, for ever blazing bright. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 From morn till night, fi-om night till startled Mom 
 Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 
 The song is heard, the rosy garland worn ; 
 Devices quaint, and frolics ever new. 
 Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
 He bids to sober joy that here sojourns ; 
 Nought interrupts the riot, though m lieu 
 Of true devotion monkish incense burns. 
 And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest ; 
 What hallows it upon this Christian shore? 
 Lo I it is sacred to a solemn feast ; 
 Hark ! heard you not the forest monarch's roar ? 
 Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore 
 Of man and steed, o^erthrowTi beneath his horn ; 
 The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more; 
 Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails fi-eshly torn, 
 Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to mourn. 
 
 The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
 London ! righft weQ thou know'st the day of prayer : 
 Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan. 
 And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: 
 Thy coach of Haclmey, whiskey, one-horse chair, 
 And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl. 
 To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair ; 
 Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl. 
 Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. 
 
 Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, 
 Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 
 Some Richmond-hiU ascend, some scud to Ware, 
 And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
 Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why?'* 
 'Tis to the worship of the solenrn Horn, 
 Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, 
 In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, 
 And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till mom. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 CHII.de HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 All have their fooleries — not alike are thine, 
 Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea ! 
 Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, 
 Thy saint adorers count the rosary: 
 Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free 
 (Vv^'ell do I ween the only virgin there) 
 From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be ; 
 Then to the crowded circus forth they fare : 
 Yoimg, old, high, low, at once the same diveisir.n share, 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 The hsts are oped, the spacious area cleai^d. 
 Thousands on thousands pUed are seated round ; 
 Long ere the first loud trumpet's note Ls heard, 
 Ne vacant space for lated wight is found: 
 Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
 Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye. 
 Yet eter well inchned to heal the wound ; 
 None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, 
 As moonstruck bards complain, by Love's sad archery. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant steeds. 
 With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance 
 Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds. 
 And lowly bending to the lists advance ; 
 Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featlv prance: 
 If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 
 The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, 
 Best prize of better acts, they bear away, 
 And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils rej)ay. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 
 But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
 Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
 The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
 The groimd, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, 
 Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed : 
 His arms a dart, he fights aloof! nor more 
 Can man achieve without the friendly steed — 
 Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls. 
 The den expands, and Expectation mute 
 Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
 Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, 
 And, wildly starmg. spurns, with sounding foot. 
 The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
 Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit 
 His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
 His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd : away, 
 Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear: 
 Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
 The slcill that yet may check his mad career. 
 With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer ; 
 On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ; 
 Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear : 
 He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; 
 
 Dart follows dart ; lance, lance ; loud bellowings speak 
 his woes. 
 
 rxxvii. 
 Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 
 Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
 Though man and man's avenging arms assail. 
 Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
 One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse ; 
 Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears, 
 His gory chest unveils life's panting source ; 
 Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears ; 
 
 Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unliami'd he bears. 
 
 LXXVIIl. 
 
 Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
 Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
 ■Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brasT, 
 And foes disabled in the brutal fray : 
 And now the Matadores around him play. 
 Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : 
 Once more through all he bursts his thunderincv way — 
 Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
 Wraps Ms fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks upon the sand ! 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine. 
 Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon Ues. 
 He stops — he starts — disdaining to decline : 
 Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, 
 Without a groan, without a struggle dies. 
 The decorated car appears — on higli 
 The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes — 
 Four steeds tiiat spurn the rein, as swiil as shy, 
 Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Such the ungentle sport that oft mvites 
 The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. 
 Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
 In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
 What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
 Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the foe, 
 Enough, alas ! in humble homes remain, 
 To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, 
 For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm 
 stream must flow. 
 
 But Jealousy has fled : his bars, his bolts, 
 His wither'd centinel. Duenna sage ! 
 And all whereat the generous soul revolts. 
 Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage. 
 Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. 
 Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen, 
 (Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
 With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, 
 While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving 
 due en ? 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Oh ! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved, 
 Or dream'd he loved, since Rapture is a dream; 
 But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
 For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream; 
 And lately had he learn'd w-ith truth to deem 
 Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
 How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, 
 FuU from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 
 
 Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.'^ 
 rxxxiii. 
 Yet to the beauteous form he was not bUnd, 
 Though now it moved him as it moves the wise ; 
 Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
 E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes : 
 But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies ; 
 And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, 
 Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
 Pleasure's paU'd victim ! life-abhorring gloom 
 
 Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's luiresting doom. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng ; 
 But view'd them not with misanthropic hate: 
 Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the song ; 
 But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? 
 Nought that he saw his sadness could abate : 
 Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway. 
 And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
 Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay 
 To charms as fair as those tliat soothed his happier day , 
 
10 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 TO INEZ. 
 
 1. 
 
 Nay, smile not at my sullen brow ; 
 
 Alas ! I cannot smile again : 
 Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 
 
 Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 
 
 2. 
 And dost thou ask, what secret wo 
 
 I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 
 And wilt thou vainly seek to know 
 
 A pang, eVn thou must fail to sooth? 
 
 3. 
 
 It is not love, it is not hate, 
 
 Nor low Ambition's honours lost, 
 
 That bids me loathe my present state, 
 And fly from all I prized the most: 
 
 4. 
 
 It is that weariness which springs 
 From all I meet, or hear, or see : 
 
 To me no pleasure Beauty brings ; 
 
 Thme eyes have scarce a charm for me. 
 
 5. 
 
 It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
 The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 
 
 That Avill not look beyond the tomb, 
 But cannot hope for rest before. 
 
 6. 
 
 What Exile from himself can flee ? 
 
 To Zones, though more and more remote. 
 Still, stUl pursues, where-e'er 1 be. 
 
 The blight of Ufe— the demon Thought. 
 
 7. 
 Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 
 
 And taste of all that I forsake ; 
 Oh ! may they still of transport dream, 
 
 And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 
 
 8. 
 Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 
 
 With many a retrospection curst ; 
 And all my solace is to know, 
 
 Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 
 
 What is that worst ? Nay do not ask- 
 In pity from the search forbear : 
 
 Smile on — nor venture to unmask 
 
 Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu 1 
 Who may forget how v(^ell thy walls have stood? 
 When all were changing thou alone wert true, 
 First to be free and last to be subdued: 
 And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 
 Some native blood was seen thy streets to die ; 
 A traitor only fell beneath the feud:^'' 
 Here all were noble, save Nobility ; 
 None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry! 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate ! 
 They fight for freedom who were never free ; 
 A Kingless people for a nerveless state, 
 Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, 
 True to the veriest slaves of Treachery : 
 Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, 
 Pride points the path that leads to Liberty ; 
 Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, 
 War, war is still the cry, "War even to the knife !"i' 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
 Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : 
 Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe 
 Can act, is acting there against man's Ufe: 
 From flashing scimitar to secret knife, 
 War mouldeth there each weapon to his need 
 So may he guard the sister and the wife, 
 So may he make each cm-st oppressor bleed. 
 So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed I 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? 
 Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 
 Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; 
 Then to the dogs resign the vmburied slain, 
 Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; 
 Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, 
 Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain, 
 Long mark the battle-field vnth hideous awe : 
 Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw' 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done ; 
 Fresh legions pour ado^vn the Pyrenees : 
 It deepens stiU, the work is scarce begun. 
 Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
 Fall'n nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, she frees 
 More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd : 
 Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease 
 Repairs the vprongs that duito's sons sustain'd. 
 
 While o'er the parent chme prowls Murder unrestrain'd 
 xc. 
 Not all the blood at Talavera shed. 
 Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, 
 Not Albuera lavish of the dead. 
 Have won for Spain her weU-asserted right. 
 When shall her Ohve-Branch be free from blight ? 
 When shall she breathe her from the blushmg toil? 
 How many a doubtfiil day shall sink in night. 
 Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil. 
 
 And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil ! 
 xci. 
 And thou, my friend !^^ — since unavailing wo 
 Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain- 
 Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, 
 Pride might forbid ev'n Friendship to complain : 
 But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain. 
 By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, 
 And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain. 
 While Glory cro\^^ls so many a meaner crest ! 
 
 What hadst thou done to sink so peacefiilly to rest? 
 
 XCII. 
 
 Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most ! 
 Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear ! 
 Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, 
 In dreams deny me not to see thee here ! 
 And Mom in secret shall renew the tear 
 Of Consciousness awaking to her woes. 
 And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, 
 Till my frail frame return to w.hence it rose. 
 And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose. 
 
 Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : 
 Ye who of him may fiirther seek to Imow, 
 Shall find some tidings in a fiiture page. 
 If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 
 Is this too much? stem Critic! say not so: 
 Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
 In other lands, where he was doom'd to go : 
 Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
 Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were 
 quell'd. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 11 
 
 CANTO IL 
 
 Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven! — but thou, alas! 
 Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
 Goddess of Wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
 And is, despite of war and wasting fire,^ 
 And years, that bade thy worship to expire ; 
 But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
 Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
 Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
 That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts 
 bestow. 2 
 
 Ancient of days! august Athena ! v/here. 
 Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? 
 Gone — glimmering through the dream of things that 
 First in the race that led to Glory's goal, [were ; 
 
 They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole ? 
 A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour ! 
 The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole 
 Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, 
 Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade c^ power. 
 
 Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here ! 
 Come — ^but molest not yon defenceless urn: 
 Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre ! 
 Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer bum. 
 Even gods must yield — rehgions take their turn : 
 'Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's — and other creeds 
 Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
 Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; 
 Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on 
 reeds. 
 
 Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — 
 Is 't not enough, unhappy thing ! to know 
 Thou art ? Is this a boon so kindly given, 
 That being, thou would'st be again, and go. 
 Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so 
 On earth no more, but mingled with the skies? 
 Still wilt thou dream on future joy and wo? 
 Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies : 
 That Uttle urn saith more than thousand homilies. 
 
 Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound ; 
 Far on the solitary shore he sleeps :^ 
 He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around ; 
 But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
 Nor warlike-worshipper his vigil keeps 
 Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
 Remove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps: 
 Is that a temple where a God may dwell? 
 Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell ! 
 
 Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
 Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 
 Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall. 
 The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul : 
 Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole. 
 The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit 
 And Passion's host, that never brook'd control : 
 Can all saint, sage, or sopliist ever writ, 
 People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? 
 
 Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
 "All that we know is, nothing can be loiown.'^ 
 ■ Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun? 
 Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
 With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
 Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best; 
 Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
 There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, 
 But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest . 
 
 Yet if, as hoUest men have deem'd, there be 
 A land of souls beyond that sable shore. 
 To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
 And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
 How sweet it were in concert to adore 
 With those who made our mortal labours hght! 
 To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more ! 
 Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight. 
 The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 There, thou ! — whose love and life together fled, 
 Have left me here to love and hve m vain — 
 Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, 
 When busy Memory flashes on my brain? 
 Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 
 And woo the vision to my vacant breast: 
 If aught of young Remembrance then remain, 
 Be as it may Futurity's behest, 
 For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest ' 
 
 Here let me sit upon this massy stone. 
 The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
 Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne :* 
 Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace 
 The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
 It may not be : nor ev'n can Fancy's eye 
 Restore what Time hath labour'd to deface. 
 Yet these proud pillars claun no passing sigh; 
 Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. 
 
 But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
 On high, where Pallas huger'd, loath to flee 
 The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
 The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he? 
 Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be! 
 England! I joy no child he was of thine: 
 Thy free-born men should spare what once was free , 
 Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, 
 And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine.* 
 
 But most the modern Plot's ignoble boast, 
 To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared :^ 
 Cold as the crags upon his native coast. 
 His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
 Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, 
 Aught to displace Athena's poor remains 
 Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, 
 Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,' 
 And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's chains. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, 
 Albion was happy in Athena's tears ? 
 Though in thy name the slaves her bosom virung, 
 Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears ; 
 The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears 
 The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : 
 Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endearsf, 
 Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand. 
 Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants lefl to stand. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Canto IT. 
 
 Where was thine JE'^i?, Pallas ! that appall'd 
 Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ?^ 
 Where Pelcus' sou '? whom Hell in vain enthrall'd, 
 His shades from Hades upon that dread day 
 Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
 What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, 
 To scare a second robber from his prey ? 
 Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore, 
 Nor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on thee, 
 Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved ; 
 Dull is the eye that will not w^eep to see 
 Thy ^^•alls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed 
 By British hands, which it had best behooved 
 To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
 Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved. 
 And once again thy hapless bosom gored. 
 And snatch'd thy shi-biking Gods to northern climes 
 abhorr'd I 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
 To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? 
 Little reck'd he of all that men regret ; 
 No loved-one now in feign'd lament could rave ; 
 No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
 Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes : 
 Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave ; 
 But Harold felt not as in other times. 
 And left witliout a sigh the land of w^ar and crimes. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea 
 Has view'd at times, [ w-een, a full fair sight ; 
 When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, 
 The white sail set, the gallant fi-igate tight ; 
 Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, 
 The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, 
 The convoy spread lilce wild swans in their flight, 
 The dullest sailer wearing bravely now, 
 So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And oh, the little warlike world within ! 
 The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,^ 
 The hoarse command, the busy humming din, 
 When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high : 
 Hark to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry ! 
 While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides ; 
 Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by, 
 Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides. 
 And well the docile crew that sldlful urchin guides. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 White is the glassy deck, without a stain, 
 Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks : 
 Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
 For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalics, 
 Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he tallts 
 With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
 That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
 Conquest and Fame : but Britons rarely swerve 
 From law, however stern, which tends their streno1:h to 
 nerve. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Blow ! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelUng gale ! 
 Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray ; 
 Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, 
 That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
 Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, 
 To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze ! 
 What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day, 
 Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, 
 The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these ! 
 
 The moon is up ; by Heaven, a lovely eve ! 
 Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand ; 
 Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe: 
 Such be our fate when we return to land ! 
 Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand 
 Waives the brisk hairnony that sailors love ; 
 A circle there of merry hsteners stand, 
 Or to some well-known measure featly move, 
 Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shores 
 Europe and Afric on each other gaze! 
 Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor 
 Alilie beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze : 
 How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
 Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, 
 Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase ; 
 But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, 
 From mountain-chfF to coast descendiivg sombre down. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 'Tis night; when Meditation bids us feel 
 We once have loved, though love is at an end: 
 The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal. 
 Though friendless now, w-ill dream it had a friend. 
 Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, 
 When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy ? 
 Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
 Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 
 Ah ! happy years ! once more who would not be a boy ? 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side. 
 To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, 
 The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, 
 And flies imconscious o'er each backward year. 
 None are so desolate but something dear, 
 Dearer than selfj possesses or possess'd 
 A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 
 A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast 
 Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 
 
 To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
 To slowly trace the forest's shady scene. 
 Where things that owti not man's dominion dwell, 
 And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
 To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
 With the wild flock that never needs a fold; 
 Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
 This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 
 Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores 
 unroU'd. 
 
 But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
 To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
 And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
 With none who bless us, none whom we can bless,- 
 Minions of splendour shrinking from distress ! 
 None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
 If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
 Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued ; 
 This is to be alone ; this, this is sohtude ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 More blest the life of godly Eremite, 
 Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, 
 Watching at eve upon the giant height, 
 Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene, 
 That he who there at such an hour hath been 
 Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot ; 
 Then slowly tear him from the witclung scene, 
 Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, 
 Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 13 
 
 Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
 Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
 Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, 
 And each well known caprice of wave and wind ; 
 Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
 Coop'd in their winged sea-gii-t citadel ; 
 The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind. 
 As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 
 Till on some jocund morn — lo, land! and all is well. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 But not in silence pass Cal}'pso's isles,^° 
 The sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
 There for the weary still a haven smiles, 
 Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep, 
 And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
 For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
 Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
 Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 
 While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sigh'd. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
 But trust not this ; too easy youth, beware ! 
 A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
 And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. 
 Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
 This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine : 
 But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
 To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine. 
 Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
 He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, 
 Save Admiration glancing harmless by: 
 Love kept aloofj albeit not far remote, 
 Who knew his votary often lost and caught. 
 But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
 And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought : 
 Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
 Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway was o'er. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, 
 One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
 Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze. 
 Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe. 
 Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law ; 
 All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims: 
 And much she marvel I'd that a youth so raw 
 Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames. 
 Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger 
 
 Little knew she that seeming marble heart. 
 Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride, 
 Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art, 
 And spread its snares licentious far and wide ; 
 Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, 
 As long as aught was worthy to pursue ; 
 But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
 And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
 Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 
 Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
 What careth she for hearts when once possess'd? 
 Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; 
 But not too humbly, or she will despise 
 Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes : 
 Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
 Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes ; 
 Pique her and sooth in turn, soon Passion crowns thy 
 hopes. 
 
 'Tis an old lesson ; Time approves it true, 
 And those who know it best, deplore it most; 
 When all is won that all desire to woo. 
 The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost : 
 Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost. 
 These are thy fruits, successful Passion ! these ! 
 I^ kindly cruel, early Hope is crost, 
 Still to the last it rankles, a disease. 
 Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Away ! nor let me loiter in my song. 
 For we have many a mountain-path to tread, 
 And many a varied shore to sail along. 
 By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
 Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
 Imagined in its httle schemes of thought ; 
 Or e'er in new Utopias were read. 
 To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; 
 If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Dear Nature is the kindest mother still. 
 Though alway changing, in her aspect mild; 
 From her bare bosom let me take my fill. 
 Her never-wean'd, though not her favour'd child. 
 Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild. 
 Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path: 
 To me by day or night she ever smiled 
 Though I have mark'd her when none other hath. 
 And sought her more and more, and loved her best in 
 wrath. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Land of Albania! where Iskander rose. 
 Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise. 
 And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes 
 Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize : 
 Land of Albania !i^ let me bend mine eyes 
 On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
 The cross descends, tliy minarets arise. 
 And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
 Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot'* 
 Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; 
 And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, 
 The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
 Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
 That breast imbued with such immortal fire ? 
 Could she not Uve who life eternal gave ? 
 If life eternal may await the lyre. 
 That only Heaven to which Earth's children may aspire. 
 
 XL. 
 
 'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
 Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar; 
 A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave: 
 Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 
 Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar;'^ 
 Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
 (Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
 In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight. 
 But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at martial 
 wiffht. 
 
 But when he saw the evening star above 
 Leucadia's far-projecting rock of wo, 
 And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love,'* 
 He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow : 
 A.nd as the stately vessel glided slow 
 Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
 He watch'd the billows' melancholy flow, 
 And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, 
 More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid front. 
 
14 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Caxto II. 
 
 Morn dawns ; and witli it stem Albania's liills, 
 iJark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
 Robed half in niiit, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
 Array'd in many a dun and purple streak, 
 Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break, 
 Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer: 
 Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, 
 Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 
 And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Now Harold felt himself at length alone. 
 And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu ; 
 Now he adventured on a shore unknown. 
 Which all admire, but many dread to view : 
 His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were few : 
 Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet : 
 The scene was savage, but the scene was new ; 
 This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet. 
 Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed summer's 
 heat. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Here the red cross, for still the cross is here. 
 Though sadly scofF'd at by the circumcised, 
 Forcrets that pride ta pamper'd priesthood dear ; 
 Churchman and votary alike despised. 
 Foul Superstition', howsoe'er disguised, 
 Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
 For whatsoever symbol thou art prized. 
 Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! 
 Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross ? 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
 A world for woman, lovely, harmless tiling ! 
 In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
 Did many a Roman chief and Asian king '* 
 To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring : 
 Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose ! ^^ 
 Now, like tlie hands that rear'd them, withering: 
 Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes! 
 God! was thy globe ordain'd for such to win and lose'.' 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
 Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
 Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a moimt sublime, 
 Through lajids scarce noticed in historic tales ; 
 Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
 Are rarely seen: nor can fair Tempe boast 
 A charm they know not ; loved Parnassus fails, 
 Though classic ground and consecrated most, 
 To match some spots that lurk \vithin this lowering coast 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake, J'' 
 And left the primal city of the land, 
 And onwards did his further journey take 
 To greet Albania's chie^^^ whose dread command 
 Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
 He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 
 Yet here and there some darbg mountain-band 
 Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
 Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold.^'' 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Monastic Zitza ! ^° fi-om thy shady brow. 
 Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground ! 
 Where'er we gaze, around, above, below. 
 What rainbow tint's, what magic charms are found ! 
 Rock, river, forest, mountain, aU abound. 
 And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
 Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
 Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
 Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the 
 soul. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, 
 Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
 Rising in lofty ranlcs, and loftier stiD, 
 Might well itself be deem'd of dignity, 
 The convent's white walls glisten fair on high : 
 Here dwells the caloyer,^^ nor rude is he, 
 Nor niggard of his cheer ; the passer by 
 Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 
 From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to see , 
 
 L. 
 
 Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
 Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
 Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 
 From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze: 
 The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
 Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching ray 
 Here pierce th not, impregnate with disease : 
 Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
 And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away. 
 
 u. 
 
 Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
 Nature's volcanic amphitheatre,^^ 
 Chimaera's alps extend from left to right: 
 Beneath, a hving valley seems to stir ; 
 Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain-fir 
 Nodding above : behold black Acheron ! " 
 Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
 Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon. 
 Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek foi 
 none! 
 
 LII. 
 
 Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view; 
 Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
 Veil'd by the screen of hills : here men are few, 
 Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot; 
 But peering down each precipice, the goat 
 Browseth ; and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, 
 The little shepherd in his white capote ^^ 
 Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 
 Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-hved shock. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 
 Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? 
 "VSTiat valley echo'd the response of Jove? 
 What trace remaineth of tiie thunderer's shrine ? 
 All; all forgotten — and shall man repine 
 That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke ? 
 Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be thine: 
 Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak? 
 When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneaiA 
 the stroke! 
 
 LIT. 
 
 Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail ; 
 Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
 Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale. 
 As ever Spring yclad in grassy die : 
 Ev'n on a plain no humble beauties he, 
 Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
 And woods along the banks are waving high. 
 Whose shadows in tlie glassy waters dance. 
 Or \vith the moonbeam sleep in midnight's solenm trance. 
 
 LV. 
 
 The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,^* 
 And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by ;2« 
 The shades of wonted night were gathering yet. 
 When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
 Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
 The ghttering minarets of Tepalen, 
 Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; and drawing nigh| 
 He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
 1 Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the lengthening glen. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 16 
 
 He pass'd the sacred Haram's silent tower, 
 And underneath the wide o'erarching gate 
 Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of power, 
 Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. 
 Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
 While busy preparation shook the court, 
 Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait ; 
 Witliin, a palace, and without, a fort : 
 Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
 Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
 Circled the wide extending court below ; 
 Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridor ; 
 And oft-times through the area's echoing door 
 Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away : 
 The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
 Here mingled in their many-hued array. 
 While the deep war-drum's sound announced the close 
 of day. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee. 
 With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun. 
 And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see; 
 The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 
 The Delhi with his cap of terror on. 
 And crooked glaive; the hvely, supple Greek; 
 And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; 
 The bearded Turk that rarely deigns to speak. 
 Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 
 
 Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups, 
 Scanning the modey scene that varies round ; 
 There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops. 
 And some that smoke, and some that play, are found 
 Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
 Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate ; 
 Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, 
 The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
 " There is no god but G od ! — to prayer — ^lo ! God is great !' 
 
 Just at this season Ramazani's fast 
 Through the long day its penance did maintain : 
 But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
 Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
 Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
 Prepared and spread the plenteous board within ; 
 The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain. 
 But from the chambers came the mingling din, 
 As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 
 
 Here woman's voice is never heard : apart, 
 And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, 
 She yields to one her person and her heart, 
 Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove ; 
 For, not unhappy in her master's love. 
 And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
 Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! 
 Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears. 
 Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares. 
 
 In marbled-paved pavilion, where a spring 
 Of living water from the centre rose. 
 Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, 
 And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
 Ali rechned, a man of war and woes ; 
 Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace. 
 While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
 Along that aged venerable face. 
 The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace. 
 
 It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
 111 suits the passions which belong to youth ; 
 Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd. 
 So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
 But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth, 
 Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
 In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; 
 Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span, 
 In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
 The pilgrim rested here his weary feet. 
 And gazed around on Moslem luxury. 
 Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
 Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat 
 Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise: 
 And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet ; 
 But Peace abhorreth artificial joys. 
 And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both 
 destroys. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
 Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
 Where is the foe that ever saw their back? 
 Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
 Their native fastnesses not more secure 
 Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : 
 Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship sure, 
 When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed, 
 Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. 
 
 Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower 
 Thronging to war in splendour and success ; 
 And after view'd them, when, within their power, 
 Himself awhile the victim of distress ; 
 That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press ; 
 But these did shelter him beneath their roo^ 
 When less barbarians would have cheer'd him less, 
 And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof— ^'^ 
 In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof 1 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 It chanced that adverse winds once di-ove his bark 
 Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore. 
 When all around was desolate and dark ; 
 To land was perilous, to sojourn more ; 
 Yet for a while the mariners forbore. 
 Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk: 
 At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore 
 That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
 Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work. 
 
 Vain fear ! the Suliotes stretch'd the welcome hand, 
 Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp. 
 Kinder than polish'd slaves though not so bland. 
 And piled the hearth, and wnrung their garments damp, 
 And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful lamp. 
 And spread their fare ; though homely, all they had : 
 Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp- 
 To rest the weary and to sooth the sad, 
 Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad. 
 
 rxix. 
 
 It came to pass, that when he did address 
 Himself to quit at length this mountain-land, 
 Combined marauders half-way barr'd egress. 
 And wasted far and near with glaive and brand; 
 And therefore did he take a trusty band 
 To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, 
 In war well season'd, and with labours tann'd, 
 Till he did greet white Achelous tide. 
 And from his further bank ^tolia's wolds espied. 
 
16 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
 And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
 How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove, 
 Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, 
 As winds come lightly whispering from the west, 
 Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene : — 
 Here Harold was received a welcome guest; 
 Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene. 
 For many a joy could he from Night's soft presence glean. 
 
 On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 
 The feast was done, the red wine circling fastj^^ 
 And he that unawares had there ygazed 
 With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; 
 For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past, 
 The native revels of the troop began ; 
 Each Palikar^s his sabre from him cast, 
 And bounding hand in hand, man hnk'd to man. 
 Yelling their uncouth dirge, long daunced the kirtled 
 clan. 
 
 Childe Harold at a little distance stood 
 And \-ie\v'd, but not displeased, the revelrie, 
 Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude : 
 In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
 Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee ; 
 And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd. 
 Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free. 
 The long wild locks that to their girdles stream'd, 
 While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half 
 scream'd :'° 
 
 1. 
 
 ^' Tambotjrgi! Tambourgi!* thy 'larum afar 
 Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war ; 
 All the sons of the moimtains arise at the note, 
 Chimariot, Illyrian. and dark Suliote ! 
 
 Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
 
 In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? 
 
 To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his -wild flock, 
 
 And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. 
 
 Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
 The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ? 
 Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? 
 What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 
 
 4. 
 
 Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
 For a time they abandon the cave and the chase : 
 But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
 The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 
 
 Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the v(^aves. 
 And teach the pale Franlts what it is to be slaves. 
 Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
 And track to his covert the captive on shore. 
 
 I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 
 My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; 
 Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, 
 And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 
 
 Drummer, 
 
 7. 
 I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, 
 Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall sooth ; 
 Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre 
 And sins us a song on the fall of her sire. 
 
 Remember the moment when Previsa fell,'^ 
 The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell , 
 The roofs that we fired, and the plunder w-e shared, 
 The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared. 
 
 I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; 
 He neither must know who would serve the "Vizier: 
 Smce the days of our prophet the Crescent ne'er saw 
 A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 
 
 10. 
 Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
 Let the yellow-hair'd* Giaoursj view his horse-tailj 
 
 with dread ; 
 When his Delhis§ come dashing in blood o'er the banks, 
 How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Selictar! || unsheathe then our chief's scimitar: 
 Tambourgi ! thy 'larum gives promise of war. 
 Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
 Shall view us as victors, or view us no more ! 
 
 Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed wortli ! '' 
 Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! 
 Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
 And long accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
 Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
 The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
 'a bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
 Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume. 
 Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb 1 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Spirit of freedom 1 when on Phyle's brow '* 
 Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
 Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now 
 Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? 
 Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain. 
 But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
 Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 
 Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand. 
 From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed, immann'd. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 In all save form alone, how changed ! and who 
 That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
 Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew 
 With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! 
 And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
 That gives them back their fathers' heritage: 
 For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh. 
 Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage. 
 Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful page. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
 Who would be free themselves must strike tlie blow? 
 By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ? 
 Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? no I 
 True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, 
 But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
 Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
 Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
 Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame. 
 
 • Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. t Infidel. 
 
 t Horse-tails are the insignia of a Pacha. 
 
 § Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope. B Sword-bearer. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 17 
 
 The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
 The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest ; 
 And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
 Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; ^* 
 Or Wahab'.> rebel brood who dared divest 
 The '^ prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil. 
 May wind their path of blood along the West ; 
 But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil. 
 But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. 
 
 Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin, 
 That penance which their holy rites prepare 
 To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
 By daily abstmence and nightly prayer ; 
 But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear, 
 Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, 
 To take of pleasaunce each his secret share 
 In motley robe to dance at masking ball. 
 And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 And whose more rife with merriment than thine. 
 Oh Stamboul ! once the empress of their reign ? 
 Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, 
 And Greece her very altars eyes in vain; 
 (Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!) 
 Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, 
 All felt the common joy they now must feign. 
 Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song. 
 As woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, 
 Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone, 
 And timely echo'd back the measured oar. 
 And rippling waters made a pleasant moan: 
 The dueen of tides on high consenting shone, 
 And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
 'Twas, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
 A brighter glance her form reflected gave. 
 Till sparkling billows seem'd to Ught the banks they lave. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
 Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
 Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home, 
 While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
 Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, 
 Or gently prest, return'd the pressure still : 
 Oh Love ! young Love ! boimd in thy rosy band. 
 Let sage or cynic prattle as he will. 
 These hoursj and only these, redeem Life's years of ill i 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
 Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
 Even through the closest searment half betray'd? 
 To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
 Seeni to re-echo all they mourn in vain ; 
 To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
 Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain: 
 How do they loathe the laughter idly loud. 
 And long to change the robe of revel for tlie shroud ! 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, 
 If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast : 
 Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace. 
 The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, 
 Yet Avith smooth smile his tyrant can acqost, 
 And wield the slavbh sickle, not the sword : 
 Ah ! Greece ! they love thee least who owe thee most : 
 Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
 Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde ! 
 
 LXXXIT. 
 
 When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood, 
 When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
 When Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
 When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, 
 Then may'st thou be restored ; but not till then. 
 A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; 
 An hour may lay it in the dust : and when 
 Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate, 
 Recal its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate ? 
 
 LXXXT. 
 
 And yet how lovely in thine age of wo. 
 Land of lost gods and godlilie men ! art thou ! 
 Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,^'^ 
 Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now ; 
 Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
 Comminghng slowly with heroic earth, 
 Broke by the share of every rustic plough: 
 So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
 So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; 
 
 LXXXTI. 
 
 Save where some solitary column mourns 
 Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; " 
 Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
 Colonna's chfF, and gleams along the wave; 
 Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, 
 Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
 Ages, but not obh\ion, feebly brave. 
 While strangers only not regardless pass. 
 Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh "Alas'.*' 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Yet are thy sides as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
 Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 
 Thine oUve ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
 And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields ; 
 There the bUthe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
 The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ; 
 Apollo still thy long^ long summer gilds. 
 Still in his beam MendeU's marbles glare ; 
 Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy groimd ; 
 No earth of thine is lost in wilgar mould. 
 But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
 And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
 Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
 The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon: 
 Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
 Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone : 
 Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; 
 Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
 Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
 The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
 First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
 As on the mom to distant Glory dear, 
 When Marathon became a magic word ; ^^ 
 Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
 The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career, 
 
 xc. 
 
 The flying Mede, his shafdess broken bow; 
 The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; 
 Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below ; 
 Death in the front. Destruction in the rear! 
 Such was the scene — what now remaineth here? 
 What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, 
 Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? 
 The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
 The dust thy courser's hoofj rude stranger! spurns around. 
 
18 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Canto IIL 
 
 Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past 
 Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied throng; 
 Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, 
 HaiTthe bright chme of battle and of song ; 
 Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
 Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; 
 Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
 Which sages venerate and bards adore. 
 As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 
 If aught that 's kindred cheer the welcome heartli ; 
 He that is lonely hither let him roam. 
 And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
 Greece is no Ughtsome land of social mirth : 
 But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, 
 And scarce regret the region of his birth. 
 When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side. 
 Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Let such approach this consecrated land, 
 And pass in peace along the magic waste : 
 But spare its reUcs — let no busy hand 
 Deface the scenes, already how defaced! 
 Not for such purpose were these altars placed : 
 Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
 So may our country's name be undisgraced. 
 So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, 
 By every honest joy of love and life endear'd ! 
 
 xciv. 
 For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
 Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, 
 Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
 Of louder minstrels in these later days : 
 To such resign the strife for fading bays — 
 111 may such contest now the spirit move 
 "VN^hich heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise ; 
 Shice cold each kinder heart that might approve. 
 And none are left to please when none are left to love. 
 
 xcv. 
 Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
 Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me ; 
 Who did for me what none beside have done. 
 Nor shranic from one albeit unworthy thee. 
 What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be ! 
 Nyr staid to welcome here thy wanderer home, 
 Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see- 
 Would they had never been, or were to come ! 
 Wo'ild he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause to roam 
 
 Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 
 How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past. 
 And clings to thoughts now better far removed ! 
 But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 
 All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death ! thou hast ; 
 The parent, friend, and now the more than friend : 
 N e'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast. 
 And grief with grief continuing still to blend, 
 Hath snatch'd the Httle joy that life had yet to lend. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Then must I plunge again into the crowd. 
 And follow all that Peace disdains to seek? 
 Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, 
 False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, 
 To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak 5 
 Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer, 
 To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique : 
 Smiles form the channel of a fijture tear, 
 Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
 What stamps the wrinkle- deeper on the brow? 
 To view each loved one blotted fi-om life's page, 
 And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
 Before the Chastener humbly let me bow 
 O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd : 
 Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow, 
 Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd, 
 And with the ills of Eld mine earher years alloy'd. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 " Afin que cette application vous forgat de penser k autre choee ; il 
 n'y a en vlritfede remade que celui-lk et le temps." 
 
 Lettre du Hoi de Prusse d D'Alembert, Sept, 7, 1776. 
 
 Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 
 Ada ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? 
 When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, 
 And then we parted, — not as now we part, 
 But with a hope. — 
 
 Awaking with a start. 
 The waters heave aroiond me ; and on high 
 The winds lift up their voices : I depart. 
 Whither [ know not ; but the hour 's gone by, 
 
 When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad 
 mine eye. 
 
 n. 
 Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
 And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
 That knows his rider. Welcome, to their roar ! 
 Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
 Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, 
 And the rent canvass fluttering strew the gale, 
 Still must I on ; for I am as a weed. 
 Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail 
 
 Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
 prevail. 
 
 III. 
 In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 
 The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind; 
 Again I seize the theme then but begun. 
 And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
 Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I find 
 The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
 Which, ebbing, leave a steril track behind. 
 O'er which all heavily the journeying years 
 
 Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower appears. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Since my young days of passion— joy, or pain, 
 Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, 
 And both may jar: it may be, that in vain 
 I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
 Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling, 
 So that it ween me from the weary dream 
 Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
 Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
 To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 
 
 V. 
 
 He, who grown aged in this world of wo. 
 In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
 So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
 Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife. 
 Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
 Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
 Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife 
 With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
 Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. 
 
Canto III, 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 19 
 
 'Tis to create, and in creating live 
 A being more intense, that we endow 
 With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
 The life we image, even as I do now. 
 What am I ? Nothing : but not so art thou, 
 Soul of my thought ! with whom I traverse earth, 
 Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
 MLx'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, 
 And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' dearth. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Yet must I think less wildly : — I have thought 
 Too long and darkly, tiU my brain became, 
 In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
 A whirhng gulf of phantasy and flame : 
 And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
 My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late ! 
 Yet am I changed ; though still enough the same 
 In strength to bear what time can not abate, 
 And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 
 
 nil. 
 
 Something too much of this : — but now 'tis past, 
 And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
 Long absent H-^jrold reappears at last ; 
 He of the breast which fain no more would feel. 
 Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal 
 Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him 
 In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
 Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb ; 
 And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 
 
 His had been quafT'd too quickly, and he found 
 The dregs were wormwood ; but he fiU'd again, 
 And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
 And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain ! 
 Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
 Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen, 
 And heavy though it clank'd not ; worn with pain, 
 Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen. 
 Entering with every step he took through many a scene. 
 
 Secure in guarded coldness, he had mird 
 Again in fancied safety with his kind. 
 And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
 And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind. 
 That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind ; 
 And he, as one, might midst the many stand 
 Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
 Fit speculation; such as in strange land 
 He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand. 
 
 But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek 
 To wear it 7 who can curiously behold 
 The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, 
 Nor feel the heart can never all grow old? 
 Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold 
 The star wliich rises o'er her steep, nor climb ? 
 Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd 
 On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
 Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. 
 
 XII. 
 
 But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
 Of men to herd %vith Man ; with whom he held 
 Little in common ; imtaught to submit 
 His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd 
 In youth by his ovvti thoughts ; still uncompell'd, 
 He would not yield dominion of his mind 
 To spirits against whom his own rebell'd ; 
 Proud though in desolation ; which could find 
 A life ^vithin itself to breathe mthout mankind. 
 
 Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends , 
 Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home ; 
 Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, 
 He had the passion and the power to roam ; 
 The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam. 
 Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
 A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
 Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake 
 For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake, 
 
 XIV, 
 
 Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
 Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
 As their owTi beams ; and earth, and earth-born jars, 
 And human frailties, were forgotten quite : 
 Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
 He had been hai)py ; bat this clay will sink 
 Its spark immortal, env}ang it the light 
 To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
 That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink 
 
 But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
 Resdess and worn, and stem and wearisome, 
 Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with chpt wing, 
 To whom the boundless air alone were home : 
 Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
 As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
 His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
 Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
 Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
 With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom ; 
 The very knowledge that he Uved in vain, 
 That all was over on this side the tomb, 
 Had made Despair a smilingness assume. 
 Which, though ' twere wild, — as on the plunder'd wreck 
 When mariners would madly meet their doom 
 With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck,— 
 Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. 
 
 Stop ! — For thy tread is on an Empire's dust ! 
 An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! 
 Is tlie spot mark'd with no colossal bust ? 
 Nor column trophied for triumphal show ? 
 None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so. 
 As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
 How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! 
 And is this all the world has gain'd by thee. 
 Thou first and last of fields ! king^making Victory ? 
 
 And Harold stands upon this place of skulls. 
 The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo; 
 How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
 Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
 In " pride of place" ' here last the eagle flew, 
 Then tore Avith bloody talon the rent plain. 
 Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through ; 
 Ambition's life and labours all were vain ; 
 He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain 
 
 Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit 
 And foam in fetters ; — but is Earth more free ? 
 Did nations combat to make One submit ; 
 Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? 
 What ! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
 The patch'd-up idol of enUghten'd days? 
 Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 
 Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering lowly gaze 
 And servile knees to thrones ? No ; prove before ye praise ! 
 
20 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 XX. 
 
 If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
 In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
 For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
 The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years 
 Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, 
 Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
 Of roused-up millions : all that most endears 
 Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
 Such as Harmodius 2 drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night, 
 And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
 Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
 Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 
 And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; ^ 
 But hush ! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 
 
 XX.TI. 
 
 Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but the wind, 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
 On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 
 No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
 To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
 But, hark I — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
 Arm ! Arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
 Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
 That sound the first amidst the festival. 
 And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear : 
 And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
 Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier. 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
 He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
 Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
 Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
 Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
 And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
 While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
 Or whispering, with white hps — " The foe ! They come ! 
 they come !" 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And wild and high the "Cameron's gatherbg" rose! 
 The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
 Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : — 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills. 
 Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
 Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
 With the fierce native daring which instils 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years 
 And "* Evan's, * Donald's fame rings in each clansman's 
 ears! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 And Ardennes ^ waves above them her green leaves. . 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
 Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
 Ere evening to be trodden Uke the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of hving valour, rolling on the foe 
 And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
 The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
 The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
 Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
 The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 
 Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine , 
 Yet one I would select from that proud throng. 
 Partly because they blend me with his line. 
 And partly that I did his sire some wrong. 
 And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
 And his was of the bravest, and when shovver'd 
 The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along. 
 Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, 
 They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant 
 Howard ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
 And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
 But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
 Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
 And saw around me the wide field revive 
 With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
 Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
 With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
 I turn'd fi-om all she brought to those she could not bring.' 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
 And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
 In his own kind and Idndred, whom to teach 
 Forgetfuiness were mercy for their sake ; 
 The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake 
 Those whom they thirst for ; though the sound of Fame 
 May for a moment sooth, it cannot slake 
 The fever of vain longing, and the name 
 So honour'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 
 
 They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, mourn 
 
 The tree will wither long before it fall ; 
 
 The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; 
 
 The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
 
 In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall 
 
 Stands when its wind- worn battlements are gone; 
 
 The bars survive the captive they enthral ; 
 
 The day drags through tho' storms keep out the sun 
 
 And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on: 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
 
 In every fragment multiplies ; and makes 
 
 A thousand images of one that was. 
 
 The same, and still the more, the more it breaks ; 
 
 And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 
 
 Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, 
 
 I And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
 Yet withers on till all without is old, 
 Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 
 
Caxn-to hi. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 21 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 There is a very life in our despair, 
 Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
 Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it were 
 As nothing did we die ; but Life will suit 
 Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, 
 Like to the apples on the »Dead Sea's shore, 
 AU ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
 Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
 Such hours 'gainst years of hfe,— say, would he name 
 threescore ? 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 The Psalmist number'd out the years of man : 
 They are enough : and if thy tale be irue, 
 Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span 
 More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
 Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
 Their children's hps shall echo them, and say— 
 " Here, where the sword united nations drew, 
 « Our countrymen were warring on that day !" 
 And this is much, and all which wiU not pass away. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
 Whose spirit antithetically mixt 
 One moment of the mightiest, and again 
 On little objects with hke firmness fixt. 
 Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been betwixt, 
 Thy throne had still been thine, or never been; 
 For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st 
 Even now to reassume the imperial mien. 
 And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene ! 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! 
 She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
 Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
 That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 
 Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
 The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
 A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
 To the astounded kingdoms all inert. 
 Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Oh, more or less than man— in high or low. 
 Battling with nations, flying from the field ; 
 Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now 
 More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield ; 
 An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, 
 But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor. 
 However deeply in men's spirits skill'd. 
 Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war. 
 Nor learn that tempted Fate wiU leave the loftiest star. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide 
 With that untaught innate philosophy. 
 Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride. 
 Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
 When the whole host of hatred stood hard by. 
 To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled 
 With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — 
 When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child. 
 He stood mibow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. 
 
 Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
 Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
 That just habitual scorn which could contemn 
 Men and their thoughts ; 'twas wise to feel, not so 
 To wear it ever on thy lip and brow. 
 And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
 Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow : 
 'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
 So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. 
 
 If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, 
 Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, 
 Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock; 
 But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy 
 Their admiration thy best weapon shone ; [throne. 
 The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
 (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
 Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 
 For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.' 
 
 But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell. 
 And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
 And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
 In its own narrow being, but aspire 
 Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
 And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
 Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
 Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core. 
 Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 
 
 This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
 By their contagion ; Conquerors and Kings, 
 Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
 Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
 Which stir too strongly the soul's secret sprmgs. 
 And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
 Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
 Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a school 
 Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule; 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Their breath is agitation, and their life 
 A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
 And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
 That should their days, surviving perils past, 
 Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
 With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
 Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
 With its o\TO flickering, or a sword laid by 
 Winch eats into itself; and rusts ingloriously. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 He who ascends to moimtain-tops, shall find 
 The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow , 
 He who surpasses or subdues mankind. 
 Must look down on the hate of those below. 
 Though high above the sun of glory glow. 
 And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
 Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
 Contending tempests on his naked head, 
 And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 Away with these ! true Wisdom's world wiU be 
 Within its own creation, or in thine. 
 Maternal Nature ! for who teems hke thee. 
 Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? 
 There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
 A blendin<r of all beauties ; streams and dells, 
 Fruit, foliat^e, crag, wood, cornfield, mountam, vine, 
 And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells 
 From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells 
 
 Xt,VII. 
 
 And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind. 
 Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd. 
 All tenantless, save to the crannying wmd. 
 Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
 There was a day when they were young and proud, 
 Banners on high, and battles pass'd below ; 
 But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
 And those which waved are shredless dust ere now, 
 And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. 
 
22 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Beneath these battlements, within those walls, 
 Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
 Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
 Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
 Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
 What want these outlaws ^° conquerors should have? 
 But History's purchased page to call them great? 
 A wider space, an ornamented grave ? 
 Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full 
 as brave. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
 What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
 And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
 With emblems well devised by amorous pride. 
 Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide ; 
 But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
 Keen contest and destruction near allied. 
 And many a tower for some fair mischief won. 
 Saw the discolour'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. 
 
 L. 
 
 But Thou, exulting and abounding river! 
 Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
 Through banlcs whose beauty would endure for ever 
 Could man but leave thy bright creation so. 
 Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
 With the shanrp scythe of conflict, — then to see 
 Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
 Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem such to me. 
 Even now what wants thy stream ? — that it should Lethe 
 be. 
 
 LI. 
 
 A thousand battles have assail 'd thy banks, 
 But these and half their fame have pass'd away. 
 And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks ; 
 Their very graves are gone, and what are they? 
 Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday, 
 And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
 Glass'd with its dancing Ught the sunny ray ; 
 But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream 
 Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
 Yet not insensibly to all which here 
 Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
 In glens which might have made even exile dear : 
 Though on his brow were graven lines austere. 
 And tranquil sternness which liad ta'en the place 
 Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
 Joy was not always absent from his face, 
 But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
 Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
 It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
 On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
 Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
 Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt, 
 For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
 In one fond breast, to which his own would melt. 
 
 And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 
 riv. 
 And he had learn'd to love, — I know not why. 
 For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — 
 The helpless looks of blooming infancy. 
 Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued, 
 To change lilce this, a mind so far imbued 
 With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
 But thus it was ; and though in solitude 
 Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow. 
 
 In him this gloVd when all beside had ceased to glow. 
 
 And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
 Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
 Than the church links withal ; and, though unwed, 
 That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
 Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
 Still undivided, and cemented more 
 By peril, dreaded most in female eyes ; 
 But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
 Well to that heart might his these absent greetings pour! 
 
 The castled crag of Drachenfels '^ 
 FroAvns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
 Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
 Between the banks which bear the vine, 
 And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, 
 And fields which promise com and wine, 
 And scatter'd cities crowning these, 
 Whose far white walls along them shine, 
 Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
 With double joy wert thou with me. 
 
 2. 
 And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, 
 And hands which offer early flowers, 
 Wallc smiling o'er this paradise ; 
 Above, the frequent feudal towers 
 Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, 
 And many a rock which steeply lowers, 
 And noble arch in proud decay, 
 Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
 But one thing want these banks of Rhine,-^ 
 Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 
 
 3. 
 I send the lilies given to me ; 
 Though long before thy hand they touch, 
 I know that they must wither'd be, 
 But yet reject them not as such; 
 For I have cherish'd them as dear, 
 Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
 And guide thy soul to mine even here. 
 When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
 And laiow'st them gather'd by the Rhine, 
 And offer'd from my heart to thine ! 
 
 4. 
 The river nobly foams and flows, 
 The charm of this enchanted ground. 
 And all its thousand turns disclose 
 Some fresher beauty varymg round : 
 The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
 Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
 Nor could on earth a spot be found 
 To nature and to me so dear, 
 Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
 Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! 
 
 LVI. 
 
 By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
 There is a small and simple pyramid, 
 Crowning the summit of the verdant mound , 
 Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid. 
 Our enemy's — but let not that forbid 
 Honour to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb 
 Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid. 
 Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 
 Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Brief] brave, and glorious was his young career, — 
 His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes ; 
 And fitly may the stranger Ungering here 
 Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
 For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, 
 The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
 The charter to chastise which she bestows 
 On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
 The wliiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er hun wept.'* 
 
Canto III. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 23 
 
 Here Ehrenbreitstein,'^ with her shatter'd wall 
 Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
 Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 
 Rebounding idly on her strength did light : 
 A tower of victory ! from whence the flight 
 Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain : 
 But Peace destro/d what War could never blight, 
 And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain — 
 On which the iron shower for years had pour'd in vain. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
 The stranger fain would Hnger on his way ! 
 Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
 Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; 
 And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
 On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
 Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
 Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere. 
 Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Adieu to thee agam ! a vain adieu ! 
 There can be no farewell to scene like thine ; 
 The mind is colour'd by thy every hue ; 
 And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
 Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 
 'Tis with the thcirikflil glance of parting praise ; 
 More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shine, 
 But none unite in one attaching maze 
 The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
 Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, 
 The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, 
 The forest's grovrth, and Gothic walls between, 
 The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
 In mockery of man's art ; and these withal 
 A race effaces happy as the scene, 
 Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, [fall. 
 
 Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires near them 
 
 But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
 The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
 Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
 And throned Eternity in icy halls 
 Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
 The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
 All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
 Gather around these summits, as to show [below. 
 How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan. 
 There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, — 
 Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where man 
 May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain. 
 Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that pleSn ; 
 Here Burgimdy bequeath'd his tombless host, 
 A bony heap, through ages to remain. 
 Themselves their monument ; — the Stygian coast 
 Unsepulchred they rocim'd, and shriek'd each wandering 
 ghost.^* 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 While Waterloo with Carmae's carnage vies, 
 Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; 
 They were true Glory's stainless victories, 
 Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
 Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band. 
 All imbought champions in no princely cause 
 Of vice- entail 'd Corruption; they no land 
 Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
 Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause. 
 
 By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
 A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days, 
 'Tis the last renmant of the wreck of years, 
 And looks as with the \vild-bewilder'd gaze 
 Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
 Yet still wdth consciousness ; and there it stands 
 Making a marvel that it not decays. 
 When the coeval pride of human hands, 
 Levell'd ^^Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the name !— 
 Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
 Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim 
 Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
 Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave 
 The life she lived in; but the judge was just. 
 And then she died on him she could not save. 
 Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 
 And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one 
 dust.is 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 But these are deeds which should not pass away, 
 And names that must not wither, though the earth 
 Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
 The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth ; 
 The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
 Should be, and shall, survivor of its wo. 
 And from its immortality look forth 
 In the sun's face, hke yonder Alpine snow," 
 Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 
 The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
 The stiUness of their aspect in each trace 
 Its clear depth yields of their fair height and hue : 
 There is too much of man here, to look through 
 With a fit mind the might which [ behold ; 
 But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
 Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old. 
 Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind ; 
 AU are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
 Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
 Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
 In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
 Of our infection, till too late and long 
 We may deplore and struggle with the coil. 
 In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 
 Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
 In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
 Of our own soul turn all our blood to tears, 
 And colour things to come with hues of Night ; 
 The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
 To those that walk in darkness : on the sea. 
 The boldest steer but where their ports invite, 
 But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 
 Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be. 
 
 Is it not better, then, to be alone. 
 And love Earth only for its earthly sake? 
 By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, '^ 
 Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake. 
 Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
 A fair but froward infant her own care, 
 Kjssing its cries away as these awalte ; — 
 
 I Is it not better thus our lives to wear. 
 Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear ? 
 
24 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 I live not in myself but I become 
 Portion of that around me : and to me 
 Hit'h mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
 Of human cities torture : I can see 
 Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
 A linlt reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
 Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
 And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
 Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 
 
 I.XXIII. 
 
 And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life ; 
 I look upon the peopled desert past, 
 As on a place of agony and strife. 
 Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, 
 To act and suffer, but remount at last 
 With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring, 
 Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast 
 Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, 
 Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling 
 
 I-XXIV. 
 
 And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
 From what it hates in this degraded form. 
 Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
 Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
 When elements to elements conform. 
 And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
 Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? 
 The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot ? 
 Of which, even now, 1 share at times the immortal lot ? 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Are not the mountains, waves, and sides, a part 
 Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
 Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
 With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
 All objects, if compared with these ? and stem 
 A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
 Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
 Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, 
 Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not 
 glow? 
 
 liXXVI. 
 
 But this is not my theme ; and I return 
 To that which is immediate, and require 
 Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
 To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
 A native of the land where I respire 
 The clear air for a while — a passing guest, 
 Where he became a being, — whose desire 
 Was to be glorious ; 'twas a foolish quest, 
 The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
 The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
 Enchantment over passion, and from wo 
 Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
 The breath which made him wretched ; yet he knew 
 How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
 O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 
 Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past 
 The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
 On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame 
 Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
 Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same. 
 But his was not the love of living dame. 
 Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
 But of ideal beauty, which became 
 In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
 Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 This breathed itself to Ufe in Julie, this 
 Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; 
 This hallovVd, too, the memorable kiss 
 Which every morn liis fever'd lip would greet. 
 From hers, who but v,'ith fiieixiship his would meet , 
 But to tliat gentle touch, through brain and breast 
 Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat; 
 In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, 
 Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest." 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 
 Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for his mind 
 Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
 For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind 
 'Gainst whom he raged with fiiry strange and blind. 
 But he was phrensied, — wherefore, who may know? 
 Since cause might be which skill could never find* 
 But he was phrensied by disease or wo, 
 To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 For then he was inspired, and from him came. 
 As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore. 
 Those oracles which set the world in flame. 
 Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more : 
 Did he not this for France ? which lay before 
 Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
 Broken and trembhng to the yoke she bore, 
 Till by the voice of him and his compeers 
 Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown 
 fears ? 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 They made themselves a fearful monument ! 
 The wreck of old opinions — things which grew, 
 Breathed from the birth of time : the veil they rent, 
 And what behind it lay all earth shall view. 
 But good with ill they also overthrew, 
 Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
 Upon the same foundation, and renew 
 Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re-fill'd. 
 As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 But this will not endure, nor be endured ! 
 Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. 
 They might have used it better, but, allured 
 By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt 
 On one another ; pity ceased to melt 
 With her once natural charities. But they, 
 Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, 
 They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day ; 
 What maiTel then, at times, if they mistook their prey ? 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 What deep woimds ever closed without a scar? 
 The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
 That which disfigures it ; and they who war 
 With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, bear 
 Silence, but not submission : in his lair 
 FLx'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour 
 Which shall atone for years; none need despair: 
 It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power 
 To punish or forgive — in one we shcill be slower. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
 With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
 Which warns me, with its stiUness, to forsake 
 Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
 This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
 To waft me fi-om distraction ; once I loved 
 Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
 Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, 
 That I with stem delights should e'er have been so moved. 
 
^^^5^: 
 
 
 A--M^/y// 
 
 aj:) ^^^^ ^ ^A e^ , m' 
 
 ^ «»^ 
 
 
 ^»ve^ 
 
 ^^A 
 
 1^ 
 
caxnto m. 
 
 CttlLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 25 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 It is the hush of night, and all between 
 Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
 Mellovv'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
 Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
 Precipitously steep ; and drawing near. 
 There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
 Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
 Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ^ 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 He is an evening reveller, who makes 
 His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
 At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
 Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
 There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 
 But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
 All silently their tears of love instil, 
 Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
 Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! 
 If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
 Of men and empires, — ^"tis to be forgiven, 
 That in our aspirations to be great, ■ 
 Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
 And claim a kindred with you 5 for ye are 
 A beauty and a mystery, and create 
 In us such love and reverence from afar, [a star. 
 
 That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, 
 But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
 And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 
 All heaven and earth are still : From the high host 
 Of stars, to the lull'd lake and moimtain-coast, 
 All is concenter'd in a life intense, 
 Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
 But hath a part of being, and a sense 
 Of that which is of ail Creator and defence. 
 
 Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
 In solitude, where we are least alone ; 
 A truth, which through our being then doth melt 
 And purifies from self: it is a tone, 
 The soul and source of music, which makes known 
 Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm. 
 Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone. 
 Binding all things with beauty ; — 't would disarm 
 The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. 
 
 Not vainly did the early Persian make 
 His altar the high places and the peak 
 Of earth- o'ergazing raountains,2° and thus take 
 A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
 The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, 
 Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare 
 Colunms and idol-dweUings, Goth or Greek, 
 With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, 
 Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r ! 
 
 The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh night,^* 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
 Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
 Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
 From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
 Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud. 
 But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
 And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
 Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! 
 D 
 
 And this is in the night : — Most glorious night ! 
 Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be 
 A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
 A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
 How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
 And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
 And now again 'tis black. — and now, the glee 
 Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
 As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birtlx 
 
 xciv. 
 Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 
 Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
 In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
 That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted ! 
 Tho' in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, 
 Love was the very root of the fond rage 
 Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed : 
 Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
 Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. 
 
 Now, w^here the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way 
 The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : 
 For here, not one, but many, make their play. 
 And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand. 
 Flashing and cast around : of all the band. 
 The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
 His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
 That in such gaps as desolation work'd. 
 There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd. 
 
 Sk}', mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! 
 With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
 To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
 Things that have made me watcliful ; the far roll 
 Of your departuig voices, is the knoU 
 Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
 But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
 Are ye like those within the human breast ? 
 Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ? 
 
 Could I embody and unbosom now 
 That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
 My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
 Soul, heart, mind, passions, feeUngs, strong or weak, 
 AU that I would have sought, and aU I seek, 
 Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word. 
 And that one word were Lightning, I would speak , 
 But as it is, I live and die unheard. 
 With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 
 
 The mom is up again, the dewy morn. 
 With breath all mcense, and with cheek all bloom, 
 Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn. 
 And living as if earth contain'd no tombj— 
 And glowing into day : we may resume 
 The march of our existence : and thus I, 
 Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 
 And food for meditation, nor pass by 
 Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. 
 
 Clarens ! sweet Clarens, birth-place of deep Love 
 Tliine air is the young breath of passionate thought ; 
 Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above 
 The very Glaciers have his colours caught, 
 And sunset into rose hues sees them wrought *2 
 By rays which sleep there lovingly : the rocks, 
 The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought 
 In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, [mocks. 
 Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 Clarens I by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,— 
 Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
 To wliich the steps are mountains ; where tlie god 
 Is a pervading Ufe and Ught, — so shown 
 Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
 In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
 His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath hlovm, 
 His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 
 Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour. 
 
 CI. 
 
 All things are here of him ; from the black pines, 
 Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
 Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
 Which slope his green path downward to the shore, 
 Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore. 
 Kissing his feet wth murmurs ; and the wood, 
 The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 
 But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, 
 Offering to him, and his, a populous soUtude, 
 
 CII. 
 
 A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
 
 And iairy-form'd and many-colour'd things, 
 
 Who worship him with notes more sweet than words. 
 
 And iraiocenlly open their glad wings, 
 
 Fearless and M of life : the gush of springs, 
 
 And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
 
 Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
 
 The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend. 
 
 Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. 
 cm. 
 He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, 
 And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows 
 That tender mystery, %vill love the more, 
 For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, 
 And the world 's waste, have driven him far from those. 
 For 'tis his nature to advance or die ; 
 He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
 Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
 
 Witli the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 
 
 CIV. 
 
 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 
 Peopling it with affections ; but he found 
 It was the scene which passion must allot 
 To the mind's purified beings ; 'twas the ground 
 Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound, 
 And hallow'd it with loveliness : 'tis lone. 
 And wonderful, and deep, and hath a somid. 
 And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rhone 
 Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a 
 throne. 
 
 cv. 
 Lausanne ! and Femey ! ye have been the abodes ^' 
 Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name ; 
 Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, 
 A path to perpetuity of fame; 
 They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
 Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile [flame 
 
 Thoughts which should call dowTi thunder, and the 
 Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while 
 On man and man's research could deign do more than 
 smile. 
 
 cvi. 
 The one was fire and fickleness, a child, 
 Most mutable in wishes, but in mind, 
 A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild,— 
 Historian, bard, philosopher, combined ; 
 He multiplied himself among mankind. 
 The Proteus of their talents : But his own 
 Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind. 
 Blew where it fisted, laying all things prone, — 
 Now to o'er throw a fool, and now to shake a throne. 
 
 The other, deep and slow, exliausting thought, 
 And hiving wisdom with each studious year. 
 In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought. 
 And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
 Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer ; 
 The lord of irony, — that master-spell. 
 Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear 
 And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, 
 Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them. 
 If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
 It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn ; 
 The hour must come when such things shall be made 
 Kno\\Ti unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd 
 By slumber, on one pillow, — in the dust. 
 Which, thus much we are sure, must Ue decay'd ; 
 And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
 'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 
 
 cix. 
 But let me quit man's works, again to read 
 His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend 
 This page, which from my reveries I feed, 
 Until it seems prolonging without end. 
 The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, 
 Ajid I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
 May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
 To their most great and growing region, where 
 The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. 
 
 Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee, 
 Full flashes on the soul the Ught of ages, 
 Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, 
 To the last halo of the chiefs and sages. 
 Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; 
 Thou wert the throne and grave of empires ; still. 
 The fount at wliich the panting mind assuages 
 Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, 
 Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. 
 
 Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
 Renew'd vidth no kind auspices : — to feel 
 We are not what we have been, and to deem 
 We are not what we should be, — and to steel 
 The heart against itself; and to conceal, 
 With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught, — 
 Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, — 
 Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, 
 Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it is taught. 
 
 CXII. 
 
 And for these words, thus woven into song, 
 It may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
 The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, 
 Which I would seize, in passmg, fo beguile 
 My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
 Fame is the thirst of youth, — ^but I am not 
 So young as to regard men's fro^^^l or smile, 
 As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 
 I stood and stand alone, — ^remember'd or forgot. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; 
 I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
 To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
 Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud 
 In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
 They could not deem me one of such; I stood 
 Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud [could 
 Of thoughts wliich were not their thoughts, and still 
 Had I not filed ^* my mind, which thus itself subdued. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 27 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 I have not loved the world, nor the world me, — 
 But let us part fair foes ; I do believe 
 Though I have found them not, that there may be 
 Words which are things, — hopes which will not deceive, 
 And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
 Snares for the failing : I would also deem 
 O'er others' griefs that some smcerely grieve ;2* 
 That two, or one, are almost what they seem, — 
 
 That goodness is no name, and happbess no dream, 
 cxv. 
 My daughter ! with thy name this song begun — 
 My daughter ! wdth thy name thus much shall end — 
 I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none 
 Can be so \vrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
 To whom the shadows of far years extend: 
 Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold, 
 My voice shall with thy future visions blend. 
 And reach into thy heart, — when mme is cold, — 
 
 A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. 
 cxvi. 
 To aid thy mind's development, — to watch 
 Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see 
 Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
 Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee ! 
 To hold thee hghtly on a gentle Imee, 
 And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
 This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; 
 Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
 
 [ know not what is there, yet something like to this. 
 
 CXTII. 
 
 Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught, 
 I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 
 Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
 With desolation, — and a broken claim : 
 Though the grave closed between us, 'twere the same— 
 1 know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain 
 My blood from out thy being, were an aim, 
 And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — 
 Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life retain 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 The cliild of love, — though born in bitterness, 
 And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
 These were the elements, — and thine no less. 
 As yet such are around thee, — but thy fire 
 Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. 
 Sweet be thy cradled slumbers I O'er the sea, 
 And from the mountains where I now respire, 
 Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, 
 As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me ! 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Roraagna, 
 
 duel Monte che divide, e quel che serra 
 
 Italia, e un mare e 1' allro, che la bagna. 
 
 Ariosto, Satira iii. 
 
 Venice, January 2, 1818. 
 
 TO 
 
 JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. A.M.F.R.S. 
 
 ^C. ^C. ^'C. 
 MY DEAR HOBHOUSE, 
 
 After an interval of eight years between the 
 composition of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, 
 the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted to 
 the public. In parting with so old a friend it is not ex-, 
 traordinary that I should recur to one still older and 
 better,— to one who has beheld the birth and death of 
 the other, and to whom I am far more indebted for the 
 social advantages of an enlightened friendship, than — 
 though not ungrateful— I can, or could be, to Childe 
 Harold, for any public favour reflected through the poem 
 on the poet, — to one, whom I have Imown long, and 
 accompanied far, whom I have found wakeful over my 
 sickness, and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity. 
 
 and firm in my adversity, true in counsel, and trusty in 
 peril — to a friend often tried and never found wanting ; 
 — to yourself. 
 
 In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth, and in 
 dedicating to you in its complete, or at least concluded 
 state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most 
 thoughtful and comprehensive of my compositions, I 
 wish to do honour to myself by the record of many 
 years' intimacy with a man of learning, of talent, of 
 steadiness, and of honour. It is not for minds like ours 
 to give or to receive flattery ; yet the praises of sincerity 
 have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship ; and 
 it is not for you, nor even for others, but to reheve a 
 heart which has not elsewhere, or lately, been so much 
 accustomed to the encounter of good-will as to with- 
 stand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to comme- 
 morate your good quaUties, or rather the advantages 
 which I have derived from their exertion. Even the 
 recurrence of the date of this letter, the anniversary of 
 the most unfortunate day of my past existence, but 
 which cannot poison my future, while I retain the re- 
 source of your friendship, and of my own faculties, will 
 henceforth have a more agreeable recollection for both, 
 inasmuch as it wiU remind us of this my attempt to 
 thank you for an indefatigable regard, such as few men 
 have experienced, and no one could experience, without 
 thinking better of his species and of himself. 
 
 It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various 
 periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and fable- 
 Spain, Greece, Asia Mmor, and Italy: and what 
 Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, 
 Venice and Rome have been more recently. The 
 poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied me 
 from first to last ; and perhaps it may be a pardonable 
 vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency on 
 a composition which in some degree connects me with 
 the spot where it was produced, and the object, it would 
 fain describe ; and however unworthy it may be deemed 
 of those magical and memorable abodes, however short 
 it may fall of our distant conceptions and immediate im- 
 pressions, yet as a mark of respect for what is venerable, 
 and of feeling for what is glorious, it has been to me a 
 source of pleasure in the production, and I part with it 
 with a kind of regret, which I hardly suspected that 
 events could have left me for imaginary objects. 
 
 With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there 
 will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the pre- 
 ceding, and thatlhtle slightly, if at all, separated from the 
 author speakmg ui his own person. The fact is, that I 
 had become weary of drawing a line which every one 
 seemed determined not to perceive : like the Chinese in 
 Goldsmith's "Citizen of the World," whom nobody 
 would beheve to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I as- 
 serted, and imagined that I had drawn, a distinction be- 
 tween the author and the pilgrim ; and the very anxiety 
 to preserve this difference, and disappointment at finding 
 it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts m the composi- 
 tion, that I determined to abandon it altogether — and 
 have done so. The opinions which have been, or may 
 be, formed on that subject, are now a matter of indiffer- 
 ence ; the work is to depend on itself and not on the 
 writer ; and the author, who has no resources in his own 
 mind beyond the reputation, transient or permanent, 
 which is to arise from his literary efforts, deserves the 
 fate of authors. 
 
 In the course of the following canto it was my inten- 
 tion, either in the text or m the notes, to have touched 
 upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps 
 of manners. But the text, within the hmlts I proposed, 
 I soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of external 
 objects and the consequent reflections ; and for the 
 whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, I am 
 indebted to yourself and these were necessarily hmited 
 to the elucidation of the text. 
 
 It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dis- 
 sert upon the literature and manners of a nation so dis- 
 
28 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Caitto IV. 
 
 similar; and requires an attention and impartiality 
 which would induce us, — though perhaps no inattentive 
 observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of 
 the people amongst whom we have recently abode, — to 
 distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more nar- 
 rowly examine our information. The state of literary, 
 as well as political party, appears to run, or to have run, 
 so high, that for a stranger to steer impartially between 
 them is next to impossible. It may be enough then, at 
 least for my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful 
 language — " Mi pare che in un paese tutlo poetico, che 
 vanta la lingua la piii nobile ed insieme la piu dolce, 
 tutte tutte la vie diverse si possono tentare, e che sinche 
 la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto I' antico 
 valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prima." Italy 
 has great names still — Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, 
 Pindemonte, Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, 
 Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will 
 secure to the present generation an honourable place in 
 most of the departments of Art, Science, and Belles 
 liCttres ; and in some the very highest ; — Europe— the 
 World — has but one Canova. 
 
 It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that "La 
 pianta uonio nasce piu robusta in Itaha che in qua- 
 lunque altra terra — e che gli stessi atroci delitti che vi 
 si commettono ne sono una prova." Without subscrib- 
 ing to the latter part of his proposition, a dangerous 
 doctrine, the truth of which may be disputed on better 
 grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect more 
 ferocious than their neighbours, that man must be wil- 
 fully blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with 
 the extraordinary capacity of this people, or, if such a 
 word be admissible, their capabilities, the facility of their 
 acquisitions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of 
 their genius, their sense of beauty, and amidst all the 
 disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the desolation of 
 battles and the despair of ages, their still unquenched 
 "longing after immortality," — the immortality of inde- 
 pendence. And when we ourselves, in riding round the 
 walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of the labourers' 
 chorus, "Roma! Roma! Roma! Roma non 6 piu come 
 era prima," it was difficult not to contrast this melan- 
 choly dirge with the bacchanal roar of the songs of ex- 
 ultation still yelled from the London taverns, over the 
 carnage of Mont St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of 
 Italy, of France, and of the world, by men whose con- 
 duct you yourself have exposed in a work worthy of the 
 better days of our history. For me, 
 
 "Non movero mai corda 
 Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda." 
 
 What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, 
 it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes 
 ascertained that England has acquired something more 
 than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Cor- 
 pus ; it is enough for them to look at home. For what 
 they have done abroad, and especially in the South, 
 •* Verily they will have their reward," and at no very dis- 
 tant period. 
 
 Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agree- 
 able return to that country whose real welfare can be 
 dearer to none than to yourself I dedicate to you this 
 poem in its completed state ; and repeat once more how 
 truly I am ever 
 
 Your obliged and affectionate friend, 
 BYRON. 
 
 I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of sighs ;* 
 A palace and a prison on each hand : 
 I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
 As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
 A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
 Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
 O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
 Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
 Where Venice !?ate in state, throned on her hundred i 
 
 She looks, a sea-Cybele, fi-esh from ocean,' 
 Rismg with her tiara of proud towers 
 At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
 A ruler of the waters and their powers 
 And such she was ; — her daughters had their dowers 
 From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
 Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
 In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
 Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. 
 
 In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,' 
 And silent rows the songless gondolier; 
 Her palaces are crumbling to the shore. 
 And music meets not always now the ear; 
 Those days are gone — but beauty still is here. 
 States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die : 
 Nor yet forget how Venice once waa dear, 
 The pleasant place of all festivity, 
 The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 
 
 But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
 Her name in story, and her long array 
 Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
 Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
 Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
 With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
 And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away — 
 The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, 
 For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 
 
 The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
 Essentially immortal, they create 
 And multiply in us a brighter ray 
 And more beloved existence : that which fate 
 Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
 Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied 
 First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
 Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
 And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 
 
 Sueh is the refuge of our youth and age, 
 The first fi-om Hope, the last from Vacancy ; 
 And tliis worn feeling peoples many a page, 
 And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye ; 
 Yet there are things whose strong reality 
 Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 
 More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 
 And the strange constellations which the Muse 
 O'er her wild universe is skilfiil to diffiise : 
 
 I saw or dream'd of such, — ^but let them go — 
 They came Uke truth, and disappear'd like dreams; 
 And whatsoe'er they \vere — are now but so ; 
 I could replace them if I would ; still teems 
 My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
 Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
 Let these too go — for waking reason deems 
 Such overweening phantasies unsound. 
 And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 
 
 I've taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes 
 Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
 Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; 
 Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
 A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 
 Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
 Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
 The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
 And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 29 
 
 Perhaps I loved it well ; and should I lay 
 My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
 My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
 Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
 My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
 With my land's language : if too fond and far 
 These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
 If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
 Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 
 
 X. 
 
 My name from out the temple where the dead 
 Are honour'd by the nations — let it be — 
 And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
 And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
 " Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." '* 
 Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
 The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
 I planted, — they have torn me, — and I bleed : 
 I should have known what fruit would spring from such 
 
 The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
 And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
 The Bucentaur Ues rotting unrestored, 
 Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
 St. Mark yet sees his Uon where he stood * 
 Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power. 
 Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, 
 And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
 When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — ® 
 An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
 Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
 Clanli over sceptred cities ; nations melt 
 From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
 The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
 Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt ; 
 Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! ^ 
 
 Th' octogenarian chiefj Byzantium's conquering foe. 
 xm. 
 Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
 Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
 But is not Doria's menace come to pass ? ^ 
 Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and won, 
 Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done. 
 Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! 
 Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, 
 Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes. 
 
 From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 
 
 In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
 Her very by-word sprung from victory. 
 The " Planter of the Lion," ^ which through fire 
 And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
 Though making many slaves, herself still free. 
 And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; 
 Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, ye 
 Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight ! 
 For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file 
 Of her dead Doges are decUned to dust; 
 But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
 Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 
 Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
 Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls, 
 Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
 Too oft remind her who and what enthrals,J° 
 Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 
 
 When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
 And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, 
 Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse," 
 Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
 See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
 Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
 Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
 Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains, 
 And bids him thank the bard for fi-eedom and his strains. 
 
 Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
 Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
 Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, 
 Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
 Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
 Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
 Albion I to thee : the Ocean queen should not 
 Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall 
 Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall, 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 I loved her fi-om my boyhood — she to mo 
 Was as a fairy city of the heart. 
 Rising like water-columns from the sea, 
 Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 
 And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art„'* 
 Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so, 
 Although I found her thus, we did not part. 
 Perchance even dearer in her day of wo. 
 Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 
 
 I can repeople with the past — and of 
 The present there is still for eye and thought, 
 And meditation chasten'd down, enough ; 
 And more, it may be, than I hoj)ed or sought ; 
 And of the happiest moments which were wrought 
 Within the web of my existence, some 
 From thee, fair Venice ! have their colours caught: 
 There are some feelings Time cannot benumb. 
 Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. 
 
 But fi-om their nature will the tannen grow " 
 Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks, 
 Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
 Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
 Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and mocks 
 The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
 Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
 Of bleak, gray granite into life it came. 
 And grew a giant tree ; — the mind may grow the same. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
 Of life and siifferance make its firm abode 
 In bare and desolated bosoms: mute 
 The camel labours with the heaviest load. 
 And the wolf dies in silence, — ^not bestow'd 
 In vain should such example be ; if they. 
 Things of ignoble or of savage mood, 
 Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
 May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed. 
 Even by the sufferer ; and, in each event. 
 Ends : — Some, with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd, 
 Return to whence they came — with like intent, 
 And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and bent, 
 Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, 
 And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
 Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime. 
 According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb : 
 
30 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
 There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
 Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
 And slight withal may be the things which bring 
 Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
 Aside for ever : it may be a sound — 
 A tone of music — summer's eve— or spring — 
 A flower — the wind — the ocean — ^which shall wound, 
 Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound ; 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
 Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind. 
 But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface 
 The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 
 Which out of thmgs familiar, undesign'd, 
 When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
 The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, 
 The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — anew, 
 The mourn'd, the loved, the lost — too many ! — yet how 
 few! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
 To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
 A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
 Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
 Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
 And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
 The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, 
 Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
 The beautiflil, the brave — the lords of earth and sea, 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome ! 
 And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
 Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
 Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ; 
 Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? 
 Thy very weeds are beautifiil, thy waste 
 More rich than other climes' fertility ; 
 Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
 With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The Moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
 Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
 Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
 Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is free 
 From clouds, but of all colours seems to be 
 Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
 Where the Day joins the past Etemity ; 
 While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
 Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest ! 
 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but stiU "* 
 Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
 RoU'd o'er the peak of the far Rhsetian hill, 
 As Day and Night contending were, until 
 Nature reclaim'd her order: — gently flows 
 The deep-dyed Brentsi, where their hues instil 
 The odorous purple of a new-born rose, [glows, 
 
 Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it 
 
 Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
 Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, 
 From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
 Their magical variety diffuse : 
 And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
 Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
 Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
 With a new colour as it gasps away, 
 The last stiU loveliest, till—'tis gone — and all is gray. 
 
 There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear'd in air, 
 Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
 The bones of Laura's lover : here repair 
 Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
 The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
 To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
 From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
 Watering the tree which bears his ladj^s name ** 
 With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 
 
 They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; " 
 The mountain-village where his latter days 
 Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride 
 An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 
 To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
 His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
 And venerably simple, such as raise 
 A feeling more accordant with his strain 
 Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental &ne. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
 Is one of that complexion which seems made 
 For those who their mortality have felt, 
 And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
 In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
 Which shows a distant prospect far rrway 
 Of busy cities, now in vain display'd, 
 For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
 Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, 
 
 Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 
 And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, 
 Clear as its current, glide the saimtering hours 
 With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
 Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
 If from society we learn to live, 
 'Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; 
 It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give 
 No hollow aid; alone — man with his God must strive: 
 
 Or, it may be, wdth demons, who impair '^ 
 The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 
 In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
 Of moody texture from their earUest day, 
 Ajid loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
 Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
 Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; 
 Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
 The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, 
 Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
 There seems as ' twere a curse upon the seats 
 Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
 Of Este, which for many an age made good 
 Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
 Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
 Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
 The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
 Hark to his strain! and then survey his cell! 
 And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
 And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell: 
 The miserable despot could not quell 
 The insulted mind he sought to quench, and bletid 
 With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
 Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
 Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 31 
 
 The. tears and praises of all time; while thine 
 "Would rot in its oblivion — in the smk 
 Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
 Is shaken into nothing ; but the link 
 Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
 Of thy poor maUce, naming thee with scorn- 
 Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
 From thee ! if in another station born, 
 Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Thou I form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, 
 Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
 Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty : 
 He ! with a glory round his furrow'd brow, 
 Which emanated then, and dazzles now, 
 In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire. 
 And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow '^ 
 No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, 
 That whetstone of the teeth— monotony in ^vire! 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! ' twas his 
 In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
 Aim'd with her poison'd arrows, but to miss. 
 Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modem song ! 
 Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 
 The tide of generations shall roll on, 
 And not the whole combined and countless throng 
 Compose a mind like thine ? though all in one 
 Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form a 
 
 Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those. 
 Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, 
 The Bards of Hell and Chivalry : first rose 
 The Tuscan father's comedy divine ; 
 Then not unequal to the Florentine, 
 The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth 
 A new creation with his magic line, 
 And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
 Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 The lightning rent from Ariosto 's bust '^ 
 The iron crown of laurel's raimic'd leaves ; 
 Nor was the ominous element unjust, 
 For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 2° 
 Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 
 And the false semblance but disgraced his brow ; 
 Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves, 
 Know, that the Ughtning sanctifies below ^i 
 Whate'er it strikes ; — ^yon head is doubly sacred now. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Italia ! oh Italia I thou who hast 22 
 The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
 A fimeral dower of present woes and past, 
 On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, 
 And annals graved in characters of flame. 
 Oh God I that thou wert in thy nakedness 
 Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
 Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
 To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress ; 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Then mighl^st thou more appal ; or, less desired, 
 Be homely and be peacefiil, undeplored 
 For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired, 
 Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
 Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
 Of many-nation'd spoilers fi-om the Po 
 Q,uaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
 Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
 Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. 
 
 Wandermg in youth, I traced the path of liim,^-* 
 The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind, 
 The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim 
 The bright blue waters with a fanning vtind, 
 Came Megara before me, and beliind 
 Mgaia. lay, Pirzeus on the right, 
 And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined 
 Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
 In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 
 
 XLV. 
 
 For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
 Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, 
 Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'd 
 The few last rays of their far-scatter'd hght. 
 And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd might 
 The Roman saw these tombs in his o^va age, 
 These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
 Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
 The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgriiiaage. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 That page is now before me, and on mine 
 His coimtry's ruin added to the mass 
 Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, 
 And I in desolation : all that was 
 Of then destruction is ; and now, alas ! 
 Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, 
 In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
 The skeleton of her Titanic form,^* 
 Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 
 
 Yet, Italy! tlirough every other land 
 Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side ; 
 Mother of Arts ! as once of arms ; thy hand 
 Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
 Parent of our Rehgion ! whom the vsdde 
 Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! 
 Europe, repentant of her parricide. 
 Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
 Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 But Amo wins us to the fair white walls. 
 Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
 A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
 Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
 Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
 To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
 Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps 
 Was modern Luxury of Commerce bom, 
 And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new mom. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 There, too, the Goddess loves in stonC; and fiUs *' 
 The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
 The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
 Part of its immortality ; the veil 
 Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale 
 We stand, and in that form and face behold 
 What mind can make, when Nature's self would fail ; 
 And to the fond idolaters of old 
 Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould : 
 
 L. 
 
 We gaze and turn away, and Imow not where, 
 Dazzled and drunk with beauty, tiU the heart 
 Reels with its fiilness ; there — for ever there— 
 Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
 We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
 Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise, 
 The paltry jargon of the marble mart, 
 Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes : 
 Blood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardan Shep- 
 herd's prize. 
 
32 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD»S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise? 
 Or to more deeply blest Anchises ? or, 
 In ail thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
 Before thee thy own vanquish'd Lord of War? 
 And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
 Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
 Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! ^e while thy lips are 
 With lava kisses melting while they burn, 
 Shower'd on his eyehds, brow, and mouth, as from an 
 urn! 
 
 LII. 
 
 Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 
 Their full divinity inadequate 
 That feeling to express, or to improve. 
 The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
 Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight 
 Of earth recoils upon us ; — let it go ! 
 We can recall such visions, and create, 
 From what has been, or might be, things which grow 
 Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands. 
 The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
 How well his coimoisseurship understands 
 The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell : 
 Let these describe the undescribable : 
 I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream 
 Wherein that image shaU for ever dwell ; 
 The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
 That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 
 
 riv. 
 
 In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie ^'' 
 Ashes which make it hoUer, dust which is 
 Even in itself an immortality, 
 Though there were nothing save the past, and this, 
 The particle of those sublimities 
 Which have relapsed to chaos: — here repose 
 Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his,^^ 
 The starry Galileo, with his woes; 
 Here Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose.s' 
 
 These are four minds, which, hke the elements, 
 Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! [rents 
 
 Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand 
 Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
 And hath denied, to every other sky, 
 Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
 Is still impregnate with divinity, 
 Which gilds it with revivifying ray; 
 Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 
 
 But where repose the all Etruscan three- 
 Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they. 
 The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he 
 Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 
 Their bones, distinguish'd from our common clay 
 In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust, 
 And have their country's marbles nought to say? 
 Could not her quarries ftimish forth one bust ? 
 Did they not to her breast their filial earth intrust ? 
 
 Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar,^" 
 Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore;" 
 Thy factions, in their worse than civil war. 
 Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
 Their children's children would in vain adore 
 With the remorse of ages ; and the crown '^ 
 Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore. 
 Upon a far and foreign soil had grown. 
 His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled— not thine o\vn. 
 
 Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd'^ 
 His dust, — and hes it not her Great among, 
 With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
 O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue ? 
 That music in itself^ whose sounds are song, 
 The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb 
 Uptom, must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong, 
 No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
 Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom} 
 
 LIX. 
 
 And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust ; 
 Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
 The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, 
 Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more : 
 Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, 
 Fortress of falling empire ! honour'd sleeps 
 The immortal exile ; — Arqua, too, her store 
 Of tunefiil relics proudly claims and keeps. 
 While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead and weeps. 
 
 LX. 
 
 What is her pyramid of precious stones ? '* 
 Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
 Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
 Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews 
 Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
 Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
 Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
 Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
 Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
 In Amo's dome of Art's most princely shrine. 
 Where Sculpture vnth her rainbow sister vies ; 
 There be more marvels yet — ^but not for mine ; 
 For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
 My thoughts vsdth Nature ratlier in the fields, 
 Than Art in galleries : though a work divine 
 Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
 Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 
 
 rxii. 
 Is of another temper, and I roam 
 By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
 Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home ; 
 For there the Carthaginian's warhke wiles 
 Come back before me, as his skill begtiiles 
 The host between the mountains and the shore, 
 Where Courage falls in her despairing files. 
 And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore. 
 Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd o'er, 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Like to a forest fell'd by moimtain winds ; 
 And such the storm of battle on this day. 
 And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
 To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray. 
 An earthquake reel'd unheededly away!'^ 
 None felt stem Nature rocking at his feet. 
 And yavming forth a grave for those who lay 
 Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet ; 
 Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
 Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw 
 The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
 The motions of their vessel ; Nature's law, 
 In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe 
 Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds 
 Plunge in the clouds for refiige and withdraw 
 From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing herds 
 Stumbhng o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no 
 words. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 S3 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
 Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
 Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
 Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
 Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath ta'en — 
 A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
 A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ; 
 And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
 Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilhng waters red. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave ^s 
 Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
 The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
 Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
 Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
 Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
 And most serene of aspect, and most clear; 
 Surely that stream was improfaned by slaughters — 
 A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters ! 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 And on thy happy shore a temple still, 
 Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
 Upon a mild declivity of hill. 
 Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
 Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
 The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
 Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps; 
 While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails [tales. 
 Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling 
 
 Pass not unblest the Genius of the place ! 
 If through the air a zephyr more serene 
 Win to the brow, 'tis his ; and if ye trace 
 Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
 If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
 Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
 Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
 With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must 
 Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 
 
 LXIX, 
 
 The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height 
 Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
 The fall of waters ! rapid as the hght 
 The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
 The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
 And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
 Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
 Tneir Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
 That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 
 
 rxx. 
 
 And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
 Returns in an unceasing shower, which round. 
 With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
 Is an eternal April to the ground. 
 Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
 The gulf! and how the giant element 
 From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
 Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
 With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
 More like the fountain of an infant sea 
 Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
 Of a new world, than only thus to be 
 Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly. 
 With many windings, through the vale : — Look back ! 
 Lo! where it comes hke an eternity. 
 As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
 Charming the eye with dread. — a matchless cataract,''' 
 £ 
 
 Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge. 
 From side to side, beneath the glittering mom, 
 An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,'^ 
 Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
 Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
 By the distracted waters, bears serene 
 Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn : 
 Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene. 
 Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 
 
 Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
 The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
 Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
 Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
 The thundering lauwine — might be worshipp'd more ; 
 But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
 Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
 Glaciers of bleak Mount-Blanc both far and near, 
 And in Chimari heard the thunder-hiUs of fear, 
 
 Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name ; 
 And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
 Lilce spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame. 
 For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
 I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
 Athos, Olympus, ^tna, Atlas, made 
 These hills seem things of lesser dignity. 
 All, save the lone Soracte's heights display'd 
 Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
 Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
 And on the curl hangs pausing : not in vain 
 May he, who will, his recollections rake 
 And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
 The hills with Latian echoes ; I abhorr'd 
 Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
 The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word *" 
 In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn'd 
 My sickening memory ; and, though Time hath taught 
 My mind to n>editate what then it leam'd, 
 Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
 By the impatience of my early thought. 
 That, with the freshness wearing out before 
 My mind could relish what it might have sought, 
 If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
 Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor. 
 
 Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so, 
 Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 
 To imderstand, not feel thy lyric flow, 
 To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
 Although no deeper Morahst rehearse 
 Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, 
 Nor Uvelier Satirist the conscience pierce, 
 Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart, 
 Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. 
 
 rxxviii. 
 Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
 The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
 Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
 In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
 What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see 
 The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
 O'er steps of broken thrones and temples. Ye ! 
 Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
 A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 
 
34 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 The Niobe of nations ! there she stands 
 Childless and crownless, in her voiceless wo , 
 An empty urn witliin her wither'd hands, 
 Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
 The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; ** 
 The very sepulchres he tenantless 
 Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
 Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
 Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, 
 Have deah upon the seven-hill'd city's pride ; 
 She saw her glories star by star expire, 
 And up the steep barbarian monarch's ride, 
 Where the car climb'd the capitol ; far and wide 
 Temple and tower went down, nor left a site :— 
 Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 
 O'er the dun fragments cast a lunar light, 
 And say, "here was, or is," where all is doubly night? 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 The double night of ages, and of her, 
 Night's daughter. Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap 
 All round us ; we but feel our way to err : 
 The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map. 
 And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
 But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
 Stumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap 
 Our hands, and cry *•' Eureka !" it is clear — 
 When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 
 
 Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! 
 The trebly hundred triumphs ! ^^ and the day 
 When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
 The conquero'rs sword in bearing fame away ! 
 Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay. 
 And Livy's pictured page ! — but these shall be 
 Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 
 Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 
 That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel,*^ 
 Triumphant Sylla ! Thou, who didst subdue 
 Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel 
 The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
 Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
 O'er prostrate Asia ; — thou, who with thy frown 
 Annihilated senates — Roman, too. 
 With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
 With an atoning smile a more tlian earthly crown — 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine 
 To what would one day dwindle that which made 
 Thee more than mortal? and that so supine 
 By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid? 
 She who was named Eternal, and array'd 
 Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
 Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd. 
 Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd. 
 Her rushing wings — Oh ! she who was AJmighty hail'd ! 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
 The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
 Too swept off senates wliile he hew'd the throne 
 Down to a block — immortal rebel! See 
 What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
 And famous through all ages ! but beneath 
 His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
 His day of double victory and death 
 Beheld him win two realms, and, happier,yield his breath. 
 
 The third of the same moon whose former course 
 Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day 
 Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
 And laid him with the earth's preceding clay.** 
 And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and sway 
 And all we deem delightful, and consume 
 Our souls to compass through each arduous way, 
 Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? 
 Were they but so in man's, how different were his dooml 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in** 
 The austerest form of naked majesty. 
 Thou who beheld'st, 'mid the assassins' din, 
 At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie, 
 Folding his robe in dying dignity, 
 An offering to thine altar from the queen 
 Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die, 
 And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been 
 Victors of countless kuigs, or puppets of a scene? 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ** 
 She- wolf ! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
 The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
 Where, as a monument of antique art. 
 Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart, 
 W^hich the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, 
 Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's etherial dart, 
 And thy limbs black with hghtning — dost thou yet 
 Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Thou dost ; — ^but all thy foster-babes are dead— 
 The men of iron ; and the world hath rear'd 
 Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
 In imitation of the things they fear'd. 
 And fought and conquer'd, and the same course steer'd, 
 At apish distance ; but as yet none have. 
 Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, 
 Save one vain man, who is not in the grave. 
 But, vanquish'd by himself to his own slaves a slav«^— 
 
 The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
 Of bastard Caesar, following him of old 
 With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind 
 Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould,*' 
 With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
 And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
 The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
 Alcides with the distaff" now he seem'd 
 At Cleopatra's feet, — jmd now himself he beam'd, 
 
 xci. 
 And came — and saw — and conquer'd ! But the man 
 Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
 Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, 
 Which he, in sooth, long led to victory. 
 With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be 
 A hstener to itselfj was strangely filmed ; 
 With but one weakest weakness — vanity, 
 Coquettish in ambition — still he aim'd — 
 At what ? can he avouch— or answer what he claim'd ? 
 
 And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
 For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
 Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate. 
 On whom we tread : For this the conqueror rears 
 The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
 And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, 
 An universal deluge, which appears 
 Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
 And ebbs but to reflow ! — ^Renew thy rainbow, God! 
 
Camto IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 85 
 
 What from this barren being do we reap? 
 Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,'*^ 
 Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
 And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale ; 
 Opinion and omnipotence, — whose veil 
 Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
 And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
 Lest their own judgments should become too bright, 
 
 And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too 
 much light. 
 
 xciv. 
 And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
 Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
 Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
 Bequeathing then- hereditary rage 
 To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
 War for their chains, and rather than be free, 
 Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
 Within the same arena where they see 
 
 Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 
 
 I speak not of men's creeds — they rest between 
 Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd, 
 Averr'd and known, — and daily, hourly seen — 
 The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, 
 And the intent of tyrarmy avow'd, 
 The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
 The apes of him who humbled once the proud. 
 And shook them from their slumbers on the throne ; 
 
 Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done, 
 xcvi. 
 Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, 
 And Freedom find no champion and no child 
 Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
 Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled ? 
 Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, 
 Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
 Of cataracts, where nursuig Nature smiled 
 On infant Washington? Has Earth no more 
 
 Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore ? 
 
 XCVII, 
 
 But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 
 And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
 To Freedom's cause, m every age and clime ; 
 Because the deadly days which we have seen, 
 And vile Ambition, that built up between 
 Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
 And the ba^e pageant last upon the scene, 
 Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
 Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his 
 second fall. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Yet, Freedom ! yet thy baimer, torn, but flying, 
 Streams lil<e the thunder-storm against the wind ; 
 Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying. 
 The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
 Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
 Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and httle worth, 
 But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
 Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 
 
 So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth, 
 xcix. 
 There is a stern round tower of other days,*' 
 Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone. 
 Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
 Standing with half its battlements alone, 
 And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
 The garland of eternity, where wave 
 The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ;— 
 What was this tower of strength ? within its cave 
 
 What treasure lay so locWd, so hid? — A woman's grave. 
 
 But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
 Tomb'd m a palace ? Was she chaste and fair ? 
 Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed? 
 What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear ? 
 What daughter of her beauties was the heir ? 
 How hved — how loved — how died she ? Was she not 
 So honour'd — and conspicuously there, 
 Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
 Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 
 
 Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
 Who love the lords of others ? such have been 
 Even in the olden time, Rome's armals say. 
 Was she a matron of Corneha's mien. 
 Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
 Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war. 
 Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean 
 To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
 
 Love from amongst her griefs ? — for such the affections 
 are. 
 
 oil. 
 Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
 With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
 That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
 Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
 In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
 Heaven gives its favourites — early death ; yet shed *" 
 A sunset charm around her, and illume 
 With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
 
 Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. 
 cm. 
 Perchance she died in age — surviving all. 
 Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray 
 On her long tresses, which might yet recall. 
 It may be, still a something of the day 
 When they were braided, and her proud array 
 And lovely form were em-ied, praised, and eyed 
 
 By Rome But whither would Conjecture stray? 
 
 Thus much alone we know — Metella died. 
 
 The wealthiest Roman's wife ; Behold his love or pride ! 
 
 CIV. 
 
 I know not why — ^but standing thus by thee 
 It seems as if I had thine inmate known. 
 Thou tomb ! and other days come back on me 
 With recollected music, though the tone 
 Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
 Of dying thunder on the distant wind ; 
 Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
 Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
 
 Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind ; 
 cv. 
 And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, 
 Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
 To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
 Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
 Which rushes on the solitary shore 
 Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear: 
 But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
 Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer ? 
 
 There woos no home, nor hope, nor hfe, save what is 
 here. 
 
 cvi. 
 Then let the winds howl on! their harmony 
 Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
 The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry. 
 As I now hear them, in the fading light 
 Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, 
 Answering each other on the Palatine, 
 With their large eyes, all ghstening gray and bright, 
 And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
 
 What are our petty griefe ? — ^let me not number mine. 
 
36 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Cawto IV. 
 
 Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
 Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
 On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strewn 
 In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steep'd 
 In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, 
 Deeming it midnight : — Temples, baths, or halls ? 
 Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reap'd 
 From her research hath been, that these are walls — 
 Behold the Imperial Mount ! 'tis thus the mighty falls.*' 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 There is the moral of all human tales ]^^ 
 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
 First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails, 
 Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. 
 And History, with all her volumes vast, 
 Hath but one page, — 'tis better written here, 
 Where gorgeous Tyranny had thus amass'd 
 All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 
 
 Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask Away with words ! 
 
 draw near, 
 
 cix. 
 Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep, — ^for here 
 There is such matter for all feeling : — ^Man ! 
 Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. 
 Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
 This mountam, whose obliterated plan 
 The pyramid of empires pinnacled, 
 Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 
 Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd! 
 
 Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to 
 build? 
 
 ex. 
 Tully was not so eloquent as thou, 
 Thou nameless column with the buried base ! 
 What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow? 
 Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
 Whose arch or pillar meets me m the face, 
 Titus or Trajan's? No— 'tis that of Time: 
 Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
 Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb 
 
 To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,* 
 
 CXI. 
 
 Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
 And looking to the stars : they had contain'd 
 A spirit which with these would find a home, 
 The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd, 
 The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd. 
 But yielded back his conquests : — he was more 
 Than a mere Alexander, and, imstain'd 
 With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
 His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore.*'^ 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, 
 From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
 Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — 
 The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
 Rienzi ! last of Romans ! While the tree ** 
 Of freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaij 
 Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
 The forum's champion, and the people's chiefs 
 
 Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas ! too brief, 
 cxv. 
 Egeria! sweet creation of some heart *^ 
 Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
 As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art 
 Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
 The nympholepsy of some fond despair; 
 Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
 Who found a more than common votary there 
 Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
 
 Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth, 
 cxvi. 
 The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
 With thine Eiysian water-drops ; the face 
 Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, 
 Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place. 
 Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 
 Art's works ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
 Prison'd in marble, bubbling from the base 
 Of the clefl statue, with a gentle leap 
 
 The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, creep 
 
 ex VII. 
 
 Fantastically tangled ; the green hills 
 Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
 The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
 Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
 Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class. 
 Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
 Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
 The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
 Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its 
 skies. 
 
 Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
 Where Rome embraced her heroes ? where the steep 
 Tarpeian? fittest goal of Treason's race. 
 The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
 Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap 
 Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field below, 
 A thousand years of silenced factions sleep— 
 The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, 
 And still the eloquent air breathes — bums with Cicero ! 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood: 
 Here a proud people's passion's were exhaled. 
 From the first hour of empire in the bud 
 To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; 
 But long before had Freedom's face been veil'd, 
 And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
 Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
 Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, 
 Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 
 
 Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
 Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
 For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
 The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
 With her most starry canopy, and seating 
 Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
 This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
 Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell 
 Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle! 
 
 cxix. 
 
 And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
 Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 
 And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing. 
 Share with immortal transports ? could thine art 
 Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
 The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
 Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
 The dull satiety which all destroys — 
 And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys ? 
 
 cxx. 
 
 Alas ! our young affections nm to waste, 
 Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
 But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, 
 Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
 Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, 
 And trees whose gums are poison ; such the plants 
 Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies 
 O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
 For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 
 
 37 
 
 Oh Love ! no habitant of earth thou art — 
 An unseen seraph, we beUeve in thee, 
 A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, 
 But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
 The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
 The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven. 
 Even with its own desiring phantasy. 
 And to a thought such shape and image given, 
 As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied — 
 wrung — and riven. 
 
 CXXIl 
 
 Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
 And fevers into false creation : — where. 
 Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized ? 
 In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? 
 Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
 Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 
 The unreach'd Paradise of our despair, 
 Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen. 
 And overpowers the page where it would bioom again? 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — but the cure 
 Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwmds 
 AVhich robed our idols, and we see too sure 
 Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
 Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds 
 The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
 Reapmg the whirlwind from the oft-sown wmds ; 
 The stubborn heart, its alchemy begim. 
 Seems ever near the prize — wealthiest when most undone. 
 
 CXXIV. 
 
 We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
 Sick — sick ; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst, 
 Though to the last, in verge of our decay. 
 Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
 But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
 Love, fame, ambition, avarice — ^'tis the same, 
 Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — 
 For all are meteors with a different name, 
 
 And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame, 
 cxxv. 
 Few — none — find what they love or could have loved, 
 Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
 Necessity of loving, have removed 
 Antipathies — ^but to recur, ere long, 
 Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong ; 
 And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
 And miscreator, makes and helps along 
 Our coming evils with a crutch-hke rod, [trod. 
 
 Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust we all have 
 
 CXXVI. 
 
 Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 
 The harmony of things, — this hard decree, 
 This uneradicable taint of sin. 
 This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree. 
 Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 
 The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew — 
 Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see — 
 And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through 
 The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 
 
 Yet let us ponder boldly — ^"tis a base ^^ 
 Abandonment of reason to resign 
 Our right of thought — our last and only place 
 Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mine : 
 Though from our birth the faculty divine 
 Is chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, 
 And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
 Too brightly on the unprepared mind, 
 The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. 
 
 Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
 Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
 Would build up all her triumphs in one dome. 
 Her Cohseum stands ; the moonbeams shine 
 As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
 Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
 This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
 Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
 Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 
 
 Hues which have words, and speali to ye of heaven, 
 Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
 And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
 Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bentj 
 A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
 His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
 And magic in the ruin'd battlement, 
 For which the palace of the present horn- 
 Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 
 
 Oh Time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
 Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
 And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
 Time ! tlie corrector where our judgments err, 
 The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher. 
 For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift. 
 Which never loses though it doth defer — 
 Time, the avenger ! unto thee I lift 
 My hands, and eyes, and hecurt, and crave of thee a gift : 
 
 CXXXI. 
 
 Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
 And temple more divinely desolate, 
 Among thy mightier offerings here are mine. 
 Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate ; — 
 If thou hast ever seen me too elate. 
 Hear me not ; but if calmly I have borne 
 Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
 Wliich shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
 This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn? 
 
 CXXXII. 
 
 And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
 Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! ^^ 
 Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long— 
 Thou who didst call the Furies from the abyss, 
 And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss, 
 For that unnatmal retribution— just, 
 Had it but been from hands less near — in this 
 Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! 
 Dost thou not hear my heart ? — ^Awake ! thou shalt, and 
 must. 
 
 CXXXIII, 
 
 It is not that I may not have incurr'd 
 
 For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
 
 I bleed withal, and. had it been conferr'd 
 
 With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound ; 
 
 But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; 
 
 To thee I do devote it — thou shalt take 
 
 The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found. 
 
 Which if / have not taken for the salce 
 
 But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
 I shrinli from what is suffer'd : let him speak 
 Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
 Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; 
 But in this page a record will I seek. 
 Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
 Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
 The deep prophetic fubess of this verse, 
 And pile on human heads the mountain of my curso! 
 
38 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Cawto IV. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 That curse shall be Forgiveness. — Have I not — 
 Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven!— 
 Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
 Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven ? 
 Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
 Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's life lied away ? 
 And only not to desperation driven. 
 Because not altogether of such clay 
 As rots uito the souls of those whom 1 survey. 
 
 cxxxvi. 
 From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
 Have I not seen what human things could do ? 
 From the loud roar of foaming calunmy 
 To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
 And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
 The Janus glance of whose significant eye. 
 Learning to he with silence, would seem true, 
 And witliout utterance, save the shrug or sigh. 
 Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 
 
 But I have Uved, and have not lived in vain : 
 My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire. 
 And my frame perish even in conquering pain ; 
 But there is that witliin me which shall tire 
 Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire ; 
 Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 
 Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre. 
 Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
 In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 
 
 CXXXVIIl. 
 
 The seal is set. — ^Now welcome, thou dread power ! 
 Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, wliich here 
 Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
 With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; 
 Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
 Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
 Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
 That we become a part of what has been, 
 And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
 In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
 As man was slaughter'd by his fellow man. 
 And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but because 
 Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws. 
 And the imperial pleasure. — ^Wherefore not? 
 What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
 Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? 
 Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 I see before me the Gladiator lie : " 
 He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
 And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
 And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
 From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one. 
 Like the first of a tliunder-shower ; and now 
 The arena swims around him — he is gone. 
 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch 
 who won. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
 Were with his heart, and that was far away. 
 He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, 
 But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
 There were his young barbarians all at play. 
 There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
 Butcher'd to make a Roman hoUday — ^° 
 All this rush'd with his blood— Shall he expire 
 And unavenged?— Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire 1 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam 
 And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways. 
 And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
 Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
 Here, where the Roman miUion's blame or praise 
 Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd,^^ 
 My voice sounds muck — and fall the stars' faint rays 
 On the arena void — seats crush'd — walls bow'd — 
 And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 A ruin — yet what ruin ! fi-om its mass 
 W^alls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd \ 
 Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass. 
 And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 
 Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd ? 
 Alas ! developed, opens the decay. 
 When the colossal fabric's form is near'd : 
 It will not bear the brightness of the day, [away. 
 Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 But when the rising moon begins to climb 
 Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
 When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, 
 And ihe low night-breeze waves along the air 
 The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear. 
 Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head;'^^ 
 When the Ught shines serene but doth not glare, 
 Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
 Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread. 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 "While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ^^^ 
 "When fells the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; [land 
 « And when Rome falls— the World." From our own 
 Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
 In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
 Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
 On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
 Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, [will. 
 The World, the same wide den— of thieves, or what ye 
 
 CXLVl. 
 
 Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
 Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods. 
 From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time ; '* 
 Looking tranquiUity, while falls or nods 
 Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods 
 His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome ! 
 Shalt thou not last ? Time's sc}'the and tyrants' rods 
 Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 
 Of art and piety — Pantheon ! — pride of Rome ! 
 
 CXLVIl. 
 
 Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts! 
 Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
 A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
 To art a model ; and to him who treads 
 Rome for the sake of ages. Glory sheds 
 Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
 Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
 And they who feel for genius may repose 
 Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around them 
 close.^* 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 
 There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light*' 
 What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again ! 
 Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight- 
 Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
 It is not so ; I see them full and plain— 
 An old man, and a female young and fair, 
 Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
 The blood is nectar : — ^but what doth she there, 
 With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare ? 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 39 
 
 Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
 Where on the heart a^nd from the heart we took 
 Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
 Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
 Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
 No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
 Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
 She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — [Eve's 
 "What may the fruit be yet ? — I know not — Cain was 
 
 CL. 
 
 But here youth offers to old age the food, 
 The milk of his own gift : — it is her sire 
 To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
 Born with her birth. No ; he shall not expire 
 While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
 Of health and holy feeling can provide 
 Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher 
 Than Egypt's river : — from that gentle side 
 Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds 
 no such tide. 
 
 CLI. 
 
 The starry fable of the milky way 
 Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
 A constellation of a sweeter ray. 
 And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
 Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
 Where sparlde distant worlds : — Oh, holiest nurse ! 
 No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
 To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
 With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on high,^' 
 Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, 
 Colossal copyist of deformity. 
 Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
 Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
 To build for giants, and for his vain earth. 
 His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How smiles 
 The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth. 
 To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 But lo ! the dome — the vast and wondrous dome,^^ 
 To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
 Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb ! 
 I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
 Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
 The hyaena and the jackall in their shade ; 
 I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
 Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd 
 Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
 Standest alone — with nothing like to thee— 
 Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
 Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
 Forsook his former city, what could be, 
 Of earthly structures, in his honour piled, 
 Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, 
 Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled 
 In this eternal ark^f worship undefiled. 
 
 CLT. 
 
 Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; 
 And why? it is not lessen'd; but thy mind, 
 Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
 Has grown colossal, and can only find 
 A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
 Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
 Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined. 
 See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
 His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 
 
 Thou movest — ^but mcreasing with the advance. 
 Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, 
 Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; 
 Vastness which grows — but grows to harmoriize— 
 All musical in its immensities ; 
 Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where flamo 
 The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies 
 In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame 
 Sits on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds must 
 claim. 
 
 CLVII. 
 
 Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break, 
 To separate contemplation, the great whole \ 
 And as the ocean many bays will make, 
 That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
 To more immediate objects, and control 
 Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
 Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
 In mighty graduations, part by part. 
 The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 
 
 CLVIII. 
 
 Not by its fault — ^but thine : Our outward sense 
 Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
 That what we have of feeling most intense 
 Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
 Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
 Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
 Defies at first our Nature's littleness, 
 Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
 Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 Then pause, and be enlighten'd ; there is more 
 In such a survey than the sating gaze 
 Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
 The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
 Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
 What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan ; 
 The fountain of sublimity displays 
 Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
 Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 
 
 CLX. 
 
 Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
 Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — 
 A father's love and mortal's agony 
 With an immortal's patience blending : — Vain 
 The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
 And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, 
 The old man's clench ; the long envenom'd chain 
 Rivets the Uving hnks, — the enormous asp 
 Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 
 
 Or view the Lord of the unerring bow. 
 The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
 The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
 All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 
 The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
 With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye 
 And nostril beautiful disdain, and might 
 And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, 
 Developing in that one glance the Deity. 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
 Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
 Long'd for a deathless lover from above. 
 And madden'd in that vision — are exprest 
 All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
 The mind with in its most unearthly mood. 
 When each conception was a heavenly guest— 
 A ray of immortality — and stood. 
 Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god ! 
 
40 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven 
 The fire which we endure, it, was repaid 
 By him to whom the energy was given 
 Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
 With an eternal glory — which, if made 
 By human hands, is not of human thought ; 
 And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 
 One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 
 A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas 
 wrought. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song. 
 The being who upheld it through the past? 
 Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
 He is no more — these breathings are his last; 
 His wandermgs done, his visions ebbing fast, 
 And he himself as nothing : — if he was 
 Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
 With forms which live and suffer — let that pass — 
 His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, 
 
 CLXV. 
 
 Which gathers shadow, substance, hfe, and all 
 That we inherit in its mortal shroud. 
 And spreads the dim and universal pall [cloud 
 
 Through which all things grow phantoms ; and the 
 Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, 
 Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
 A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
 To hover on the verge of darkness ; rays 
 Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 
 
 CLXVI. 
 
 And send us prying into the abyss. 
 To gather what we shall be when the frame 
 Shall be resolved to something less than this 
 Its wretched essence ; and to dream of fame, 
 And vsdpe the dust from off the idle name 
 We never more shall hear, — but never more, 
 Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the same : 
 It is enough in sooth that once we bore 
 These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat was 
 gore. 
 
 CLXVII. 
 
 Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
 A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
 Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
 With some deep and immedicable wound ; [ground, 
 Through storm and darkness ys.vms the rending 
 The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
 Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd, 
 And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
 She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 
 Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? 
 Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead 1 
 Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
 Some less majestic, less beloved head? 
 In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
 The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
 Death hush'd that pang for ever : with thee fled 
 The present happiness and promised joy 
 Which fill'd the iinperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
 Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
 Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee. 
 And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
 Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
 Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
 Beheld her Iris.— Thou, too, lonely lord. 
 And desolate consort— vainly wert thou wed ! 
 The husband of a year! the father of the dead I 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
 Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
 The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
 The love of milhons ! How we did intrust 
 Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
 Darken above our bones, yet fondly deeni'd 
 Our cliildren should obey her child, and bless'd 
 Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
 Like stars to shepherds' eyes: — 'twas but a meteor 
 beam'd. 
 
 CLXXI. 
 
 Wo unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
 The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
 Of hollow counsel, the false oracle. 
 Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
 Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
 Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate*' 
 Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath fiung 
 Against their bhnd omnipotence a weight 
 Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,— 
 
 CLXXII. 
 
 These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
 Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair, 
 Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
 But now a bride and mother — and now there ! 
 How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
 From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
 Is link'd the electric chain of that despair. 
 Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest 
 The land which loved thee so that none could love thee 
 best. 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 '° Lo, Nemi ! navell'd in the woody hills 
 So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 
 The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
 The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
 Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
 The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
 And, calm as cherish'd hale, its surface wears 
 A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, 
 AU coil'd mto itself and round, as sleeps the snake. 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 
 And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
 Shkie from a sister valley ; — and afar 
 The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
 The Latian coast where sprang the Epic war, 
 "Arms and the Man," whose re-ascending star 
 Rose o'er an empire : — but beneath thy right 
 Tuliy reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bar 
 Of gu'dling mountains intercepts the sight 
 The Sabine farm was tiil'd, the weary bard's delight.'''' 
 
 CLXXV. 
 
 But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won. 
 And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
 His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
 Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; 
 The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
 And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
 Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
 Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
 Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roll'd 
 
 Upon the blue Symplegades : long years — 
 Long, though not very many, since have done 
 Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears 
 Have left us nearly where we had begun: 
 Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run. 
 We have had our reward — and it is here ; 
 That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun. 
 And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
 As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 41 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 
 Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, 
 With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
 That I might all forget the human race, 
 And, hatmg no one, love but only her ! 
 Ye Elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
 I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
 Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
 In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
 Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
 There is society, where none intrudes, 
 By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 
 I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
 From these our interviews, in which I steal 
 From all I may be, or have been before. 
 To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal, 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin — liis control 
 Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 
 When, for a moment, Uke a drop of rain, 
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. 
 Without a gi-ave, unloiell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
 Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
 And shalce him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise. 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
 And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
 And dashest him again to earth ; — there let him lay. 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
 Their clay creator tlie vain title take 
 Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
 Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 
 F 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 
 Thy waters wasted them while they were free. 
 And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
 The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
 Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest nov/. 
 
 CLXXXIII. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
 Glasses itself in tempests : in all time. 
 Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime — 
 The image of Eternity — the throne 
 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
 Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 
 And I have loved thee, Ocean I and my joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy 
 I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
 Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
 For I was as it were a child of thee, 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 
 
 CLXXXV 
 
 My task is done — my song hath ceased — my theme 
 Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
 The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
 The toi-ch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit 
 My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ, — 
 Would it were worthier ! but I am not now 
 That which I have been — and my visions flit 
 Less palpably before me — and the glow 
 Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 
 
 CLXxxvr. 
 
 Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been — 
 A sound which makes us linger ; — ^y-et — farewell ! 
 Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
 Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
 A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
 A single recollection, not in vain 
 He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop-shell ; 
 Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, 
 If such there were — with you, the moral of his strain ! 
 
NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Yes: 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 sigli'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine. 
 
 Stanza i. line 6. 
 
 The extent of Mafra is prodigious ; it contains a 
 palace, convent, and most superb church. The six 
 organs are the most beautiful I ever beheld, in point of 
 decoration ; we did not hear them, but were told that 
 their tones were correspondent to their splendour. 
 Mafra is termed the Escurial of Portugal. 
 
 The little village of Castri stands partly on the site 
 of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from 
 Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn in and 
 from the rock. " One," said the guide, " of a king who 
 broke his neck hunting." His majesty had certamly 
 chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement. 
 
 A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, 
 of immense depth ; the upper part of it is paved, and 
 now a cow-house. 
 
 On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monas' 
 tery ; some way above which is the cleft in the rock, 
 with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and appa- 
 rently leading to the interior of the mountain ; probably 
 to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. From 
 this part descend the fountain and the "Dews of 
 CastaUe." 
 
 2. 
 And rest ye at our ^'■Lady's house ofwoP 
 
 Stanza sx. line 4. 
 
 The Convent of " Our Lady of Punishment," Nossa 
 Senora de Pena*, on the summit of the rock. Below, 
 at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. 
 Honorius dug his den, over which is his epitaph. From 
 the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of the view. 
 
 Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life. 
 Stanza xxi. line last. 
 It is a well known fact, that in the year 1809 the 
 assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity 
 were not confined by the Portuguese to their country- 
 men ; but that Englishmen were daily butchered : and 
 so far from redress being obtained, we were requested 
 not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defend- 
 ing himself against his allies. I was once stopped in 
 the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evening, 
 when the streets were not more empty than they gene- 
 rally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop and in 
 a carriage vfith a friend ; had we not fortunately been 
 armed, I have not the least doubt that we should have 
 adorned a tale instead of telling one. The crime of 
 assassination is not confined to Portugal: in Sicily and 
 Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome 
 average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever 
 punished ! 
 
 4. 
 Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! 
 
 Stanza xxiv. line L 
 The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace 
 of the Marchese Marialva. The late exploits of Lord 
 Wellington have eiTaced the follies of Cintra. He has 
 indeed, done wonders; he has perhaps changed the 
 character of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, 
 and baffled an enemy who never retreated before his 
 predecessors. 
 
 o. 
 Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. 
 
 Stanza xxbc. line 1 
 
 Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
 'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. 
 
 Stanza xxxiii. fines 8 and 9. 
 As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized 
 them. That they are since improved, at least in cou- 
 rage, is evident. 
 
 7. 
 When Cava's ttaitor-sire first caWd the band 
 That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore. 
 
 Stanza xxxv. lines 3 and 4. 
 Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pela- 
 gius preserved his independence in the fastnesses of 
 the Asturias, and the descendants of his followers, after 
 some centuries, completed their struggle by the con- 
 quest of Grenada. 
 
 8. 
 No! as he speeds, he chants, " Viv& el Rey P 
 
 Stanza xlviii. line 5. 
 "Viva el Rey Fernando !" Long five King Ferdinand! 
 is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs : 
 they are chiefly in dispraise of the old king Charles, 
 the Queen, and the Prince of Peace. I have heard 
 many of them ; some of the airs are beautiful. Godoy, 
 the Principe de la Paz, was bom at Badajoz, on the 
 frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks 
 of the Spanish Guards, till his person attracted the 
 queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, 
 &c. &c. It is to this man that the Spaniards univer- 
 sally impute the ruin of their country. 
 
 * Since the publication of this poem, I have been informed of the 
 misapprehension of the term Nossa Senora de Pena. It was owing to 
 the want of the tilde, or mark over the n, which altai-s the tigoification 
 of the word : with it, Pena signifies a rock; without it, Pena has the 
 sense I adopted. I do not think it necessary to alter the passage, as 
 though the common acceptation affixed to it is " Om- Lady of the Rock," 
 I may well assume the other sense from the severities practised there. 
 
 Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hu£, 
 Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet. 
 Stanza 1. lines 2 and 3. 
 The red cockade, with " Fernando Septimo" in the 
 centre. 
 
 10. 
 The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match. 
 
 Stanza li. line last. 
 All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyra- 
 midal form in which shot and shells are piled. The 
 Sierra INIorcna was fortified m every defile through 
 which I passed in my way to Seville. 
 
 11. 
 
 FoiCd by a woman^s hand, before a battered wall. 
 Stanza Ivi. line last. 
 Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza. 
 When the author was at Seville she walked daily on 
 the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by com- 
 mand of the Junta. 
 
 12. 
 The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
 Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch. 
 
 Stanza Iviii. fines 1 and 2. 
 " Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo 
 Vestigio demonstrant molfitudinem." Atjl. Gel. 
 
 13. 
 
 Oh, thou Parnassus! 
 
 Stanza Ix. line 1. 
 These stanzas were written in Castri, (Delphos,) at 
 the foot of Parnassus, now called AiaKvpa — Liakura. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 43 
 
 14. 
 
 Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
 Her strengtJi, her wealthy her site of ancient days. 
 Stanza ixv, lines 1 and 2, 
 Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. 
 15. 
 Ask ye, Boeotian shades ! the reason why ? 
 
 Stanza Ixx. line 5. 
 This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the 
 best situation for asking and answering such a question ; 
 not as the birthplace of Pindar, but as the capital of 
 BoBOtia, where the first riddle was propounded and 
 solved. 
 
 16. 
 Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling xyenom flings. 
 Stanza Ixxxii. line last. 
 "Medio de fonte leporum 
 Surgit araari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat." 
 
 Luc. 
 17. 
 A. traitor only fell beneath the feud. 
 
 Stanza Ixxxv. line 7. 
 Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the 
 Governor of C adiz. 
 
 18. 
 " War even to the knife .'" 
 
 Stanza Ixxxvi. line last. 
 " War to the knife." Palafox's answer to the French 
 general at the siege of Saragoza. 
 19. 
 And thou, my friend! fyc. 
 
 Stanza xci. line 1. 
 The Honourable I*. W**. of the Guards, who died 
 of a fever at Coimbra. I had known him ten years, 
 the better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. 
 In the short space of one month I have lost her who 
 gave me being, and most of those who had made that 
 being tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no 
 fiction : 
 
 " Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ? 
 Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain, 
 And thrice ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn." 
 I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the 
 late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing 
 College, Cambridge, were he not too much above all 
 praise of mine. His powers of mind, shown in the 
 attainment of greater honours, against the ablest can- 
 didates, than those of any graduate on record at Cam- 
 bridge, have sufficiently established his fame on the 
 spot where it was acquired : while his softer qualities 
 live in the recollection of friends who loved him too 
 well to envy his superiority. 
 
 CANTO n. 
 
 1. 
 
 — — despite of war and wasting fire 
 
 Stanza i. line 4. 
 Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explo' 
 sion of a magazine during the Venetian siege. 
 2. 
 Bvit worse than steel and fl/ime, and ages slow, 
 Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
 Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
 That thoughts of thee and thine on polisKd breasts bestow. 
 Stanza i. line 6. 
 We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which 
 the ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are 
 beheld ; the reflections suggested by such objects are 
 too trite to require recapitulation. But never did the 
 littleness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues 
 of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his coun- 
 try, appear more conspicuous than in the record of 
 
 what Athens was, and the certainty of what she now 
 is. This theatre of contention between mighty factions, 
 of the struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposi- 
 tion of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, 
 is now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual 
 disturbance, between the bickering agents of certain 
 British nobility and gentry. " The wild foxes, the owls 
 and serpents in the ruins of Babylon," were surely less 
 degradmg than such inhabitants. The Turks have the 
 plek of conquest for their tyranny, and the Greeks have 
 only suffered the fortune of war, incidental to the 
 bravest; but how are the mighty fallen, when two 
 painters contest the privilege of plundermg the Par- 
 thenon, and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of 
 each succeeding firman! Sylla could but punish, 
 Philip subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens; but it re- 
 mained for the paltry antiquarian, and his despicable 
 agents, to render her contemptible as himself and his 
 pursuits. . 
 
 The Parthenon, before its destruction in part, by fire 
 during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, a church, 
 and a mosque. In each point of view it is an object of 
 regard : it changed its worshippers ; but still it was a 
 place of worship thrice sacred to devotion : its viola 
 tion is a triple sacrilege. But 
 
 " Man, vain man, 
 Drest in a little brief authority. 
 Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
 As make the angels weep." 
 3. 
 Far on tlxe solitary share he sleeps. 
 
 Stanza v. line 2. 
 It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn 
 their dead ; the greater Ajax, in particular, was interred 
 entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after their 
 decease ; and he was indeed neglected, Avho had not 
 annual games near his tomb, or festivals in honour of 
 his memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, 
 &c. and at last even Antinous, whose death was as he- 
 roic as his hfe was infamous. 
 4. 
 Here, son of Saturn! was thy fav'rite throne. 
 
 Stanza x. line 3. 
 The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen 
 columns, entirely of marble, yet survive: originally 
 there were 150. These columns, however, are by 
 many supposed to belong to the Pantheon. 
 5. 
 And bear these altars oer the long-reluctant brine. 
 Stanza xi. line last. 
 The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. 
 
 6. 
 To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared. 
 Stanza xii. line 2. 
 At this moment, (January 3, 1809,) besides what has 
 been already deposited in London, an Hydriot vessel is 
 in the Pyrseus to receive every portable relic. Thus, 
 as I heard a young Greek observe, in common with 
 many of his countrymen— for, lost as they are, they 
 yet feel on this occasion— thus may Lord Elgin boast 
 of having ruined Athens. An Italian painter of the 
 first eminence, named Lusieri, is the agent of devasta- 
 tion ; and like the Greek fnder of Verres in Sicily, who 
 followed the same profession, he has proved the able 
 instrument of plunder. Between this artist and the 
 French Consul Fauvel, who wishes to rescue the re- 
 mains for his own government, there is now a violent 
 dispute concerning a car employed in their conveyance, 
 the wheel of which— I wish they were both brokeri 
 upon it— has been locked up by the Consul, and Lusieri 
 has laid his complaint before the Waywode. Lord 
 Elgin has been extremely happy is his choice of Signor 
 Lusieri. During a residence of ten years m Athens, 
 he never had the curiosity to proceed as far as Sumum,* 
 
 * Now Cape Colonna. In all Attica, if we except jitheiis itself and 
 Maratlion, there is no scene more interesting than Cape (oloniia. Jo 
 the antiquary and artist, sixteen columns are an inexhaustible source of 
 observation and design ; to the philosopher, the supposed scene ot some 
 of Plato's conversations will not be unwelcome ; and the traveller will be 
 struck with the beaujy of the prospect overj' Isles that crown the/b.gean 
 deep:^' but fori 
 
 utv of the prospect over " Isles that crown the JEgean 
 Engliehman, Colouna has y«t an adiliiional interest, 
 
44 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 till he accompanied us in our second excursion. How- 
 ever, his works, as far as they go, are most beautiful ; 
 but they are almost all unfinished. While he and his 
 patrons confine themselves to tasting medals, apprecia- 
 ting cameos, sketching columns, and cheapening gems, 
 their little absurdities are as harmless as insect or fox- 
 hunting, maiden speechifying, barouche-dri\ing, or any 
 such pastime ; but when they carry away three or four 
 shiploads of the most valuable and massy relics that 
 time and barbarism have left to the most injured and 
 most celebrated of cities ; when they destroy, in a vain 
 attempt to tear down, those works which have been the 
 admiration of ages, I know no motive which can excuse, 
 no name which can designate, the perpetrators of this 
 dastardly devastation. It was not the least of the crimes 
 laid to the charge of Vcrres, that he had plundered Si- 
 cily, in the manner since imitated at Athens. The 
 most unblushing impudence could hardty go farther than 
 to affix ihe name of its plunderer to the walls of the 
 Acropohs ; while the wanton and useless defacement 
 of the whole range of the basso-relievos, in one com- 
 
 Eartment of the temple, will never permit that name to 
 e pronounced by an observer without execration. 
 On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a col- 
 lector or admirer of collections, consequently no rival ; 
 but I have some early prepossession in favour of Greece, 
 and do not think the honour of England advanced by 
 plunder, whether of India or Attics. 
 
 Another noble Lord has done better, because he has 
 done less : but some others, more or less noble, yet " all 
 honourable men," have done best, because, after a deal 
 of excavation and execration, bribery to the Waywode, 
 mining and countermining, they have done nothing at 
 all. We had such ink-shed, and wine-shed, which^ al- 
 most ended in bloodshed ! Lord E.'s " prig^' — see Jona- 
 than Wylde for the definition of " priggism" — quarrelled 
 with another, Crropius* by name, (a very good name 
 too for his business,) and muttered something about sa- 
 tisfaction, in a verbal answer to a note of the poor Prus- 
 sian : this was stated at table to Gropius, who laughed, 
 but could eat no dinner afterwards. The rivals were 
 not reconciled when I left Greece. I have reason to 
 remember their squabble, for they wanted to make me 
 their arbitrator. 
 
 7. 
 Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard. 
 Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains. 
 
 Stanza xii. lines 7 and 8 
 I cannot resist availing myself of the permission of 
 my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no com- 
 ment with the public, but whose sanction will add ten- 
 fold weight to my testimony, to insert the following ex- 
 tract from a very obliging letter of his to me, as a note 
 to the above lines. 
 
 " When the last of the Metopes was taken from the 
 
 as the actual *pot of FalcoHer^B Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are for- 
 gotten, in the recollectiou of Falconer ami Campbell : 
 
 " Here in the dead of night by Lonna's steep, 
 The seaman's cry was heard alougthe deep." 
 This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great diBtance. In 
 two journeys which I made, and one voyage to Cape Coloona, the view 
 from either side, by laud, was less striking than the approach from the 
 isles. In our second land excursion, we" had a aarrow escape from a 
 party of Mainotes, concealed in the caverns beneath. We were told 
 afterwards, by one of their prisoners subsequently ransomed, that they 
 were deterred from attacking us by the appearance of my two Albanians : 
 conjecturing very sagaeioiisly, but falsely, that we had a complete guard 
 of these Arnaouts at hand, they remained stationary, and thus saved our 
 j.arty, which was too small to have opposed any efifectual resistance. 
 
 Coionna is no less a resort of paiiUe*-? than of pirates : there 
 " The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, 
 And makes degraded nature picturesque." 
 
 (See Hodgson's Lady Jsne Grey, &c.) 
 Rut there Nature, with the aid of Art, has done that for herself. I was 
 fortunate enough to engage a very superior German artist ; and hope to 
 renew my acquaintance with this and many other Levantine scenes, by 
 the arrival of his performances. 
 
 * This ?r. Gropius was employed by a noble Lord for the sole purpose 
 of sketching, in which he excels : but I am sorry to say, that he has, 
 through the abused sanction of that most respectable name, been tread- 
 ing at humble distance in the steps of Sr. Lusieri. A shipful of his tro- 
 phies was d.'tained, and I believe confiscated, at Constantinople, in 1810. 
 I am most happy to be now enabled to state, that " this was not in tas 
 bond ;" that he was employed solely as a painter, and that his noble pa- 
 Iron disavows all comieaiion with him, except as an artist. If the error 
 in the first and second edition of this poem has given the noble Lord a mo- 
 ment's pain, I am very sorry for it : Sr. Gropius has assumed for years 
 the name of his agent : atid though I cannot much condemn mvself for 
 sharing in the mistake of so many, I am happy in being one of the first to 
 be undeceived. Indeed, I have as much pleasure in contradicting this as 
 I felt r»gi-et in staling it. 
 
 Parthenon, and, in moving of it, great part of the super- 
 structure with one of the trigiyphs was thrown down by 
 the workmen whom Lord Elgin employed, the Disdar, 
 who beheld the mischief done to the building, took his 
 pipe from his mouth, dropped a tear, and, in a supplica- 
 ting tone of voice, said to Lusieri, Tf Xoj ! — I was pre 
 sent." 
 
 The Disdar alluded to was the father of the present 
 Disdar. 
 
 8. 
 Where was thine j^gis, Pallas ! that appalTd 
 Stem Alaric and Havoc on their way ? 
 
 Stanza xiv. hnes 1 and 2. 
 According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles fright- 
 ened Alaric from the AcropoUs ; but others relate that 
 the Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as the Scot- 
 tish peer. — See Chandler. 
 
 the netted canopy. 
 
 Stanza xviii. line 2. 
 The netting to prevent blocks or splinters from falling 
 on deck during action. 
 
 ^ 10. 
 
 But not in silence pass Calypso'' s isles. 
 
 Stanza xxix. line I. 
 Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. 
 
 Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
 On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
 
 Stanza xxxviii. lines 5 and 6. 
 Albania comprises part of Macedonia, Illyria, Chao- 
 nia, and Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish word for Alex- 
 ander ; and the celebrated Scanderberg (Lord Alexan- 
 der) is alluded to in the third and fourth lines of the 
 thirty-eighth stanza, I do not know whether I am cor- 
 rect in mak'mg Scanderberg the countryman of Alexan- 
 der, who was bom at Pella in Macedon, but Mr. Gib- 
 bon terms him so, and adds Pyrrhus to the list, in 
 speaking of his exploits. 
 
 Of Albania Gibbon remarJts, that a country "within 
 sight of Italy is less known than the interior of Ameri- 
 ca." Circumstances, of little consequence to mention, 
 led Mr. Hobhouse and myself into that country before 
 we visited any other part of the Ottoman dominions ; 
 and with the exception of Major Leake, then officially 
 resident at Joannina, no other Englishmen have ever 
 advanced beyond the capital into the interior, as that 
 gentleman very lately assured me. Ali Pacha was 
 at that time (October, 1809) carrying on war against 
 Ibrahim Pacha, whom he had driven to Berat, a strong 
 fortress which he was then besieging : on our arrival at 
 Joannina we were invited to Tepaleni, his highness's 
 birthplace, and favourite Serai, only one day's distance 
 from Berat ; at this juncture the Vizier had made it 
 his headquarters. 
 
 After some stay jn the capital, we accordingly fol- 
 lowed ; but though furnished with every accommoda- 
 tion, and escorted by one of the Vizier's secretaries, we 
 were nine days (on account of the rains) in accompHsh- 
 ing a journey which, on our return, barely occupied four. 
 On our route we passed two cities, Argyrocastro and 
 Liboehabo, apparently little inferior to Yanina in size ; 
 and no pencil or pen can ever do justice to the scenery 
 in the vicinity of Zitza and Delvinachi, the frontier 
 village of Epirus and Albania Proper. 
 
 On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling to 
 descant, because this will be done so much better by 
 my fellow-traveller, in a work which may probably pre- 
 cede this in publication, that I as little wish to follow as 
 I would to anticipate him. But some few observations 
 are necessary to the text. 
 
 The Arnaouts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly by 
 their resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, in 
 dress, figure, and manner of living. Their very moun- 
 tains seemed Caledonian, with a kinder climate. The 
 kilt, though white ; the spare, active form ; their dialect, 
 Celtic in its sound, and their hardy habits, all carried 
 me back to Morven. No nation are so detested and 
 dreaded by their neighbours as the Albanese ; the 
 Greeks hardly regard them as Christians, or the Turks 
 as Moslems ; aad in fact they are a mixture d'bothj and 
 
Canto IF. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 45 
 
 sometimes neither. Their habits are predatory — all are 
 armed ; and the red-shawled Arnaouts, the Montene- 
 grins, Chimariots, and Gegdes, are treacherous; the 
 others differ somewhat in garb, and essentially in cha- 
 racter. As far as my own experience goes, I can speak 
 favourably. I was attended by two, an Infidel and a 
 Mussulman, to Constantinople and every other part of 
 Turkey which came within my observation ; and more 
 faithful in peril, or indefatigable in service are rarely 
 to be found. The Infidel was named Basihus, the Mos- i 
 leni, Dervish Tahiri ; the former a man of middle age, 
 and the latter about my own. Basili was strictly 
 charged by Ali Pacha in person to attend us ; and Der- 
 vish was one of fifty who accompanied us through the 
 forests of Arcanania to the banks of Achelous, and on- 
 ward to Messalonghi in JEtoha. There I took him into 
 my own service, and never had occasion to repent it 
 till the moment of my departure. 
 
 When in 1810, after the departure of my friend Mr. 
 H. for England, I was seized with a severe fever in 
 the Morea, these men saved my life by frightening 
 away my physician, whose throat they threatened to 
 cut if I was not cured within a given time. To this 
 consolatory assurance of posthumous retribution, and 
 a resolute refusal of Dr. Romanelli's prescriptions, I 
 attributed my recovery. I had left my last remaining 
 English servant at Athens ; my dragoman was as ill 
 as myselfj and my poor Arnaouts nursed me with an 
 attention which would have done honour to civilization. 
 They had a variety of adventures ; for the Moslem, 
 Dervisli, being a remarkably handsome man, was always 
 squabbling with the husbands of Athens ; insomuch that 
 four of the principal Turks paid me a visit of remon- 
 strance at the Convent, on the subject of his having 
 taken a woman from the bath — whom he had lawfully 
 bought however — a thing quite contrary to etiquette. 
 
 Basili also was extremely gallant among his own 
 persuasion, and had the greatest veneration for the 
 church, mixed with the highest contempt of churchmen, 
 whom he cuffed upon occasion in a most heterodox 
 manner. Yet he never passed a church without cross- 
 ing himself; and I remember the risk he ran in entering 
 St. Sophia, in Stambol, because it had once been a 
 place of his worship. On remonstrating viith him on 
 his inconsistent proceedings, he invariably answered, 
 " our church is holy, our priests are thieves ;" and then 
 he crossed himself as usual, and boxed the ears of the 
 first "papas" who refused to assist in any required ope- 
 ration, as was always found to be necessary where a 
 priest had any influence with the Cogia Bashi of his 
 village. Indeed a more abandoned race of miscreants 
 cannot exist than the lower orders of the Greek clergy. 
 When preparations w^ere made for my return, my 
 Albanians were summoned to receive their pay. Ba- 
 sili took his with an awkward show of regret at my in- 
 tended departure, and marched away to his quarters 
 with his bag of piastres. I sent for Dervish, but for 
 some time he was not to be found ; at last he entered, 
 just as Signor Logotheti, father to the ci-devant Anglo- 
 consul of Athens, and some other of my Greek acquaint- 
 ances, paid me a \-isit. Dervish took the money, but 
 on a sudden dashed it to the ground ; and clasping his 
 hands, which he raised to his foi-ehead, rushed out of 
 the room, weeping bitterly. From that moment to the 
 hour of my embarkation, he continued his lamentations, 
 and all our efforts to console him only produced this an- 
 swer, " Ma (peivEi," " He leaves me." Signor Logotheti, 
 who never wept before for any thing less than the 
 loss of a para*, melted ; the padre of the convent, my 
 attendants, my visitors — and I verily believe that even 
 Sterne's " foolish fat sculUon" would have- left her " fish- 
 kettle," to sympathize with the unaffected and unex- 
 pected sorrow of this barbarian. 
 
 For my own part, when I remembered that, a short 
 time before my departure from England, a noble and 
 most intimate associate had excused himself from tak- 
 ing leave of me because he had to attend a relation " to 
 a milhner's," I felt no less surprised than humiUated by 
 the present occurrence and the past recollection. 
 That Dervish would leave me with some regret was 
 
 Para, about the fourth of a farthing. 
 
 to be expected : when master and man have been scram- 
 bling over the mountains of a dozen provinces together, 
 they are im willing to separate ; but his present feelings, 
 contrasted with his native ferocity, improved my opinion 
 of the human heart. I believe this almost feudal fide- 
 lity is frequent among them. One day, on our journey 
 over Parnassus, an Englishman in my service gave him 
 a push in some dispute about the baggage, Avhich he 
 unluckily mistook for a blow; he spoke not, but sat 
 down leaning his head upon his hands. Foreseeing the 
 consequences, we endeavoured to explain away the af- 
 front, which produced the following answer : — " I have 
 been a robber ; I am a. soldier ; no captain ever struck 
 me ; you are my master, I have eaten your bread, but 
 by that bread ! (an usual oath) had it been otherwise, 
 I would have stabbed the dog your servant, and gone to 
 the mountains." So the affair ended, but from that 
 day forward he never thoroughly forgave the thought- 
 less fellow %vho insulted him. 
 
 Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, conjec- 
 tured to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic: be that 
 as it may, it is manly, and requii-es wonderful agility. 
 It is very distinct from the stupid Romaika, the dull 
 round-about of the Greeks, of which our Athenian 
 party had so many specimens. 
 
 The Albanians in general (I do not mean the culti- 
 vators of the earth in the provinces, who have also that 
 appellation, but the moimtaineers) have a fine cast of 
 countenance ; and the most beautiful women I ever be- 
 held, in stature and in features, we saw levelling the 
 road broken down by the torrents between Delvinachi 
 and Libochabo. Their manner of walking is truly the- 
 atrical ; but this strut is probably the effect of the ca- 
 pote, or cloak, depending from one shoulder. Their 
 long hair reminds you of the Spartans, and their courage 
 in desultory warfare is unquestionable. Though they 
 have some cavalry amongst the Gegdes, I never saw a 
 good Arnaout horseman ; my own preferred the Eng- 
 lish saddles, which, however, they could never keep. 
 But on foot they are not to be subdued by fatigue. 
 12. 
 
 and passed the barren spot, 
 
 J-Vhere sad Penelope d'erlooVd the wave. 
 
 Stanza xxxLx. lines 1 and 2. 
 Ithaca. 
 
 13. 
 Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar. 
 
 Stanza xl. line 5. 
 Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. The 
 battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable, but 
 less known, was fought in the Gulf of Patras. Here 
 the author of Don Quixote lost his left hand. 
 14. 
 And haiVd the last resort of fruitless love. 
 
 Stanza xli. line 3. 
 Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promon- 
 tory (the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown 
 herself. 
 
 15. 
 
 many a Roman chief and Asian hng. 
 
 Stanza xlv. line 4. 
 It is said, that on the day previous to the battle of Ac- 
 tium, Anthony had thirteen kings at his levee. 
 16. 
 Look where the second Conor's trophies rose I 
 
 Stanza xlv. line 6. 
 Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some 
 distance ifrom Actium, where the wall of the Hippodrome 
 stirvives in a few fragments. 
 17. 
 
 -' AcheruswHs lake. 
 
 Stanza xlvii. line 1. 
 Accordmg to Pouqueville the lake of Yanina ; but Pou- 
 queville is always out. 
 
 18. 
 To greet Albanians chief. 
 
 Stanza xlvii. Ime 4. 
 The celebrated AU Pacha. Of this extraordinary 
 man there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's Tra- 
 vels. 
 
46 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 19. 
 
 Yet here and there some daring mountain band 
 Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
 Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 
 
 Stanza xlvii. lines 7, 8, and 9. 
 Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the 
 castle of Suli, withstood 30,000 Albanians for eighteen 
 years ; the castle at last was taken by bribery. In this 
 contest there were several acts performed not unwor- 
 thy of the better days of Greece. 
 20. 
 Monastic Zitza, ^'C. 
 
 Stanza xlviii. line 1. 
 The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' jour- 
 ney from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the Pacha- 
 lick. In the valley of the river Kalamas (once the 
 Acheron) flows, and not far from Zitza forms a fine 
 cataract. The situation is perhaps the finest in Greece, 
 though the approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acar- 
 nania and ^^toha may contest the palm. Delphi, Par- 
 nassus, and, in Attica, even Cape Colonna and Port 
 Raphti, are very inferior ; as also every scene in Ionia, 
 or the Troad: I am almost inclined to add the approach 
 to Constantinople ; but from the different features of 
 the last, a comparison can hardly be made. 
 21. 
 Here dwells the caloyer. 
 
 Stanza xlLx. line 6. 
 The Greek monks are so called. 
 22. 
 Natures volcanic amphitheatre. 
 
 Stanza li. line 2. 
 The Chimariot mountains appear to have been vol- 
 canic. 
 
 23. 
 
 behold black Acheron ! 
 
 Stanza li. line 6. 
 
 ral songs, which are generally chanted in dancing by 
 men or women indiscriminately. The first words are 
 merely a kind of chorus w ithout meaning, like some in 
 our own and all other languages. 
 
 1. 1. 
 
 Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Lo, Lo, I come, I come ; be 
 
 Naciarura, popuso. thou silent. 
 
 2. 2. 
 Naciarura na civin I come , I run ; open the door 
 Ha penderini ti hin. that I may enter. 
 
 3. 3. 
 
 Ha pe uderi escrotini Open the door by halves, 
 
 Ti vin ti mar servetini. that I may take my tur- 
 ban. 
 
 4. 4. 
 Caliriote me surme Caliriotes* with the dark 
 Ea ha pe pse dua tive. eyes, open the gate that I 
 
 may enter. 
 
 5. 5. 
 
 Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Lo, Lo, I hear thee, my soul. 
 Gi egera spirta esimiro. 
 
 6. 6. 
 Caliriote vu le funde An Arnaout girl, in costly 
 Ede vete tunde tunde. garb, walks with graceful 
 
 pride. 
 
 7. ...'''• 
 
 Caliriote me surme Caliriot maid of the dark 
 
 Ti mi put e poi mi le. eyes, give me a kiss. 
 
 8. 8. 
 
 Se ti puta citi mora If I have kissed thee, what 
 
 Si mi ri ni veti udo gia. hast thou gained ? My 
 
 soul is consumed with fire. 
 
 Now called Kalamas. 
 
 Albanese cloak. 
 
 24. 
 ■ in his white capote. 
 
 Stanza lii. line 7. 
 
 25. 
 
 The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit. 
 
 Stanza Iv. line 1 . 
 Anciently Mount Tomarus. 
 26. 
 And Laos mde and fierce came roaring by. 
 
 Stanza Iv. line 2. 
 The river Laos was full at the time the author passed 
 it ; and, immediately above Tepalen, was to the eye 
 as wide as the Thames at Westminster ; at least in the 
 opinion of the author and his fellow-traveller, Mr. Hob- 
 house. In the summer it must be much narrower. It 
 certainly is the finest river in the Levant ; neither Ache- 
 lous, Alpheus, Acheron, Schamander, nor Cayster, ap- 
 proached it in breadth or beauty. 
 27. 
 And fellotjo-countrymen have stood aloof. 
 
 Stanza Ixvi. line 8. 
 Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall. 
 28. 
 
 the red wine circling fast. 
 
 Stanza Ixxi. line 2. 
 The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, 
 and indeed very few of the others. 
 29. 
 Each Palikar his sabre from, him co^t. 
 
 Stanza Ixxi. line 7. 
 Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single person, 
 from IlaXtxapt, a general name for a soldier amongst 
 the Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic — it means 
 properly "a lad." 
 
 30. 
 While thus in concert, ^c. 
 
 Stanza Ixxii. line last. 
 As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of 
 the lUyric, I here insert two of their most popular cho- 
 
 Va le ni il che cadale 
 Celo more, more celo. 
 
 10. 
 Plu hari ti tirete 
 Plu huron cia pra seti. 
 
 Dance lightly, more gently. 
 
 and gently still. 
 10. 
 Make not so much dust to 
 
 destroy your embroidered 
 
 hose. 
 
 The last stanza would puzzle a commentator: the 
 men have certainly buskins of the most beautiful texture, 
 but the ladies (to whom the above is supposed to be 
 addressed) have nothing under their little yellow boots 
 and slippers but a well-turned and sometimes very 
 white anJile. The Arnaout girls are much handsomer 
 than the Greeks, and their dress is far more picturesque. 
 They preserve their shape much longer also, from be- 
 ing always in the open air. It is to be observed, that 
 the Arnaout is not a written language ; the words of 
 this song, therefore, as well as the one which follows, 
 are spelt according to their pronunciation. They are 
 copied by one who speaks and imderstands the dialect 
 perfectly, and who is a native of Athens. 
 
 1. 1. 
 
 Ndi sefda tinde ulavossa I am wounded by thy love, 
 Vettimi upri vi lofsa. and have loved but to 
 
 scorch myself. 
 
 2. 2. 
 
 Ah vaisisso mi privi lofse Thou hast consumed me ! 
 Si mi rini mi la vosse. Ah, maid ! thou hast 
 
 struck me to the heart. 
 
 3. 3. 
 
 TJti tasa roba stua I have said I wish no dowry, 
 
 Sitti eve tulati dua. but thine eyes and eye- 
 
 lashes. 
 
 4. 4. 
 
 Roba stinori ssidua The accursed dowry I want 
 
 Q,u mi sini vetti dua. not, but thee only. 
 
 5. 5. 
 
 Qurmini dua civileni Give me thy charms, and 
 
 Roba ti siarmi tildi eni. let the portion feed the 
 
 flames. 
 
 6. 6. 
 
 Utara pisa vaisisso me I have loved thee, maid, 
 simi rin ti hapti with a sincere soul, but 
 
 Eti mi hire a piste si gui thou hast left me like a 
 dendroi tiltati. withered tree. 
 
 The Albanese, particularly the women, aiig frequently termed " G«1W 
 Leg ;" for what reason I inquired in vain. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 47 
 
 7. 
 
 7. 
 
 Udi vnra udorini udiri ci- 
 
 cova cilti mora 
 Udorini talti hollna u ede 
 
 caimoni mora. 
 
 If I have placed my hand on 
 thy bosom, what have I 
 gained? my hand is with- 
 drawn, but retains the 
 flame. 
 I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a differ- 
 ent measure, ought to belong to another ballad. An 
 idea something similar to the thought in the last lines 
 was expressed by Socrates, whose arm having come in 
 contact with one of his '■'■ vttoko\itioi" Critobulus or 
 Cleobulus, the philosopher complained of a shooting 
 pain as far as his shoulder for some days after, and 
 therefore very properly resolved to teach his disciples in 
 future without touching them. 
 31. 
 Tambourgi ! Tambourgi 1 thy Harum afccr^ ^c. 
 
 Song, Stanza i. line 1. 
 These Stanzas are partly taken from different Alba- 
 nese songs, as far as I was able to make them out by 
 the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic and ItaUan. 
 32. 
 Remember the moment when Previsafell. 
 
 Song, Stanza viii. line 1. 
 It was taken by storm from the French. 
 33. 
 Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth, 4'C. 
 
 Stanza Lxxiii. line I. 
 Some thoughts on this subject will be found in the 
 subjoined papers. 
 
 34. 
 Spirit of freedom ! when on PhyWs brow 
 Thou sai'st with Thrasybidus and his train. 
 
 Stanza kxiv. hnes 1 and 2. 
 Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, 
 has still considerable remains : it was seized by Thra- 
 sybulus previous to the expulsion of the Thirty, 
 
 35. 
 Receive the fiery Frank,, her former guest. 
 
 Stanza Lxxvii. hne 4. 
 When taken by the Latins, and retained for several 
 years. — See Gibbon. 
 
 36. 
 The prophets tomb of all its pious spoil. 
 
 Stanza Ixxvii. line 6. 
 Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the 
 Wahabees, a sect yearly increasing. 
 37. 
 Thy vales of ever-green, thy hills of snow — 
 
 Stanza kxxv. line 3. 
 On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the 
 5now never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the in- 
 tense heat of the summer ; but I never saw it lie on 
 the plains, even in winter. 
 
 38. 
 Save where some solitary column mourns 
 Above its prostrate brethren of the cave. 
 
 Stanza Ixxxvi. hnes 1 and 2. 
 Of Mount Pentehcus, from whence the marble was 
 dug that constructed the public edifices of Athens. — 
 The modern name is Mount Mendeh. An immense 
 cave formed by the quarries still remains, and will till 
 the end of time. 
 
 39. 
 When Marathon became a magic word. 
 
 Stanza Ixxxix. Ime 7. 
 "Siste Viator — heroa calcas!" was the epitaph on 
 the famous count Merci ; — what then must be our feel- 
 ings when standing on the tumulus of the two hundred 
 (Greeks) who fell on Marathon ? The principal bar- 
 row has recently been opened by Fauvel ; few or no 
 relics, as vases, &c. were found by the excavator. The 
 plain of Marathon was offered to me for sale at the sum 
 of sixteen thousand piastres, about nine hundred 
 pounds ! Alas ! — " Expende — quot libras in duce sum- 
 mo— invenies !" — was the dust of Miltiades worth no 
 more ? It could scarcely have fetched less if sold by 
 weight. 
 
 PAPEKS REFERHED TO BY NOTE 33. 
 I. 
 
 . Before I say any thing about a city of which every 
 body, traveller or not, has thought it necessary to say 
 something, I will request Miss Owenson, when she next 
 borrows an Athenian heroine for her four volumes, to 
 have the goodness to marry her to somebody more of 
 a gentleman than a "Disdar Aga," (who by the by is 
 not an Aga.) the most impolite of petty officers, the 
 greatest patron of larceny Athens ever saw, (except 
 Lord E.) and the unworthy occupant of the Acropohg, 
 on a handsome annual stipend of 150 piastres, (eight 
 pounds sterling,) out of which he has only to pay Tiis 
 garrison, the most ill-regulated corps in the ill-regufated 
 Ottoman Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I was 
 once the cause of the husband of "Ida of Athens" 
 nearly suffering the bastinado ; and because the said 
 " Disdar" is a turbulent husband and beats his wife 5 so 
 that I exhort and beseech Miss Owenson to sue for a 
 separate maintenance in behalf of " Ida." Having pre- 
 mised thus much, on a matter of such import to the 
 readers of romances, I may now leave Ida, to mention 
 her birthplace. 
 
 Setting aside the magic of the name, and all those 
 associations which it would be pedantic and siiperfluous 
 to recapitulate, the very situation of Athens would ren- 
 der it the favourite of 'all who have eyes for art or na- 
 ture. The climate, to me at least, appeared a perpe- 
 tual spring ; during eight months I never passed a day 
 without being as many hours on horseback : rain is ex- 
 tremely rare, snow never lies in the plains, and a cloudy 
 day is an agreeable rarity. In Spain, Portugal, and 
 every part of the East which I visited, except Ionia 
 and Attica, I perceived no such superiority of climate 
 to our own ; and at Constantinople, where I passed 
 May, June, and part of July, (1810,) you might "damn 
 the cHmate, and complain of spleen," five days out of 
 seven. 
 
 The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, but 
 the moment you pass the isthmus in the direction of 
 Megara the change is strikingly perceptible. But I 
 fear Hesiod will still be found correct in his description 
 of a Boeotian winter. 
 
 We found at Livadia an " esprit fort" in a Greek 
 bishop, of all free thmkers ! This worthy hypocrite ral- 
 lied his own religion with great intrepidity, (but not be- 
 fore his flock,) and talked of a mass as a " coglioneria." 
 It was impossible to think better of him for this ; but, 
 for a Boeotian, he was brisk with all his absurdity. — 
 This phenomenon ( with the exception indeed of Thebes, 
 the remains of Chseronea, the plain of Platea, Orcho- 
 menus, Livadia, and its nominal cave of Trophonius) 
 was the only remarkable thing we saw before we passed 
 Mount Citheeron. 
 
 The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least my com- 
 panion (who, resolving to be at once cleanly and clas- 
 sical, bathed in it) pronounced it to be the fountain of 
 Dirce, and anybody who thinks it worth while may con- 
 tradict him. At Castri we drank of half a dozen stream- 
 lets, some not of the purest, before we decided to our 
 satisfaction which was the true Castalian, and even that 
 had a villanous twang, probably from the snow, though 
 it did not throw us into an epic fever, like poor Dr. 
 Chandler. 
 
 From Fort Phyle, of which large remains still exist, 
 the Plain of Athens, Pentelicus,Hymettus, the jEgean, 
 and the Acropolis, burst upon the eye at once ; in my 
 opinion, a more glorious prospect than even Cintra or 
 Istambol. Not the view from the Troad, with Ida, the 
 Hellespont, and the more distant Mount Athos, can 
 equal it, though so superior in extent. 
 
 I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but excepting 
 the view from the monastery of Megaspelion, (which is 
 inferior to Zitza in a command of country,) and the 
 descent from the mountains orl the way from Tripolitza 
 to Argos, Arcadia has little to recommend it beyond the 
 name. 
 
 " Stemitur, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos." 
 Virgil could have put this into the mouth of none but an 
 Argive, and (with reverence be it spoken) it does not 
 deserve the epithet. And if the Polynices of Statius, 
 
48 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 "Inmediis audit duo litora campis," did actually hear 
 both shores in crossing the isthmus of Corinth, he had 
 better ears than have ever been worn in such a journey 
 since. 
 
 " Athens," says a celebrated topographer, " is still 
 the most polished city of Greece." Perhaps it may of 
 Greece, but not of the Greeks ; for Joannina in Epirus 
 is universally allowed, among themselves, to be supe- 
 rior in the wealth, refinement, learning, and dialect of 
 its inhabitants. The Athenians are remarkable for their 
 cunning ; and the lower orders are not improperly cha- 
 racterized in that proverb, which classes them with " the 
 Jews of Salonica, and the Turks of theNegropont." 
 
 Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, 
 French, Italians, Germans, Ragusans, &c. there was 
 never a difference of opinion in their estimate of the 
 Greek character, though on all other topics they dis- 
 puted with great acrimony. 
 
 Mr. Fauvel, the French consul, who has passed thirty 
 years principally at Athens, and to whose talents as an 
 artist and manners as a gentleman none who have known 
 him can refuse their testimony, has frequently declared 
 in my hearing, that the Greeks do not deserve to be 
 emancipated ; reasoning on the grounds of their " na- 
 tional and individual depravity ;" wliile he forgot that 
 such depravity is to be attributed to causes which can 
 only be removed by the measure he reprobates. 
 
 Mr. Roque, a French merchant of respectability long 
 settled in Athens, asserted with the most amusing 
 gravity, " Sir, they are the same canaille that existed 
 in the days of Thcmistocles .'" an alarming remark to 
 the " Laudator temporis acti." The ancients banished 
 Thcmistocles ; the moderns cheat Monsieur Roqu 
 thus great men have ever been treated I 
 
 In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and most 
 of the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, &c. of passage, 
 came over by degrees to their opinion, on much the 
 same grounds that a Turk in England would condemn 
 the nation by wholesale, because he was wronged by 
 his lacquey, and overcharged by his washerwoman. 
 
 Certainly it was not a httle staggering when the 
 Sieurs Fauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest demagogues 
 of the day, who divide between them the power of Peri 
 cles and the popularity of Cleon, and puzzle the poo 
 Waywode with perpetual differences, agreed in the utter 
 condemnation, " nulla virtute redemptum," of the Greeks 
 in general, and of the Athenians in particular. 
 
 For my own humble opinion, I am loth to hazard it, 
 knowing, as I do, that there be now in MS. no less than 
 five tours of the first magnitude and of the most threat- 
 ening aspect, all in typographical array, by persons of 
 wit, and honour, and regular common-place books : but, 
 if I may say this without offence, it seems to me rather 
 hard to declare so positively and pertinaciously, as al- 
 most every body has declared, that the Greeks, because 
 they are very bad, will never be better. 
 
 Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by their pane- 
 gyrics and projects ; but, on the other hand, De Pauw 
 and Thornton have debased the Greeks beyond their 
 demerits. 
 
 The Greeks will never be independent ; they will 
 never be sovereigns as heretofore, and God forbid they 
 ever should ! but they may be subjects without being 
 slaves. Our colonies are not independent, but they are 
 free and industrious, and such may Greece be hereafter. 
 
 At present, like the Catholics of Ireland and the 
 Jews throughout the world, and such other cudgelled 
 •and heterodox people, they suffer all the moral and phy- 
 sical ills that can afflict humanity. Their life is a 
 struggle against truth ; they are vicious in their own de- 
 fence. They are so unused to kindness, that when they 
 occasionally meet with it they look upon it with suspi- 
 cion, as a dog often beaten snaps at your fingers if you 
 attempt to caress him. " They are ungrateful, notori- 
 ously, abominably ungrateful !" — this is the general cry. 
 Now, in the name of Nemesis ! for what are they to be 
 grateful ? Where is the human being that ever con- 
 ferred a benefit on Greek or Greeks ? They are to be 
 grateful to the Turks for their fetters, and to the Franks 
 for their broken promises and lying counsels. They 
 are to be grateful to the artist who engraves their ruins, 
 and to the antiquary who carries them away ; to the 
 
 traveller whose janissary flogs them, and to the scribbler 
 whose journal abuses them! This is the amount of 
 their obligations to foreigners. 
 
 II. 
 
 Franciscan Convent, Athens, January 23,1811. 
 
 Among the remnants of the barbarous policy of the 
 earlier ages, are the traces of bondage which vet exist 
 in different countries; whose inhabitants, however 
 divided in religion and manners, almost all agree in 
 oppression. 
 
 The English have at last compassionated their Ne-. 
 groes, and under a less bigoted government, may proba- 
 bly one day release their Catholic brethren : but the in- 
 terposition of foreigners alone can emancipate the 
 Greeks, who, otherwise, appear to have as small a 
 chance of redemption from the Turks, as the Jews have 
 from mankind in general. 
 
 Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough ; 
 at least the younger men of Europe devote much of 
 their time to thestudyof the Greek writers and history, 
 which would be more usefully spent in mastering their 
 owTi. Of the moderns, we are perhaps more neglectful 
 than they deserve ; and while every man of any pre- 
 tensions to learning is tiring out his youth, and often 
 his age, in the study of the language and of the ha- 
 rangues of the Athenian demagogues in favour of free- 
 dom, the real or supposed descendants of these sturdy 
 repubUcans are left to the actual tyranny of their masters, 
 although a very slight effort is required to strike off 
 their chains. 
 
 To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their rising 
 again to their pristine superiority, would be ridiculous ; 
 as the rest of the world must resume its barbarism, 
 after reasserting the sovereignty of Greece : but there 
 seems to be no very great obstacle, except in the apa- 
 thy of the Franks, to their becoming an useful depen- 
 dency, or even a free state with a proper guarantee ; — 
 under correction, however, be it spoken, for many and 
 well-informed men doubt the practicability even of 
 this. 
 
 The Greeks have never lost their hope, though they 
 are now more divided in opinion on the subject of their 
 probable deliverers. Religion recommends the Rus- 
 sians ; but they have twice been deceived and aban- 
 doned by that power, and the dreadful lesson they re- 
 ceived after the Muscovite desertion in the Morea has 
 never been forgotten. The French they dislike ; al- 
 though the subjugation of the rest of Europe will, pro- 
 bably, be attended by the deliverance of continental 
 Greece. The islanders look to the English for succour, 
 as they have very lately possessed themselves of the 
 Ionian republic, Corfu excepted. But whoever appear 
 with arms in their hands will be welcome ; and when 
 that day arrives, Heaven have mercy on the Ottomans, 
 they cannot expect it from the Giaours. 
 
 But instead of considering what they have been, and 
 speculating on what they may be, let us look at them 
 as they are. 
 
 ' And here it is impossible to reconcile the contrariety 
 of opinions : some, particularly the merchants, decrying 
 the Greeks in the strongest language ; others, gene- 
 rally travellers, turning periods in their eulogy, and 
 publishing very curious speculations grafted on their 
 former state, which can have no more effect on their 
 present lot, than the existence of the Incas on the future 
 fortunes of Peru. 
 
 One very ingenious person terms them the "natural 
 allies of Englishmen ;" another, no less ingenious, will 
 not allow them to be the allies of any body, and denies 
 their very descent from the ancients ; a tmrd, more in- 
 genious than either, builds a Greek empire on a Russian 
 foundation, and realizes (on paper) all the chimeras of 
 Catherine II. As to the question of their descent, 
 what can it import whether the Mainotes are the lineal 
 Laconians or not ? or the present Athenians as indi- 
 genous as the bees of Hymettus, or as the grasshoppers, 
 to which they once likened themselves ? What Eng- 
 lishman cares if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or 
 Trojan blood ? or who, except a Welshman, is afflicted 
 with a desire of being descended from Caractacus? 
 
 The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the good 
 
Canto II. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 49 
 
 things of this world, as to render even their claims to 
 antiquity an object of envy ; it is very cruel, then, in 
 Mr. Thornton to disturb them in the possession of ail 
 that time has left them ; viz. their pedigree, of which 
 they are the more tenacious, as it is all they can call 
 their own. It would be worth while to publish together, 
 and compare, the works of Messrs. Thornton and De 
 Pauw, Eton and Sonnini ; paradox on one side, and 
 prejudice on the other. Mr. Thornton conceives him- 
 self to have claims to public confidence from a fourteen 
 years' residence at Pera ; perhaps he may on the sub- 
 ject of the Turks, but this can give him no more insight 
 into the real state of Greece and her inhabitants, than 
 as many years spent in Wapping into that of the West- 
 ern Highlands. 
 
 The Greeks of Constantinople hve in Fanal ; and if 
 Mr. Thornton did not oftener cross the Golden Horn 
 than his brother merchants are accustomed to do, I 
 should place no great rehance on his information. I 
 actually heard one of these gentlemen boast of their 
 little general intercourse with the city, and assert of 
 himself, with an air of triumph, that he had been but 
 four times at Constantinople in as many years. 
 
 As to Mr. Thornton's voyages in the Black Sea with 
 Greek vessels, they gave him the same idea of Greece 
 as a cruise to Berwick in a Scotch smack would of 
 Johnny Grot's house. Upon what grounds then does 
 he arrogate the right of condemnuig by wholesale a 
 body of men, of whom he can know little ? It is rather 
 a curious circumstance that Mr. Thornton, who so 
 lavishly dispraises Pouqueville on every occasion of 
 mentioning the Turks, has yet recourse to him as 
 authority on the Greeks, and terms him an impartial ob- 
 server. Now Dr. Pouqueville is as little entitled to 
 that appellation, as Mr. Thornton to confer it on him 
 
 The fact is, we are deplorably in want of information -- 
 on the subject of the Greeks, and in particular their | the two brothers Zosimado, (merchants settled in Leg 
 
 poHcy, have been amply punished by three centuries and 
 a half of captivity. 
 
 III. 
 
 Athens, Franciscan Convent, Mar. 17, 181 L 
 
 " I must have some talk with this JearcedTheban." 
 Some time after my return from Constantinople to 
 this city, I received the thirty-first number of the Edin- 
 burgh Review as a great favour, and certainly at this 
 distance an acceptable one, from the captain of an 
 English frigate off Salamis. In that number, Art. 3. 
 containing the review of a French translation of Strabo, 
 there are introduced some remarks on the modern 
 Greeks and their literature, with a short account of 
 Coray, a co-translator in the French version. On 
 those remarks I mean to ground a few observations, 
 and the spot where I now write will I hope be sufficient 
 excuse for introducing them in a work in some degree 
 connected with the subject. Coray, the most cele- 
 brated of living Greeks, at least among the Franks, was 
 born at Scio, (in the Review Smyrna is stated, I have 
 reason to think, incorrectly,) and, besides the transla- 
 tion of Beccaria and other works mentioned by the 
 Reviewer, has pubhshed a lexicon in Romaic and 
 French, if I may trust the asfurance of some Danish 
 travellers lately arrived from Paris ; But the latest we 
 have seen here in French and Greek is that of Gregory 
 Zohkogloou.* Coray has recently been involved in 
 an unpleasant controversy with M. Gail,t a Parisian 
 commentator and editor of some translations from the 
 Greek poets, in consequence of the Institute having 
 awarded him the prize for his version of Hippocrates 
 "n^pt {)(5aTwr," &c. to the disparagement, and conse- 
 quently displeasure, of the said Gail. To his exertions 
 literary and patriotic great praise is undoubtedly due, 
 but a part of that praise ought not to be withheld from 
 
 literature, nor is there any probability of our being bet- 
 ter acquainted, till our intercourse becomes more inti- 
 mate, or their independence confirmed : the relations of 
 passing travellers are as little to be depended on as the 
 invectives of angry factors ; but till something more 
 can be attained, we must be content with the little to 
 be acquired from similar sources.* 
 
 However defective these may be, they are preferable 
 to the paradoxes of men who have read superficially of 
 the ancients, and seen nothing of the moderns, such as 
 De Pauw ; who, when he asserts that the British breed 
 of horses is ruined by Newmarket, and that the Spar- 
 tans were cowards in the field, betrays an equal know- 
 ledge of English horses and Spartan men. His "phi- 
 losophical observations" have a much better claim to 
 the title of " poetical." It could not be expected that 
 he who so liberally condemns some of the most cele- 
 brated institutions of the ancient, should have mercy on 
 the modern Greeks ; and it fortunately happens, that 
 the absurdity of his hypothesis on their forefathers re- 
 futes his sentence on themselves. 
 
 Let us trust, then, that in spite of the prophecies of 
 De Pauw, and the doubts of Mr. Thornton, there is a 
 reasonable hope of the redemption of a race of men, 
 who, whatever may be the errors of their religion and 
 
 * A word, en passant, with Mr. Thorntoii and Dr. Pouqueville, who 
 have been guilty between them of sadly clipping the Sultan's Turkish. 
 
 Dr. Pouqueville tells a long story of a Moslem who swallowed corrosive 
 sublimate in such quantities that he acquired the name of " SuUyman 
 Yeyen,^' i. e. quoth the Doctor, " Sideynian, the eater of corrosire sub- 
 limate." "Aha," thinks Mr. Thornton, (angry with the Doctor for the 
 fiftieth time.) " have I caught you ?" — Then, in a note twice the thick- 
 ness of the Doctor's anecdote, he questions the Doctor's proficiency in the 
 Turkish tongue, and his veracity in his own. — -'For," observes Mr. 
 Thornton, (after inflicting on us the tough participle of a Turkish verb,) 
 " it means nothing more than Su/.eyman the eater,'^ and quite cashiers 
 the supplementary " sublimate." Now both are right, aniA both are 
 wrong. If Mr. Thornton, when he next resides " fourteen years in the 
 factory," will consult his Turkish dictionary, or ask any of his Stambo- 
 liue acquaintance, he will discover that " Sulet/ma'n yeyen," put to- 
 gether discreetly, mean the " Swallower of sublimate," without any 
 " Suleyman" in the case : " Suleyma''' signifying " corrosive subli- 
 mate," and not being a proper name on this occasion, although it be an 
 orthodox name enough with the addition of n. After Mr. Thornton's 
 frequent hints of profound Orientalism, he might have found this out be- 
 fore he sang such pseans over Dr. Pouqueville. 
 
 After this, I think "Travellers verszis Factors" shall be our motto, 
 though the above Mr. Thornton has condemned " hoc genus omne," for 
 mistake and misrepresentation. " Ne Suior ultra crepidam,'' "No 
 merchant beyond his bales." N. B. For the benefit of Mr. Thornton, 
 " Sutor" is not a proper name. 
 
 G 
 
 horn,) who sent him to Paris, and maintained him for 
 the express purpose of elucidating the ancient, and 
 adding to the modern, researches of his countrymen. 
 Coray, however, is not considered by his countrymen 
 equal to some who lived in the two last centuries ; more 
 particularly Dorotheus of Mitylene, whose Hellenic 
 writings are so much esteemed by the Greeks that 
 Meletius terms him, " Mera tov OovKviiSriv Kai "Eevo- 
 <pu)VTa apicTos 'EXXjyvwv." (P. 224. Ecclesiastical His- 
 tory, vol. iv.) 
 
 Panagiotes Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenelle, 
 and Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus on 
 the Universe into French, Christodoulus, and more 
 particularly Psalida, whom I have conversed with in 
 Joannina, are also in high repute among their literati. 
 The last-mentioned has published in Romaic and Latin 
 a work on " True Happiness,'' dedicated to Catherine 
 II. But Polyzois, who is stated by the Reviewer to 
 be the only modern except Coray who has distin- 
 guished himself by a knowledge of Hellenic, if he be 
 the Polyzois Lampanitziotes of Yanina, who has pub- 
 lished a number of editions in Romaic, was neither 
 more nor less than an itinerant vender of books ; with 
 the contents of which he had no concern beyond his 
 name on the title-page, placed there to secure his pro- 
 perty in the publication ; and he was, moreover, a man 
 utterly destitute of scholastic acquirements. As the 
 name, however, is not uncommon, some other Polyzois 
 may have edited the Epistles of Aristsenetus. 
 
 It is to be regretted that the system of continental ■ 
 blockade has closed the few channels through which 
 the Greeks received their publications, particularly Ve- 
 nice and Trieste. Even the common grammars for 
 children are become too dear for the lower orders. 
 Amongst their original works the Geography of Mele- 
 tius, Archbishop of Athens, and a multitude of theolo- 
 gical quartos and poetical pamphlets, are to be met 
 
 « T have in my possession an excellent I^exicon " TpiyAcocrtroi'," which 
 I received in exchange from S. G — , Esq. for a small gem : my antiqua- 
 rian friends have never forgotten it, or forgiven me. 
 
 t Tn Gail's pamphlet against Coray, he talks of " throwing the insolent 
 Helleniste out of the windows." On this a French critic exclaims, "Ah, 
 myGod! throw an Helleniste out of the window! what sacrilege !" It 
 certainly would be a serious business for those authors who dwell in the 
 attics : but I have quoted the passage merely to prove the similarity of 
 style among the controversialists of all polished countries ; London or 
 Edinburgh could hardly parallel this Parisian ebullition. 
 
60 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Caxto II. 
 
 with ; their grammars and lexicons of two, three, and 
 four lancrua<^es, are numerous and excellent. Their 
 poetry is" in^rhyme. The most singular piece I have 
 lately seen is a satire in dialogue between a Russian, 
 English, and French traveller, and the Waywode of 
 Wailachia, (or Blackbev, as they term him,) an arch- 
 bishop, a merchant, and Cogia Bachi, (or primate,) in 
 succession ; to all of whom under the Turks the writer 
 attributes their present degeneracy. Their songs are 
 sometimes pretty and pathetic, but their tunes generally 
 unpleasing to the ear of a Frank : the best is the famous 
 « A£iir£ TtaUci Twv 'EXX^yi'wv," by the unfortunate Riga. 
 But from a catalogue of more than sixty authors, now 
 before me, only fifteen can be found who have touched 
 on any theme except theology. 
 
 I am intrusted with a commission by a Greek of 
 Athens, named Marmarotouri, to make arrangements, if 
 
 f»ossible, for printing in London a translation of Barthe- 
 emi's Anacharsis in Romaic, as he has no other oppor- 
 tunity, unless he despatches the MS. to Vienna by the 
 Black Sea and Danube. 
 
 The Reviewer mentions a school established at 
 Hecatonesi, and suppressed at the instigation of Sebas- 
 tiani : he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, Haivali ; a town 
 on the contin'^nt, where that institution for a hundred 
 students and three professors still exists. It is true 
 that this establishment was disturbed by the Porte, 
 under the ridiculous pretext that the Greeks were con- 
 structing a fortress instead of a college : but on inves- 
 tigation, and the payment of some purses to the Divan, 
 it has been permitted to continue. The principal pro- 
 fessor, named Ueniamin, (i.e. Benjamin,) is stated to be 
 a man of talent, but a freethinker. He was born in 
 Lesbos, studied in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, Latin, 
 and some Frank languages ; besides a smattering of the 
 sciences. 
 
 Though it is not my intention to enter farther on this 
 topic than may allude to the article in question, I cannot 
 but observe that the Reviewer's lamentation over the 
 fall of the Greeks appears singular, when he closes it 
 with these words : " The change is to be attributed to 
 their misfortunes rather than to any ' -physical degrada- 
 tion.^ " It may be true that the Greeks are not physi- 
 cally degenerated; and that Constantinople contained, 
 on the day when it changed masters, as many men of 
 six feet and up%vards as in the hour of prosperity ; but 
 ancient history and modern politics instruct us that 
 something more than physical perfection is necessary 
 to preserve a state in vigour and independence ; and the 
 Greeks, in particular, are a melancholy example of the 
 near connexion between moral degradation and national 
 decay. 
 
 The Reviewer mentions a plan " we believe" by 
 Potemkin for the purification of the Romaic, and I have 
 endeavoured in vain to procure any tidings or traces of 
 its existence. There was an academy m St. Peters- 
 burgh for the Greeks ; but it was suppressed by Paul, 
 and has not been revived by his successor. 
 
 There is a slip of the pen, and it can only be a slip 
 of the pen, in p. 58, No. 31, of the Edinburgh Review, 
 where these words occur : — "We are told that when the 
 capital of the East yielded to Solyman''' — It may be pre- 
 sumed that this last word will, in a future edition, be 
 altered to Mahomet II.* The " ladies of Constantinople," 
 it seems, at that period spoke a dialect, " which would 
 not have disgraced the lips of an Athenian." I do not 
 know how that might be, but am sorry to say the ladies 
 in general, and the Athenians in particular, are much 
 altered; being far from choice either in their dialect or 
 
 * In a former number of the Edinburgh Review, 1808, it is observed : 
 ' Lord Byron passed some of his early years in Scotland, where he might 
 have learned ihzX pibroch does not mean a bagpipe, any more than duet 
 means a fiddle." Ctuery, — Was it in Scotland that the young gentlemen 
 of the Edinburgh Review learned that Solyman means MaAom«« //. any 
 more than criticism means infallihilily 1 — but thus it is, 
 
 " Cffidimus inque vicem praebemus crura sagittis." 
 The mistake seenied so completely a lapse of the pen (from the great simi- 
 larity of the two words, and the total absence of error from the former 
 pages of the literary leviathan) that I should have passed it over as in the 
 text, had I not perceived in the Edinburgh Review much facetious exul- 
 tation on all such detections, particularly a recent one, where words and 
 syllables are subjects of disquisition and transposition ; and the above- 
 mentioned parallel passage in my own case irresistibly propelled me to 
 hint how much easier it is to be critical than correct. The gentlemen, 
 having enjoyed many a triumph on such victories, will hardly begrudge 
 ■ne A slight ovation for the preB«nt. 
 
 expressions, as the whole Attic race are barbarous to a 
 proverb : 
 
 " SI AOrjva -rgoTtj xtopa 
 Tt yai6a^ov5 rpe^eis TtapaP 
 In Gibbon, vol. x. p. 161, is the following sentence :— 
 " The vulgar dialect of the city was gross and barbarous, 
 though the compositions of the church and palace some- 
 times affected to copy the purity of the Attic models." 
 Whatever may be asserted on the subject, it is difficult 
 to Conceive that the "ladies of Constantinople," in the 
 reign of the last Caesar, spoke a purer dialect than Anna 
 Comnena wrote three centuries before : and those royal 
 pages are not esteemed the best models of composition, 
 although the princess yXwrraj' tix^v AKPIBiiS Attiki- 
 ^ovaav. In the Fana!, and in Yanina, the best Greek 
 is spoken : in the latter there is a flourishing school 
 under the direction of Psahda. 
 
 There is now in Athens a pupil of Psalida's, who is 
 making a tour of observation through Greece: he is 
 intelligent, and better educated than a fellow-commoner 
 of most colleges. I mention this as a proof that the 
 spirit of inquiry is not dormant among the Greeks. 
 
 The Reviewer mentions Mr. Wright, the author of 
 the beautiful poem " Horae lonicae," as qualified to give 
 details of these nominal Romans and degenerate Greeks, 
 and also of their language : but Mr. Wright, though a 
 good poet and an able man, has made a mistake where 
 he states the Albanian dialect of the Romaic to approxi- 
 mate nearest to the Hellenic : for the Albanians speak 
 a Romaic as notoriously corrupt as the Scotch of Aber- 
 deenshire, or the Itahan of Naples. Yanina, (where, 
 next to the Fanal, the Greek is purest,) although 
 the capital of Ali Pacha's dominions, is not in Albania 
 but Epirus ; and beyond Delvinachi in Albania Proper, 
 up to Argyrocastro and Tepaleen, (beyond which I did 
 not advance,) they speak worse Greek than even the 
 Athenians. I was attended for a year and a half by two 
 of these singular mountaineers, whose mother tongue is 
 Illyric, and I never heard them or their countrymen 
 (whom I have seen, not only at home, but to the amount 
 of twenty thousand in the army of Vely Pacha) praised 
 for their Greek, but often laughed at for their provincial 
 barbarisms. 
 
 I have in my possession about twenty-five letters, 
 among which some from the Bey of Corinth, written 
 to me by Notaras, the Cogia Bachi, and others by the 
 dragoman of the Caimacam of the Morea, (which last 
 governs in Vely Pacha's absence,) are said to be favour- 
 able specimens of their epistolary style. I also received 
 some at Constantinople from private persons, written 
 in a most hyperbolical style, but in the true antique 
 character. 
 
 The Reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on the 
 tongue in its past and present state, to a paradox (page 
 59) on the great mischief the knowledge of his own 
 language has done to Coray, who, it seems, is less 
 likely to understand the ancient Greek, because he is per- 
 fect master of the modern ! This observation follows a 
 paragraph, recommending, in explicit terms, the study 
 of the Romaic, as " a powerful auxiliary," not only to 
 the traveller and foreign merchant, but also to the clas- 
 sical scholar; in short, to every body except the only 
 person who can be thoroughly acquainted with its uses ; 
 and by a parity of reasoning, our old language is conjec- 
 ttned to be probably more attainable by " foreigners," 
 than by ourselves ! Now I am inclined to think, that a 
 Dutch Tyro in our tongue (albeit himself of Saxon 
 blood) would be sadly perplexed with " Sir Tristrem," 
 or any other given " Auchinleck MS." with or without 
 a grammar or glossary ; and to most apprehensions it 
 seems evident that none but a native can acquire a 
 competent, far less complete, knowledge of our obsolete 
 idioms. We may give the critic credit for his ingenuity, 
 but no more beUeve him than we do Smollett's Lisma- 
 hago, who maintains that the purest English is spoken 
 in Edinburgh. That Coray may err is very possible ; 
 but if he does, the fault is in the man rather than in his 
 mother tongue, which is, as it ought to be, of the greatest 
 aid to the native student. — Here the Reviewer pro- 
 ceeds to business on Strabo's translators, and here I 
 close my remarks. 
 
 Sir W. Drummond, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aberdeen, 
 
CAIfTO II. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 61 
 
 Dr. Clarke, Captain Leake, Mr. Gell, Mr. Walpole. 
 and many others now in England, have all the requisites 
 to furnish details of this fallen people. The few obser- 
 vations I have offered I should have left where I made 
 them, had not the article in question, and above all the 
 spot where I read it, induced me to advert to those 
 pages, which the advantage of my present situation 
 enabled me to clear, or at least to make the attempt. 
 
 I have endeavoured to wave the personal feelings, 
 which rise in despite of me in touching upon any part 
 of the Edinburgh Review ; not from a wish to conciliate 
 the favour of its writers, or to cancel the remembrance 
 of a syllable I have formerly published, but simply from 
 a sense of the impropriety of mixing up private resent- 
 ments with a disquisition of the present kind, and more 
 particularly at this distance of time and place. 
 
 ADDITIONAL NOTE, ON THE TURKS. 
 
 The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been 
 much exaggerated, or rather have considerably dimi- 
 nished of late years. The Mussulmans have been 
 beaten into a kind of sullen civility, very comfortable to 
 voyagers. 
 
 It is hazardous to say much on the subject of Turks 
 and Turkey; since it is possible to live among them 
 twenty years without acquiring information, at least 
 from themselves. As far as my own slight experience 
 carried me I have no complaint to make ; but am in- 
 debted for many civiUties, (I might almost say for 
 friendship,) and much hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his son 
 Veli Pacha of the Morea, and several others of high 
 rank in the provinces. Suleyman Aga, late Governor 
 of Athens, and now of Thebes, was a bon vivant, and as 
 social a being as ever sat cross-legged at a tray or a 
 table. During the carnival, when our English party 
 were masquerading, both himself and his successor were 
 more happy to " receive masks" than any dowager in 
 Grosvenor-square. 
 
 On one occasion of his supping at the convent, his 
 friend and visitor, the Cadi of Thebes, was carried 
 from table perfectly qualified for any club in Christen- 
 dom ; while the worthy Way wode himself triumphed 
 in his fall. 
 
 In all money transactions with the Moslems, I ever 
 found the strictest honour, the highest disinterestedness. 
 In transacting business with them, there are none of 
 those dirty peculations, under the name of interest, 
 difference of exchange, commission, &c. &c. uniformly 
 found in applying to a Greek consul to cash bills, even 
 on the first houses in Pera. 
 
 With regard to presents, an established custom in 
 the East, you will rarely find yourself a loser; as one 
 worth acceptance is generally returned by another of 
 similar value — a horse, or a shawl. 
 
 In the capital and at court the citizens and courtiers 
 are formed in the same school with those of Christiani- 
 ty ; but there does not exist a more honourable, friendly, 
 and high-spirited character than the true Turkish pro- 
 vincial Aga, or Moslem country gentleman. It is not 
 meant here to designate the governors of towns, but 
 those Agas who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess 
 lands and houses, of more or less extent, in Greece and 
 Asia Minor. 
 
 The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as the 
 rabble in countries with greater pretensions to civiliza- 
 tion. A Moslem, in walking the streets of our country- 
 towns, would be more incommoded in England than a 
 Frank in a similar situation in Turkey. Regimentals 
 are the best travelling dress. 
 
 The best accounts of the religion, and different sects 
 of Islamism, may be found in D'OUison's French ; of 
 their manners, &c. perhaps in Thornton's EngHsh. The 
 Ottomans, with all their defects, are not a people to be 
 despised. Equal, at least, to the Spaniards, they are 
 superior to the Portuguese. If it be difficult to pro- 
 nounce what they are, we can at least say what they 
 are not : they are'no^ treacherous, they are not cowardly, 
 they do not burn heretics, they are not assassins, nor 
 has an enemy advanced to their capital. They are 
 faithful to their sultan till he becomes unfit to govern, 
 and devout to their God without an inquisition. Were 
 
 they driven from St. Sophia to-morrow, and the French 
 or Russians enthroned in their stead, it would become 
 a question, whether Europe would gain by the exchange ? 
 England would certainly be the loser. 
 
 With regard to that ignorance of which they are so 
 generally, and sometimes justly accused, it may be 
 doubted, always excepting France and England, in 
 what useful points of knowledge they are excelled by 
 other nations. Is it in the common arts of life ? In 
 their manufactures ? Is a Turkish sabre inferior to a 
 Toledo ? or is a Turk worse clothed or lodged, or fed 
 and taught, than a Spaniard / Are their Pachas worse 
 educated than a Grandee '/ or an Effendi than a Knight 
 of St. Jago ? I think not. 
 
 I remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, 
 asking whether my fellow-traveller and myself were in 
 the upper or lower House of Parliament. Now this 
 question from a boy of ten years old proved that his 
 education had not been neglected. It may be doubted 
 if an English boy at that age knows the difference of the 
 Divan from a College of Dervises ; but I am very sure 
 a Spaniard does not. How little Mahmout, surrounded, 
 as he had been, entirely by his Turkish tutors, had 
 learned that there was such a thing as a Parliament it 
 were useless to conjecture, unless we suppose that his 
 instructors did not confine his studies to the Koran. 
 
 In all the mosques there are schools established, 
 which are very regularly attended; and the poor are 
 taught without the church of Turkey being put into 
 peril. I believe the system is not yet printed ; (though 
 there is such a thing as a Turkish press, and books 
 printed on the late military institution of the Nizam 
 Gedidd ;) nor have E heard whether the Mufti and the 
 Mollas nave subscribed, or the Caimacam and the 
 Tefterdar taken the alarm, for fear the ingenious youth 
 of the turban should be taught not to " pray to God 
 their way." The Greeks also — a kind of Eastern Irish 
 ])apists — have a college of their ovm atMaynooth — no, 
 at Haivali ; where the heterodox receive much the 
 same kind of countenance from the Ottoman as the 
 Catholic college from the English legislature. Who 
 shall then affirm that the Turks are ignorant bigots, 
 when they thus evince the exact proportion of Christian 
 charity which is tolerated in the most prosperous and 
 orthodox of all possible kingdoms ? But, though they 
 allow all this, they will not suffer the Greeks to partici- 
 pate in their privileges ; no, let them fight their battles, 
 and pay their haratch, (taxes,) be drubbed in this world, 
 and damned in the next. And shall we then eman- 
 cipate our Irish Helots ? Mahomet forbid ! We should 
 then be bad Mussulmans, and worse Christians ; at 
 present we unite the best of both — Jesuitical faith, and 
 something not much inferior to Turkish toleration. 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Among an enslaved people, obliged to have re- 
 course to foreign presses even for their books of reli- 
 gion, it is less to be wondered at that we find so few 
 publications on general subjects than that we find any 
 at all. The whole number of the Greeks, scattered 
 up and down the Turkish empire and elsewhere, may 
 amount, at most, to three milUons ; and yet, for so 
 scanty a number, it is impossible to discover any nation 
 with so great a proportion of books and their authors, 
 as the Greeks of the present century. " Ay," but say 
 the generous advocates of oppression, who, while they 
 assert the ignorance of the Greeks, wish to prevent 
 them from dispelling it, " ay, but these are mostly, if not 
 all, ecclesiastical tracts, and consequently good for no- 
 thing." Well, and pray what else can they write about? 
 It is pleasant enough to hear a Frank, particularly an 
 Englishman, who may abuse the government of his own 
 country ; or a Frenchman, who may abuse every govern- 
 ment except his own, and who may range at will over 
 every philosophical, religious, scientific, skeptical, or 
 moral subject, sneering at the Greek legends. A Greek 
 
5i 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 must not write on politics, and cannot touch on science 
 for want of instruction ; if he doubts, he is excommu- 
 nicated and damned; therefore his countrymen are not 
 poisoned with modern philosophy ; and as to morals, 
 thanks to the Turks! there are no such things. What 
 then is left him, if he has a turn for scribbling ? Reli- 
 gion, and holy biography : and it is natural enough that 
 those who have so little" in this life should look to the 
 next. It is no great wonder then that in a catalogue 
 now before me of fifty-five Greek writers, many of 
 whom were lately living, not above fifteen should have 
 touched on any thing but religion. The catalogue al- 
 luded to is contained in the twenty-sixth chapter of the 
 fourth volume of Meletius's Ecclesiastical History. 
 From this T subjoin an extract of those who have writ- 
 ten on asneral subjects ; which wilU be followed by 
 some specimens of the Romaic. 
 
 LIST OF ROMAIC AUTHORS."^ 
 
 NeophituS; Diakonos (the deacon) of the Morea, has 
 published an extensive grammar, and also some politi- 
 cal regulations, which last were left unfinished at his 
 death. 
 
 Prokopius, of Moscopolis, (a town in Epirus,) has 
 written and published a catalogue of the learned 
 Greeks. 
 
 Seraphin, of Periclea, is the author of many works 
 in the Turkish language, but Greek character ; for the 
 Christians of Caramauia, who do not speak Romaic, but 
 read the character. 
 
 Eustathius Psalidas, of Bucharest, a physician, made 
 the lour of England for the purpose of study {xdpiv 
 HaBrianjii) : but though his name is enumerated, it is 
 not stated that he has written any thing. 
 
 Kallinikus Torgeraus, Patriarch of Constantinople: 
 many poems of his are extant, and also prose tracts, 
 and a catalogue of patriarchs since the last taking of 
 Constantinople. 
 
 Anastasius Macedon, of Naxos, member of the roval 
 academy of Warsaw. A church biographer. 
 
 Demetrius Pamperes, a Moscopolite, has written 
 many works, particularly "A Commentary on Hesiod's 
 Shield of Hercules," and two hundred tales, (of what is 
 not specified.) and has published his correspondence 
 with the celebrated George of Trebizond, his cotem- 
 porary. 
 
 Meletius, a celebrated geographer; and author of the 
 book from whence these notices are taken. 
 
 Dorotheus, of Mitylene, an Aristotelian philosopher : 
 his Hellenic works are in great repute, and he is es- 
 teemed by the moderns (I quote the words of Meletius) 
 UtTii rdv QovKvSi^rjv Kal '=evo(pu>VTa apLcrrog 'EWrivuiV. 
 1 add further, on the authority of a well-informed 
 Greek, that he was so famous among his countrymen, 
 that they were accustomed to say, if Thucydides and 
 Xenophon were wanting, he was capable of repairing 
 the loss. 
 
 Marinus Count Tharboures, of Cephalonia, profes- 
 sor of chemistry in the academy of Padua, and member 
 of that academy, and those of Stockholm and Upsal. 
 He has published, at Venice, an account of some ma- 
 rine animal, and a treatise on the properties of iron. 
 
 Marcus, brother to the former, famous in mechanics. 
 He removed to St. Petersburg the immense rock on 
 which the statue of Peter the Great was fixed in 1769. 
 See the dissertation which he published in Paris, 1777. 
 
 George Constantine has pubUshed a four-tongued 
 lexicon. 
 
 George Ventote ; a lexicon in French, Italian, and 
 Romaic. 
 
 There exist several other dictionaries in Latin and 
 Romaic, French, &c. besides grammars in every mo- 
 dern language, except Enghsh. 
 
 Among the living authors the following are most 
 celebrated : — f 
 
 Aihanasius Parios has written a treatise on rhetoric 
 in Hellenic. 
 
 , I^ '^ 1° be obserred, that tb« names given are not in chronological 
 
 order, but consist of some selected at a venture from among those who 
 flounshed from the taking of ConsUntinople to the lime of MeleUus. 
 1 These names are not taken from an publicatioo. 
 
 Christodoulos, an Acarnanian, has published, in Vi- 
 enna, some physical treatises in Hellenic. 
 
 Panagiotes Kodrikas, an Athenian, the Romaic trans- 
 lator of Fontenelle's " Plurality of Worlds," (a favourite 
 work amongst the Greeks,) is stated to be a teacher of 
 the Hellenic and Arabic languages in Paris ; in both 
 of which he is an adept. 
 
 Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on rhe- 
 toric. 
 
 Vicenzo Damodos, of Cephalonia, has wiitten"c/j 
 TO ii£(To6dp6apov" on logic and physics. 
 
 John Karnarases, a Byzantine, has translated into 
 French Ocellus on the Universe. He is said to be an 
 excellent Hellenist, and Latin scholar. 
 
 Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, a geogra- 
 phical work : he has also translated several Italian au- 
 thors, and printed his versions at Venice. 
 
 Of Coray and Psahda some account has been already 
 given. 
 
 GREEK WAR SONG.* 
 
 1. 
 
 AEY'TE, 57aT<^£f rwv 'EWtjvuv* 
 
 b Ka7pos TTJg (:6^rii ?;A0£j', 
 Off ^avwy-EV a^ioc iKtiviav 
 
 irov fjidg iwcav rfjv ap\^v' 
 ^Af Trarfjcjoiiev avSpeiuts 
 
 Tov ^vybv TTJs TvpavviSoS' 
 ^'EK6iKri<T<i)[i£r' TTarpiSos 
 
 Kad^ ovtihog alcrxp^v. 
 Td b~\a uf y^dSwiiev 
 
 TTalSeg 'EAX^''wv ayojfjiev ' 
 TTOTafxi^wv fxBpiJov TO aifia 
 
 as Tpi^T] VTTO TToStiv. 
 2. 
 
 'OOev ilaOe. twv 'EXX)7va)v 
 K6KKa\a dvhptioniva^ 
 
 TTVeifiaTa tcKOpTTKJjXEVa^ 
 
 rdjpa \dStTC -rrvotjv ; 
 ^CTTiv (puvfjv Trjg (7a\Tn\K6s /tow ; 
 (rvvaxdr'iTe oXa bjiov ' 
 
 T^V ilTTdXo<Pov ^T]Te7T£f 
 
 Kal viKuTE irpo iravTov. 
 
 Td S-Xa us Xd5w/t£V, &c. 
 3. 
 "Z-rrdpra, JlTrdpTa, ti KoifiaaOt 
 
 VTivov XfiQapyov (Sadvv^ 
 ^viTVT]Gov Kpa^s 'Adinvas 
 
 ai^ijjLaxov -navTOTtivfiv. 
 ^EvOvjjLeidrjTe Aeovi'iiov 
 
 ripwos TOV ^oKoaTov, 
 TOV avSpbg tTzaivtiiivov 
 ^oSepov Koi Tpofitpov. 
 
 Td oxXa us XdBujjiEv, &c. 
 4. 
 'O TOV els Tdg Qepijio-vXas 
 
 TdXcfxov avTog KpoTEi, 
 Koi Tovg liepaag dfavR,£i 
 
 Kai avTuiv kutu KpaT£i' 
 MfTpiaKoffiovs avlpag 
 
 eIs to KevTpov Trp6x(i>p£i) 
 Kal (if Xiwv Qv(iwn£vog, 
 US TO ai/ia tC)v ^ovteI. 
 
 Td 5~Xa as Xd6(t)ncv, &C. 
 
 ROIVIAIC EXTRACTS. 
 
 Voicavs, *AyvXof, Kai TdXXog KdfivovTES tjjv Tztpi-nyrimv 
 TTjs 'EXXdiog, Kai ^Xe-ovTcg Ttjv dOXiav ttjv KaTa- 
 cTaaiv, EtpdtiTtjaav KUTapxdg 'iva FpaiKov (piXeXXipia 
 Sid vd uddovv TTiv aiTtav, [iet' uvtov 'iva ntfTpo^ 
 —oXiTviv, £iTa 'iva 3Xdxi^T£iv, £iT£iTa 'iva irpayna- 
 TEVTTiv, Kai 'iva irpoEGTSiTa. 
 
 • A tranalatiou of this «ong will be found among the smaller Poems, in 
 page 185. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 63 
 
 Kliri ftag w (piXiWrjva, ttw? (ptpeig rriv cKXaSiav 
 Koi Tr]v airapiyogriTov tCjv TovpKOiv rvpavviav \ 
 irwf Toig ^vXa7s fcai vSpiaixovs ical urjhi^Qooecrixiav 
 irai8(ov, nap&ivdJv, yvvaiKU)v avfjKovaTov (pdopuaV, 
 Aev eJaSai eatig a-Koyovoi iKeivoiv tCov 'EAA^vwv 
 t5v i\cv9ipu}v Kal ao(pCiv Koi t&v (piXonaTplSiJiv' 
 Kot'Tios EKEivoi aTiiBvYjaKov 6id rfjv {Xtvdepiav, 
 Kai Tuipa ectii v-jrouKeiadai els Ttroiav rvpavvtav, 
 Koi iroiov yivoi wf icrtTj eurdOtj (puyrtafiivov 
 els rfiv aof^iav, bvvajxrfv^ elg k' oXa i^aKovafiivov ' 
 ■nZg vvv EKaraaritaaTt rf/v (pu>Tivr]v 'EXXd5a. 
 0a6a ! wj eva cKeXeBpov, <l)g ckotsiv^v XanndSav I 
 'OfitXei, (piXraTE TpaiKs, eI-ke iias Trjv alriav: 
 «>) KpvrrTrjs nnortjs );//d5v, Xve rrjv diropiav. 
 
 which is in 
 Romaic. 
 
 fact the present heroic couplet of the 
 
 'O ^lAE'AAHNOS. 
 
 'Vwora-ayKXo-yaXXoi, 'EXXaj, koi 5'xt a'AXot, 
 
 TJrov, (Iff Acre, roaov fisydXr}, 
 
 vvv Se aOXia, Kal ava^ia 
 
 d^' (^ox) apxi(^£v fj diiadia. 
 
 bar' rjji-Kopovaav va rrjv ^vtzvijffrj 
 
 rovT^ eIs to x^^pov Tfjv bSrjyovfft 
 
 avTri (TTEvd^Ei rd tekvu Kpd^Ei, 
 
 crd va irpoKdirrovv bXa Trpoard^si 
 
 Kal t6te eXtti^ei on KEphi^Ei. 
 
 tvpEXv, hiTov '%£t vvv Tt)v ^Xoytc,ti 
 
 Ma' oaris ToXjirjcrri va rrjv ^vrrvijat} 
 
 TtdyzL GTov a6riv %wptj TLva Kpiaiv. 
 
 The above is the commencement of a long ramaiic 
 satire on the Greek priesthood, princes, and gentry ; it 
 is contemptible as a composition, but perhaps curious 
 as a specimen of their rhyme : I have the whole in 
 MS. but this extract will be found sufficient. The 
 Romaic in this composition is so easy as to render a 
 version an insult to a scholar ; but those who do not 
 understand the original will excuse the following bad 
 translation of what is in itself indifferent, 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 A Russian, Englishman, and Frenchman making the 
 tour of Greece, and observing the miserable state of 
 the country, interrogate, in turn, a Greek Patriot, to 
 learn the cause ; afterwards an Archbishop, then 
 a Vlackbey,* a Merchant, and Cogia Bachi or 
 Primate. 
 
 Thou friend of thy country ! to strangers record 
 
 Why bear ye the yoke of the Ottoman Lord? 
 
 Why bear ye these fetters thus tamely display'd, 
 
 The wrongs of the matron, the stripling, and maid ? 
 
 The descendants of Hellas's race are not ye ! 
 
 The patriot sons of the sage and the free. 
 
 Thus sprung from the blood of the noble and brave, 
 
 To vilely exist as the Mussulman slave ! 
 
 Not such were the fathers your annals can boast, 
 
 Who conquer'd and died for the freedom you lost I 
 
 Not such was your land in her earlier hour. 
 
 The day-star of nations in wisdom and power ! 
 
 And still will you thus unresisting increase. 
 
 Oh shameful dishonour ! the darkness of Greece ? 
 
 Then Tell us, beloved Achaean ! reveal 
 
 The cause of the woes which you cannot conceal. 
 
 The reply of the Philellenist I have not translated, 
 as it is no better than the question of the travelling tri- 
 umvirate ; and the above will sufficiently show with 
 what kind of composition the Greeks are now satisfied. 
 I trust I have not much injured the original in the few 
 lines given as faithfully, and as near the 
 
 "Oh, Miss Bailey! unfortunate Miss Bailey!" 
 
 measure of the Romaic, as I could make them. Almost 
 all their pieces, above a song, which aspire to the name 
 of poetry, contain exactly the quantity of feet of 
 
 "A captain bold of Halifax, who lived in country quarters," 
 
 Vlac'xbey, Prince of Wallachia. 
 
 SCENE FROM '0 KA$ENE2. 
 
 TRANSLATED FKOM THE ITALIAN OF OOLDONIf 
 BY SPERIDION VLANTI. 
 
 SKHNH KF'. 
 
 HAATZIAA eIs Tfjv Tzoprav tov xaviov, Kal o\ avu)&ev. 
 
 IIAA. SI Qee . and to irapaOvpi fxov Icpdvi] vd uKohcna 
 Trjv <po)vriv tov dv6p6s nov ' uv avToi cJvai f(5w, Eipdaaa ae 
 Kaipbv vd TOV ^EVTpottidaoi. [EvyaivEi 'ivas SovXos iird 
 TO ipyaaTr/pi.] UaXiKapi-is jxov ge irapaKaXo) ttoios Eivai 
 
 EKeH eU EKEIVOVS TOVS SvtuSeS 'i 
 
 AOYA, T(:i£7f %p)70-t/^ot aV^ptf . "E.vas b Kvp 'Evyivios, 
 h dXXog b Kvp Mapnos NarroXiTdvos, Kal b TpiTog b Kiip 
 KdvTE AiavSpog ^Ap^EVTTjg. 
 
 PA A. ('Ayajuecra eis uvtovs Sev eTvui b <I>Aa//moff, av 
 SlitJS 6ev aXXa^ev ovofia.) 
 
 AEA. Na ^fj {j KaXfi tvxV'ov Kvp 'Evyeviov. [Ilt- 
 vwvTas-] 
 
 OAOI. N« ^77, vji ^fj. 
 
 IIAA. (AvTog Eivai b avSpag nov x^pls ciXXo.) KaXi 
 dvdp(j)Tr£ Ka/xE jxov tyjv x<^P^^ i« A'f (TVVTpo<p£V(rr)g airdvto 
 Etg avTovg Tovg d^Ev-d^Eg, ottov ■S^fAw vd roig rrai^o} fjitav, 
 [Upog TOV dovXov.] 
 
 AOT. 'Opiaiiog aag' (ovvr}6i(riiEvov 6^<p[Kiov tc5v 
 iovXEVToiv.) [TJyv f/UTra^et diro to ipyaaTrjpi tov naiyvi- 
 Sioij.] 
 
 PIA. KapStd, KapStd, KdjxETE KaXi)v Kapiidv, Siv eTvat 
 TirroTEg. [Upbg ti)v BiTTdpiav.] 
 
 BIT. ^Kyib aladdvofiai nOig dnEdaivW {jlvvipxcTai 
 Etg t6v eavrdv Trjg.] 
 
 ['Atto Ta TrapdOvpa tu>v dvTdSwv (palvovTai SXotf 
 b-ov (rrjKovuiVTai dnb to Tpaizi^i <xvy')(^ia^iivoi, 
 hid TOV ^a<pvicnov tov AEdvSpov J3XEir(i)VTas 
 Trjv nXdT^tSa, Kal SiaTl avTog Seixvei irws 
 SeXei vd Trjv (povEvcrjj.J 
 EYr. "Oxh CTadrjTE. 
 
 MAP. MflV Kd[XVETE. . . 
 
 AEA. XiKU), (jjvyE an' iSd. 
 
 IIAA. BorjOEia, (So0£ia. [^EvyEi dnb Tr/V crKaXav, h 
 AiavSpog SeXei vd ttjv aKoXovOtjarj (jie to anaOl, Kal b Eiy. 
 TOV PaaTa.] 
 
 TPA. [Mf 'iva -niaTO fiE (payl Eig fiiav TZET^tTa irtji^ 
 dnb Tb napa&vpi, Kal (^EvyEi Eig Tbv Ka<pEvi.] 
 
 IIAA. [EvyaivEi dnb Tb EpyaaTrjpi tov naiyvtSiot/ 
 TpEX(^VTag, Kal (pcOyEi Eig to X'^^^-] 
 
 EYr. [Me apixaTa Eig to x^'p' ^P°^ Sia(pEVTEVffiv rrjs 
 TlXaT^iSag, ivavTiov tov AEuvSpov, bnu) tjjv /cararpf'xft.] 
 
 MAP. [KvyaivEi Kal avTog ciyd (xiyd dnb Tb ipya- 
 (TTrjpi, Kal fEvyEi XiyiavTag] Rumores fuge. ['Pov)i6pes 
 ^ovyE.]* 
 
 Oi AovXoi. ['Anb to IpyacT^pi dnEpvovv Eig to ydvi^ 
 Kal kXeiovv Ttiv ndpTav.] 
 
 BIT. [MfvEi Eig TOV Ka<p£VE PorjdrjixivT] dnb tov 'Pt- 
 SdX^ov.] 
 
 AEA. A6(7ETE Tdnov' &iXo)pivd c//6a> vd e/iScj els 
 ekeIvo TO xdvi. [Mf TO cnadl Eig to %€* ivavTiov tov 
 KiyEviov.] 
 
 EYr. "Oxh M yivoiTo nori eIgui 'ivag (rXrjpoKapSos 
 EvavTiov Trjg yvvaiKdg cov, Kal syCj ^eXei tZ/v bia^EVTeiaia 
 wg eU Tb vGTEpov a'ljxa. 
 
 AEA. Eoy Kdnvu) opKov nwg ^eXei Tb HETavoKhajjg. 
 [Kivijyq TOV 'Khyhiov fiE to crnadt.] 
 
 EYr. A(v ff£ (poSovjiai. [KaraTpf%£t tov AiavSpoVj 
 Kal TOV (3idZ,£i vd ovpOrj dniaw Toaov, bnov EvpicKiavTag 
 dvoiKTov rb cnrjTi Trjg x'^P^'^'^P'-c^i iiiSaivei slg al/Tb, Kal 
 trdvETat.] 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 Platzida from the Door of the Hotel, and the Others. 
 
 Pla. Oh God! from the window it seemed that I 
 heard my husband's voice. If he is here, I have arrived 
 in time to make him ashamed. [A Servant enters from 
 
 A6yos XnTivtKds, 6noi -SAttvd tlnff ^ciiyt tuTs o-<)y;t'<''«S' 
 
54 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 the Shop.] Boy, tell me, pray, who are in those 
 chambers. 
 
 Serv. Three |entlemen: one, Signer Eugenio; the 
 other, Signer Martio, the Neapolitan ; and the third, 
 my Lord, the Count Leander Ardenti. 
 
 Pla. Flamiiiio is not among these, unless he has 
 changed his name. 
 
 Leander. [t^Vithin drinking.] Long live the good 
 fortune of Signer Eugenio. 
 
 [The whole Company, Long live, &c.] (Literally, 
 Nd ^fi, va ifj, May he live.) 
 
 Pia. without doubt that is my husband. [To the 
 Serv.] My good man, do me the favour to accompany 
 me above to those gentlemen ; I have some business. 
 
 Serv. At your commands. [Aside.] The old office 
 of us waiters. [He goes out of the Gaming- House.] 
 
 Ridolpho. [ To Victoria on another part of the stage.] 
 Courage, courage, be of good cheer, it is nothing. 
 
 Victoria. I feel as if about to die. [Leaning on him 
 at if fainting.] 
 
 [From the windows above all within are seen rising 
 from table in confusion : Leander starts at the 
 sight of Platzida, and appears by his gestures to 
 threaten her life. 
 
 Eugenio. No, stop 
 
 Martio. Don't attempt 
 
 Leander. Away, fly from hence ! 
 
 Pla. Help I Help ! [Flies down the stairs, Leander 
 attempting to follow with his sword, Eugenio hinders 
 him.] 
 
 [Trappola with a plate of meat leaps over the balcony 
 from the window, and runs into the Coffee- House.] 
 
 [Platzida rujis out of the Gaming-House, and takes 
 shelter in the Hotel.] 
 
 [Martio steals softly out of the Gaming-House, and 
 goes off, exclaiming "Rumeres fuge." The Servants 
 from the Gaming-Hov^e enter the Hotel, and shut the 
 door.] 
 
 [Victoria remmns in the Coffee- House assisted by 
 Ridolpho.] 
 
 [Leander sword in hand opposite Eugenio exclaims, 
 Give way — I will enter that hotel.] 
 
 Eugenio. No, that shall never be. You are a scoun- 
 drel to your wife, and I will defend her to the last drop 
 of my blood. 
 
 Leander. I will give you cause to repent this. [Me- 
 nacing with his sword.] 
 
 Eugenio. I fear you not. [He attacks Leander, and 
 makes him give back so much, that finding the door of the 
 dancing girts house open, Leander escapes through, and 
 sofimshes.] * 
 
 AIA'AOrOI OI'KIAKOI. Familiar Dialogttes. 
 
 Ata va ^V'f'U'^flS £va irpayiia. 
 
 Hoy irapaKa\ia, SSceri fxe av 
 
 opi^cre. 
 ^ipere fjLC. 
 Aavclaeri (it. 
 HrjyaivtTt va ^rtrfiatTz. 
 Twpa £i)0Df. 
 
 SL aKpi6i nov Kvpit, KayLtri. 
 
 fie avrriv rflv x^P^v. 
 'Eyw cas irapaKaXa. 
 'Kyu) aas i^ooKi^bJ. 
 
 Eyijy adi to ^vtH Sid ^dpiv. 
 'YiroxptdxTCTt fie eh rdaov. 
 
 To ask for any thing. 
 
 I pray you, give me if you 
 
 please. 
 Bring me. 
 Lend me. 
 Go to seek. 
 Now directly. 
 My dear Sir, do me this 
 
 favour, 
 I entreat you. 
 I conjure you. 
 I ask it of you as a favour. 
 Oblige me so much. 
 
 1 . ^"'V^J'^— fiuishee"— awWardly enough, but it is the literal trans- 
 lation of the Romaic. The original of this comedy of Goidoni's 1 never 
 read but It does not appear one of his best. '' I] Buiriardo" is one of the 
 most lively i but t do not think it has been translated into Romaic : it is 
 rnuch more amusmg than our own " Liar," by Foote. The character of 
 h fiV^ " ''*"*'■ ^'■^*" "'^1 Young Wilding. Goldoni-s comedies amount 
 to filty , some perhaps the best in Europe, and others the worst. His life 
 »h!.^v.T.. "J^' specimens of autobiography, and, as Gibbon has 
 
 l,T..d', 7°''"'?^^"' '^^" ""-^ °f '''^ P'»y^'" The above .scene 
 for »nv wk wh-T^':^'"", ^""^^ "'■^•^•^ "^"^^ '■'>"'*"="■ Romaic idioms, not 
 !^,MrL , ^^J- displays, since there is more done than said, the 
 Sl,Hii hi ?°',!r'"^ °'u"l'^* di'-ections. The original is one of the few 
 fii^fe^ '^ ^ '■''''°"^ "^' buffoonery of the speaking 
 
 A6yia fpwTi/ca, Sj aydnm. Affectionate expressions. 
 
 Zojrj fiov. 
 
 ^AKpiSrj ftov ipvx^- 
 'AyaTrrjTf fiov, aKpiSf fn 
 KapJtV^a fiov. 
 ^Aydirrj fiov. 
 
 Aia va, evxapiOTt'iorig, vd Ka- 
 firjs iTepinoiT](xcs, Kai (piXi- 
 Ka7s Se^iuxres. 
 
 'Eyti Gag elxopicTui. 
 
 Hdi yrwpt^u) xflf'"- 
 
 Has eifiai virdxpeos Kara 
 
 ■r:o\Xd. 
 'Eydi -SAu) TO Kdfiei fierd 
 
 Xapds- 
 Mi oXrjv fiov Tf}v KapSiav. 
 Me KaXt'iv fiov KapSiav. 
 Has elfial viroxpeos. 
 E.ifiai bXoi ISikos caj. 
 ii-ifiai SovXos aas. 
 TaireivdraTos SovXag. 
 EToT£ Kurd rroXXdivyeviKos. 
 HoXXd TTCipdljCaOe. 
 To £%w Sid 'xapdv fiov va 
 
 Tas SoXzijOd). 
 
 Et'ffre evyeviKos Kai £v~pocij- 
 
 yopos. 
 Aiiro elvai npeirov. 
 Tt SiXere ; tl opt^ers ; 
 
 Has irapaKaXGi vd fie fieTa- 
 
 ^Eipi^eade eXtvQtpa. 
 Xwpij irepiTToirices- 
 Has dyazS) k^ bXrjs fiov Kap- 
 
 Sias. 
 Kai iyCj hfidio};. 
 Tifii'iOETe fie Tois T^poaayats 
 
 oag. 
 "E^ere TinoTes vd /ie npoc- 
 
 Tdqere ; 
 Upoard^eTe top SovXov aas. 
 Upocriiivu; Tas npoaayds eras. 
 Mf KdfivETe fieydXrjv Tififjv. 
 ^ddvovv fj TrepiTToirjcres eras 
 
 irapaKaXuj. 
 UpooKwr'/aere eKfiepovs fiov 
 
 Tov apxovTa, tj tov kvoiov. 
 BeSaiwaere Tdv tzHs tov evOv- 
 
 fiovfiai. 
 'BcBaidxTETe tov irSg tov 
 
 dyaird. 
 Aev ^eXot Xeixpei va tov rb 
 
 EtTTW. 
 
 UpoffKvvrjfiara eis Tijv ap- 
 
 X^VTiacnv. 
 UnyaivtTe ifirpoaOd Kai ads 
 
 aKoXovOii). 
 'H^evpo} KaXd to xp^os fiov. 
 ^H^evpu TO eivai fiov. 
 Ml Kdfivere vd evTpeirwfiai 
 
 fie Tals Toaais (piXo<ppoav- 
 
 vais eras. 
 OiXere Xoinbv vd Kdfio) fiiav 
 
 dpxeioTTjTa / 
 'Yrrayw efnrpoaOdSid vd ads 
 
 viraKovau). 
 Aid vd Kdfid) Ttjv TtpoaTayfiv 
 
 aas- 
 Aev dyairGi rdaais Trepiiroirj- 
 
 aes- 
 Aev elfiai oTeXeius rrepiiroi- 
 
 tJTlKOS' 
 
 AvTo elpai to KaXiTepov. 
 T6aov TO KaXirepov. 
 "Exerc XoyovjExereSiKaiov. 
 
 My life. 
 My dear souU 
 My dear. 
 My heart. 
 My love. 
 
 To thank, pay compliments, 
 and testify regard. 
 
 I thank you. 
 
 I return you thanks. 
 
 I am much obliged to you. 
 
 I will do it with pleasure. 
 
 With all my heart. 
 Most cordially. 
 I am obliged to you. 
 I am wholly yours. 
 I am your servant. 
 Your most humble servant. 
 You are too obliging. 
 You take too much trouble. 
 I have a pleasure in serv- 
 ing you. 
 You are obliging and kind. 
 
 That is right. 
 What is your pleasure? 
 What are your commands? 
 I beg you will treat me 
 
 freely. 
 Without ceremony. 
 I love you with all my heart. 
 
 And I the same. 
 
 Honour me with your com- 
 mands. 
 
 Have you any commands 
 for me ? 
 
 Command your servant. 
 
 I wait your commands. 
 
 You do me great honour. 
 
 Not so much ceremony I 
 beg. 
 
 Present my respects to the 
 gentleman, or his lordship. 
 
 Assure him of my remem- 
 brance. 
 
 Assure him of my friend- 
 ship. 
 
 I will not fail to tell him of 
 it. 
 
 My compliments to her 
 ladyship. 
 
 Go before, and I will follow 
 you. 
 
 I well know my duty. 
 
 I know my situation. 
 
 You confound me with so 
 much civility. 
 
 Would you have me then 
 be guilty of an inciviUty ? 
 I go before to obey you. 
 
 To comply with your com- 
 mand. 
 
 I do not like so much cere- 
 mony. 
 
 I am not at all ceremonious. 
 
 This is better. 
 
 So much the better. 
 
 You are in the right. 
 
 Ata vd0e6at(x>ar)s, vd dpvrjO^S 
 vd avyKOTaievariS, Kai r^. 
 
 E7vat dXrjdivbv. e7vai aXtjOe- It is true, it 
 
 CTOTOV. 
 
 To affirm, deny, consent^ 
 ^c. 
 
 very true. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 55 
 
 ^lavaaase'TroyTrjvaXijduav To tell you the truth. 
 
 OvTws, (T^tj civai. Really, it is so. 
 
 Tlolos an^iSdXXu ; Who doubts it ? 
 
 Afv iivai. TTOffcSf an<j>iBo\ia, There is no doubt. 
 
 To :ri<jT£uu, 6iv to iridTtvui. I believe it, I do not believe 
 
 it. 
 Aiyia to vai. I say yes. 
 
 Afyo) TO oxi' I say no. 
 
 Ba'AAw crrtxTina '6ti iivat. I wager it is. 
 BdXAot (jTixniia otl 6fv civai I wager it is not so. 
 
 Nat, fxa TTjv iricfTLv (lov. Yes, by my faith. 
 
 E/f Ti]v crvvdSrjaiv fiov. In conscience. 
 
 Ma Tr}v ''^(jifiv fiov. By my life. 
 
 Nat, <rds ojjlvvo). Yes, I swear it to you. 
 
 Say Suvvoi (Ladv r£^>;;<fv(>f I swear toyou as anhonest 
 
 avdoioiros. man. 
 
 Saf dfivvoi indvoi els t^v I swear to you on my 
 
 Tijii^v fiov. honour. 
 
 TiicrTtvctTt. /ic Believe me. 
 
 'H/nropCivdffdsTb^eSaKiffoj. I can assure you of it. 
 "HOiXa 0a\p GTixrina, 8ti I would lay what bet you 
 
 ^iXcTE 6id TovTo. please on this. 
 
 M/) TvxT] Kai affTcK,ea9e Your jest by chance ? 
 
 (xopaTevcTE ;) 
 'O/xtXttre HI rd o\a cag ; Do you speak seriously ? 
 'Eyw o-«f i^zt.Xw fit Td o\a I speak seriously to you, 
 fiov, Kai ads Xeyu) Trjv and tell you the truth 
 dXrjdeiav. 
 'Eyuj (rds to fieSaiuivo). I assure you of it. 
 
 To inpo<pr)Tev<T£T£, You have guessed it. 
 
 To iiriTEvxeTs. You have hit upon it. 
 
 Da? TTicTevo}. I beheve you. 
 
 Ilpiirec vd ads niaTEvao). I must believe you. 
 Aiiro (5fv tlvai dSi/vuTov. This is not impossible. 
 
 Xdyos- Kai d Xdyog vtov hetu Kai b \6yos Jjv npos tov Oedp, 
 eeov- Kai eeos tJtov b Xdyos- Kai Qios t/v h Xoyos- 
 
 2. Etovtos rJTov els t^v 2. Ovtos ^v iv dpxjl ^rpds 
 
 To Xoiirdv as eJvai us KaXi^v Then it is very well 
 
 &pav. 
 
 KaXd, KuXa. Well, well. 
 
 Afv ctvai dXyjOivov. It is not true. 
 
 "Elvai \p£v6eS' It is false. 
 
 Afv elvai Tivores and avTb. There is nothing of this. 
 E7vat eva xpevSos n'la anaTij. It is a falsehood, sm impos- 
 ture. 
 'Eyw daTei(,onovv {ixopd- I was in joke. 
 
 Teva.) 
 'E'/w TO eJna Sid vd yeXdaia. I said it to laugh. 
 T^ dXTjdciqi. Indeed. 
 
 Mf dpiaei KUTd iroXXd. It pleases me much. 
 
 l^vyKaTavEuu) tls tovto. I agree with you. 
 
 Ai'ow t))v xpTjcpov (iov. I give my assent. 
 
 Afv dvTiariKoixai els tovto. I do not oppose this. 
 Eijiai avn<p(jivoSi « avjKpta- I agree. 
 
 vov. 
 'Eyw Sev ^tXo. I will not. 
 
 'Eyw ivavTidvofiai els tovto. I object to this. 
 
 AidvdavfiSovXevdrjg.vd aTo- To consult, consider, or re- 
 
 XaorOrjs, Tj vd aiTofaaiaTfs, solve, 
 
 Ti rrpiiret vd KdfUiiiiev ; What ought we to do? 
 
 Ti ^d Kdfxujftev ; What shall we do ? 
 
 Tt fie avfiSovXevere vd Kdfiw; What do you advise me to 
 
 do? 
 'Oirolov Tpdrrov SiXofiev fie- What part shall we take ? 
 
 Ta^eipiadrj fifiels ! 
 "Af Kafiufiev ir^rj. Let us do this. 
 
 E?vat KaXiTcpov kyu) vd It is better that I — 
 
 SToOjjre oXlyov. Wait a little. 
 
 Aev ijdeXev elvai KaXWepov Would it not be better 
 
 vd — that — 
 
 'Eyw dya-KovTa KaXirepa. I wish it were better. 
 QiXere Kdfiei KaXirepa av — You will do better if— 
 'A.(prjaeTi fie. Let me go. 
 
 "^Av ^fiovv els Tbv t6itov aas If I were in your place I — 
 
 iyw 
 
 Etfat rd (^{ov. It is the same. 
 
 The reader by the specimens below will be enabled to com- 
 pare the modern with the ancient tongue. 
 
 PARALLEL PASSAGES FROM ST. JOHn's GOSPEL. 
 
 Nfov. AvOevTiKov. 
 
 Ke<pdX. d. Ke<pdX. d. 
 
 L EI2 Ttfv apxfrv rJTov h 1. 'EN apxTI ^v h Xdyos, 
 
 dpxfiv fierd Qeov. 
 
 3. "OAa [rd irpdyjiara] 3. Ilavra 51 avTov iyi- 
 Sid fitaov TOV [Ao'youJ kyivrf- vero * 61 xwp'f avTov iyiveru 
 Kav, Kai x^f'^^ avTov 6ev owe ev, o yiyovev. 
 eyive Kaviva eiri eyive. 
 
 4.^ Els avTov TJTOV ^w?)- 4. 'Ev avri^ (.wtj Jjvy Kai 
 Kai fj^^u)}) TJTOV TO (pais Tdv fj l,u>jj ^v TO <pGis tSv dvdpta- 
 dv9pu>ir(ov. iroiv. 
 
 5. Kai TO (puis els Tfjv 5. Kai rb <pS>s iv ttj aKorlq. 
 aKOTejav ^iyyei, Kai fj aKo- (paivei, 6e ff aKona avrd oh 
 Tela oev to KardXaSe. KaTeXaSev. 
 
 ^ 6. "Eyivev has dvdpwTzos ^- 'Eyivero dvdpwiros dire- 
 a-rteaTaXfiivosaitb tov Qebv, araXfievos irapd Qeov, Svojia 
 TO ovofid TOV ^Iwdvvrjs. avTui 'IwdvvTjs. 
 
 THE INSCRIPTIONS AT ORCHOMENUS, 
 FROM MELETIUS. 
 
 'OPXOMENO^S, Koivuis IlKpnTov, UdXis ttotI irXov- 
 aiwTdTtj Kai laxvpuiTdTTj, Trporepov KaXovjievrj Botwri/cal 
 '^drjpai, els rfjv hnolav t/tov 6 Naoj tSv XapiTiov, els rbv 
 oTioHov eTrXrjpiovov teXtj o'l QrjSaloi, 
 dveaKdq 
 
 ovTivos rb e6a(pos 
 p6e -ore ii-d twv 'AairaXdyKwv. 'K~avrjy(ipiC,ov 
 els avrriv T.rjv HoXiv Td ;^;aptr)7(7ta, tov hiioiov 'Ayuivos 
 evpov iiriypadids iv aTrjXais ev6ov tov KTiadivros Naov iv* 
 dvofiaTTi TTjs QeoTOKov. vtzo tov UpuToaTradapiov AtovTOf, 
 iTTi -wv BaaiXiiov BaaiXeiov, AiovTos, Kai KiavaravTivov 
 e'Xp^cas oCrojj. 'Ev fiiv ttj fiiq koivws. 
 
 " Q'ihe iviKO)v Tbv dySva twv xaf»7"'70'twV' 
 
 TlaXTZiaTris- 
 M^vJS 'A^roAAwvtov ^Avrio^evs d-rrb MaidvSpov, 
 
 Krjpv^. 
 Zd'iXos ZmXov IId<pioS' 
 
 'Faxpwcbs- 
 Novfiijvtos 'NovfiTjviov ^A0ijva7os- 
 
 HoiTjrfis iTriov. 
 ^AfiTjvias Atj/iokXeovs QTjSatos. 
 
 AvXrjTris. 
 AttoXXoSotos 'AttoXXoSStov Kp^s- 
 
 AvXojSos. 
 P66imTos 'PoSi-TTov ^ApyfjoS' 
 
 Kidapiarfis. 
 ^avias ^AttoXXoSotov tov <Paviov AloXevs dffd KOliljS* 
 
 KidapojSbs. 
 ATUi^Tpios HapfieviaKov KaXxv^Svios* 
 
 TpaycoSbs. 
 'liiiiOKpaTTjs 'ApiaTOfiivovs 'FdSioS' 
 
 KdJfxucbs. 
 KaXXlarpaTos 'E^a/cforov QTjSaToS' 
 
 TloiT]Tfis Sarupwv. 
 ^AfiTjvias ATjfioKXiovs Q^jSaloS' 
 
 'Y-KOKOlTiJS. 
 
 Aoioodeos Awpodiov Tapavrivbs- 
 
 HoiTjrfjs Tpayw^twv. 
 Zo^okA^j So^oKAfovj 'A0Jjva(OS. 
 
 'TrroKpiTris. 
 KaSipixos Qeoidpov QrjSatos. 
 
 HOITJTTJS K(l)fl(l)6l(0V. 
 
 ^AXe^avSpos 'ApiVrwvoj 'Adrjva^os- 
 
 'YiroKpiT^S' 
 "ATTaXos ^ArrdXov ''AOrtvatos. 
 O'ihe iviKUiv rbv vrjfivTov dyuva rdv huoifjuav* 
 
 Ila76as avXTjards. 
 AiokXtjs KaXXifi^Sov QrjSaloS' 
 
 UaTSas ^yefidvas. 
 Sr-parTvos Evvikov QrjSa'ios. 
 
 "AvSpas AvXrjTds. 
 AiokXtjs KaXXifi^Sov Qrj^aioS' 
 
 "AvSpas rjyefidvas. 
 'TdSiirnos 'ToSinirov 'Apyetoj. 
 
 Tpaywi^of. 
 
 'IliTTOKpdTTJS '' ApiCTOflfVOVS 'TdSlOS' 
 
 KwfiijiSbs. 
 KaXXlarpaTOS E^aKiarov QTjBalos- 
 
 Td (-iviKia. 
 KiafiioSiCiv Hoitjttis. 
 ^AXi^avSpos 'Apiariuvos ' A9Tjva7os-'^ 
 
56 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 " MvafftVoj dpx'^v'^i aydJvoOcTiovToi rbv^ 
 XapiTciaiov, dapiocTui irdiTwv 8j TvfiR fviKwnav to. 
 XapiTciTia. 
 
 JlaXmYKTai. 
 i>i\tvos <I>tXn'W 'AOdveios. 
 
 Kdpov^. 
 Etpu>6as 'Z(j)KpdTios QelSeios. 
 
 TloeiTug. 
 Mijffrwp Mri<rropug $wKato)ff. 
 
 Kpdruv KAtwvof QeiSeios. 
 
 AvXetra?. 
 ncpiyevcii 'Hpa(cX££i5ao Kov^iKrivbg. 
 
 AvSaevSbi. 
 Aa/i)7V£rof TXavKo) "Apytoff. 
 
 Kt0apt(TTaj. 
 Adiiarpos 'A^aXww AjoXevj a7r3 Moup/voj. 
 
 TpayaevSos- 
 'Acr<cXafftd(5wpoj noufltao TapuvrivSf. 
 
 fiiKdaTf/aros <I>tXocrrparw estStto?- 
 
 Ta iirniKEia Ku^aev^oj. 
 
 Eijap;!^oj 'Hpo^drw Kopwveus- 
 
 'Ev aXXtij At9([). 
 
 "Mi'ptxos no^^'^P'^'''<"^S ' Iapu)VD/;(Oj ^loyjrwvoj avhptaai 
 XopayclffavTES viKdaavreg Sioviaov avidrjKav ri^wvog 
 e[px°vros avXiovTos /cXfoj (fSovTOi a^Kiffdivios. 
 
 'Ev irepcf) At9w. 
 
 " -^vapxw ap;;^ovro?, //eivdj ^u\ovd[(^, apx' • • • w? Eu- 
 
 6wAt apxi^^dixu) (pwKua of aTrihwKa diro ras 
 
 aovyypacpo) -riSa twv iroXefidoxf^v ki) tG)v KaroTTTawv 
 dveXoftevos rag covyypa<pu)i rds Kiiiivas irdp elcppova, 
 
 KTl (piSiav KTj Tza acKXe'iv kt] Tiix6iiei6ov <po)K£ias, 
 
 Ktj dajxoTeXeTv Xvai^d/iu), kti Siovhaov Ka6i(To5u>u) xvP<^V£ia 
 Kar TO \pa^pi(Tfia rw idjicd. 
 
 The following is the prospectus of a translation of 
 Anacharsis into Romaic, by my Romaic master, Mar- 
 marotouri, who wished to publish it in England. 
 
 EIAH'SIS TYnorPA.I.IKH\ 
 Jlpbs Toiis IV (piXoytvEis Kai ^iXiXXr/vaj. 
 "0201 eh ^iS\ia Travrobaiid evrpvipCJaiv, ri^evpovv 
 Tidaov aval to %p;7cr£//ov rrn 'larropias, 6i* avTrjg yup 
 f^evpicKCTai rt rrXiov netiaKpvciifvr) ira'XaidTTjg, Kai &ew- 
 povvrai u)g ev KarduTCo^ i^dr}, Trpd^eig KaiSioinrjcreig ttoXXcDv 
 Kai ^ia<p6p(i)v 'E0VWV Ka't Tevwv wv ti]v jxvfinriv 6it<Twaaro 
 Kai Siaaujcrei f) 'IcTopiKT] Aii^yrjais dg alUva tov airavTa. 
 
 Mia TiToia ^EiiKTTrjfit] tivai EvairdKTrjTog, Kai iv TavrS 
 iofiXi^T], rj KpeiTTov eiixtiv avayKuia ' diari Xoiizdv fine'tg 
 fidvoi vd rrfv VGTEpovjxEQa, fit] rj^evpovTeg ovtc rag dpxdg 
 T&v Ylpoyovujv fiag, -oBtv Trdre (cat -wj tvpidrjaav tig Tag 
 iraTpihag fiag^ ovtc Ta ijdrj, Ta KaropOdfiaTa Kai Triv hoi 
 Krjaiv T(j)v ,* "Av fpcoriyffcu/iev Tohg 'AXXoytre??, rj^tvpovv 
 va flag Swcrovv o'x'foi'or Joropt/cwf Ttjv ap^^v Kai TfjV 
 TTpooSov riov Trpoy6vo)v [lag, (iXXa Kai TOToypacpiKiog /xag 
 ?i£i)(yovv Tag Oiaeig rwv UaToibuv jiag, Kai oioid x^'P"" 
 yioyoi yivoiievoi jxe Toiig yciaypacpiKovg rwv HivaKag, nag 
 \iyovv, ISui elvai ai 'AOfivai, e5u) rj 2— apr/j, EKtl a'l QfjBai, 
 Tocra crdiia rt fxiXia aTrfx^' h /^'f" 'E-apx'a aTrb ttjv 
 dWrjv. ToCrof wKoSdfujffe r/jv [liav ird\iv, iKe7vog Tf}V 
 aXKrjv, Kai r|. JJooaiTi av fptor^crw^tv avTovg Tovg _//») 
 'F.\\rivag x^'P^y'^yo'^'j l^'^S, TT6dev irrapaKiv^drjaav vd 
 i^epevvijaovv dpx^i touov -aXaidg, avuTrocrroXwy udg 
 d-KOKpivovrai //£ aiiTOvg TOvg \6yovg. " Kadiog b Ik 'Lkv 
 diag 'Avaxapcf) ^v 6(v k-epuip'X^tTo rd i:avtv<po6avva 
 SKeiva KXijiaTa Trig 'EXXa^of, dv hh iu<i>opelTo Td d^iw- 
 jxaTa, Ta rfir) Kai Tovg Nofiovg rwv 'EXa^vcuv, i^de\c ndvTf 
 Y-Kudrtg Kai rS ovojia Kai rd -payjia ' ovtio kui b fjiifTcpog 
 ^laTobg, av iev IfxdvQave Ta tov 'iTtiroKpaTovg, 6iv iSvvaTo 
 vd 7rpoxwp?7(T?7 dg rjjv Texvrjv tov. "Av b ev fifitv Nofjio- 
 diTTjg (5fv i^ETate Ta tov Yo^wvog^AvKovpyov. Kat UiTTaKov, 
 hlv iSvvaro vd pvO/xijiTp Kai vd KoXiEpyfiai) rd tjdri rwv 
 'OnoyEvuJv TOV ' dv b ^P^/rwp bfv diir]vdi^£T:> Tdg £V(t>pa8£iag 
 Kai Tovg x«pf£»'rt<7//oi'f rov AjjfioaOivovg, Sev hepyovoEv 
 tig rdg xpvxdg rwv cLKpoariov rov ' "Av 6 Nfof 'Ava- 
 Xapctf; b Kvpiog ^A66dg BapdoXofialog Sev dvEyivwcKe ui 
 H£yd\r]v i-ifiori'iv Kai aKt'^iv Toiig irXfov tyKoiTovg "Evy- 
 
 Svvdpxo) dpxovrog, [lEivbg dXaXKOjiEviw F aovwv, -oU- IVP'^^^'S rt^v ' KAAfivwv, i^Epswiav avrovg Kara oaaog em 
 K-Xttos rafiiag aTTehwKE aJgwXu doxeidyioi (poiKEu dirb Tag J^Kovra Sv(o err), oev ijOE^EV e^vcpdvi} roxjTr,v ri)v Trtpj 
 aovyypa<pG) to KaTa\v-ov Kdr rb ^^d^iafia rw ^d//w, EXX>7vwv 'laropiav^ rov, 'ijTig Jl£pif,yriaig tov Nfou 
 • ' - . ^ , , V ,^(hi\ov KTl I ^ AvaxdoGEwg -ap' ahrov izpoauivonacdrj^ KaX £ig b\ag Tag 
 
 Ei/pw:rat/cds AiakeKTOvg nETEyXoirricdri.' Kai iv Ivi 
 Xdyw, 01 Nfwrtpot, dv cev 'i-nEpvav Sia bhrjyovg Tovg 
 Upoyovovg /xag, tjOeXav iau)g TTEpKpipuurai ^aTaiuig jiixpi 
 rov vDv. Aiira civ Eivai Aoyia kvdvoiauixivov Sid rd 
 (piXoyeveg TpaiKov, Eivai Si (piXaXijOovg repiMavov, '6arig 
 ifXETacppacTe Tbv ISiov 'Avaxapf'*' d~b rov TaXXiKOv dg rd 
 TEpfxaviKov. 
 
 ''Av Xoiirbv Kat fjl'-E'ig ^eXo^EV vd ^£0£^w/i£v Trig yvwcTEwg 
 rwv Xa//7rpwv KaTopQiajxdrwv ottou EKUfiav o'l ^avnaarot 
 IkeIvoi Yipo-ndropEg rifiHiv, dv IniQvfiwnEV vd ixdOwfiEv r^v 
 ■apoooov Kai av^rjciv rwv Eig rug Tfx^aj Kai ^'E.-iriffTfinag 
 Kai £tg KadE dXXo ElSog jxaQr'idEwg. dv ex^/^fv 7r£ptfpy£<av 
 vd yv(j)pi(ru)ixEv ttoOev KarayonEOu, Kai hiroiovg ^avfiaarovg 
 Kai fiEydXovg dvcpas, eI kui irpoyorovg /;/iWv, <pEv, $//£?j 
 6iv yvwpt^o^Ev, Eis Kaipiv birov oi 'AXXoyevEls Savfid^ovcriv 
 avTois, Kat ws Ttarepas itavToiaaovv ixaGijaEwS aeSovTai, 
 as (jvvSpdfiwiiEv airavTEg lipoOvfiwg eIs ri)v ekSouiv tov 
 ^avfjLaaiov tovtov avyypdymarog rov Nfov 'Avaxapffcws. 
 
 'H^£iJ oi'v o'l VTToyEypanfievoi SiXofiev eKTeXeGEi wpodv- 
 //w? T)]v iJiErd(ppa(Tiv tov BiSXiov fil tjjv Kurd rb hvvarbv 
 tjixlv KaXriv (ppdciv Tt]5 vvv Kad {jfids bftiXiag, Kat ekSovtes 
 TovTo Eis TVTTOv, ^fXo/^fv TO KaXXw-icTEi /if Tovs Ttwypa- 
 (l>iKovS IlivaKaS fie d-Xds ' Pii)[jia'iKds Xi^Eis iyKExapayfii- 
 vovg £tS eciKdnas ypdfifiara, -^poariOevTEg bri dXXo 
 'Xprjainov Kat dpyidSiov Eis rfjv 'laropiav. 
 
 'OXov TO (jvyypanfia ^eXei yevei eis Tdfiovs SuSexa 
 Kara liijiTjaiv r^s 'iTaXiKrjS eKSdcEUJS. 'H riijtfi bXov rov 
 HvyypdufxaTOi Eivai (piopivia SEKai^rj Trjs BiivvTjs Sid rijv 
 vpotjQriKTjv rwv yEuyypafiKoiv TiivaKwv. 'O (j)iXoy£vfig vv 
 Y.vvSpofirjrriS -pinei ra TzXT]p6<7r) eIs KddE Td//ov (piopivi 
 eva Kat KapavTUVia eikoci rrjs Bievvrjs, Kat rovro x<^P'5 
 Kafijxiav -irpdSoaiv, dXX' Evdvs hirov ■SfXet rw vapaSodp i 
 T<5//oj ruTrw/tfvos Kat OEiiivos. 
 
 dveXdfiEVog rag aovyypacpcjg Tag KifxEvag Trap aujfiAOv, Kr] 
 ev(f>pova <pu}Keag. K>) -dp Snovvaiov KacpiaoCwpu) x'7Pwv£o, 
 Kri XvdiSaftov SauoriXiog ireSa rwv :roA£/iapxwi', act) rwv 
 icaroTrrawv. 
 
 'Apxovrof fv epxoiJt£vb &vvdpxw, fiEvbg 'AXaXKo/zEvtw, fv 
 ^f PfXar/r? MEvoiTao 'Ap^EXdd} jxEivbg -rrpaTw. 'OfioXoyd 
 EtJ^wXu F eXarir]. o Kri Tjj ttoXi tpxoj.i£vi(jiiv. 'EirEiSfi 
 KEKOfxidTrj EvSwXoj Trap rrjg -rroXiog to SdvEiov d-av kot 
 Tdg bfioXoyiag rdg TEdiaag -Svvapxw dpxovrog, jxEivbg 
 $£iXov9iu), Ki] ovT 6(p£iXeTT] avTtJj ETi ovOev Trap rdv -oXiv, 
 aXX' ttTTfxt rdvra irept -navTog, Kn d~oSES6avQi rfj ttoXi to 
 exovTEg rdg bfioXoyiag, eI filv ttotI SESofiivov 'x_p6vov 
 EvSiiiXv em vofiiag F eti a-ETTapa (iovEcai aovv 'iTzirvg Sia 
 Karirjg Fi KaTi -poSdrvg covv /;/vf x^'^''?? doxl rw XP^^'^ 
 b eviavrbg b fiErd ^vvap)(ov dpxovra epxonEvivg dnoypa- 
 ^eaOr] Se EiiSwXov /far' iviavTbv EKaarov irdp tov Ta/iiav 
 Kj] rov v(5/iwv dv rdrE KavjxaTa rwv TrpoSarwv, Kfj rwv 
 ftyStv, Kri rwv (iovwv, kj] rwv 'iTnrwv, Kr] Kariva dcaixaiwv 
 &iKT] TO TrXEtdog /ieI dtToypd(pE<ro woe TtXiova rwv yEypaji- 
 
 /ifvwv fv rjj covyx^pdci rj SEKarig rj Tb evvojxiov 
 
 EvSwXov 6<p£iX£i Xig riov ep^OfJisviuyv dpyovpioi 
 
 TETTapaKOvra EuSwXu Kad^ EKaarov eviavrbv, 
 
 K^ t6kov (peperu) Spaxf^dg rag fivdg eKuarag 
 
 Kara fielva rov kt) EixirpaKTog earu) rov ep^o- 
 
 fiiviov Kat rd i^rjg." 
 
 'Ev aXXotj Aidoig, 
 
 ^'AvoSiopa (ri)V(bopov x«<'p£-" NOKTES. "KaXXtVtrov 
 a/xipdpixog, Kat dXXai." 'Ev ovSe (lia 'Eniypa<p9j iSov 
 t6vov, tj uvEVfia, a Se fifiElg hnoypdcpoiiEV, ol iraXaiot 
 npoaiypafov. Kat rd f|^j. 
 
Canto III. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 57 
 
 'E/J^w/ifvot Kal evSalfxoves 6ia6iii)oiTe 'E\Xijv(jii> HaiSes. 
 Trji vjxtTipai aydnrji i^jjprrjuivoi 
 
 ^IwdvvTjs Map//aporoupj?j. 
 
 Arjiirj-pios BeviipT]^. 
 
 S7rupj(5u)V ILpsSiTos. 
 'Ev Tpieartu), rg npdrj] 'O/crwdpi'ou, 1799. 
 
 THE LORD'S PRAYER IN ROMAIC. 
 SI IIATE'PA MAS b irov e7aai di Tovi oiipavovs, ug 
 Ayiaffdrj to ovofid aov. "^Ai eXdrj ^ (SaaiXeia gov. '"Aj 
 yvvT] rb diXrjfid aov, Ka0u)s as rov ovpavbv, 'ir^ij Kal els 
 rrjv yi^v. Td xl^uojjiifias to KudrjiJLcpivbv-, 66s f^as to aajfispov. 
 Kal avyxfi!)p^a£ lJ^<^i Ta xpf>7 fi^^Sj KaOihs teal ifiUs <n;y%cj>- 
 potfjicv Tovs Kp£o<peL\iTas //aj. Kal jxiiv yuaj (pipeis eI; 
 ireipacTfJidv, a\Xd eXevdipiocri jias aTrb tov -ovrjpbv. "Oti 
 iiiK/jaov elvai {} iSaaiXeia^ (5f j^ bvvajxis, Kal >/ od^a, els tovs 
 alufaS' 'A.fii]v, 
 
 IN GREEK. 
 IlA'TEP 'ifxdv h Iv tqIs ohpavols, ayiaaOriTu) r3 Svo^d 
 cov. ^h'.XdiToi fj fiaaiXeia aov ' yevrjOi'jTOO to -5fA?;/^a crov, 
 wj fv ovpavoi, Kal iirl rfjj yns. Tbv apTov finuJv tov 
 iniovffiov 6bs i}}uv arjuepov. Kal dcpes rjixlv rd d(peiXfinaTa 
 flfioJii, ojs Kal i%uls d<pienev toIs d<peiXiTuis {jj-iiov. Kal 
 fih elaeviyKTjs /;//aj els Treipaaiibv, dXXd pvaai fiiias d~b 
 TOV Tvoinjpov. "Otl aov iaTiv ij ^aai,Xeia^ koX fi Svvafiis, 
 Kul }/ 66^a, els TOVS alSivas- ^Ajxtjv 
 
 CANTO HI. 
 1. 
 
 In ^^ pride ofplace'^ here last the eagle flew. 
 
 Stanza xviii. line 5. 
 " Pride of place" is a term of falconry, and means 
 the highest pitch of flight. — See Macbeth, &c. 
 
 " An Eagle towering in his pride of pla(^ 
 Was by a mousing Owl hawked at and killed." 
 
 2. 
 Such as Harmodius drew on Athens^ tyrant lord. 
 Stanza xx. line 9. 
 See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogiton. 
 — The best English translation is in Bland's Anthology, 
 by Mr. Denman. 
 
 " With myrtle my sword will I wreathe," &c. 
 
 3. 
 
 And all went merry as a marriage-bell. 
 
 Stanza xxi. line 8. 
 On the night previous to the action, it is said that a 
 ball was given at Brussels. 
 
 4,5. 
 And Evan\ Doncd(Tsfame rings in each clansman^s ears. 
 Stanza xxvi. line 9. 
 Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the 
 " gentle Lochiel" of the "forty-five." 
 6. 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. 
 Stanza xxvii. line 1. 
 The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant 
 of the " forest of Ardennes," famous in Boiardo's Or- 
 lando, and immortal in Shakspeare's "As you like it." 
 It is also celebrated in Tacitus as being the spot of suc- 
 cessful defence by the Germans against the Roman 
 encroachments. — I have ventured to adopt the name 
 connected with nobler associations than those of mere 
 slaughter. 
 
 / turned from all she brought to those she could not bring. 
 Stanza xxx. line 9. 
 My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field seemed 
 intelligent and accurate. The place where Major 
 Howard fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees 
 (there was a third cut down, or shivered in the battle) 
 which stand a few yards from each other at a pathway's 
 side. — Beneath these he died and was buried. The 
 body has since been removed to England. A small 
 hollow for the present marks where it lay, but will pro- 
 bably soon be effaced ; the plough has been upon it, 
 and the grain is. 
 
 H 
 
 After pointing out fhe different spots where Picton 
 and other gallant men had perished, the guide said, 
 '• here INIajor Howard lay : I v\ as near him when wound- 
 ed." I told him my relationship, and he seemed then 
 still more anxious to point out the particular spot and 
 circumstances. The place is one of the most marked 
 in the field from the peculiarity of the two trees above 
 mentioned. 
 
 I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing 
 it with my recollection of similar scenes.. As a plain, 
 Waterloo seems marked out {w the scene of some great 
 action, though this may be mere imagination : I have 
 viewed with attention those of Plaiea, Troy, Mantinea, 
 Leuctra, Chajronea, and Marathon ; and the fi*ld around 
 Mont St. Jean and Hougoumont appears to want lit lie 
 but a better cause, and that undefinable but impressive 
 halo which the lapse of ages throws around a celebrated 
 spot, to vie in interest with any or all of these, except 
 perhaps the last mentioned. 
 8. 
 Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore. 
 
 Stanza xxxiv. hue 6. 
 The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake Asphaltes 
 were said to be fair without, and within ashes. — Vide 
 Tacitus, Histor. 1. 5, 7. 
 
 For sceptred cynics earth were Jar too wide a den. 
 Stanza xU. Ime last. 
 The great error of Napoleon, " if we have writ our 
 annals true," was a continued obtrusion on mankind 
 of his want of all community of feelins for or with them ; 
 perhaps more offensive to human vanity than the active 
 cruelty of more trembhng and suspicious tyranny. 
 
 Such were his speeches to p^iblic assemblies as well 
 as individuals ; and the single expression which he is 
 said to have used on returning to Paris after the Rus- 
 sian winter had destroyed his army, rubbing his hands 
 over a fire, "This is pleasanter than Moscow," would 
 probably alienate more favour from his cause than the 
 destruction and reverses which led to the remark. 
 10. 
 What want these outlaws conquerors should have. 
 Stanza xlviii. line 6. 
 
 " What wants tliat knave 
 That a king should have ?' ' 
 
 was King James's question on meeting Johnny Arm- 
 stronir and his followers in full accoutrements. — See the 
 Ballad. 
 
 11. 
 The castled crag of Drachenfels. 
 
 Page 22, verse 1. 
 
 The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest 
 summit of " the Seven Mountains," over the Rhine 
 banks : it is in ruins, and connected with some singu- 
 lar traditions : it is the first in view on the road from 
 Bonn, but on the opposite side of the river; on this 
 bank, nearly facing it, are the remains of another, called 
 the Jew's castle, and a large cross commemorative of 
 the murder of a chief by his brother: the number of 
 castles and cities along the course of the Rhine on both 
 sides is very great, and their situations remarkably 
 beautiful. 
 
 12. 
 
 The whiteness of his soul, and thus men oW him wept. 
 Stanza Ivii. line last. 
 
 The monument of the young and lamented General 
 Marceau (killed by a rifle-ball at Alterkirchen on the 
 last day of the fourth year of the French republic) still 
 remains as described. 
 
 The inscriptions on his monument are rather too 
 long, and not required : his name was enough ; France 
 ado"red, and her enemies admired ; both wept over him.. 
 — His funeral was attended by the generals and detach- 
 ments from both armies. In the same grave General 
 Hoche is interred, a gallant man also in every sense of 
 the word ; but though he distinguished himself greatly 
 in battle, he had not the good fortune to die there : his 
 death was attended by suspicions of poison. 
 
 A separate monument (not over his body, which is 
 buried by Marceau's) is raised for him near Andernach. 
 opposite to which one ©f his most memorable exploits 
 
58 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 was performed, in throwing a bridge to an island on the 
 Rhine. Tlie shape and style are different from that 
 of Marceau's, and the inscription more simple tind 
 pleasing. 
 
 « The Army of the Sambre and Mouse 
 
 " to its Commander in Chief 
 
 « Hoche." 
 
 This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was esteemed 
 
 among the first of France's earlier generals before 
 
 Buonaparte monopolized her triumphs. He was the 
 
 destined commander of the invading army of Ireland. 
 
 13. 
 
 Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shattered wall. 
 
 Stanza Iviii. hne 1. 
 Ehrenbreitstein, i. e. " the broad stone of Honour," 
 one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dis- 
 mantled and blown up by the French at the truce of 
 Leoben. — It had been and could only be reduced by 
 famine or treachery. It yielded to the former, aided 
 by surprise. After having seen the fortifications of 
 Gibraltar and Malta, it did not much strike by compari- 
 son, but the situation is commanding. General Marceau 
 besieged it in vain for some time, and I slept in a room 
 where I was shown a window at which he is said to 
 have been standing observing the progress of the siege 
 by moonhght, when a ball struck immediately below it. 
 
 14. 
 Unsepulchred they roanCd^ and shriel^d each wandering 
 ghost. 
 
 Stanza bdii. line last. 
 The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones 
 diminished to a small number by the Burgundian legion 
 in the service of France, who anxiously eff"aced this 
 record of their ancestors' less successful invasions. A 
 few still remain, notwithstanding the pains taken by 
 the Burgundians for ages, (all who passed that way 
 removing a bone to their own country,) and the less 
 justifiable larcenies of the Swiss postillions, who carried 
 them off to sell for knife-handles, a purpose for which 
 the whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of years had 
 rendered them in great request. Of these relics I 
 ventured to bring away as much as may have made a 
 quarter of a hero, for which the sole excuse is, that if 
 I had not, the next passer by might have perverted 
 them to worse uses than the careful preservation which 
 I intend for them. 
 
 15. 
 Leveled Aventicum hath strewed her subject lands. 
 
 Stanza kv. line last. 
 Aventicum (near Morat) was the Roman capital of 
 Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. 
 
 16. 
 Aiid held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust. 
 Stanza ixvi. line last. 
 JuUa Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon 
 after a vain endeavour to save her father, condemned 
 to dea.th as a traitor by Aulus Caecina. Her epitaph 
 was discovered many years ago ; — it is thus — 
 Julia Alpinula 
 Hie jaceo 
 Infelicis patris, infelix proles 
 Deae Avenliae Sacerdos ; 
 Exorare patris necem non potui 
 Male mori in fatis ille erat. 
 Vixiannos XXIII. 
 I know of no human composition so affecting as this, 
 nor a history of deeper interest. These are the names 
 and actions which ought not to perish, and to which we 
 turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from the 
 ■wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass of 
 conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused 
 for a time to a false and feverish sympathy, from whence 
 It recurs at length with all the nausea consequent on 
 such intoxication. 
 
 17. 
 In the sun^sface, like yonder Alpine snow. 
 
 Stanza Ixvii. line 8. 
 This is written in the eye ol Mont Blanc, (June 3d, 
 1816,) which even at this distance dazzles mine. 
 (July 20th.) I this day observed for some time the 
 
 distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont Argentiere 
 in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in my 
 boat ; the distance of these mountains from their mirror 
 is 60 miles. 
 
 18. 
 By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone. 
 
 Stanza Ixxi. line 3. 
 
 The colour of the Rhone at Geneva is blue^ to a 
 depth of tint which I have never seen equalled in water, 
 salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archi- 
 pelago. 
 
 19. 
 
 Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possest. 
 Stanza Ixxix. line last. 
 
 This refers to the account in his "Confessions" of 
 his passion for the Comtesse d'Houdetot, (the mistress 
 of St. Lambert,) and his long walk every morning for 
 the sake of the single kiss which was the common salu- 
 tation of French acquaintance. — Rousseau's description 
 of his feelings on this occasion may be considered as 
 the most passionate, yet not impure description and 
 expression of love that ever kindled into words ; which 
 after all must be felt, from their very force, to be inade- 
 quate to the delineation — a painting can give no suffi- 
 cient idea of the ocean. 
 
 20. 
 Of earth-d'er gazing mountains. 
 
 Stanza xci. line S. 
 
 It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful and 
 impressive doctrines of the divine Founder of Chris- 
 tianity were deUvered, not in the Temple, but on the 
 Mount. 
 
 To wave the question of devotion, and turn to human 
 eloquence, — the most effectual and splended specimens 
 were not pronounced within walls. Demosthenes ad- 
 dressed the public and popular assemblies. Cicero 
 spoke in the forum. That this added to their effect on 
 the mind of both orator and hearers, may be con- 
 ceived from the difference between what we read of 
 the emotions then and there produced, and those we 
 ourselves experience in the perusal in the closet. It 
 is one thing to read the Iliad at Sigaeum and on the 
 tumuli, or by the springs with Mount Ida above, and 
 the plain and rivers and Archipelago around you ; and 
 another to trim your taper over it in a snug library — 
 this I know. 
 
 Were the early and rapid progress of what is called 
 Methodism to be attributed to any cause beyond the 
 enthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines 
 ( the truth or error of which I presume neither to canvass 
 nor to question) I should venture to ascribe it to the prac- 
 tice of preaching in ihe fields, and the unstudied and 
 extemporaneous effusions of its teachers. 
 
 The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least 
 in the lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore im- 
 pressive, are accustomed to repeat their prescribed 
 orisons and prayers wherever they may be at the stated 
 hours — of course frequently in the open air, kneeling 
 upon a hght mat, (which they carry for the purpose of 
 a bed or cushion as required :) the ceremony lasts some 
 minutes, during which they are totally absorbed, and 
 only living in their supplication: nothing can disturb 
 them. On me the simple and entire sincerity of these 
 men, and the spirit which appeared to be within and 
 upon them, made a far greater impression than any 
 general rite which was ever performed in places of 
 worship, of which I have seen those of almost every 
 persuasion under the sun; including most of our own 
 sectaries, and the Greek,the CathoHc, the Armenian, the 
 Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Mahometan. Many of 
 the negroes, of whom there are numbers in the Turkish 
 empire, are idolaters, and have free exercise of their 
 belief and its rites : some of these I had a distant view 
 of at Patras, and from what I could make out of them, 
 they appeared to be of a truly Pagan description, and 
 not very agreeable to a spectator. 
 21. 
 
 The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh night. 
 Stanza xcii. line 1. 
 
 The thunder-storms to which these lines refer oc- 
 curred on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 69 
 
 seen among the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari 
 , several more terrible, but none more beautiful. 
 
 22. 
 And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrougJU. 
 
 Stanza xcLx. line 5. 
 
 Rousseau's Heloise, Lettre 17, part 4, note. « Ces 
 montagnes sont si hautes qu'une demi-heure apr^s le 
 soleil couche, leurs sommets sont encore eclaires de 
 ses rayons ; dont le rouge forme sur ces cimes blanches 
 une belle couleur de rose qu'on apperfoit de fort loin." 
 
 This applies more particularly to the heights over 
 Meillerie. 
 
 "J'allai k Vevay loger a la Clef, et pendant deux 
 jours que j'y restai sans voir personne, je pris pour cette 
 ville un amour qui m'a suivi dans tous mes voyages, et 
 qui m'y a fait etablir enfin les heros de men roman. 
 Je dirois volontiers h ceux qui ont du gout et qui sont 
 sensibles ; allez a Vevai — visitez le pays, examinez les 
 sites, promenez-vous sur le lac, et dites si la Nature n'a 
 pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, 
 et pour un St. Preux ; mais ne les y cherchez pas." 
 Les Confessions, livre iv. page 306, Lyons ed. 1796, 
 
 In July, 1816, I made a voyage round the Lake of 
 Geneva; and as far as my own observations have led 
 me, in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey of all 
 the scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in his " Heloise," 
 I can safely say, that in this there is no exaggeration. 
 It would be difficult to see Clarens, (with the scenes 
 around it, Vevay, Chillon, Boveret, St. Gingo, Meillerie, 
 Eivan, and the entrances of the Rhone,) without being 
 forcibly struck with its peculiar adaptation to the per- 
 sons and events with which it has been peopled. But 
 this is not all : the feeling with which all around Clarens, 
 and the opposite rocks of Meillerie, is invested, is of a 
 still higher and more comprehensive order than the mere 
 sympathy with individual passion ; it is a sense of the 
 existence of love in its most extended and sublime ca- 
 pacity, and of our own participation of its good and of 
 Its glory : it is the great principle of the universe, which 
 is there more condensed, but not less manifested; 
 and of which, though knowing ourselves a part, we 
 lose our individuality, and mingle in the beauty of the 
 whole. 
 
 If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the same 
 associations would not less have belonged to such scenes. 
 He has added to the interest of his works by their adop- 
 tion ; he has shown his sense of their beauty by the 
 selection ; but they have done that for him which no 
 human being could do for them. 
 
 I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be) to sail 
 from Meillerie (where we landed for some time) to St. 
 Gingo during a lake storm, which added to the magnifi- 
 cence of all around, altliough occasionally accompanied 
 by danger to the boat, v.'hich was small and overloaded. 
 It was over this very part of the lake that Rousseau has 
 driven the boat of St. Preux and Madame Wolmar to 
 Meillerie for shelter during a tempest. 
 
 On gaining the shore at St. Gingo, I found that the 
 wind had been sufficiently strong to blow down some 
 fine old chestnut-trees on the lower part of the moun- 
 tains. 
 
 On the opposite height of Clarens is a chateau. The 
 hills are covered with vineyards, and interspersed with 
 some small but beautiful woods ; one of these was 
 named the " Bosquet de Julie," and it is remarkable 
 that, though long ago cut down by the brutal selfishness 
 of the monks of St. Bernard, (to whom the land apper- 
 tained,) that the ground might be enclosed into a 
 vineyard for the miserable drones of an execrable 
 superstition, the inhabitants of Clarens still point out the 
 spot where its trees stood, calling it by the name which 
 consecrated and survived them. 
 
 Rousseau has not been particularly fortunate in the 
 preservation of the " local habitations" he has given to 
 *' airy nothings." The Prior of Great St. Bernard has 
 cut down some of his woods for the sake of a few casks 
 of wine, and Buonaparte has levelled part of the rocks 
 of Meillerie in improving the road to the Simplon. The 
 road is an excellent one, but I cannot quite agree with 
 a remark which I heard made, that " La route vaut 
 mieux quo les souvenirs." 
 
 Lausantie ! and Ferney .' ye have been the abodes. 
 Stanza cv. line I. 
 Voltaire and Gibbon. 
 
 24. 
 Had Jnotjiled my mind^ which this itself subdued. 
 Stanza cxiii. line last. 
 
 ■ " If it be thus. 
 
 For Banquo's issue have IJiled my miud." 
 
 Macbeth. 
 
 25. 
 OW otliers' giiefs that so-me sincerely grieve. 
 
 Stanza cxiv. line 7. 
 It is said by Rochefoucault that '* there is always 
 something in the misfortunes of men's best friends not 
 displeasing to them." 
 
 NOTES TO CANTO IV. 
 1. 
 
 I stood in Venice mi (lie Bridge of Sighs; 
 A palace and a prison on each hand. 
 
 Stanza i. lines 1 and 2. 
 The communication between the ducal palace and 
 the prisons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or covered 
 gallery, high above the water, and divided by a stone 
 wall into a passage and a cell. The state dungeons, 
 called " pozzi," or wells, were sunk in the thick walls of 
 the palace ; and the prisoner when taken out to die was 
 conducted across the gallery to the other side, and 
 being then led back into the other compartment, or cell, 
 upon the bridge, was there strangled. The low portal 
 through which the criminal was taken into this cell is 
 now walled up ; but the passage is siill open, and is still 
 known by the name of the Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi are 
 under the flooring of the chamber at the foot of the bridge. 
 They were formerly twelve, but on the first arrival of the 
 French, the Venetians hastily blocked or broke up the 
 deeper of these dungeons. You may still, however, 
 descend by a trap-door, and crawl down through holes, 
 half-choked by rubbish, to the depth of two stories 
 below the first range. If you are in want of consola- 
 tion for the extinction of patrician power, perhaps you 
 may find it there; scarcely a ray of light glimmers mto 
 the narrow gallery which leads to the cells, and the 
 places of confinem'ent themselves are totally dark. A 
 small hole in the wall admitted the damp air of the 
 passages, and served for the introduction of the pri- 
 soner's food. A wooden pallet, raised a foot from the 
 ground, was the only furniture. The conductors tell 
 you that a light was not allowed. The cells are about 
 five paces in length, two and a half in width, and seven 
 feet in height. They are directly beneath one another, 
 and respiration is somewhat difficult in the lower holes. 
 Only one prisoner was found when the repubhcans 
 descended into these hideous recesses, and he is said 
 to have been confined sixteen years. But the inmates 
 of the dungeons beneath had left traces of their repent- 
 ance, or oftheir despair, which are still visible, and may 
 perhaps owe something to recent ingenuity. Some of 
 the detained appear to have ofl'ended against, and others 
 to have belonged to, the sacred body, not only from 
 their signatures, but from the churches and belfries 
 which they have scratched upon the walls. The reader 
 may not object to see a specimen of the records 
 prompted by so terrific a solitude. As nearly as they 
 could be copied by more than one pencil, three of them 
 are as follows : 
 
 1. 
 
 NON TI FIDAR AD ALCUNO PENSA e TACI 
 SE FUGIR VUOI DE SPIONI INSIDIE LACCI 
 IL PENTIRTI PENTIRTI NULLA GIOVA 
 Wl ben DI VALOR TUO LA VERA PROVA 
 
 1G07. ADI 2. GENARO. FUI RE- 
 TENTO P' LA BESTIEMMA p' AVER DATO 
 DA MANZAR A UN MORTO 
 
 lACOMO . GRITTI . SCKISSE. 
 
 2. 
 
 UN PARLAR POCHO et 
 
 NEGARE PRONTO Ct 
 
 UN PENSAR AL FINE PUO DARE LA VITA 
 
 A NOI .ILTRI MESCHINI 
 
 1605. 
 
60 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD, 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 EGO lOHN BAPTISTA AD 
 ECCLESIAM CORTKLLARIUS. 
 3. 
 DE f'HI MI FIDO GUARDAMI DIO 
 UE CHI SOX Ml FIDO MI GUARDARO TO 
 A 
 
 TA H A NA 
 V . LA S . C . K . R . 
 
 The copyist has followed, not corrected the solecisms ; 
 some of which are however not quite so decided, since 
 the letters were evidently scratched in the dark. It 
 only need he ohserved, that besiemmia and mangiar may 
 he read in the first inscription, which was probably 
 written by a prisoner confined for some act of impiety 
 conmiilted at a funeral ; that Corlellarius is the name 
 of a parish on terra firma, near the sea; and that the 
 last initials evidently are put for Viva la santa Chiesa 
 Kattdlica Roinaiia. 
 
 2. 
 She looks a sea Cybde^ fresh from ocean^ 
 Rismg with her tiara of proud taweis. 
 
 Stanza ii. lines 1 and 2. 
 An old writer, describing the appearance of Venice, 
 has made use of the above image, which would not be 
 poetical were it not true. 
 
 " Quo fit ui qui superne urhem coniempletur, turritam tellu- 
 m imagiiu-m medio Ocearutjigwratam se putei iTispicere."* 
 3. 
 /« Venice Tassd's echoes are no more. 
 
 Stanza iii. line 1. 
 The well-known song of the gondoliers, of aUernate 
 stanzas from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with the 
 independence of Venice. Editions of the poem, with 
 the original on one column, and the Venetian variations 
 on the other, as sung by the boatmen, were once com 
 mon, and are still to be found. The following extract 
 will serve to show the difference between the Tuscan 
 epic and the " Canta alia Barcariola." 
 
 ORIGINAI,. 
 
 Canto r arme pietose, e '1 capitano 
 Che 'Igran Sepokro liberb di Cristo. 
 
 Molto egli opro col senno, e con la mano 
 Molto sofTri nel glorioso acquisto ; 
 
 E in van 1' Inferno a lui s' oppose, e in vano 
 S' armo d' Asia, e di Libia il popol misto, 
 
 Che il Ciel gli di6 favore, e sotto a i Santi 
 
 Segni ridusse i suoi compagni erranti. 
 
 VENETIAN. 
 
 L' arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, 
 E de Goffredo la immortal braura 
 Che al fin 1' ha libera co strassia, e dogia 
 
 Del nostro bucn Gesti la Sepoltura 
 De mezo mondo unito, e de quel Bogia 
 
 Missier Pluton non 1' ha bu mai paura : 
 Dio 1' ha agiuta, e i compagni sparpagnai 
 Tutti '1 gh' i ha messi insieme i didel Dai. 
 Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, take up 
 and contirrue a stanza of their once familiar bard. 
 
 On the 7th of last January, the author of Childe 
 Harold, and another Englishman, the writer of this 
 notice, rowed to the Lido with two singers, one of whom 
 was a carpenter, and the other a gondolier. The former 
 
 t laced himself at the prow, the latter at the stern of the 
 oat. A Httle after leaving the quay of the Piazzetta, 
 they began to sing, and continued their exercise until 
 we arrived at the island. They gave us, amongst other 
 essays, the death of Clorinda, and the palace of Armida; 
 and "did not sing the Venetian, but the Tuscan verses. 
 The carpenter, however, who was the cleverer of the 
 two, and was frequently obliged to prompt his compa- 
 nion, told us that he could translate the original. He 
 added, that he could sing almost three hundred stanzas, 
 but had not spirits {morbin was the word he used) to 
 learn any more, or to sing what he already knew: a 
 man must have idle time on his hands to acquire, or to 
 repeat, and, said the poor fellow, " look at my clothes 
 and at me ; I am starving." This speech was more 
 
 • Marci Antonii Sabclii de VenetiB Urbi» situ narratio, edit. Taurin 
 
 j5a7,iib.i.roi.a«. 
 
 affecting than his performance, which haliil alune can 
 make attractive. The recitative was shrill, screaming, 
 and monotonous, and the gondolier behind assisted his 
 voice by holding liis hand to one side of his mouth. 
 The car|>ei)ter used a quiet action, which he evidently 
 endeavoured to restrain ; but was too much interested 
 in his subject altogether to repress. From these men 
 we learnt that suiging is not confined to the gondoliers, 
 and that, although the chant is seldom, if ever, voluntary, 
 there are still several amongst the lower classes who 
 are acquainted with a few stanzas. 
 
 It does not appear that it is usual for the performers 
 to row and sing at the same time. Although the verses 
 of the Jerusalem are no longer casually heard, there is 
 yet much music upon the Venetian canals ; and upon 
 holydays, those strangers who are not near or informed 
 enough to distinguish the words, may fancy that many 
 of the gondolas still resound with the strains of Tasso. 
 The writer of some remarks which appeared in the 
 Curiosities of Lherature must excuse his being twice 
 quoted; for, with the exception of some phrases a little 
 too ambitious and extravagant, he has furnished a very 
 exact, as well as agreeable, description. 
 
 "In Venice the gondoliers know by^ heart long pas- 
 sages from Ariosto and Tasso, and often chant them 
 with a peculiar melody. But this talent seems at pro- 
 sent on the decline : — at least, after taking some pains, 
 I could find no more than two persons who delivered 
 to me in this way a passage from Tasso. I must add^ 
 
 that the late Mr. Berry once chanted to me a passage 
 in Tasso in the maimer, as he assured me, of the 
 
 gondoliers. 
 
 '• There are always two concerned, who alternately 
 sing the strophes. \Ve know the melody eventually by 
 Rousseau, to whose songs il is printed ; it has properly 
 no melodious movement, and is a sort of medium be- 
 tween the canto fermo and the canto figurato ; it ap- 
 proaches to the former by recitativical declamation, and 
 to the latter by passages and course, by which one 
 syllable is detained and embellished. 
 
 " I entered a gondola by moonlight ; one singer placed 
 himself forwards, and the other aft, and thus proceeded 
 to St. Georgio. One began the song: when he had 
 ended his strophe, the other took up the lay, and so 
 continued the song alternately. Throughout the whole 
 of it, the same notes invariably returned^ but, according 
 to the subject matter of the strophe, they laid a greater 
 or a smaller stress, sometimes on one, and sometimes 
 on another note, and indeed changed the enunciation of 
 the whole strophe as the object of the poem altered. 
 
 " On the whole, however, the sounds were hoarse and 
 screaming : they seemed, in the manner of all rude un- 
 civilized men, to make the excellency of their singing in 
 the force of their voice : one seemed desirous of con- 
 quering the other by the strength of his lungs ; and so 
 far from receiving dehght from this scene (shut up as I 
 was in the box of the gondola,) I found myself in a very 
 unpleasant situation. 
 
 "My companion, to whom I communicated this cir- 
 cumstance, being very desirous to keep up the credit of 
 his countrymen, assured me that this singing was very 
 delightful when heard at a distance. Accordingly wtj 
 got out upon the shore, leaving one of the singers in the 
 gondola, while the other went to the distance of some 
 Hundred paces. They now began to sing against one 
 another, and I kept walking up and down between them 
 both, so as always to leave him who was to begin his 
 part. I frequently stood still and hearkened to the one 
 and to tlie other. 
 
 "Here the scene was properly introduced. The 
 strong declamatory, and, as it were, shrieking sound, met 
 the ear from far, and called forth the attention ; the 
 quickly succeeding transitions, which necessarily re- 
 quired to be sung In a lower tone, seemed like plaintive 
 strains succeeding the vociferations of emotion or of 
 pain. The other, who listened attentiveiy, immediately 
 began w here the former left off, answ ©ring him in milder 
 or more vehement notes, according as the purport of 
 the strophe required. The sleepy canals, the lofty 
 buildings, the splendour of the fnoon, the deep shadows 
 of the few gondolas that moved like spirits hither and 
 thither, increased the striking peculiarity of the scene ; 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 61 
 
 and amidst all these circumstances it was easy to con- 
 fess the character of this wonderful harmony. 
 
 "It suits perfectly well with an idle, solitary mariner, 
 lying at length in his vessel at rest on one of these 
 canals, waiting for his company, or for a fare, the tire- 
 someness of which situation is somewhat alleviated by 
 the songs and poetical stories he has in memory. He 
 often raises his voice as loud as he can, which extends 
 itself to a vast distance over the tranquil mirror, and as 
 all is still around, he is, as it were, in a soHlude in the 
 midst of a large and populous town. Here is no rattling 
 of carriages, no noise of foot passengers; a silent gon- 
 dola glides now and then by him, of which the splashings 
 of the oars are scarcely to be heard. 
 
 "At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly 
 unknown to him. Melody and verse immediately attach 
 the two strangers : he becomes the responsive echo to 
 the former, and exerts himself to be heard as he had 
 heard the other. By a tacit convention they alternate 
 verse for verse ; though the song should last the whole 
 night through, they entertain thcrnselves without fatigue: 
 the hearers, who are passing between the two, take 
 part in the amusement. 
 
 " This vocal performance sounds best at a great dis- 
 tance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it only 
 fulfils its design in the sentiment of remoteness. It is 
 plaintive, but not dismal in its sound, and at times it is 
 scarcely possible to refrain from tears. My companion, 
 who otherwise was not a very delicately organized 
 person, said quite unexpectedlj' : e singolare come quel 
 canto intenerisce, e molto piu quando lo cantano megho. 
 " I was told that the women of Libo, the long row of 
 islands that divides the Adriatic from the Lagouns,* 
 
 f>articularly the women of the extreme districts of Ma- 
 amocco and Palestrina, sing in like manner the works 
 of Tasso to these and similar tunes. 
 
 " They have the custom, when their husbands are 
 fishing out at sea, to sit along the shore in the evenings 
 and vociferate these songs, and corttinue to do so with 
 great violence, till each of them can distinguish the 
 responses of her own husband at a distance."] 
 
 The love of music and of poetry distinguishes all 
 classes of Venetians, even amongst the tuneful sons of 
 Italy. The city itself can occasionally furnish respect- 
 able audiences for two and even three opera-houses at 
 a time; and there are few events in private life that do 
 not call forth a printed and circulated sonnet. Does a 
 physician or a lawyer take his degree, or a clergyman 
 preach his maiden sermon, has a surgeon performed an 
 operation, would a harlequin announce his departure or 
 his benefit, are you to be congratulated on a marriage, 
 or a birth, or a lawsuit, the Muses are invoked to furnish 
 the same number of syllables, and the individual 
 triumphs blaze abroad in virgin white or party-coloured 
 placards on half the corners of the capital. The last 
 courtesy of a favourite " prima donna" brings down a 
 shower of these poetical tributes from those upper re- 
 gions, from which, in our theatres, nothing but cupids 
 and snow-storms are accustomed to descend. There 
 is a poetry in the very life of a Venetian, which, in its 
 common course, is varied with those surprises and 
 changes so recommendable to fiction, but so different 
 from the sober monotony of northern existence ; amuse- 
 ments are raised into duties, duties are softened into 
 amusements, and every object being considered as 
 equally making a part of the business of life, is an- 
 nounced and performed with the same earnest indiffer- 
 ence and gay assiduity. The Venetian gazette constantly 
 closes its columns with the following triple advertise- 
 ment. 
 
 Charade 
 
 St. Benedict, a comedy of characters. 
 St. Luke, repose. 
 
 Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the church 
 of St. 
 
 Theatres. 
 St. Moses, opera. 
 
 • The writer meant Lido, which is not a long row of islands, but a long 
 Island : littus, the ghore. 
 
 t Curiosities of Literature, vol. ii, p. 15G, edit. 1807; and Appendix 
 xxii. to Black's Life of Tasao. 
 
 •When it is recollected what the Catholics believe 
 their consecrated wafer to be, we may perhaps think it 
 worthy of a more respectable niche than between poetry 
 and the play-house. 
 
 4. 
 Sparta hath many a worthier son than he. 
 
 Stanza x. line 5. 
 The answer of the mother of Brasidas to the stran- 
 gers who praised the memory of her son. 
 5. 
 St. Mark yet sees his lion where Jie stood 
 
 Stand, 
 
 Stanza xi. line 5. 
 The lion has lost nothing by his journey to the Inva- 
 lides but the gospel which supported the paw that is 
 now on a level with the other foot. The horses also 
 are returned to the ill-chosen spot whence they set out, 
 and are, as before, half hidden under the porch of St. 
 Mark's church. 
 
 Their history, after a desperate struggle, has been 
 satisfactorily explored. The decisions and doubts of 
 Erizzo and Zanetti, and lastly, of the Count Leopold 
 Cicognara, would have given them a Roman extraction, 
 and a pedigree not more ancient than the reign of Nero. 
 But M. de Schlegel stepped in to teach the Venetians 
 the value of their own treasures, and a Greek vindi- 
 cated, at last and for ever, the pretension of his coun- 
 trymen to this noble production.* Mr. Mustoxidi has 
 not been left without a reply ; but, as yet, he has re- 
 ceived no answer. It should seem that the horses are 
 irrevocably Chian, and were transferred to Constan- 
 tinople by Theodosius. Lapidary writing is a favourite 
 play of the Italians, and has conferred reputation on 
 more than one of their literary characters. One of the 
 best specimens of Bodoni's typography is a respectable 
 volume of inscriptions, all written by his friend Pacci- 
 audi. Several were prepared for the recovered horses. 
 It is to be hoped the best was not selected, when the 
 following words were ranged in gold letters above the 
 cathedral porch. 
 
 QUATUOR ■ EQUORUM * SIGNA * A " VENETIS * EV- 
 ZANTIO • CAPTA ' AD ' TEMP * D " MAK * A " R ' S " MCCIV ' 
 POSITA * Q.UM ' HOSTILIS ' CUPIDITAS ' A ' MDCCIIIC ' 
 AESTULERAT * FRANC ' I ' IMP * PACIS * OREI * DAT^ " 
 TliOPH^UM * A * MDCCCXY ' VICTOR ' REDUXIT. 
 
 Nothing shall be said of the Latin, but it may be 
 permitted to observe, that the injustice of the Venetians 
 in transporting the horses from Constantinople was at 
 least equal to that of the French in carrying them to 
 Paris, and that it would have been more prudent to 
 have avoided all allusions to either robbery. An apos- 
 tolic prince should, perhaps, have objected to affixing 
 over the principal entrance of a metropolitan church an 
 inscription having a reference to any other triumphs 
 than those of religion. Nothing less than the pacifica- 
 tion of the world can excuse such a solecism. 
 
 TJie Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 
 A7i Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt. 
 
 Stanza xii. lines 1 and 2. 
 After many vain efforts on the part of the Italians 
 entirely to throw off the yoke of Frederic Barbarossa, 
 and as fruitless attempts of the emperor to make himself 
 absolute master throughout the whole of his Cisalpine 
 dominions, the bloody struggles of four and twenty 
 years were happily brought to a close in the city of 
 Venice. The articles of a treaty had been previously 
 agreed upon between Pope Alexander III. and Barba- 
 rossa, and the former having received a safe conduct, 
 had already arrived at Venice from Ferrara, in company 
 with the ambassadors of the king of Sicily and the con- 
 suls of the Lombard league. There still remained, 
 however, many points to adjust, and for several days 
 the peace was beheved to be impracticable. At this 
 
 * Sui quattro cavalli delta Basilica di S. Marco in Venezia. Lettera di 
 Andrea Mustoxidi Corcireae. Padua, per Bottoni c compag. - . . 1816 
 
62 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 juncture it was suddenly reported that the Emperor had 
 arrived at Chioza, a town fifteen miles from the capital. 
 The Venetians rose tumultuously, and insisted upon 
 immediately conducting him to the city. The Lombards 
 took the alarm, and departed towards Treviso. The 
 Pope himself was apprehensive of some disaster if 
 Frederic should suddenly advance upon him, but was 
 reassured by the prudence and address of Sebastian 
 Ziani, the Doge. Several embassies passed between 
 Chioza and the capital, until, at last, the Emperor re- 
 laxing somewhat of his pretensions, "laid aside his 
 leonine ferocity, and put on the mildness of the lamb."* 
 On Saturday the 23d of July, in the year 1177, six 
 Venetian galleys tranferred Frederic, in great pomp, 
 from Chioza to the island of Lido, a mile ^om Venice. 
 Early the next morning the Pope, accompanied by the 
 Sicilian ambassadors, and by the envoys of Lombardy, 
 whom he had recalled from the main land, together with 
 a great concourse of people, repaired from the patriar- 
 chal palace to St. Mark's church, and solemnly absolved 
 the Emperor and his partisans from the excommunica- 
 tion pronounced against him. The Chancellor of the 
 Empire, on the part of his master, renounced the anti- 
 popes and their schismatic adherents. Immediately the 
 Doge, with a great suite both of the clergy and laity, 
 
 fot on board the galleys, and waiting on Frederic, rowed 
 im in mighty state from the Lido to the capital. The 
 Emperor descended from the galley at the quay of the 
 Piazzetta. The Doge, the patriarch, his bishops and 
 clergy, and the people of Venice with their crosses and 
 their standards, marched in solemn procession before 
 him to the church of Saint Mark. Alexander was seated 
 before the vestibule of the basihca, attended by his 
 bishops and cardinals, by the patriarch of Aquileja, by 
 the archbishops and bishops of Lombardy, all of them 
 in state, and clothed in their church robes. Frederic 
 approached — "moved by the Holy Spirit, venerating 
 the Almighty in the person, of Alexander, laying aside 
 his imperial dignity, and throwing off his mantle, he 
 prostrated himself at full length at the feet of the Pope. 
 Alexander, with tears in his eyes, raised him benig- 
 nantly from the ground, kissed him, blessed him ; and 
 immediately the Germans of the train sang, with a loud 
 voice, ' We praise thee, O Lord.' The Emperor then 
 taking the Pope by the right hand, led him to the 
 church, and having received his benediction, returned 
 to the ducal palace.""f The ceremony of humiliation 
 was repeated the next day. The Pope himselfj at the 
 request of Frederic, said mass at St. Mark's. The Em- 
 peror again laid aside his imperial mantle, and, taking 
 a wand in his hand, officiated as verger, driving the 
 laity from the choir, and preceding the pontiff to the 
 altar. Alexander, after reciting the gospel, preached to 
 the people. The Emperor put himself close to the 
 pulpit in the attitude of listening ; and the pontiff, 
 touched by this mark of his attention, for he knew that 
 Frederic did not understand a word he said, commanded 
 the patriarch of Aquileja to translate the Latin discourse 
 into the German tongue. The creed was then chanted. 
 Frederic made his oblation and kissed the Pope's feet, 
 and, mass being over, led him by the hand to his white 
 horse. He hel-d the stirrup, and would have led the 
 horse's rein to the water side, had not the Pope ac- 
 cepted of the inclination for the performance, and affec- 
 tionately dismissed him with his benediction. Such is 
 the substance of the account left by the archbishop of 
 Salerno, who was present at the ceremony, and whose 
 story is confirmed by every subsequent narration. It 
 would be not worth so minute a record, were it not the 
 triumph of liberty as well as of superstition. The states 
 of Lombardy owed to it the confirmation of their privi- 
 leges ; and Alexander had reason to thank the Almighty, 
 who had enabled an infirm, unarmed old man, to subdue 
 a terrible and potent sovereign.J 
 
 Oh, for one hour of blhvi old Dandolo ! 
 
 TV octogenarian chief Byzaidiurth conquering foe. 
 
 Stanza xii. lines 8 and 9» 
 
 The reader will recollect the exclamation of the 
 highlander, Oh for one hour of Dundee ! Henry Dan- 
 dolo, when elected Doge, in 1192, was eighty-five years 
 of age. When he commanded the Venetians at the 
 taking of Constantinople, he was consequently ninety- 
 seven years old. At this age he annexed the fourth 
 and a half of the whole empire of Romania,* for so the 
 Roman empire was then called, to the title and to the 
 territories of the Venetian Doge. The three-eighths of 
 this empire were preserved in the diplomas until the 
 dukedom of Giovanni Dolfino, who made use of the 
 above designation in the year 1357.t 
 
 Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in person: 
 two ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were tied to- 
 gether, and a drawbridge or ladder let down from their 
 higher yards to the w^alls. The Doge was one of the 
 first to rush into the city. Then was completed, said 
 the Venetians, the prophecy of the Erythraean sibyl. 
 " A gathering together of the powerful shall be made 
 amidst the waves of the Adriatic, under a blind leader; 
 they shall beset the goat — they shall profane Byzantium 
 — they shall blacken her buildings — her spoils shall be 
 dispersed ; a new goat shall bleat until they have mea- 
 sured out and run over fifty-four feet, nine inches, and a 
 half."| 
 
 Dandolo died on the first day of June, 1205, having 
 reigned thirteen years, six months, and five days, and 
 was buried in the church of St. Sophia, at Constanti- 
 nople. Strangely enough it must sound, that the name 
 of the rebel apothecary who received the Doge's sword, 
 and annihilated the ancient government, in 1796-7, was 
 Dandolo. 
 
 8. 
 Bvi is not Dorians menace come to pass ? 
 Are they not bridled? 
 
 Stanza jdii. lines 3 and 4. 
 After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the taking of 
 Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by the united 
 armament of the Genoese and Francesco da Carrara, 
 Signer of Padua, the Venetians were reduced to the 
 utmost despair. x4.n embassy was sent to the conquerors 
 with a blank sheet of paper, praying them to prescribe 
 what terms they pleased, and leave to Venice only her 
 independence. The Prince of Padua was inclined to 
 hsten to these proposals, but the Genoese, who after 
 the victory at Pola, had shouted "to Venice, to Venice, 
 and long live St. George," determined to annihilate their 
 rival, and Peter Doria, their commander in chief, re- 
 turned this answer to the suppliants : " On God's faith, 
 gentlemen of Venice, ye shall have no peace from the 
 Signor of Padua, nor from our commune of Genoa, until 
 we have first put a rein upon those unbridled horses of 
 yours, that are upon the porch of your evangelist St, 
 Mark. When we have bridled them, we shall keep you 
 quiet. And this is the pleasure of us and of your com- 
 mune. As for these my brothers of Genoa, that you 
 have brought with you to give up to us, I will not have 
 them: take them back ; for, in a few days hence, I shall 
 come and let them out of prison myself, both these and 
 all the others."§ In fact, the Genoese did advance as 
 
 * " Q.uibus aiulilis, imperator, operante eo, qui corda priocipiim sicut 
 vultetquando vult hiimililer iiiclinat, leoiiina feritate deposila, ovin-.ira 
 mansiietudinem iiiduit." Roinualdi Saleruilani Chronicon. apud ScritJt 
 Rcr. Hal. Tom. VII. p. 229. 
 
 t Ibid. p. 231. 
 
 t See liie above cited Romuald of Salerno. In a second sermon whicli 
 Alexander preached, on tlie first day of August, before the Emperor, he 
 compared Frederic to the prodigal son, and himself to the forgiving father. 
 
 * Mr. Gibbon has omitted the important cb, and has written Roman! 
 instead of Romauiffi. Decline and Fall, cap. Ixi. note 9. But the title 
 acquired by Dandolo runs thus in the chronicle of his namesake, theDoga 
 Andrew Dandolo. Ducali ti'.ulo addidit, " Quartce jiartis et dimidia 
 totius imperii Romania;." And. Dand. Chronicon. cap. iii. pars xxxvii. 
 ap. ."Script. Rer. Ital. tom. xii. page 331. And the Romania is observed 
 ill the subsequent acts of the Doges. Indeed the continental possession* 
 of the Greek empire in Europe were then generally known by the nama 
 of Romania, and that appellation is still seen in the maps of Turkey as 
 applied to Thrace. 
 
 f See the continuation of Dandolo's rhronicle, ibid, page 498. Mr. 
 Gibbon appears not to include Dolfino, following Sanudo, who says, " il 
 quallitolo si uso-fin al Doge Giovanni Doljino.^' See Yite de' Duchi 
 di A'enezia. ap. Script. Rer. ftal. tom. xxii. -530. 641. 
 
 I Fiet polentium in aguis Adriaticis congrcgatio, ccBco produce, 
 Hirci.m ambigent, Brjzantit.in prop/ianabunt , adificia denigrabunt ; 
 spolia disperge/Uur, h'irats novus bnlabil usque dum WV pedes et IX 
 poUices, etstwis picemtnsurati discurrant." [Chronicon, ibid, pari 
 ixxiv.] 
 
 §" Allafidi Dio, Signori Veneziani,nonhavereteinaipacedalSig- 
 nore di Padoua, nidal nostra commune di Genova, st primieramente 
 nan mettemo le briglie a gutUi vostri cavalli sfrenati, ch« tono gu la 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 63 
 
 far as Malamocco, within five miles of the capital ; but 
 their own danger and the pride of their enemies gave 
 courage to the Venetians, who made prodigious efforts, 
 and many individual sacrifices, all of them carefully re 
 corded by their historians. Vettor Pisani was put a 
 the head of thirty-four galleys. The Genoese broke up 
 from Malamocco, and retired to Chioza in October; 
 but they again threatened Venice, which was reduced 
 to extremities. At this time, the 1st of January, 1380. 
 arrived Carlo Zeno, who had been cruising on the 
 Genoese coast with fourteen galleys. The Venetians 
 were now strong enough to besiege the Genoese. Doria 
 was killed on the 22d of January by a stone bullet 195 
 pounds weight, discharged from a bombard called the 
 Trevisan. Chioza was then closely invested: 5000 
 auxiliaries, among whom were some Enghsn Condot- 
 tieri, commanded by one Captain Ceccho, joined the 
 Venetians. The Genoese, in their turn, prayed for 
 conditions, but none were granted, until, at last, they 
 surrendered at discretion ; and, on the 24th of June, 
 1380, the Doge Contarini made his triumphal entiy into 
 Chioza. Four thousand prisoners, nineteen galleys, 
 many smaller vessels and barks, with all the ammuni- 
 tion and arms, and outfit of the expedition, fell into the 
 hands of the conquerors, who, had it not been for the 
 inexorable answer of Doria, would have gladly reduced 
 their dominion to the city of Venice. An account of 
 these transactions is found in a" work called the War 
 of Chioza, written by Daniel Chinazzo, who was in 
 Venice at the time.* 
 
 9. 
 
 The ^^ Planter oftJie Uon:^ 
 
 Stanza xiv. line 3. 
 Plant the Lion — that is, the Lion of St. Mark, the 
 standard of the republic, which is the origin of the word 
 Pantaloon — ^Piantaleone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon. 
 10. 
 Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
 Too oft remind her who and what enthrals. 
 
 Stanza xv. lines 7 and 8, 
 The population of Venice at the end of the seventeenth 
 century amounted to nearly two hundred thousand 
 souls. At the last census, taken two years ago, it was 
 no more than about one hundred and three thousand, 
 and it diminishes daily. The commerce and the official 
 employments, which were to be the unexhausted source 
 of Venetian grandeur, have both expired.! Most of the 
 patrician mansions are deserted, and would gradually 
 disappear, had not the government, alarmed by the 
 demolition of seventy-two, during the last two years, 
 expressly forbidden this sad resource of poverty. Many 
 remnants of the Venetian nobility are now scattered 
 and confounded with the wealthier Jews upon the banks 
 of the Brenta, whose palladian palaces have sunk, or 
 are sinking in the general decay. Of the " gentiluomo 
 Veneto," the name is still known, and that is all. He is 
 but the shadow of his former self, but he is polite and 
 kind. It surely may be pardoned to him if he is queru- 
 lous. Whatever may have been the vices of the repub- 
 lic, and although the natural term of its existence may 
 be thought by foreigners to have arrived in the due 
 course of mortality, only one sentiment can be expected 
 from the Venetians themselves. At no time were the 
 subjects of the republic so unanimous in their resolution 
 to rally round the standard of St. Mark, as when it was 
 for the last time unfurled ; and the cowardice and the 
 treachery of the few patricians who recommended the 
 fatal neutrality were confined to the persons of the 
 traitors themselves. The present race carmot be 
 thought to regret the loss of their aristocratic al forms, 
 
 Reza del Vostro Evangelista S. Marco. Imbrenati che gli havremo, 
 vifaretno stare inbuonapace. E guesta e la intenzione nostra, e del 
 nostra commune. Questi miei fratelli Genovesi che kavete menati 
 con vol per donarci, non U voglio ; rimanetegli in dietro perche io 
 intendo da qui a pochi giomi venirgli a riscuoter, dalle vostre pri- 
 gioni, e loro e gli altri.^' 
 
 ' " Chronaca dellaguerra di Chioza," &c. Script. Rer. Italic, torn. xv. 
 pp. 699 to 804. 
 
 t " Nonnullorum e nobilltate immensffi sunt opes, adeo ut vis sestimari 
 possint : id quod tribu3 fi rebus oritur, parsimonia, commercio, atque iis 
 eraolumeatis, quae e Repub. percipiunt, qus banc ob causam diuturna 
 fore creditur."— See de Principatibus Italise, Tractatus edit. 1631. 
 
 and too despotic government ; they think only on their 
 vanished independence. They pine away at the re- 
 membrance, and on this subject suspend for a moment 
 their gay good humour. Venice may be said in the 
 words of the Scripture, " to die daily ;" and so general 
 and so apparent is the decline, as to become pamful to 
 a stranger, not reconciled to the sight of a whole nation 
 expiring as it were before his eyes. So artificial a 
 creation, having lost that principle which called it into 
 life and supported its existence, must fall to pieces at 
 once, and sink more rapidly than it rose. The abhor- 
 rence of slavery which drove the Venetians to the sea, 
 has, since their disaster, forced them to ihe land, where 
 they may be at least overlooked amongst the crowd of 
 dependents, and not present the humiliating spectacle 
 of a whole nation loaded with recent chains. Their 
 liveliness, their affability, and that happy indifference 
 which constitution alone can give, for philosophy aspires 
 to it in vain, have not sunk under circumstances ; but 
 many peculiarities of costume and manner have by 
 degrees been lost, and the nobles, with a pride common 
 to all Italians who have been masters, have not been 
 persuaded to parade their insignificance. That splen- 
 dour which was a proof and a portion of their power, 
 they would not degrade into the trappings of their sub- 
 jection. They retired from the space which they had 
 occupied in the eyes of their fellow-citizens ; their 
 continuance in which would have been a symptom of 
 acquiescence, and an insult to those who suffered by the 
 common misfortune. Those who remained in the de- 
 graded capital might be said rather to haunt the scenes 
 of their departed power, than to live in them. The 
 reflection, "who and what enthrals," will hardly bear a 
 comment from one who is, nationally, the friend and 
 the ally of the conqueror. It may, however, be allowed 
 to say thus much, that to those who wish to recover 
 their independence, any masters must be an object of 
 detestation ; and it may be safely foretold that this 
 unprofitable aversion will not have been corrected 
 before Venice shall have sunk into the slime of her 
 choked canals. 
 
 II. 
 Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse. 
 
 Stanza xvi. line 3. 
 The story is told in Plutarch's life of Nicias. 
 12. 
 And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare^s art. 
 Stanza xviii. line 5. 
 Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of Udolpho ; the Ghost- 
 seer, or Armenian ; the Merchant of Venice ; Othello. 
 13. 
 But from their nature will the tannen grow 
 Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks. 
 
 Stanza xx. lines I and 2. 
 Tannen is the plural of tonne, a species of firpeculijur 
 to the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky parts, 
 where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourishment can be 
 found. On these spots it grows to a greater height 
 than any other mountain tree. 
 14. 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With her oW half the lovely heaven. 
 
 St£uiza xxviii. lines I and 2. 
 The above description may seem fantastical or ex- 
 aggerated to those who have never seen an Oriental or 
 an Itahan sky, yet it is but a Uteral and hardly sufficient 
 delineation of an August evening (the eighteenth) as 
 contemplated in one of many rides along the banks of 
 the Brenta near La Mira. 
 
 15. 
 Watering the tree which bears his ladys name 
 With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 
 Stanza xxx. lines 8 and 9. 
 Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, we 
 now know as little of Laura as ever.* The discoveries 
 of the Abbe de Sade, his triumphs, his sneers, can no 
 
 See an Historical and Critical Essay on the Life and Character of 
 
64 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Ca>-to IV. 
 
 longer instruct or amuse.* We must not, however, 
 think that these memoirs are as much a romance as 
 Belisarius or the Incas, although wo are told so by Dr. 
 Bcattic, a great name, but a little authority.! His 
 " labour" has not been in vain, notwithstanding his 
 " love" has, like most other passions, made him ridicu- 
 lous.J The hypothesis which overpowered the strug- 
 gling Italians, and carried along less interested critics 
 in its current, is run out. We Imve another proof that 
 wo can be never sure that the paradox, the most singular, 
 and therefore having the most agreeable and authentic 
 air, will not give place to the re-established ancient 
 prejudice. 
 
 Ii seems, then, first, that Laura was born, lived, died, 
 and was buried, not in Avignon, but in the country. 
 Tlie fountains of the Sorga, the thickets of Cabrieres, 
 may resume their pretensions, and the exploded de la 
 Bastie again be heard with complacency. The hypo- 
 thesis of the Abbe had no stronger props than the 
 parchment sonnet and medal found on the skeleton of 
 the wife of Hugo de Sade, and the manuscript note to 
 the Virgil of Petrarch, now in the Ambrosian library. 
 If these proofs were both incontestable, the poetry was 
 written, the medal composed, cast, and deposited 
 within the space of twelve hours: and these deliberate 
 duties were performed round the carcass of one who 
 died of the plague, and was hurried to the grave on the 
 day of her death. These documents, therefore, are too 
 decisive : they prove not the fact, but the forgery 
 Either the sonnet or the Virgilian note must be a falsi- 
 fication. The Abbe cites both as incontestably true 
 the consequent deduction is inevitable — they are both 
 evidently false. § 
 
 Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a 
 haughty virgin rather than that tender and prudent wife 
 who honoured Avignon by making that town the theatre 
 of an honest French passion, and played off for one and 
 twenty years her little machinery of alternate favours 
 and refusals|| upon the first poet of the age. It was, 
 indeed, rather too unfair that a female should be made 
 responsible for eleven children upon the faith of a m.is- 
 interpreted abbreviation, and the decision of a librarian.!! 
 It is, however, satisfactory to think that the love of 
 Petrarch was not platonic. The happiness which he 
 prayed to possess but once and for a moment was surely 
 not of the mind,** and something so very real as a 
 marriage project, with one who has been idly called 
 shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, detected in at least six 
 places of his own sonnets. H The love of Petrarch was 
 neither platonic nor poetical ; and if in one passage of 
 his works he calls it " amore veementeissimo ma unico 
 ed onesto," he confesses, in a letter to a friend, that it 
 was guilty and perverse, that it absorbed him quite and 
 mastered his heart.J| 
 
 Petrarch ; and a Dissertation on an Historical Hypothesis of the Abbfe de 
 Sade : tlie first appeared about the year 1784 ; the other is inserted in the 
 fom-th volume of the Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, and 
 both have been incorporated into a work, published, under the first title 
 by BallantyneiulSlO. 
 
 ' Mfemoires pour la Vie di Pfetrarque. 
 
 t Life of Beauie, by Sir W. Forbes, t. ii. p. 106. 
 
 I Mr. Gibbon called his Memoirs "a labour of love,'' (see Decline 
 and Fall, cap. Ixx. note 1.) and followed him with confidence and delight. 
 The compiler of a very voluminous work must take much criticism upon 
 trust ; Mr. Gibbon has done so, though not as readily as some other 
 authors. 
 
 § The sonnet had before awakened the suspicions of Mr. Horace Wal- 
 pole. .See his letter to Wharton in 1763. 
 
 II " Par ce petit manage, cetle alternative de faveurs et de rigueurs bien 
 nifenag&e, une femme lendre et sage amuse, pendant vingt et uu ans, le 
 plus grand poete de son siade, sans faire la moindre breche a son hon- 
 neur. ' M6m. pour la Vie de Pfetrarque, Preface aux Francois. The 
 luihan eduor of the London edition of Petrarch, who has translated Lord 
 Woodhouselee, renders the " femme tendre etsage," rafflnata civetta." 
 Riflessioni intorno a madonna Laura, p. 231. vol. iii. ed. 1811. 
 
 Uln a dialogue with St. .Augustin, Petrarch has described Laura as 
 naving a body exhausted with r &\i6&it A p tubs. The old editors read and 
 pnnted perturbationibus ; but Mr. Capperonier, librarian to the French 
 king in 1762, who saw the MS. in the Paris library, made an attestation 
 that " on hi et qu'on doit lire, partubus exhauslum." De Sade joined 
 the names of Messrs. Boudot and Bejot with Mr. Capperonier, and in 
 the whole discussion on this ptubs, showed himself a downright literarv 
 rogue. See Rifiesaioni, &c. p. 267. Thomas Aquinas is called in tb 
 seuie whether Petrarch's mistress was a c/uiste maid or a continentvire. 
 ' Pigmalioii, quaiitolodar tidei 
 Dell' imagine tua, se mille volte 
 N' avesti quel ch' 1' sol una vorrei." 
 
 Sonetio 58, quan-lo ^iunse a Simon I' alto concetto. 
 +»« n-fl ■ ./-« ^'^i*' *":• Pai- i- pag. 189, edit. Ven. 1756. 
 Tt See Hiflessioni, &c. p. 291. 
 
 tt " aiiella rea e perversti paasione che aolo tutto mi occupava e mi 
 regnavauelcuore." ^ 
 
 In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed for 
 the culpability of his wishes ; for the Abbe de Sade 
 himself, who certainly would not have been scrupulously 
 delicate if he could have proved his descent from Pe- 
 trarch as well as Laura, is forced into a stout defence 
 of his virtuous grandmother. As far as relates to the 
 poet, we have no security for the innocence, except 
 perhaps in the constancy of his pursuit. He assures us 
 in his epistle to posterity, that, when arrived at his for- 
 tieth year, he not only had in horror, but had lost all 
 recollection and image of any " irregularity."* But the 
 birth of his natural daughter cannot be assigned earher 
 than his thirty-ninth year ; and either the memory or 
 the morality of the poet must have failed him, when he 
 forgot or was guilty of this slip.-\ The weakest argu- 
 ment for the purity of this love has been draw^n from the 
 permanence of effects, which survived the object of his 
 passion. The reflection of Mr. de la Bastie, that virtue 
 alone is capable of making impressions which death 
 cannot efface, is one of those which every body ap- 
 plauds, and every body finds not to be true, the moment 
 he examines his own breast or the records of human 
 feeling. J Such apophthegms can do nothing for Pe- 
 trarch or for the cause of morality, except with the very 
 weak and the very young. He that has made even a 
 little progress beyond ignorance and pupilage cannot be 
 edified with any thing but truth. What is called vindi- 
 cating the honour of an individual or a nation, is the 
 most futile, tedious, and uninstructive of all writing ; 
 although it will always meet with more applause than 
 that sober criticism, Avhich is attributed to the malicious 
 desire of reducing a great man to the common standard 
 of humanity. It is, after all, not unlikely, that our his- 
 torian was right in retaining his favourite hypothetic 
 salvo, which secures the author, although it scarcely 
 saves the honour of the still unknown mistress of Pe- 
 trarch. § 
 
 16. 
 They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died. 
 
 Stanza xxxi. line 1. 
 
 Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his return 
 from the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V. at 
 Rome, in the year 1370, and, with the exception of his 
 celebrated visit to Venice, in company with Francesco 
 Novello da Carrara, he appears to have passed the four 
 last years of his life between that charming solitude and 
 Padua. For four months previous to his death he was 
 in a state of continual languor, and in the morning of 
 July the 19th, in the year 1374, was found dead in his 
 library chair with his head resting upon a book. The 
 chair is still shown among the precious relics of Arqua, 
 which, from the uninterrupted veneration that has been 
 attached to every thing relative to this great man from 
 the moment of his death to the present hour, have, it 
 may be hoped, a better chance of authenticity than the 
 Shaksperian memorials of Stratford upon Avon. 
 
 Arqua (for the last syllable is accented in pronuncia- 
 tion, although the analogy of the English language has • 
 been observed in the verse) is twelve miles from Padua, 
 and about three miles on the right of the high road to Ro- 
 vigo, in the bosom of the Euganean hills. After a walk of 
 twenty minutes across a flat well-wooded meadow, you 
 come to a little blue lake, clear, but fathomless, and to 
 the foot of a succession of acclivities and hills, clothed 
 with vineyards and orchards, rich with fir and pome- 
 granate trees, and every sunny fruit shrub. From the 
 banks of the lake the road winds into the hills, and the 
 church of Arqua is soon seen between a cleft where 
 two ridges slope towards each other, and nearly enclose 
 the village. The houses are scattered at intervals on 
 the steep sides of these summits ; and that of the poet 
 is on the edge of a little knoll overlooking two descents, 
 
 * Azion dishonesta are his words, 
 
 t " A questa confessione cosi siucera diede forae occasione una nuova 
 caduta ch' ei fece." Tiiaboschi, Storia, &c. torn. v. lib. iv. par. ii. pag, 
 492. 
 
 "72 n'y a que la vertu seule qui soil capable de faire dee imprea- 
 sions que la mori n' efface pas." M. de Bimard, Baron de la Bastie, In 
 the Memoires de TAcadfemie des Inscriptions el Belles Lettrea for 1740 
 and 1751. See also Riflessioni, &c. p. 295. 
 
 § " And if the virtue or prudence of Laura was inexorable, he enjoyed, 
 and might boast of enjoying, the nymph of uoetry.'' Decline and Fall, 
 cap. Ixx. p. 327. vol. xii. oct. Perhaps tlie «/ is here meant (or althougk. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 65 
 
 and coinmanding a view not only of the glowing gardens 
 ill the dales immediately beneath, but of the wide plains, 
 above whose low woods of mulberry and willow, thick- 
 ened into a dark mass by festoons of vines, tall single 
 cypresses, and the spires of towns, are seen in the dis- 
 tance, which stretches lo the mouths of the Po and the 
 shores of the Adriatic. The chniate of these volcanic 
 hills is warmer, and the vintage begins a week sooner 
 than in the plains of Padua. Petrarch is laid, for he 
 cannot be said to be buried, in a sarcophagus of red 
 marble, raised on four pilasters on an elevated base, 
 and'preserved from an association with meaner tombs. 
 It stands conspicuously alone, but will be soon over- 
 shadowed by four lately planted laurels. Petrarch's 
 Fountain, for here every thing is Petrarch's, springs 
 and expands itself beneath an artificial arch, a little 
 below the church, and abounds plentifully, in the driest 
 season, with that soft water wliich was the ancient 
 wealth of the Euganean hills. It would be more attrac- 
 tive, were it not, in some seasons, beset with hornets 
 and wasps. No other coincidence could assimilate the 
 tombs of Petrarch and Archilochus. The revolutions 
 of centuries have spared these sequestered valleys, 
 and the only violence which has been affered to the 
 ashes of Petrarch was prompted, not by hate, but vene- 
 ration. An attempt was made to rob the sarcophagus 
 of its treasure, and one of the arms was stolen by 
 Florentine through a rent which is still visible. The 
 injury is not forgotten, but has served to identify the 
 poet with the country where he was born, but where 
 he would not live. A peasant boy of Arqua being asked 
 who Petrarch was, replied, "that the people of the par- 
 sonage knew all about him, but that he only knew that 
 he was a Florentine." 
 
 Mr. Forsyth* was not quite correct in saying that 
 Petrarch never returned to Tuscany afier he had once 
 quitted it when a boy. It appears he did pass through 
 Florence on his way from Parma to Rome, and on his 
 return in the year 1350, and remained there long 
 enough to form some acquaintance with its most distin- 
 guished inhabitants. A Florentine gentleman, ashamed 
 of the aversion of the poet for his native country, was 
 eager to point out this trivial error in our accomplished 
 traveller, whom he knew and respected for an extraor- 
 dinary capacity, extensive erudition, and refined taste, 
 joined to that engaging simplicity of manners which has 
 been so frequently recognised as the surest, though it is 
 certainly not an indispensable, trait of superior genius. 
 Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxiously 
 traced and recorded. The house in which he lodged is 
 shown in Venice. The inhabitants of Arezzo, in order 
 to decide the ancient controversy between their city and 
 the neighbouring Ancisa, where Petrarch was carried 
 when seven months old, and remained until his seventh 
 year, have designated by a long inscription the spot 
 where their great fellow-citizen was born. A tablet 
 has been raised to him at Parma, in the chapel of St. 
 Agatha, at the cathedrai,| because he was archdeacon 
 of that society, and was only snatched from his intended 
 sepulture in their church by a. foreign death. Another 
 tablet with a bust has been erected to him at Pavia, on 
 account of his having passed the autumn of 1368 in that 
 city, with his son-in-law Brossano. The political con- 
 dition which has for ages precluded the Italians from 
 
 Remarks, &c. on Italy, p. 95, note, 2d edit. 
 
 tD.O.M. 
 
 Francisco Petrarchra 
 
 Parmensi Archidiacono. 
 
 Parentibus praeclaris genere perantiqiio 
 
 Ethices Christiana; scriptori eixmio 
 
 Romanas linguae restitutori 
 
 EtrusCBB principi 
 
 AfriczB ob carmen htc in urbe peractum regibus accito 
 
 S. P. a. R. laurea donata. 
 
 Tanti Viri 
 
 Jurenilium jiivenis senilium senex 
 
 Studiosissimus 
 
 Comes Nicolaus Canonicus Cicognarus 
 
 Marraorea proxima ara excitata. 
 
 Ibiqne condilo 
 
 Divae Januarise criienlo corpore 
 
 H.M. P. 
 
 Suffectum 
 
 Sed infra meritum Francisci sepulchro 
 
 Summa hac in aede efferri mandantis 
 
 Si Parmai occumberet 
 
 Extera raorte heu nobis erepti. 
 
 I 
 
 the criticism of the living, has concentrated their atten- 
 tion to the illustration of the dead. 
 17. 
 Or, it may he, with demons. 
 
 Stanza xxxiv. line 1. 
 The struggle is to the full as likely to be with demons 
 as with our better thoughts. Satan chose the wilder- 
 ness for the temptation of our Saviour. And our 
 unsullied John Locke preferred the presence of a child 
 to complete solitude. 
 
 18. 
 In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire ; 
 And Boileau, whose rash envy, &c. 
 
 Stanza xxxviii. lines 6 and 7. 
 Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciates 
 Tasso, may serve as well as any other specimen to 
 justify the opinion given of the harmony of French verse. 
 A Malerbe a Racan, prfefere Thfeophile, 
 Et le clinquant du Tasse a tout I'or de Virgile. 
 
 Sat. ix. vers. 176. 
 The biographer Serassi,* out of tenderness to the 
 reputation either of the Italian or the French poet, is 
 eager to observe that the satirist recanted or explained 
 away this censure, and subsequently allowed the author 
 of the Jerusalem to be a "genius, sublime, vast, and 
 happily born for the higher flights of poetry." To this 
 we will add, that the recantation is far from satisfactory, 
 when we examine the whole anecdote as reported by 
 Olivet. f The sentence pronounced against him by 
 Bohours| is recorded only to the confusion of the critic, 
 whose ^a/mor/ia the Italian makes no effort to discover, 
 and would not perhaps accept. As to the opposition 
 which the Jerusalem encountered from the Cruscan 
 academy, who degraded Tasso from all competition 
 with Ariosto, belov/ Bojardo and Pulci, the disgrace of 
 such opposition must also in some measure be laid to 
 the charge of Alfonso, and the court of Ferrara. For 
 Leonard Salviali, the principal and nearly the sole 
 origin of this attack, was, there can be no doubt,S in- 
 riuenced by a hope to acquire the favour of the House 
 of Este : an object which he thought attainable by 
 exalting the reputation of a native poet at the expense of 
 a rival, then a prisoner of state. The hopes and efforts 
 of Salviatimust serve to show the cotemporary opinion 
 as to the nature of the poet's imprisonment ; and will 
 fill up the measure of our indignation at the tyrant 
 jailer. II In fact, the antagonist of Tasso was not dis- 
 appointed in the reception given to his criticism ; he 
 was called to the courtof Ferrara, where having endea- 
 voured to heighten his claims to favour, by panegyrics 
 on the family of his sovereign,ir he was in turn 
 abandoned, and expired in neglected poverty. The 
 opposition of the Cruscans was brought to a close in six 
 years after the commencement of the controversy; and 
 if the academy owed its first renown to having almost 
 opened with such a parodox,** it is probable that, on 
 the other hand, the care of his reputation alleviated 
 rather than aggravated the imprisonment of the injured 
 poet. The defence of his father and of himself, for both 
 were involved in the censure of Salviati, found employ- 
 ment for many of his solitary hours, and the captive 
 could have been but little embarrassed to reply to ac- 
 
 ♦ La Vita del Tasso, lib. iii. p. 284. torn. ii. edit. Bergamo, 1790. 
 
 t Ilistoire de I'Acadfemie Franqnise, depuis 1652 jusqu' 1700, par I'ubbe 
 d'Olivet, p. 181, edit. Amsterdam, 1730. "Mais, ensuite, venant 4 
 I'usage qu'ila fait de ses talens, j'aurois montrfe quele bon sensn'est pas 
 toujoursce qui domine chezlui," p. 182. Boileau said he had not changed 
 his opinion : " J'en ai si peu changfe, dit-il," ic. p. 181 . 
 
 J La mani^re de bien penser dans les ouvragesdel'esprit, sec. dial. p. 
 89, fedit. 1692 Philanthesis for Tasso, and says, in the outset, " de >ous 
 les beaux esprits que I'ltalie a port6s, le Tasse est peut-gtre celui qui 
 pense le plus noblement." But Bohours seems to speak in Euduxus, 
 who closes with the absurd comparison: " Paites valoire le Tasse tant 
 qu'il vous plaira, je m'en tiens pour moi i Virgile," Ac. Ibid. p. 102. 
 
 § La Vita, (S:c. lib. iii. p. 90, torn. ii. The English reader may see an 
 account of the opposition of the Crusca to Tasso, in Dr. Black, Life, &c. 
 cap. xvii. vol, ii. 
 
 II For further, and, 't is hoped, decisive proof, that Tasso was neither 
 more nor less thai) aprisoner of state, the reader is referred to " His- 
 torical Illustrations of the JVth Canto of Childe Harold,^' pag. 5, 
 and following. 
 
 HOrazioni funebri . . . delle lodi di Don Lnigi Cardinal d'Este . . . 
 delle lodi dj Donno Alfonso d' Este. See La Vita lib. iii. p. 117. 
 
 "It was founded in 1582, and the Cruscan answer to Pellegrino' 
 Caraffa or epicapoesia was published in 1584. 
 
66 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 cusations, where, amongst other delinquencies, he was haps the reader may not be much surprised to find that 
 charged with invidiously omitting, in his comparison a commentator on Suetonius has taken upon hmisell 
 
 between France and Italy, to make any mention of the 
 cupola of SU Maria del Fiore ai Florence.* The late 
 biographer of Ariosto seems as if willing to renew the 
 controversy by doubting the interpretation of Tasso's 
 self-estimationt related in Serassi's hfe of the poet. 
 But Tiraboschi had before laid that rivalry at rest,J by 
 showing, that between Ariosto and Tasso it is not a 
 question of comparison, but of preference. 
 19. 
 The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 
 The iron crown oflaureVs mimick'd leaves. 
 
 Stanza xli. lines 1 and 2. 
 Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from the 
 Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, his bust, 
 which surmounted thetomb, was struck by Ughtning, and 
 a crown of iron laurels meUed away. The event has 
 been recorded by a writer of the last century. § The 
 transfer of these sacred ashes on the 6th of June, 1801, 
 was one of the most brilliant spectacles of the short- 
 lived Italian Republic; and to consecrate the memory 
 of the ceremony, the once famous fallen Intrepidi were 
 revived and reformed into the Ariostean academy. 
 The large public place through which the procession 
 paraded was then for the first time called Ariosto 
 Square. The author of the Orlando is jealously claim- 
 ed as the Homer, not of Italy, but Ferrara. || The 
 mother of Ariosto was of Reggio, and the house in 
 which he was born is carefully distinguished by a tablet 
 with these words : " Qui nacque Ludovico Ariosto it 
 giorno 8 di Settembre ddV anno 1474." But the Ferra- 
 rese make light of the accident by which their poet was 
 born abroad, and claim him exclusively for their own. 
 They possess his bones, they show his arm-chair, and 
 his inkstand, and his autographs. 
 
 " Hicillius arraa 
 
 Hie currus fuit " 
 
 The house where he lived, the room where he died, are 
 designated by his own replaced memorial,!! and by a 
 recent inscription. The Ferrarese are more jealous of 
 their claims since the animosity of Denina, arising from 
 a cause which their apologists mysteriously hint is not 
 unknown to them, ventured to degrade their soil and 
 climate to a Boeotian incapacity for all spiritual produc- 
 tions. A quarto volume has been called forth by the 
 detraction, and this supplement to Barotti's Memoirs 
 of the illustrious Ferrarese has been considered a tri- 
 umphant reply to the " Quadro Storico Statistic© dell' 
 Alta Italia." 
 
 20. 
 For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 
 Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves. 
 
 Stanza xli. lines 4 and 5 
 The eagle, the sea calf, the laurel,** and the white 
 vine,|| were amongst the most approved preservatives 
 against lightning: Jupiter chose the first, Augustus 
 Caesar the second,|.J and Tiberius never failed to wear 
 a wreath of the third when the sky threatened a thunder 
 storm. §§ These superstitions may be received without 
 a sneer in a country where the magical properties of 
 the hazel twig have not lost all their credit ; and per 
 
 * " Cotanto potdsempre iDlniil velenodella suapesEima volontdcontro 
 allanazion Fiorwtina." La Vita, lib. iii. p. 96, 9>. torn. ii. 
 
 t La Vita di M. L. Ario3to, scrilta dall' Abate Girolamo Barnffald 
 Oiuniore, &c. Ferrara, 1807, lib. iii. p. 269. See Historical lUustrationi, 
 &c. p. 26. 
 
 X Storia della Lett. &c. lib. iii. torn. vii. par. iii. p. 1220, sect. 4. 
 
 § " Mi raccoutaroiio que' monaci, ch' essenrto caduto uq fulmine nella 
 loro chiesa sciiiantd esso dalle tempie la corona di laiiro a qnell' immortale 
 poeta." Op. di Bianconi, yol. iii. p. 176. ed. Milano, 1S02 ; lettera a. 
 Signor Guido Sa/ini Arcifisiocritico, sull' indole di un fulmine caduto in- 
 Dresda I'aniio 1759. 
 
 II -'^Appassionato ammiratore ed iiivitto apologista dell' Omero Ferra- 
 ''?*f •" J'"'" "'-''' was first given by Tasso, and is quoted to tlie confusion 
 of the Tasiisti, lib. iii. pp. 262. 265. La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, &c. 
 
 11 " Parra sed apta niihi, sed nulli obnoxia, sed non 
 
 ^ Sordida, parta meo sed tamen aere domus." 
 
 - Aqiiila vitulus mariaus, et laurus, fuJraine non feriunttir. Plin. 
 Nat. H:8l. lib. u; cap. Iv. 
 
 If Columella, lib. i. 
 
 It .Sueton. in Vit. August, cap. xc. 
 
 5§ Sueton. ia Vit. Tibwii, cap. Uix. 
 
 gravely to disprove the imputed virtues of the crown of 
 
 Tiberius, by mentioning that a few years before he wrote, 
 
 a laurel was actually struck by lightning at Rome.* 
 
 21. 
 
 Know that the lightning sanctifies below. 
 
 Stanza xli. line 8. 
 The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the 
 Forum, having been touched by lightning, were held 
 sacred, and the memory of the accident was preserved 
 by a puteal, or altar, resembling the mouth of a well, 
 with a little chapel covering the cavity supposed to be 
 made by the thunderbolt. Bodies scathed and persons 
 struck dead were thought to be incorruptible;] and a 
 stroke not fatal conferred perpetual dignity upon the 
 man so distinguished by heaven. J 
 
 Those killed by lightning were wrapped in a vvhite 
 garment, and buried where they fell. The superstition 
 was not confined to the worshippers of Jupiter : the 
 Lombards believed in the omens furnished by hghtning, 
 and a Christian priest confesses that, by a diabolical 
 skill in interpreting thunder, a seer foretold to Agilulf, 
 duke of Turin, an event which came to pass, and gave 
 him a queen and a crown. § There was, however, 
 something equivocal in this sign, which the ancient in- 
 habitantsof Rome did not always consider propitious; 
 and as the fears are likely to last longer than the con- 
 solations of superstition, it is not strange that the Ro- 
 mans of the age of Leo X. should have been so much 
 terrified at some misinterpreted storms as to require the 
 exhortations of a scholar, who arrayed all the learning on 
 thunder and lightning to prove the omen favourable ; be- 
 ginning with the flash which struck the walls of Velitrse, 
 and including that which played upon a gale at Florence, 
 and foretold the pontificate of one of its citizens. || 
 22. 
 Italia ! oh Italia I &c. 
 
 Stanza .xlii. line 1. 
 The two stanzas, XLII. and XLIII., are, with the 
 exception of a line or two, a translation of the famous 
 sonnet of Filicaja: 
 
 " Italia, Italia, tu cui feo la sorte." 
 
 23. 
 Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 
 The Roman frierui of Rome's least-mortal mind. 
 
 Stanza xliv. hues 1 and 2. 
 The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero 
 on the death of his daughter describes as it then was, 
 and now is, a path which I often traced in Greece, both 
 by sea and land, in different journeys and voyages. 
 
 "On my return from Asia, as I was sailing from 
 iEgina towards Megara, I began to contemplate the 
 prospect of the countries around me : ^gina was be- 
 hind, Megara before me ; Piraeus on the right, Corinth 
 on the left ; all which towns, once famous and flourish- 
 ing, now lie overturned and buried in their ruins. Upon 
 
 this sight, I could not but think presently within myself] 
 
 Alas ! how do we poor mortals fret and vex ourselves 
 
 if any of our friends happen to die or to be killed, whose 
 
 life is yet so short, when the carcasses of so many noble 
 
 cities he here exposed before me in one view."1[ 
 
 24. 
 
 And we pass 
 
 The skeleton of her Titanic form. 
 
 Stanza xlvi. lines 7 and 8. 
 It is Poggio who, looking from the Capitoline hill 
 upon ruined Rome, breaks forth into the exclamation, 
 
 ' Note 2. p. 409. edit. Lugd. Bat. 1667. 
 
 t Vid. J. C. Bullenger, de Terrs; Motu et Fulminib. lib. v. cap. xi. 
 
 X 'Ondt! J KcgavvmBdi dri/xoj iari., 69iV Kal (bj S-cos Tt/iarai. Plut. 
 Sympos. vid. J . C. Bulleng. ut sup. 
 
 §Pauli Diaconi, de Gestis Langobard. lib. iii. cap. xiv. fo. 15. edit. 
 Taurin.1527. 
 
 II I. P. Valerian! de fulminum significalionibus declamatio, ap. Gr«v. 
 Antiq. Rom. torn. v. p. 5$3. The declamation is addressed to Juliau of 
 Medicis. 
 
 TI Dr. MiddletOD— History of the Life of M. Tulliue Cicero, Met. vU. p. 
 371. vol. ii. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 "Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrala jacet, instar 
 gigantei cadaveris corrupti atque undique exesi.* 
 25. 
 There, too, the Goddess loves in stone. 
 
 Stanza xlix. line 1. 
 The view of the Venus of Medicis instantly suggests 
 the lines in the Seasons, and the comparison of the 
 object with the description proves not only the correct- 
 ness of the portrait, but the peculiar turn of thought, 
 and, if the term may be used, the sexual imagination of 
 the descriptive poet. The same conclusion may be 
 deduced from another hint in the same episode of 
 Musidora ; for Thomson's notion of the privileges of 
 favoured love must have been either very primitive, or 
 rather deficient in delicacy, when he made his grateful 
 nymph inform her discreet Damon that in some happier 
 moment he might, perhaps, be the companion of her 
 bath: 
 
 " The time may come you need not fly." 
 
 The reader will recollect the anecdote told in the Life 
 of Dr. Johnson. We will not leave the Florentine 
 gallery without a word on the Whetter. It seems 
 strange that the character of that disputed statue should 
 not be entirely decided, at least in the mind of any one 
 who has seen a sarcophagus in the vestibule of the 
 Basilica of St. Paul without the walls, at Rome, where 
 the whole group of the fable of Marsyas is seen in 
 tolerable preservation ; and the Scythian slave whetting 
 the knife is represented exactly in the same position as 
 this celebrated masterpiece. The slave is not naked; 
 but it is easier to get rid of this difficulty than to sup- 
 pose the knife in the hand of the Florentine statue an 
 mstrument for shaving, which it must be, if, as Lanzi 
 supposes, the man is no other than the barber of Julius 
 Caesar. Winkelmann, illustrating a bas relief of the 
 same subject, follows the opinion of Leonard Agostini, 
 and his authority might have been thought conclusive, 
 even if the resemblance did not strike the most careless 
 observer.! 
 
 Among the bronzes of the same princely collection 
 is still to be seen the inscribed tablet copied and com- 
 mented upon by Mr. Gibbon.| Our historian found 
 some difficulties, but did not desist from his illustra- 
 tion : he might be vexed to hear that his criticism has 
 been thrown away on an inscription now generally re- 
 cognised to be a forgery. 
 
 26. 
 His eyes to thee upturn, 
 Feeding on thy sweet cheek. 
 
 Stanza li. lines 6 and 7. 
 'O09oX/xoiiff hriav. 
 
 "Atque oculos pascat uterqne siioa." 
 
 Ovid. Amor. lib. il. 
 
 27. 
 
 In Santa Croce^s holy precincts lie. 
 
 Stanza liv. line 1. 
 This name will recall the memory, not only of those 
 whose tombs have raised the Santa Croce into the 
 centre of pilgrimage, the Mecca of Italy, but of her 
 whose eloquence was poured over the illustrious ashes, 
 and whose voice is now as mute as those she sung. 
 CoRiNNA is no more ; and with her should expire the 
 fear, the flattery, and the envy, which threw too dazzling 
 or too dark a cloud round the march of genius, and 
 forbad the steady gaze of disinterested criticism. We 
 have her picture embellished or distorted, as friendship 
 or detraction has held the pencil : the impartial portrait 
 was hardly to be expected from a contemporary. The 
 immediate voice of her survivors will, it is probable, be 
 far from affording a just estimate of her singular capa- 
 city. The gallantry, the love of wonder, and the hope 
 of associated fame, which blunted the edge of censure, 
 must cease to exist. — The dead have no sex ; they can 
 surprise by no new miracles ; they can confer no privi- 
 
 * De fortune varietate urbis Roms, et de ruinia ejusdem descriptio, 
 ap. Ssilen^jre, Thesaur. torn. i. p. 501. 
 
 t See Monim. Ant. ined. par. i. cap. xvii. n. xliii. pag. 50 ; and Storia 
 delli Arti, 'c. lib. xi. cap. 1. torn. ii. pag. 314. not. B. 
 
 J Nomina geniesque Autiquae Italias, p. 204, edit. oct. 
 
 67 
 
 lege ; Corinna has ceased to be a woman — she is only 
 an author : and it may be foreseen that many will repay 
 themselves for former complaisance, by a severity to 
 which the extravagance of previous praises may per- 
 haps give the colour of truth. The latest posterity, for 
 to the latest posterity they will assuredly descend, will 
 have to pronounce upon her various productions ; and 
 the longer the vista through which they are seen, the 
 more accurately minute will be the object, the more 
 certain the justice, of the decision. She will enter into 
 that existence in which the great writers of all ages and 
 nations are, as it were, associated in a world of their 
 own, and, from that superior sphere, shed their eternal 
 influence for the control and consolation of mankind. 
 But the individual will gradually disappear as the author 
 is more distinctly seen ; some one, therefore, of all those 
 whom the charms of involuntary wit, and of easy hospi- 
 tality, attracted wiUiin the friendly circles of Coppet, 
 should rescue from oblivion those virtues which, al- 
 though they are said to love the shade, are, in fact, more 
 frequently chilled than excited by the domestic cares of 
 private life. Some one should be found to portray the 
 unaffected graces with which she adorned those dearer 
 relationships, the performance of whose duties is rather 
 discovered among the interior secrets, than seen in 
 the outward management, of family intercourse ; and 
 which, indeed, it requires the delicacy of genuine affec- 
 tion to qualify for the eye of an indifferent spectator. 
 Some one should be found, not to celebrate, but to 
 describe, the amiable mistress of an open mansion, the 
 centre of a society, ever varied, and always pleased, the 
 creator of which, divested of the ambition and the arts 
 of public rivalry, shone forth only to give fresh animation 
 to those around her. The mother tenderly afiectionate 
 and tenderly beloved, the friend unboundedly generous, 
 but still esteemed, the charitable patroness of all distress, 
 cannot be forgotten by those whom she cherished, and 
 protected, and fed. Her loss will be mourned the most 
 where she was known the best ; and, to the sorrows of 
 very many friends and more dependents, maybe offered 
 the disinterested regret of a stranger, who, amid the 
 sublimer scenes of the Leman lake, received his chief 
 satisfaction from contemplating the engaging qualities 
 of the incomparable Corinna. 
 
 28. 
 
 Here repose 
 Angelo''s, Alfieri 's hones. 
 
 Stanza liv. lines 6 and 7. 
 Alfieri is the great name of this age. The Italians, 
 without waiting for the hundred years, consider him as 
 " a poet good in law." — His memory is the more dear 
 to them because he is the bard of freedom ; and because, 
 as such, his tragedies can receive no countenance from 
 any of their sovereigns. They are but very seldom, and 
 but very few of them, allowed to be acted. It was ob- 
 served by Cicero, that nowhere were th-e true opinions 
 and feelings of the Romans so clearly shown as at the 
 theatre.* In the autumn of 1816, a celebrated impro- 
 visatore exhibited his talents at the Opera-house of 
 Milan. The reading of the theses handed in for the 
 subjects of his poetry was received by a very numerous 
 audience, for the most part in silence, or v,ith laughter; 
 but when the assistant, unfolding one of the papers, 
 exclaimed, " The apotheosis of Victor Alfieri,''^ the whole 
 theatre burst into a shout, and the applause was con- 
 tinued for some moments. The lot did not fall on 
 Alfieri; and the Signer Sgricci had to pour forth his 
 extemporary common-places on the bombardment of 
 Algiers. The choice, indeed, is not left to accident 
 quite so much as might be thought from a first view of 
 the ceremony ; and the police not only takes care to 
 
 * The free expression of their honest sentiments snrvived their liberties. 
 Titius, the friend of Antony, presented tliem with games in the theatre of 
 Pompey. They did not suffer the brilliancy of the spectacle to efface from 
 their memory that the man who furnished them with the eniertainment 
 had murdered the son of Pompey : they drove him from the theatre with 
 curses. The moral sense of a populace, spontaneously expressed, is never 
 wrong. Even the soldiers of the triumvir.^ joitied in the execration of the 
 citizens, by shouting round the chariots of Lepidus and Plancus, who had 
 proscribed their brothers, De Germanis non de Gallis duo triumphant 
 Consule.s ; a saving worth a record, were it nothing bu t a good pun . [C , 
 Vell.Paterculi Hist. lib. ii.cap.lxxix.pag. 78, edit. Elzevir. 1639. Ibid, 
 lib. ii. cap. Ixxrii.] 
 
68 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 to look at the papers beforehand, but in case of any absent on an embassy to Pope Boniface "VIII., and was 
 prudential afterthought, steps in to correct the blind- | condemned to two years' banishment, and to a fine of 
 The proposal for deifyina Altieri was 8000 lire; on the non-paymeni of which he was further 
 
 ness of chance 
 
 received with immediate enthusiasm, the rather because 
 It was conjectured there would be no opportunity of 
 carrying it into effect. 
 
 29. 
 
 Here Machiavellis earth relumed to whence it rose. 
 
 Stanza hv. line 9. 
 
 The affectation of simplicity in sepulchral inscriptions, 
 
 which so often leaves us uncertain whether the structure 
 
 before us is an actual depository, or a cenotaph, or a 
 
 simple memorial not of death but life, has given to the 
 
 tomb of Machiavelli no information as to tne place or 
 
 time of the birth or death, the age or parentage, of the 
 
 historii 
 
 TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR ELOGIVM 
 WICCOiAVS MACHIAVELLI. 
 
 There seerns at least no reason why the name should 
 not have been put above the sentence which alludes 
 to it. 
 
 It will readily be imagined that the prejudices which 
 have passed the name of Machiavelli into an epithet 
 proverbial of iniquity exist no longer at Florence. His 
 memory was persecuted as his life had been for an at- 
 tachment to liberty incompatible with the new system 
 of despotism, which succeeded the fall of the free 
 governments of Italy. He was put to the torture for 
 being a "libertine," that is, for wishing to restore the 
 repubhc of Florence ; and such are the undying efforts 
 of those who are interested in the perversion not onlv 
 of the nature of actions, but the meaning of words, that 
 w-hat was once patriotism, has by degrees come to sig- 
 nify debauch. We have ourselves outlived the (<Td 
 meaning of " liberality," which is now another word for 
 treason in one country and for infatuation in all. It 
 seems to have been a strange mistake to accuse the 
 author of the Prince, as being a pander to tyranny ; 
 and to think that the Inquisition would condemn his work 
 for such a delinquency. The fact is that Machiavelli, 
 as is usual with those against whom no crime can be 
 proved, was suspected of and charged with atheism ; 
 and the first and last most violent opposers of the Prince 
 \yere both Jesuits, one of whom persuaded the Inquisi- 
 tion " bench6 fosse tardo," to prohibit the treatise and 
 the other qualified the secretary of the Florentine re- 
 public as no better than a fool. The father Possevin 
 was proved never to have read the book, and the father 
 Liucchesini not to have understood it. It is clear, how- 
 ever, that such critics must have objected not to the 
 slavery of the doctrines, but to the supposed tendency 
 of a lesson which shows how distinct are the interests 
 of a monarch from the happiness of mankind. The 
 Jesuits are re-cstabhshed in Italy, and the last chapter 
 of the Prince may again call forth a particular refuta- 
 tion from those who are employed once more in 
 moulding the minds of the rising generation, so as to 
 receive the impressions of despotism. The chapter 
 bears for title, "Esortazione a hberare la Itaha dai 
 JJarbari, and concludes with a libertine excitement to 
 the future redemption of Italy. « JVon si deve adunque 
 lasciar passare questa occasione, acciocdu la Italia vegga 
 dopo tanto tempo apparire un suo redentore. JVe posso 
 esprimere con qual amore ei fusse ricevuto in tutte quelle 
 provincie, che hanno patito per queste illuvioni esterne, con 
 qual sete di vendetta, con che ostinata fede, con che lacrime 
 Quah porte se li serrerebeno ? Quali popoli li negherebheno 
 la obbedienza ? Quale Italiano li negherebbe Vossequio ? 
 
 AD OGNU.VO PUZZA QUESTO BARBARO DOMINIO."* 
 
 30. 
 
 Ungrateful Fhrence ! Dante sleeps afar. 
 
 Stanza Ivii. line 1. 
 
 Uante was born in Florence in the year 1261 He 
 
 fought m two battles, was fourteen times ambassador 
 
 and once prior of the republic. When the party of 
 
 Unarles of Anjou triumphed over the Bianchi, he was 
 
 sff9"^H3i:|S'i£-e^--iKS?: 
 
 punished by the sequestration of all his property. The 
 republic, however, was not content with this satisfac- 
 tion, for in 1772 was discovered in the archives at Flo- 
 rence a sentence in which Dante is the eleventh of a 
 list of fifteen condemned in 1302 to be burnt ahve •, 
 Talis perveniens igne comburatur sic quod moriatur. The 
 pretext for this judgment was a proof of unfair barter, 
 extortion's, and illicit gains. Baracteriarum iniquarum, 
 extorsionum, et iUicitorum Ivcrorum,* and with such an 
 accusation it is not strange that Dante should have 
 always protested his innocence, and the injustice of his 
 fellow-citizens. His appeal to Florence was accom- 
 panied by another to the Emperor Henry ; and the 
 death of that sovereign in 1313, was the signal for a 
 sentence of irrevocable banishment. He had before 
 lingered near Tuscany with hopes of recall ; then tra- 
 velled into the north of Italy, w here Verona had to boast 
 of his longest residence ; and he finally settled at Ra- 
 venna, which was his ordinary but not constant abode 
 until his death. The refusal of the Venetians to grant 
 him a public audience, on the part of Guido Novello da 
 Polenta, his protector, is said to have been the principal 
 cause of this event, which happened in 1321. He was 
 buried ("in sacra minorum ajde") at Ravenna, in a 
 handsome tomb, which was erected by Guido, restored 
 by Bernardo Bembo in 1483, praetor for that repubhc 
 which had refused to hear him, again restored by Car- 
 dinal Corsi in 1692, and replaced by a more magnificent 
 sepulchre, constructed in 17S0, at the expense of the 
 Cardinal Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. The offence or 
 misfortune of Dame was an attachment to a defeated 
 party, and, as his least favourable biographers allege 
 against him, too great a freedom of speech and haughti- 
 ness of manner. But the next age paid honours almost 
 divine to the exile. The Florentines, having in vain 
 and frequently attempted to recover his body, crowned 
 his image in a church,! and his picture is still one of 
 the idols of their cathedral. They struck medals, they 
 raised statues to him. The cities of Italy, not being 
 able to dispute about his own birth, contended for that 
 of his great poem, and the Florentines thought it for 
 their honour to prove that he had finished the seventh 
 Canto before they drove him from his native city. 
 Fifty-one years after his death, they endowed a pro- 
 fessorial chair for the expounding of his verses, and 
 Boccaccio was appointed to this patriotic employment. 
 The example was imitated by Bologna and Pisa, and 
 the commentators, if they performed but little service 
 to literature, augmented the veneration which beheld 
 a sacred or moral allegory in all the images of his mystic 
 muse. His birth and his infancy were discovered to 
 have been distinguished above those of ordinary men; 
 the author of the Decameron, his earliest biographer 
 relates, that his mother was warned in a dream of the 
 importance of her pregnancy : and it was found, by 
 others, that at ten years of age he had manifested his 
 precocious passion for that w isdom or theology, which 
 under the name of Beatrice, had been mistaken for a 
 substantial mistress. When the Divine Comedy had 
 been recognised as a mere mortal production, and at 
 tihe distance of two centuries, when criticism and 
 competition had sobered the judgment of Italians, 
 Dante was seriously declared superior to Homer ;| 
 and though the preference appeared to some casuists 
 " an heretical blasphemy worthy of the flames," the 
 contest was vigorously ' maintained for nearly fifty 
 years. In later times it was made a question which of 
 the Lords of Verona could boast of having patronized 
 him,§ and the jealous skepticism of one writer would 
 not allow Ravenna the undoubted possession of his 
 bones. Even the critical Tiraboschi was inclined to 
 
 * Storia delta Lett. Ital. torn. v. lib. iii. par. 2. p. 448. Tiraboschi is 
 mTTml me °'" ^^ ^^"^^ decrees against Dante are A. D. 1302, 
 
 t So relates Ficino, but some think his coronation onlyan alleeorr. Sea 
 .Storia, &c. ut sup. p. 453. 6 / <^ 
 
 ifil<P^ J^'"ti!' '° *"'. Ercolano. The coDtroversy continued from 1570 to 
 iblb^ ^e<; STtona, &c. torn. vii. lib. iii. par. iii. p. 1280. 
 § (jio. Jacopo Dionisi Canoiiico di Verona. Serie di Aneddoti, n. 2. 
 hb. i.par.i.p. 24, 
 
 : Gloria, &c. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 69 
 
 believe that the poet had foreseen and foretold one of 
 the discoveries of Galileo. — Like the great originals of 
 other nations, his popularity has not always maintained 
 the same level. The last age seemed inclmed to und 
 value him as a model and a study ; and Bettinelli one 
 day rebuked his pupil Monti, for poring over the harsh 
 and obsolete extravagances of the Commedia. The 
 present generation, having recovered from the Gallic 
 idolatries of Cesarotti, has returned to the ancient 
 worship, and the Danteggiare of the northern Italians 
 is thought even indiscreet by the more moderate 
 Tuscans. 
 
 There is still much curious information relative to 
 the life and writings of this great poet which has not as 
 yet been collected even by the Italians ; but the cele- 
 brated Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply this defect, and 
 it is not to be regretted that this national work has 
 been reserved for one so devoted to his country and the 
 cause of truth. 
 
 31. 
 Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 
 Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
 Proscribed, &c. 
 
 Stanza IviL lines 2, 3, and 4. 
 The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb if he was not 
 buried at Liternum, whither he had retired to voluntary 
 banishment. This tomb was near the sea-shore, and 
 the story of an inscription upon it, Ingrata Patria, 
 having given a name to a modern tower, is, if not true, 
 an agreeable fiction. If he was not buried, he certainly 
 hved there.* 
 
 In cusi angusta e solitaria villa 
 
 Era '1 grand' uomo che d'Africa s'appella 
 
 Perche prima col ferro al vivo aprilla.t 
 
 Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice peculiar 
 to republics; and it seems to be forgotten that for one 
 instance of popular inconstancy, we have a hundred 
 examples of the fall of courtly favourites. Besid 
 people have often repented — a monarch seldom or never. 
 Leaving apart many familiar proofs of this fact, a short 
 story may show the difference between even an aristo- 
 cracy and the multitude. 
 
 Vettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354 at Porto- 
 longo, and many years afterwards in the more decisive 
 action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled by the 
 Venetian government, and thrown into chains. The 
 Avvogadori proposed to behead him, but the supreme 
 tribunal was content with the sentence of imprisonment. 
 Whilst Pisani was suffering this unmerited disgrace, 
 Chioza,in the vicinity of the capital,| was by the assist- 
 ance of the Signor of Padua, delivered into the hands 
 of Pietro Doria. At the intelligence of that disaster, 
 the great bell of St. Mark's tower tolled to arms, and 
 the people and the soldiery of the galleys were sum- 
 moned to the repulse of the approaching enemy ; but 
 they protested they would not move a step, unless 
 Pisani were liberated and placed at their head. The 
 great council was instantly assembled ; the prisoner 
 was called before them, and the Doge, Andrea Conta- 
 rini, informed him of the demands of the people and the 
 necessities of the state, whose only hope of safety was 
 reposed on his efforts, and who implored him to forget 
 the indignities he had endured in her service. " I have 
 submitted," replied the magnanimous republican, "I 
 have submitted to your deliberations without complaint ; 
 I have supported patiently the pains of imprisonment, 
 for they were inflicted at your command : this is no 
 time to inquire whether I deserved them — the good of 
 the republic may have seemed to require it, and that 
 which the republic resolves is always resolved wisely. 
 Behold me ready to lay down my life for the preserva- 
 tion of my country." Pisani was appointed generalis- 
 simo, and by his exertions, in conjunction with those of 
 Carlo Zeno, the Venetians soon recovered the ascend- 
 ency over their maritime rivals. 
 
 The Italian communities were no less unjust to their 
 
 * VitamLiterniegitsinedesideriourbis. SeeT.Liv. Hist. lib. 
 Livy reports that some said he was buried at Literaum, others at Rome, 
 lb. cap. Iv. 
 
 t Trionfo della Castitcl. 
 
 i See note 8, page 62. 
 
 citizens than the Greek republics. Liberty, both with 
 the one and the other, seems to have been a national, 
 not an individual object: and, notwithstanding the 
 boasted equality before the laws, which an ancient Greek 
 w^riter* considered the great distinctive mark between 
 his countrymen and the barbarians, the mutual rights 
 of fellow-citizens seem never to have been the principal 
 scope of the old democracies. The world may have 
 not yet seen an essay by the author of the Italian Re- 
 pubhcs, in which the distinction between the liberty of 
 former states, and. the signification attached to that 
 word by the happier constitution of England, is ingeni- 
 ously developed. The Italians, however, when they 
 had ceased to be free, still looked back with a sigh upon 
 those times of turbulence, when every citizen might 
 rise to a share of sovereign power, and have never been 
 taught fully to appreciate the repose of a monarchy. 
 Sperone Speroni, when Francis Maria II. Duke of 
 Rovere proposed the question, " which was preferable, 
 the republic or the principality — the perfect and not 
 durable, or the less perfect and not so liable to change," 
 replied, " that our happiness is to be measured by its 
 quality, not by its duration ; and that he preferred to 
 live for one day like a man, than for a hundred years 
 like a brute, a stock, or a stone." This was thought, 
 and called, a magnificent answer, down to the last days 
 of Italian servitude.! 
 
 32. 
 A:nd the crown 
 Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore 
 Upon afar and foreign soil had grown. 
 
 Stanza Ivii. lines 6, 7, and 8. 
 The Florentines did not take the opportunity of Pe- 
 trarch's short visit to their city in 1350 to revoke the 
 decree which confiscated the property of his father, who 
 had been banished shortly after the exile of Dante. His 
 crown did not dazzle them ; but when in the next year 
 they were in want of his assistance in the formation of 
 their university, they repented of their injustice, and 
 Boccaccio, was sent to Padua to entreat the laureate 
 to conclude his wanderings in the bosom of his native 
 country, where he might finish his immortal Africa, and 
 enjoy with his recovered possessions, the esteem of all 
 classes of his fellow-citizens. They gave him the option 
 of the book and the science he might condescend to 
 expound : they called him the glory of his country, who 
 was dear, and would be dearer to them ; and they added, 
 that if there was any thing unpleasing in their letter, 
 he ought to return among them, were it only to cor- 
 rect their style. J Petrarch seemed at first to listen to 
 the flattery and to the entreaties of his friend, but he did 
 not return to Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage to 
 the tomb of Laura and the shades of Vaucluse. 
 33. 
 Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed 
 His dv^t. 
 
 Stanza Iviii. lines 1 and 2. 
 Boccaccio was buried in the church of St. Michael 
 and St. James, at Certaldo, a small town in the Val- 
 delsa, which was by some supposed the place of his 
 birth. There he passed the latter part of his life in a 
 course of laborious study, which shortened his existence ; 
 and there might his ashes have been secure, if not of 
 honour, at least of repose. But the " hysena bigots" of 
 Certaldo tore up the tombstone of Boccaccio, and eject- 
 ed it from the holy precincts of St. Michael and St. 
 James. The occasion, and, it may be hoped, the excuse, 
 of this ejectment was the making of a new floor for the 
 church ; but the fact is, that the tombstone was taken 
 up and thrown aside at the bottom of the building. 
 Ignorance may share the sin with bigotry. It would 
 be painful to relate such an exception to the devotion 
 of the ItaHans for their great names, could it not be 
 accompanied by a trait more honourably conformable 
 
 See the last chapter of the 
 Serassi Vita del Tasso, 
 
 * The Greek boasted that he was la-ovd/ios. 
 first book of Dicnysius of Halicarnassus. 
 
 t " E intorno a//a magnificarisposta," &c 
 lib. iii. pag. 149. torn. ii. edit. 2. Bergamo. 
 
 % " Accingiti innoltre, se ci e lecito ancor I'esortarti, a corapire I'immor- 
 tal tua Africa . . . Se ti avviene d'incontrare nel nostro stile cosa che ti 
 dispiaccia, cibdebb' essereun altro raotivo ad esaudire i desiderj deJla tua 
 patria." Storia delta I-ett. Ital. torn. v. par. i. lib. i. pag. 76. 
 
70 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 to the general character of the nation. The principal old age he wrote a letter entreating his friend to dia- 
 person of the district, the last branch of the house of courage the reading of the Decameron, for the sake of 
 
 Medicis, afforded that protection to the memory of the 
 insulted dead which her best ancestors had dispensed 
 upon all coleinporary merit. The Marchioness Lenzoni 
 rescued the tombstone of Boccaccio from the neglect in 
 which it had sometime lain, and found for it an honour- 
 able elevation in her own mansion. She has done 
 more : the house in which the poet lived has been as 
 little respected as his tomb, and is falling to ruin over 
 the head of one indifferent to the name of iis former 
 tenant. It consists of two or three little chambers, and 
 a low tower, on wliich Cosmo II. affixed an inscription. 
 This house she has taken measures to purchase, and 
 proposes to devote to it that care and consideration 
 which are attached to the cradle and to the roof of 
 genius. 
 
 This is not the place to undertake the defence of 
 Boccaccio; but the man who exhausted his little 
 patrimony in the acquirement of learning, who was 
 among the first, if not the first, to allure the science 
 and the poetry of Greece to the bosom of Italy ; — who 
 not only invented a new style, but founded, or certainly 
 fixed, a new language ; who, besides the esteem of every 
 polite court of Europe, was thought worthy of employ- 
 ment by the predominant republic of his own country, 
 and, what is more, of the friendship of Petrarch, who 
 lived the life of a philosopher and a freeman, and who 
 died in the pursuit of kno^Yledge, — such a man might 
 have found more consideration than he has met with 
 from the priest of Certaldo, and from a late Enghsh 
 traveller, who strikes off" his portrait as an odious, con- 
 temptible, licentious writer, whose impure remains 
 should be suffered to rot without a record.* That 
 English traveller, unfortunately for those who have to 
 deplore the loss of a very amiable person, is beyond all 
 criticism ; but the mortahty which did not protect Boc- 
 caccio from Mr. Eustace, must not defend Mr. Eustace 
 from the impartial judgment of his successors. — Death 
 may canonize his virtues, not his errors ; and it may 
 be modestly pronounced that he transgressed, not only 
 as an author, but as a man, when he evoked the shade 
 of Boccaccio in company with that of Aretine, amidst 
 the sepulchres of Santa Croce, merely to dismiss it 
 with indignity. As far as respects 
 
 " Lflagello de' Principi, 
 II divin Pietro Aretino," 
 
 It is of little import what censure is passed upon a 
 coxcomb who owes his present existence to the above 
 burlesque character given to him by the poet whose 
 amber has preserved many other grubs and worms : 
 but to classify Boccaccio with such a person, and to 
 excommunicate his very ashes, must of hself make us 
 doubt of the qualification of the classical tourist for 
 writing upon Italian, or, indeed, upon any other litera- 
 ture; for ignorance on one point may incapacitate an 
 author merely for that particular topic, but subjection 
 to a professional prejudice must render him an unsafe 
 director on all occasions. Any perversion and injustice 
 may be made what is vulgarly called " a case of con- 
 science," and this poor excuse is all that can be ofl^ered 
 for the priest of Certaldo, or the author of the Classical 
 Tour. It would have answered the purpose to confine 
 the censure to the novels of Boccaccio, and gratitude 
 to that source which supplied the muse of Dryden with 
 her last and most harmonious numbers might perhaps 
 have restricted that censure to the objectionable quali- 
 ties of the hundred tales. At any rate the repentance 
 of Boccaccio might have arrested his exhumation, and 
 it should have been recollected and told, that in his 
 
 modesty, and for the sake of the author, who would not 
 have an apologist always at hand to state in his excuse 
 that he wrote it vhen young, and at the command of 
 his superiors.* It is neiiher the hcentiousness of the 
 writer, nor the evil propensities of the reader, which 
 have given to the Decameron alone, of all the works of 
 Boccaccio, a perpetual popularity. The establishment 
 of a new and delightful dialect conferred an immortality 
 on the works in which it v.' as first fixed. The sonnets 
 of Petrarch were, for the same reason, fated to survive 
 his self-admired Africa, the '•'•favourite of kings.'''' The 
 invariable traits of nature and feelin^ with which the 
 novels, as well as the verses, abound, have doubtless 
 been the chief source of the foreign celebrity of both 
 authors ; but Boccaccio, as a man, is no more to bo 
 estimated by that work, than Petrarch is to be regarded 
 in no other light than as the lover of Laura. Even, 
 however, had the father of the Tuscan prose been 
 known only as the author of the Decameron, a consi- 
 derate writer would have been cautious to pronounce a 
 sentence irreconcilable wath the unerring voice of many 
 ages and nations. An irrevocable value has never 
 been stamped upon any work solely recommended by 
 impurity. 
 
 The true source of the outcry against Boccaccio, 
 which began at a very early period, was the choice of 
 his scandalous personages in the cloisters as well as the 
 courts ; but the princes only laughed at the gallant ad- 
 ventures so unjustly charged upon queen Theodelinda, 
 whilst the priesthood cried shame upon the debauches 
 drawn from the convent and the hermitage ; and most 
 probably for the opposite reason, namely, that the pic- 
 ture was faithful to the life. Two of the novels are 
 allowed to be facts usetully turned into tales, to deride 
 the canonization of rogues and laymen. Ser Ciappel- 
 letto and Marcellinus are cited with applause even by 
 the decent Muratori.j The great Arnaud, as he is 
 quoted in Bayle, states, that a new edition of the novels 
 was proposed, of which the expurgation consisted in 
 omitting the words " monk" and "nun," and tacking the 
 immoralities to other names. The literary history of 
 Italy particularizes no such edition ; but it was not long 
 before the whole of Europe had but one opinion of the 
 Decameron ; and the absolution of the author seems to 
 
 ears aso ; 
 
 • Classical Tour, cap. ix. vol. ii. p. 355. edit. 3d. " Of Boccaccio, the 
 modern Petronius, we say nothing ; the abuse of genius is more odious 
 and more contemptible than its absence ; and it imports little where the 
 mipure remains of a licentious author are consigned to their kindred d\ist. 
 For the same reason the traveller may pass unnoticed the tomb of the 
 malignant Aretino." 
 
 Thisdubii)us phrase is hardly enough to save the tourist from the sus- 
 picion of another blunder respecting the burial-place of Aretine, whose 
 tomb was in the church of St. Luke at Venice, and pave rise to the 
 famous controversy of which some notice is taken in Bavle. Now the 
 worus of Mr. Eustace would lead us to think the tomb w4s at Florence 
 oral least was to be somewhere recognised. Whether the inscription so 
 much disputed was ever written on the tomb cannot now be decided, for 
 all m«roori*l of this author hw disappeared from the church of St. Luke, 
 
 have been a point settled at least a hundred y 
 " On se feroit siffler si I'on prelendoit convaincre Boc- 
 cace de n'avoir pas ete honnete hom.me, puis qifil a fait 
 le Decameron." So said one of the best men, and per- 
 haps the best critic, that ever lived — the very martyr 
 to impartiality.! But as this information, that in the 
 beginning of the last century one would have been 
 hooted at for pretending that Boccaccio was not a good 
 man, may seem to come from one of those enemies who 
 are to be suspected, even when they make us a present 
 of truth, a more acceptable contrast with the proscrip- 
 tion of the body, soul, and muse of Boccaccio may be 
 found in a few words from the \artuous, the patriotic 
 cotemporary, who thought one of the tales of this impure 
 writer worthy a Latin version from his own pen. " / 
 have remarked elsewhere" says Petrarch, writing to 
 Boccaccio, ^Uhat the book itself has been worried by cer- 
 tain dogs, but stoutly defended by your staff and voice. 
 Nor was I astonished, for I have had proof of the vigour 
 of your mind, and I know you have fallen on that unac- 
 commodating incapable race ofmortah who, whatever they 
 either like not, or know not, or cannot do, are sure to 
 reprehend in others ; and on those occasions only put on u 
 show of learning and eloquence, but otherwise are entirely 
 dumb."^ 
 
 * " Non enim ubique est, qui In excusationera meam consurgens dicat, 
 juvenis scripsit, et majoris coactus imperio." The letter was addressed 
 to Maghinurd of Cavalcanti, marshal of the kingdom of Sicily. .See Tira- 
 boschi, .Storia, &c. torn. v. par. ii. lib. iii. pag. 525. ed. Ven. 1795. 
 
 t Disseriazioni sopra le antichitd Italiane. Diss. Iviii. p. 253. lorn. iii. 
 edit. Milan, 17.51. 
 
 1 Eclaircissement, &c. &c. p. 638. edit. Basle, 1741, in the Supplement 
 to Bayle's Dictionary. 
 
 § " Animadverii alicubi librum ipsum canum dentibus lacessitum, tuo 
 tamenbaculo egregifi tuS.que voce defensam. Necrairatus sum : namet 
 vires ingenii tui novi, et scio expertus esses hominum genus insolens et 
 iguavum, qui quicquid ipsi vel nolunl vel nesciunt, vel non posaunt, in 
 aliis reprehendunt ; ad hoc unum docti et arguti, sed clingiie* nd r«liqiia." 
 . . . Epist. Joan. Boccaiio. Upp. torn. i. p. 540. edit. Bacil. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 71 
 
 It is satisfactoij to find that all the priesthood do not 
 resemble those oi Certaldo, and that one of them who 
 did not possess the bones of Boccaccio would not lose 
 the opportunity of raising a cenotaph to his memory. 
 Bevius, canon of Padua, at the beginning of the sixteenth 
 century, erected at Arqua, opposite to the tomb of the 
 Laureate, a tablet, in which he associated Boccaccio to 
 the equal honours of Dante and of Petrarch. 
 34. 
 iVhat is her pyramid of precious stones ? 
 
 Stanza Ix. line I. 
 
 Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo and 
 expires with his grandson ; that stream is pure only at 
 the source ; and it is in search of some memorial of the 
 virtuous republicans of the family that we visit the 
 church of St. Lorenzo at Florence. The tawdry, glaring, 
 unfinished chapel in that church, designed for the mau- 
 soleum of the Dukes of Tuscany, set round with crowns 
 and coffins, gives birth to no emotions but those of 
 contempt for the lavish vanity of a race of despots, 
 whilst the pavement slab, simply inscribed to the Father 
 of his Country, reconciles us to the name of Medici.* 
 It was very natural for Corinnaj to suppose that the 
 statue raised to the Duke of Urbino in the capella de' 
 depositi was intended for his great namesake ; but the 
 magnificent Loreazo is only the sharer of a coffin half 
 hidden in a niche of the sacristy. The decay of Tus- 
 cany dates from the sovereignty of the Medici. Of tne 
 sepulchral peace which succeeded to the establishment 
 of the reigning families in Italy, our own Sidney has 
 given us a glowing, but a faithful picture. " Notwith- 
 standing all the seditions of Florence, and other cities of 
 Tuscany, the horrid factions of Guelphs and Ghibelins. 
 Neri and Bianchi, nobles and commons, they continued 
 populous, strong, and exceeding rich ; but in the space 
 of less than a hundred and fifty years, the peaceable 
 reign of the Medices is thought to have destroyed nine 
 parts in ten of the people of that province. Among 
 other things it is remarkable, that when Philip the 
 Second of Spain gave Sienna to the Duke of Florence, 
 his embassador then at Rome sent him word, that he 
 had given away more than 650,000 subjects ; and it is 
 not believed there are now 20,000 souls inhabiting that 
 city and territory. Pisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, Cortona, and 
 other towns, that were then good and populous, are in 
 the like proportion diminished, and Florence more than 
 any. When that city had been long troubled with sedi- 
 tions, tumults, and wars, for the most part unprosperous, 
 they still retained such strength, that when Charles VIII. 
 of France, being admitted as a friend with his whole 
 army, which soon after conquered the kingdom of Na- 
 ples, thought to master them, the people, taking arms, 
 struck sucn a terror into him, that he was glad to depart 
 upon such conditions as they thought fit to impose. 
 Machiavel reports, that in that time Florence alone, 
 with the Val d'Arno, a small territory belonging to that 
 city, could, in a few hours, by the sound of a bell, bring 
 together 135,000 well-armed men ; whereas now that 
 city, with all the others in that province, are brought to 
 such despicable weakness, emptiness, poverty, and 
 baseness, that they can neither resist the oppressions of 
 their own prince, nor defend him or themselves if they 
 were assaulted by a foreign enemy. The people are 
 dispersed or destroyed, and the best families sent to 
 seek habitations in Venice, Genoa, Rome, Naples, and 
 Lucca. This is not the eflfect of war or pestilence ; 
 they enjoy a perfect peace, and suffer no other plague 
 than the government they are under."J From the 
 usurper Cosmo down to the imbecile Gaston, we look 
 in vain for any of those unmixed qualities which should 
 raise a patriot to the command of his fellow-citizens. 
 The Grand Dukes, and particularly the third Cosmo, 
 had operated so entire a change in the Tuscan character, 
 that the candid Florentines, in excuse for some imper- 
 fections in the philanthropic system of Leopold, are 
 obliged to confess that the sovereign was the only liberal 
 
 man in his dominions. Yet that excellent prince him- 
 self had no other notion of a naUonal assemmy, than of 
 a body to represent the wants and wishes, not the will, 
 of the people. 
 
 35. 
 An earthquake reeCd unheededly away. 
 
 Stanza Ixiii. hne 5. 
 
 ^'And such was their mutual animosity, so intent were 
 they upon the battle, that the earthquake, which overthrew 
 in great part many of the cities of Italy, which turned the 
 course of rapid streams, poured back the sea upon the 
 rivers, and tore down the very mountains, was not felt by 
 one of the combatants^* Such is the description of 
 Livy. It may be doubted whether modern tactics 
 would admit of such an abstraction. 
 
 The site of the battle of Thrasimene is not to be mis- 
 taken. The traveller from the village under Cortona 
 to Casa di Piano, the next stage on the way to Rome, 
 has for the first two or three miles, around him, but 
 more particularly to the right, that flat land which 
 Hannibal laid waste m order to induce the Consul 
 Flaminius to move from Arezzo. On his left, and in 
 front ot him, is a ridge of hills bending down towards 
 the lake of Thrasimene, called by Livy "montes Cor- 
 tonenses," and now named the Gualandra. These hills 
 he approaches at Ossaja, a village which the itineraries 
 pretend to have been so denominated from the bones 
 found there: but there have been no bones found there, 
 and the battle was fought on the other side of the hill. 
 From Ossaja the road begins to rise a little, but does 
 not pass into the roots of the mountains until the sixty- 
 seventh milestone from Florence. The ascent thence 
 is not steep but perpetual, and continues for twenty 
 minutes. The lake is soon seen below on the right, 
 with Borghetto, a round tower close upon the water ; 
 and the undulating hills partially covered with wood, 
 among which the road vdnds, sink by degrees into the 
 marshes near to this tower. Lower than the road, down 
 to the right amidst these woody hillocks, Hannibal 
 placed his horse,"!" in the jaws of or rather above the 
 pass, which was between the lake and the present road, 
 and most probably close to Borghetto, just under the 
 lowest of the " tumuli."J On a summit to the left, above 
 the road, is an old circular ruin which the peasants call 
 " the Tower of Hannibal the Carthagenian." Arrived 
 at the highest point of the road, the traveller has a partial 
 view of the fatal plain, which opens fully upon him as he 
 descends the Gualandra. He soon finds himself in a vale 
 enclosed to the left and in front and behind him by the 
 Gualandra hills, bending round in a segment larger than 
 a semicircle, and running down at each end to the lake, 
 which obliques to the right and forms the chord of this 
 mountain arc. The position cannot be guessed at from 
 the plains of Cortona, nor appears to be so completely 
 enclosed unless to one who is fairly within the hills. 
 It then, indeed, appears " a place made as it were on 
 purpose for a snare," locv^ insidiis natus. " Borghetto 
 is then found to stand in a narrow marshy pass close to 
 the hill and to the lake, whilst there is no other outlet 
 at the opposite turn of the mountains than through the 
 little town of Passignano, which is pushed into the water 
 by the foot of a high rocky acclivity ."§ There is a 
 woody eminence branching down from the mountains 
 into the upper end of the plain nearer to the side of 
 Passignano, and on this stands a white village called 
 Torre. Polybius seems to allude to this eminence as 
 the one on which Hannibal encamped and drew out his 
 heavy-armed Africans and Spaniards in a conspicuous 
 position.ll From this spot he despatched his Balearic 
 
 * Cosmus Medices, Decreto Publico. Pater Patriae. 
 
 + Corinne, liv. xviii. cap. iii. vol. iii. page 248. 
 
 J Ou Government, chap. ii. sect. xxvi. pag. 208. edit. 1751. Sidney is, 
 together with Locke and Hoadley, one of Mr. Hume's "despicable" 
 writera. 
 
 ."Tantusque fuit ardor animorum, adeo intentus pngnje auimug, ot 
 eum terrae motumqui multarum urbium Italise magnas partes prostravit, 
 avertitque cursu rapido amnes, mare fluminibiis invexit, montes lapsu 
 itigenti proruit, nemo pugnaulium senserit." . . . Tit. Liv.lib.xiii.cap. 
 
 t " Equites ad ipsas fauces saltus tumulis apte tegentibus local." T. 
 Livii,!ib xxii. cap. iv. ,, , . . 
 
 J " Ubi maxime montes Cortonenses Thrasireenus subit." Ibid. 
 
 ^ " Inde colles assurgunt." Ibid. 
 
 fl Tdv iiiv Kard. Trpoa-MKOv rijs KoptCas X6(j>ov Avrds KartM^tro KaX 
 Tovs M^vas, K-al rovs 'I/Si^paj, txmv in' avrov KariC7rgaT0T:i6tvai. 
 Hist. lib. iii. cap. 83. The account in Polybius is not so easily reconcile- 
 able with present appearances as that in Livy : he talks of hills to tlia 
 right and left of the pass and valley ; but when Flaminius eut^red he had 
 the lake at the right of both. 
 
72 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 and licht-armed iroops round through the Gualandra 
 heio^hts to the right, so as to arrive unseen and form an 
 ambush among the broken accUvities which the road 
 now passes, and to be ready to act upon the left flank 
 and above the enemy, whilst the horse shut up the pass 
 behind. Flaniinius came to the lake near Borghetlo at 
 sunset ; and, without sending any spies before him, 
 marched through the pass the next morning before the 
 day had quite broken, so that he perceived nothing of 
 the horse and hght troops above and about him, and 
 saw only the heavy-armed Carthaginians in front on 
 the hill of Torre.* The consul began to draw out his 
 army in the flat, and in the mean time the horse in 
 ambush occupied the pass behind him at Borghetto. 
 Thus the Romans vvere completely inclosed, having 
 the lake on the right, the main army on the hill of Torre 
 in front, the Gualandra hills filled with the light-armed 
 on their left flank, and being prevented from receding 
 by the cavalry, w'ho, the farther they advanced, stopped 
 up all the outlets in the rear. A fog rising from the 
 lake now spread itself over the army of the consul, but 
 the high lands were in the sunshine, and all the different 
 corps in ambush looked towards the hill of Torre for 
 the order of attack. Hannibal gave the signal, and 
 moved down from his post on the height. At the same 
 moment all his troops on the eminences behind and in 
 the flank of Flaminius, rushed forwards as it were with 
 one accord into the plain. The Romans, who were 
 formincr their array in the mist, suddenly heard the 
 shouts of the enemy among them, on every side, and 
 before they could fall into their ranks, or draw their 
 swords, or see by whom they were attacked, felt at 
 once that they were surrounded and lost. 
 
 There are two little rivulets which run from the Gua- 
 landra into the lake. The traveller crosses the first of 
 these at about a mile after he comes into the plain, and 
 this divides the Tuscan from the Papal territories. The 
 second, about a quarter of a mile further on, is called 
 "the bloody rivulet," and the peasants point out an open 
 spot to the left between the " Sanguinetto" and the hills, 
 which, they say, was the principal scene of slaughter. 
 The other part of the plain is covered with thick set 
 olive-trees in corn grounds, and is nowhere quite level 
 except near the edge of the lake. It is, indeed, most 
 probable, that the battle was fought near this end of the 
 valley, for the six thousand Romans, who, at the begin- 
 ning of the action, broke through the enemy, escaped to 
 the summit of an eminence which must have been in 
 this quarter, otherwise they would have had to traverse 
 the whole plain and to pierce through the main army 
 of Hannibal. 
 
 The Romans fought desperately for three hours, but 
 the death of Flaminius was the signal for a general 
 dispersion. The Carthaginian horse then burst in upon 
 the fugitives, and the lake, the marsh about Borghetto, 
 but chiefly the plain of the Sanguinetto and the passes 
 of the Gualandra, were strewed with dead. Near some 
 old walls on a bleak ridge to the left above the rivulet 
 many human bones have been repeatedly found, and 
 this has confirmed the pretensions and the name of the 
 "stream of blood." 
 
 Every district of Italy has its hero. In the north 
 some painter is the usual genius of the place, and the 
 foreign Julio Romano more than divides Mantua with 
 her native Virgil. | To the south we hear of Roman 
 names. Near Thrasimene tradition is still faithful to 
 the fame of an enemy, and Hannibal the Carthaginian 
 is the only ancient name remembered on the banks of 
 the Perugian lake. Flaminius is unknown ; but the 
 postillions on that road have been taught to show the 
 very spot where II Console Romano was slain. Of all 
 who fought and fell in the battle of Thrasimene, the 
 historian himself has, besides the generals and Mahar- 
 bal, preserved indeed only a single name. You over- 
 take the Carthaginian again on the same road to Rome. 
 The antiquary, that is, the hostler, of the posthouse at 
 Spoleto, tells you that his town repulsed the victorious 
 
 enemy, and shows you the gate still called Porta di 
 Annibale. It is hardly worth while to remark that a 
 French travel writer, well known by the name of the 
 President Deputy, saw Thrasimene in the lake of Bol- 
 sena, which lay conveniently on his way from Sienna 
 to Rome. 
 
 36. 
 Bui thoU) Cliiumnus. 
 
 Stanza Ixvi. line 1. 
 No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on the 
 temple of the Clitumnus, between Foligno and Spoleto , 
 and no site, or scenery even in Italy, is more worthy 
 a description. For an account of the dilapidation of 
 this temple, the reader is referred to Historical Illustra- 
 tions of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 
 37. 
 Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless cataraxA. 
 Stanza Ixxi. line 9. 
 I saw the " Cascata del marmore" of Terni twice, at 
 different periods ; once from the summit of the precipice, 
 and again from the valley below. The lower view is 
 far to be preferred, if the traveller has time for one 
 only ; but in any point of view, either from above or 
 below, it is worth all the cascades and torrents of 
 Switzerland put together : the Staubach, Reichenbach, 
 Pisse Vache, fall of Arpenaz, &c. are rills in compara- 
 tive appearance. Of the fall of Schaff hausen I cannot 
 speak, not yet having seen it. 
 38. 
 An iris sits amidst the infernal surge. 
 
 Stanza Lxxii. line 3. 
 Of the time, place, and qualities of this kind of iris 
 the reader may have seen a short account in a note to 
 Manfred. The fall looks so much hke "the hell of 
 waters'' that Addison thought the descent alluded to by 
 the gulf in which Alecto plunged into the infernal re- 
 gions. It is singular enough that two of the finest cas- 
 cades in Europe should be artificial — this of the Velino, 
 and the one at Tivoli. The traveller is strongly recom- 
 mended to trace the Velino. at least as high as the little 
 lake called Pie' di Lup. The Reatine territory was 
 the ItaUan Tempo,* and the ancient naturalist, among 
 other beautiful varieties, remarked the daily rainbows 
 of the lake Velinus.t A scholar of great name has 
 devoted a treatise to this district alone.J 
 39. 
 The thundering laumne. 
 
 Stanza Ixxiii. line 5. 
 In the greater part of Switzerland the avalanches are 
 known by the name of lauwine. 
 
 40. 
 
 / abhorr'd 
 Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
 The driWd dull lesson,forced down word by word. 
 
 Stanza Ixxv. lines 6, 7, and 8. 
 These stanzas may probably remind the reader of 
 Ensign Northerton's remarks: "D — n Homo," &c. 
 but the reasons for our dislike are not exactly the same. 
 1 wish to express that we become tired of the task be- 
 fore we can comprehend the beauty; that we learn by 
 rote before we can get by heart; that the freshness is 
 worn away, and the future pleasure and advantage 
 deadened and destroyed, by the didactic anticipation, 
 at an age when we can neither feel nor understand the 
 power of compositions which it requires an acquaintance 
 with life, as well as Latin and Greek, to relish, or to 
 reason upon. For the same reason we never can be 
 aware of the fulness of some of the finest passages of 
 Shakspeare, (" To be, or not to be," for instance,) from 
 the habit of having them hammered into us at eight 
 years old, as an exercise not of mind but of memory : 
 so that when we are old enough to enjoy them, the taste 
 
 * " A lergo et super caput (iecepere insidia;." T. Liv. &c. 
 
 t About tlie middle of the Xllth century the coins of Mantua Ijore on 
 one side the image and figure of Viigil. Zecca d'ltalia, pi. xvii. i. 6. . . 
 Voyage dans le Alilauais, &c. par. A. Z. Millin. torn. u. pag. 294. Paris, 
 1817. 
 
 * " Reatini me ad sua Tempe duxerunt." Cicer. episl. ad Attic, xv. 
 lib.l*. 
 
 1 " In eodem lacu nullo non die apparere arena." Plin. Hist. Nat. 
 lib. ii. cap. Ixii. 
 
 I Aid. Mauut. de Reatina urbe agroque, ap. Sallengre, Thesaar. torn, 
 i. p.773. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 NOTES TO CHTLDE HAROLD. 
 
 73 
 
 is gone, and the appetite palled. In some parts of the 
 Continent, young persons are taught from more common 
 authors, and do not read the best classics till their 
 maturity. I certainly do not speak on this point from 
 any pique or aversion towards the place of my education. 
 I was not a slow, though an idle boy ; and I beUeve no 
 one could, or can be more attached to Harrow than I 
 have always been, and with reason ; — a part of the time 
 passed there was the happiest of my life 5 and my pre- 
 ceptor (the Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury) was the best and 
 worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose warnings I 
 have remembered but too well, though too late — when 
 I have erred, and whose counsels I have but followed 
 when I have done well or wisely. If ever this imperfect 
 record of ray feelings towards him should reach his 
 eyes, let it remind him of one who never thinks of him 
 but with gratitude and veneration — of one who would 
 more gladly boast of having been his pupil, if, by more 
 closely following his injunctions, he could reflect any 
 honour upon his instructer. 
 41. 
 TTie Sdpios' tomb contains no ashes now. 
 
 Stanza Ixxix. line 5. 
 For a comment on this and the two following stanzas, 
 the reader may consult Historical Illustrations cf the 
 Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 
 
 2%c trebly hundred triumphs. 
 
 Stanza Ixxxii. hne 2. 
 Orosius gives three hundred and twenty for the num- 
 ber of triumphs. He is followed by Panvinius ; and 
 Panvinius by Mr. Gibbon and the modern writers. 
 43. 
 Oh thou, whose chariot roWd on Fortunes loheel, &c. 
 Stanza Ixxxiii. line 1. 
 Certainly were it not for these two traits in the life 
 of Sylla, alluded to in this stanza, we should regard him 
 as a monster unredeemed by any admirable quality. 
 The atonement of his voluntary resignation of empire 
 may perhaps be accepted by us, as it seems to have 
 satisfied the Romans, who if they had not respected 
 must have destroyed him. There could be no mean, 
 no division of opinion; they must have all thought, like 
 Eucrates, that what had appeared ambition was a love 
 of glory, and that what had been mistaken for pride was 
 a real grandeur of soul.* 
 
 44. 
 And laid him with the earth^s preceding clay. 
 
 Stanza Ixxxvi. line 4. 
 On the third of September, Cromwell gained the vic- 
 tory of Dunbar ; a year afterwards he obtained " his 
 crowning mercy" of Worcester ; and a few years after, 
 on the same day, which he had ever esteemed the most 
 fortunate for him, died. 
 
 45. 
 And thou, dread statue I still existent in 
 The austerestform of naked majesty. 
 
 Stanza Ixxxvii. lines 1 and 2. 
 The projected division of the Spada Pompey has 
 already been recorded by the historian of the Decline 
 and Fall of the Roman Empire. Mr. Gibbon found it 
 in the memorials of Flaminius Vacca,| and it may be 
 added to his mention of it that Pope Julius III. gave 
 the contending owners five hundred crowns for the 
 statue; and presented it to Cardinal Capo di Ferro, 
 who had prevented the judgment of Solomon from being 
 executed upon the image. In a more civilized age this 
 statue was exposed to an actual operation: for the 
 French who acted the Brutus of Voltaire in the Coli- 
 seum resolved that their Caesar should fall at the base 
 of that Pompey, which was supposed to have been 
 sprinkled with the blood of the original dictator. The 
 nine-foot hero was therefore removed to the arena of 
 
 the amphitheatre, and to facilitate hs transport suffered 
 the temporary amputation of its right arm. The re- 
 publican tragedians had to plead that the arm was a 
 restoration : but their accusers do not believe that the 
 integrity of the statue would have protected it. The 
 love of finding every coincidence has discovered the 
 true Caesarian ichor in a stain near the right knee ; but 
 colder criticism has rejected not only the blood but the 
 portrait, and assigned the globe of power rather to the 
 first of the emperors than to the last of the republican 
 masters of Rome. Winkelmann* is loath to allow an 
 heroic statue of a Roman citizen, but the Grimani 
 Agrippa, a cotemporary almost, is heroic ; and naked 
 Roman figures were only very rare, not absolutely for- 
 bidden. The face accords much better with the "homi- 
 nem integrum et castum et gravem^^] than with any of 
 the busts of Augustus, and is too stern for him Avho was 
 beautiful, says Suetonius, at all periods of his life. The 
 pretended likeness to Alexander the Great cannot be 
 discerned, but the traits resemble the medal of Pom- 
 pey4 The objectionable globe may not have been an 
 ill-applied flattery to him who found Asia Minor the 
 boundary, and left it the centre of the Roman empire. 
 It seems that Winkelmann has made a mistake in think- 
 ing that no proof of the identity of this statue, with that 
 which received the bloody sacrifice, can be derived from 
 the spot where it was discovered. § Flaminhis Vacca 
 says sotto una cantina, and this caniina is known to have 
 been in the Vicolo de' Leutari near the Cancellaria, a 
 position corresponding exactly to that of the Janus be- 
 fore the basilica of Pompey's theatre, to which Augustus 
 transferred the statue after the curia was either burnt 
 or taken down.|| Part of the Pompeian shade, ^ the 
 portico, existed in the beginning of' the XVth century, 
 and the atrium was still called Satrum. So says Blon- 
 dus.** At all events, so imposing is the stern majesty 
 of the statue, and so memorable is the story, that the play 
 of the imagination leaves no room for the exercise of 
 the judgment, and the fiction, if a fiction it is, operates 
 on the spectator \vith an effect not less powerful than 
 truth. 
 
 46. 
 And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ! 
 
 Stanza Ixxxviii. line 1. 
 Ancient Rome, like modern Sienna, abounded most 
 probably with images of the foster-mother of her founder ; 
 but there were two she-wolves of whom history makes 
 particular mention. One of these, of brass in ancient 
 work, was seen by DionysiusH at the temple of Romulus, 
 under the Palatine, and is universally believed to be 
 that mentioned by the Latin historian, as having been 
 made from the money collected by a fine on usurers, 
 and as standing under the Ruminal fig-tree. J J The 
 other was that which Cicero§§ has celebrated both in 
 prose and verse, and which the historian Dion also re- 
 cords as having suffered the same accident as is alluded 
 to by the orator. 1|[| The question agitated by the anti- 
 
 * " Seigneur, vous changez toutes mes idfies de la fa^on donl ;e vous 
 T0)8 ttgir. Je croyois que vous aviez de I'ambition, mais aucuc amour 
 pour la gloire ; je voyoLs bien que votre S,me 6toit haute ; mais je ne soup- 
 ^onnois pasqu'elle fut grande." — Dialogue de Sylla et d'Eucrale. 
 
 + Memorie, num. Ivii. pag. 9. ap. Monlfaucon, Diarium Italicum. 
 
 K 
 
 • Storia dalle Arti, &c. lib. ix. cap. 1. pag. 321, 322. tom. ii. 
 t Cicer. Epist. ad Atticum, xi. 6. 
 j Published by Causeiis in his Museum Romanum. 
 § Storia delle Arti, &c. Ibid. 
 
 il Suetoa. in vit. August, cap. 31, and in vit. C. J. Ctesar. cap. S8. 
 Appian says it was burnt down. See a note of Pitiscus to Suetonius, pag. 
 
 ^ " Tu modo Pompeia lenta spatiare sub umbra." 
 
 Ovid. Ar. ABian. 
 ** Roma instaurata, lib. ii. fo. 31. 
 
 tt XdAKEtt Koi-nnara naXcuas ipyaaria?. Antiq. Rora. lib. 1. 
 jj " Ad ficum Rurainalem simulacra infantium conditonim urbis »ub 
 uberibus lupsB posuerunt." Liv. Bist.lib. x. cap. Ixix. Tliis waa in the 
 year U.C. 455, or 457. , „ „ , 
 
 §§ " Tum statua Nattffi, turn simulacra Deorum, Romulusqoe et Re- 
 mus cum altrice bellua vi fulminis ictis conciderunt." De Divinat. ii. 
 20. " Tactusest ille etiam qui hanc urbem condidit Romulus, quern inau- 
 ratiun in Capitolio parvum atque lactantem, uberibus lupinis inhiantera 
 fuisse memiiiistis." InCatilin. iii. 8. 
 
 " Hie silvestris erat Romani nominia altrix 
 Martia, quae parvos Mavortis semine natos 
 Uberibus gravidis vitali rore rigebat 
 Q,uffi tum cum pueris flammato fulminis ictu 
 Concidit, atque avulsa pedum vestigia liquit." 
 
 De Consulatu, lib. ii. (lib. i. de Divinat. cap. ii.) 
 |l|| 'Ev' Y^P ''■^ KaTTriToXi(p AvSpidVTts ri noWol imd Kcpavv&V 
 (ri»i'£;^;<uvET)6:)(rav, Kai aydXtiara aWa Tt, Kal fidj Inl kIovos IdgvfL- 
 h>ov, iiKiov t£ Tt$ XvKdivris civ te t^ 'P<u;t^ Kai a-iiv t^ "Pto^iJA^ 
 ISpviiivri eiriffr). Dion. Hist. lib. xxxvii. pag. 37. edit. Rob. Steph. 
 1548. He goes on to mention that the letters of the columns on which the 
 laws were written were liquefied and become d/tvigd.. All that tlie 
 
74 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canxo IV. 
 
 quaries is, whether the wolf now in the conservators' 
 palace is that of Livy and Dionysius, or thai of Cicero, 
 or whether it is neither one nor the other. The earher 
 writers differ as much as the moderns : Lucius Faunus* 
 says, that it is the one alluded to by both, which is im- 
 possible, and also by Virgil, which may be. Fulvius 
 Ursinust calls it the wolf of Dionysius, and MarlianusJ 
 talks of it as the one mentioned by Cicero. To him 
 Rycquius tremblingly assents. § Nardini is inchned to 
 suppose it may be one of the many wolves preserved in 
 ancient Rome ; but of the two rather bends to the Cice- 
 ronian statue. II Montfauconll mentions it as a point 
 without doubt. Of the latter writers the decisive Win- 
 kelmann** proclaims it as having been found at the 
 church of Saint Theodore, where, or near where, was 
 the temple of Romulus, and consequently makes it the 
 wolf of Dionysius. His authority is Lucius Faunus, 
 who, however, only says that it was placed, not found, 
 at the Ficus Ruminalis, by the Comiiium, by which he 
 does not seem to allude to the church of Saint Theo- 
 dore. Rycquius was the first to make the mistake, and 
 Winkelmann followed Rycquius. 
 
 Flaminius Vacca tells quite a different story, and says 
 he had heard the wolf with the twins was foundtj near 
 the arch of Septimius Severus. The commentator on 
 Winkelmann is of the same opinion with that learned 
 person, and is incensed at Nardini for not having 
 remarked that Cicero, in speaking of the wolf struck 
 with Ughtning in the Capitol, makes use of the past 
 tense. But, with the Abate's leave, Nardini does not 
 positively assert the statue to be that mentioned by 
 Cicero, and, if he had, the assumption would not per- 
 haps have been so exceedingly indiscreet. The Abate 
 himself is obliged to o\%ti that there are marks very like 
 the scathing of lightning in the hinder legs of the present 
 wolf; and, to get rid of this, adds, that the wolf seen by 
 Dionysius might have been also struck by lightning, 
 otherwise injured. 
 
 Let us examine the subject by a reference to the 
 words of Cicero. The orator in two places seems to 
 particularize the Romulus and the Remus, especially 
 the first, which his audience remembered to have been 
 in the Capitol, as being struck with hghtning. In his 
 verses he records that the twins and wolf both fell, and 
 that the latter left behind the marks of her feet. Cicero 
 does not say that the wolf was consumed ; and Dion 
 only mentions that it fell down, without alluding as the 
 Abate has made him, to the force of the blow, or the 
 firmness with which it had been fixed. The whole 
 strength, therefore, of the Abate's argument hangs upon 
 the past tense ; which, however, may be somewhat 
 dimmished by remarking that the phrase only shows 
 
 Kom\ns did was to erect a large statue to Jupiter, looliin? towai-ds the 
 «ast : no mentiou ia afterwards made of the wolf. This happened in A 
 U. C. 689. The Abate Fea, in noticing this passage of Dion (Storia delle 
 Arti, &c. torn. 1. pag. 202. note x.) says, Non ostanle, aggiunge Dione, 
 che fosse benfermaia (the wolf,) by which it is clear the Abate translated 
 the 5 ylan(h-o-Leuuclavian version, which puts quamvis staiilita {or ihe 
 origii.al Idgv/j-cvrj, a. word that does not mean ben fermata, hui only 
 raise 1, as may be distinctly seen from another passage'of the same Dion ; 
 'H/ScvXTiSri iievovv 6^ AypCwnas Kai tov Avyovcrrov ivravdalSpvcrai.. 
 Hist. lib. Ivi. Dion says that Agrippa "wished to raise a statue of 
 Aiigi »tus in the Pantheon." 
 
 * " lu eadem povlicu snca lupa, cojus uberibus Romulus ac Remus 
 lactautea inhiant, conspicitur : de hac Cicero et Virgilius semper intel- 
 lexere. Livius hoc signum ab JEdilibus ex pecuniis quibus mulctati 
 es.-ient fcneratores, positum innuit. Antea in Comitiis ad Ficum Rumi- 
 naler!\,quo loco pueri fuerant expositi locatumprocerto est." Luc. Fauni 
 de Aivtiq. Urb. Rom. lib. ii. cap. vii. ap. Sallengre, torn. i. p. 217. In his 
 XVI 1th chapter he repeats that the statues were there, but not that they 
 were found there. 
 
 t Ap. Nardini Roma Vetus, lib. v. cap. iv. 
 
 J Marliani Urb. Rom. topograph, lib. ii. cap.ix. He mentions another 
 wolfand twins in the Vatican, lib. v. cap.xxi. 
 
 § '"Non desunt qui hanc Ipsam esse putent, quam adpinximus, quse e 
 comitio in Basilicam Lateranum, cum nonnulUs aUis antiquitatum reli 
 quiis, atque hincin Capitolium poetea relata sit, quamvis Marlianus anti- 
 Quam Capitolinam esse malnit a Tullio descriptam, cui ut in re nimis 
 dubia, trepidg adsentimur." Just. Rycquii de Capit. Roman. Comm. 
 cap. ixiv. pag. 250. edit. Lugd. Bat. W96. 
 
 II Nardini Roma Vetus, lib. v. cap. iv. 
 
 V "Lupa hodieque in capitolinis prostrat aedibus, cum vestigio fulminis 
 quoictara narrat Cicero." Diarium Italic, torn. i. p. 174. 
 
 * - Storia delle Arti, &c. lib. iii. cap. iii. § ii. note 10. Viiukelmann has 
 made a strange blunder in the note, by saying the Ciceronian wolf was 
 noiin the Capitol, and that Dion was wrong in saying so. 
 
 TI " Intesi dire, che I'Ercolo di bronzo, che oggi ii trova nella sala di 
 Campidogho, fu irovato nelforo Romano appresso I'arco di Settimio : e 
 VI tu trovala anche la lupa di bronzo che allaU Romolo e Rerao, e sti 
 Bella Loggia de conservatori." Flam. Vacca, Memorie, num. iii. pag. 
 , ap. Monlfaucon, Diur. Iial. torn. i. 
 
 that the statue was not then standmg in its former posi- 
 tion. Winkelmann has observed, that the present 
 twins are modern ; and it is equally clear that there 
 are marks of gilding on the wolf which might therefor© 
 be supposed to make part of the ancient group. It is 
 known that the sacred images of the Capitol were not 
 destroyed when injured by time or accident, but were 
 put into certain under-ground depositaries called yauis- 
 scB* It may be thought possible that the wolf had 
 been so deposited, and had been replaced in some con- 
 spicuous situation when the Capitol was rebuilt by 
 Vespasian. Rycquius, without mentionhig his authority, 
 tells that it was transferred from the Comitium to the 
 Lateran, and thence brought to the Capitol. If it was 
 found near the arch of Severus, it may have been one 
 of the images which Orosiusj says was thrown down in 
 the Forum by lightning when Alaric took the city. That 
 it is of very high antiquity the workmanship is a decisive 
 proof; and that circumstance induced Winkelmann to 
 believe it the wolf of Dionysius. The Capitoline wolf, 
 however, may have been of the same early date as that 
 at the temple of Romulus. Lactantiusl asserts that in 
 his time the Romans worshipped a wolf; and it is known 
 that the Lupercaha held out to a very late period§ afler 
 every other observance of the ancient superstition had 
 totally e.xpired. This may account for the preservation 
 of the ancient image longer than the other early sym- 
 bols of Paganism. 
 
 It may be permitted, however, to remark, that the 
 wolf was a Roman symbol, but that the worship of that 
 symbol is an inference drawn by the zeal of Lactantius. 
 The early Christian writers are not to be trusted in the 
 charges which they make against the Pagans. Euse- 
 bius accused the Romans to their faces of worshipping 
 Simon Magus, and raising a statue to him in the island 
 of the Tyber. The Romans had probably never heard 
 of such a person before, who came, however, to play a 
 considerable, though scandalous part in the church 
 history, and has left several tokens of his aerial combat 
 with St. Peter at Rome ; notwithstanding that an in- 
 scription found m this very island of the Tyber showed 
 the Simon Magus of Eusebius to be a certain indigenal 
 god, called Semo Sangus or Fidius.y 
 
 Even when the worship of the founder of Rome had 
 been abandoned, it was thought expedient to humour 
 the habits of the good matrons of the city by sending 
 them with their sick infants to the church of Saint Theo- 
 dore, as they had before carried them to the temple of 
 Romulus.^ The practice is continued to this day ; and 
 the site of the above church seems to be thereby iden- 
 tified with that of the temple : so that if the wolf had 
 been really found there, as Winkelmann says, there 
 would be no doubt of the present statue being that seen 
 by Dionysius.** But Faunus, in saying that it was 
 at the Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, is only talking 
 of its ancient position as recorded by Plmy ; and even 
 if he had been remarking where it was found, would 
 not have alluded to the church of Saint Theodore, but 
 
 * Luc. Faun. ibid. 
 
 t See note to stanza LXXX. in Historical Illustrations. 
 
 I" Romuli nutrix Lupa honoribus est affecta divinis, ct ferrem si 
 animal ipsum fuisset, cujus figuram gerit." Lactant. de Falsa Religione 
 lib. 1. cap. 20. pag. 101. edit, varior. 1660; that is to say, he would 
 rather adore a wolf than a prostitute. His commentator has observed 
 that the opinion of Livy concerning Laurentia being figured in this wolf 
 was not universal. Sti-abo thought so. Rycquius is wrong in saying that 
 Lactantius mentions the wolf was in the Capitol. 
 
 § To A. D. 496. " Q,uis credere possit," says Baronius [Aim. Eccles. 
 tom. viii. p. 602. in an. 496.,] "viguisse adhuc Romae ad Gelassii tem- 
 pora, quae fuere ante exordia urbis allata lu Italiam Lupercalia?" Gela- 
 sius wrote a letter which occupies four folio pages to Andromachus the 
 senator, and others, to show that the rites should he given up. 
 
 II Eusebius has these words : Kai avipiavri rrap' vnZv Uij -Stdj rtrl- 
 /ijjTOt, iv TU Tl(iipi noTapL^ fitraii/ rmv diio yt<pvpu)V, txu)V inw- 
 ypaipTjv 'Pmii,aiKr}VTavTT)v i:Ciiu>VL dimLayicTut. Eccles. Hist. lib. 
 ii. cap. xiii. p. 40. Justin Martyr had told the story before ; but Baroniug 
 himself was obliged to detect this fable. See Nardini Roma Vet. lib. vii. 
 cap. xii. 
 
 II " In essa gli antichi pontefici per toglier la memoria de' giuochi Lu- 
 percali istituiti in ouore di Romolo, introdussero I'uso di portarvi Bam- 
 bini oppress i da infermitaocculte, arcidsi liberico per I'intercessione di 
 questo Santo, come di continue si speriraenta." Riouexii. Ripa accu- 
 rata e succincla descrizione, &c. di Roma Moderna dell' Ab. Ridolf. 
 Venuti, 1766. 
 
 ** Nardini, lib. v. cap. 11. convicts Pomponius Latus crassi erroris, 
 D putiiog the Ruminal fig-tree at the church of Saint Theodore : but as 
 Livy says the wolf was at the Ficus Ruminalis. and Dionysius at the tem- 
 ple of Romulus, he is obliged (cap. iv.) to own that the two were close 
 logelher, as well as the Lupercalcave, shaded, as it were, by the fig-tree. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 75 
 
 to a very different place, near which it was then thought 
 the Ficus Ruminalis had been, and also the Comitium ; 
 that is, the three columns by the church of Santa Maria 
 Liberatrice, at the corner of the Palatine looking on 
 the Forum. 
 
 It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image was 
 actually dug up,* and perhaps, on the whole, the marks 
 of the gilding, and of the lightning, are a better argument 
 in favour of its being the Ciceronian wolf than any that 
 can be adduced for the contrary opinion. At any rate, 
 it is reasonably selected in the text of the poem as one 
 of the most interesting relics of the ancient city,'|' and 
 is certainly the figure, if not the very animal to which 
 Virgil alludes in his beautiful verses : 
 
 "Geminos huic ubera circnin 
 Ludere pendentes pueros, et lambere raatrem 
 Impavidos : illam fereti cervice reflexam 
 Miilcere alternos, et coi-pora fingere lingul.J 
 
 47. 
 For the RomarCs mind 
 Was modelVd in a less terrestrial mould. 
 
 Stanza xc. lines 3 and 4. 
 It is possible to be a very great man and to be still 
 very inferior to Julius Csesar, the most complete cha- 
 racter, so Lord Bacon thought, of all antiquity. Nature 
 seems incapable of such extraordinary combinations as 
 composed his versatile capacity, which w^as the wonder 
 even of the Romans themselves. The first general — 
 the only triumphant politician — inferior to none in elo- 
 
 3uence — comparable to any in the attainments of wis- 
 om, in an age made up of the greatest commanders, 
 statesmen, orators, and philosophers that ever appeared 
 in the world — an author who composed a perfect spe- 
 cimen of military annals in his travelling carriage — at 
 one time in a controversy with Cato, at another writing 
 a treatise on punning, and collecting a set of good say- 
 mgs — fighting§ and making love at the same moment, 
 and willing to abandon both his empire and his mistress 
 for a sight of the Fountains of the Nile. Such did 
 Julius Csesar appear to his cotemporaries and to those 
 of the subsequent ages, who were the most inclined to 
 deplore and execrate his fatal genius. 
 
 But we must not be so much dazzled with his sur- 
 passing glory, or with his magnanimous, his amiable 
 qualities, as to forget the decision of his impartial coun- 
 trymen : 
 
 HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIN.|| 
 48. 
 
 What from this barren being do we reap 7 
 Out senses narrow., and our reason frail. 
 
 Stanza xciii. lines 1 and 2. 
 " . . . . omnes pene veteres ; qui nihil cognosci, nihil 
 
 * "Ad comitium ficus olim Ruminalis gerrainabat, sub qua lups ru- 
 mam, hoc est, mammam, docente Varrone, suxerant olim Romulus et 
 Remus : non prccul a templo hodie D. Marise Liberatiicis appellato ubi 
 forsan inventa nobilis ilia anea etatua lupae geminos puerulos lactantis, 
 quam hodie in capitolio videmus." Olai Borrichii Antiqua Urbis Ro- 
 manae Facies cap. x. See also cap. xii. Bori-icliius wrote after Nai-diui 
 in 1687. Ap. Grasv. Antiq. Rom. torn. iv. p. 1522. 
 
 t Donatus, lib. xi. cap. 18. gives a medal representing on one side the 
 wolf in the same position as that in the Capitol ; and in the reverse the 
 wolf with the head not reverted. It is of the time of Antoninus Pius. 
 
 :; .S^n. viii. 631. See — Dr. Middleton, in his Letter from Rome, who 
 Inclines to the Ciceronian wolf, but without examining the subject. 
 
 § In his tenth book, Lucan shows him sprinkled with the blood of Phar- 
 saiia in the arms of Cleopatra, 
 
 Sanguine Thessalica cladis perfusus adulter 
 Admisit Venerem curis, et miscuit armis. 
 
 After feasting with his mistress, he sits up all night to converse with 
 the ^Egyptian sages, and tells Achoreus, 
 
 Spes sit mihi certa videndi 
 Niliacos fontes, bellum civile relinquam, 
 " Sic velut in tuta securi pace trahebant 
 Noctis iter medium." 
 Immediately afterwards, he is fighting again and defending every 
 position. 
 
 " Sed adest defensor ubinue 
 Caesar ethos aditus gladiis, hos ignibus aLTcet 
 
 croca nocte cariaia 
 
 Insiluit Caesar semper feliciter usus 
 Praecipiti curau bellorum et tempore rapto." 
 d "Jure csesus existimetur," says Suetonius, after a fair estimation 
 of his character, and making use of a phrase which was a formula in 
 Livy's time. "Melium jure csesum pronlmtiavit, etiam si regni crimine 
 insons fuerit :" [lib. iv. cap. 48.1 and whicii was continued iu the legal 
 judgments pronounced in justifiable homicides, such as killing house- 
 breakers. See Sueton. in Vit. C. J. Cssar, with the commentary of 
 Piliscns, p. 184. 
 
 percepi, nihil sciri posse dixerunt ; angustos sensus ; 
 imbecillos animos, brevia curricula vitas ; in profundo 
 veritatem demersam ; opinionibus et institutis omnia 
 teneri ; nihil veritati relinqui : deinceps omnia tenebris 
 circumfusa esse dixerunt."* The eighteen hundred 
 years which have elapsed since Cicero wrote this have 
 not removed any of the imperfections of humanity ; and 
 the complaints of the ancient philo.sophers may, without 
 injustice or affectation, be transcribed in a poem written 
 yesterday. 
 
 49. 
 
 There is a stem round tower of other days. 
 
 Stanza xcLx. line 1. 
 Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, called Capo 
 di Bove, in the Appian Way. See — Historical Illustra- 
 tions of the IVth Canto of Childe Harold. 
 
 50. 
 
 Prophetic of the doom 
 Heaven gives its favourites — early death. 
 
 Stanza cii. lines 5 and 6. 
 'Ov ol ^£01 <pi\ovaiv, diroOvrjCKCi viog. 
 To yap ^avelv ovk alaxpov, aXA' alaxpws Sav£7v. 
 
 Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Poetae Gnomicl, 
 p. 231, edit. 1784. 
 
 51. 
 Behold the Imperial Mount ! 'tis tlms the mighty falls. 
 Stanza cvii. line 9. 
 The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on the 
 side towards the Circus Maximus. The very soil is 
 formed of crumbled brickwork. Nothing has been told, 
 nothing can be told, to satisfy the belief of any but a 
 Roman antiquary. See — Historical Illustrations, page 
 206. 
 
 52. 
 There is the moral of all human tales ; 
 ^Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
 First Freedom^ and then Glory, &c. 
 
 Stanza cviii. lines 1, 2, and 3. 
 The author of the Life of Cicero, speaking of the 
 opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and his 
 cotemporary Romans, has the following eloquent pas- 
 sage : "From their railleries of this kind, on the barba- 
 rity and misery of our island, one cannot help reflecting 
 on the surprising fate and revolutions of kingdoms ; how 
 Rome, once the mistress of the world, the seat of arts, 
 empire, and glory, now lies sunk in sloth, ignorance, 
 and poverty, enslaved to the most cruel as well as to 
 the most contemptible of tyrants, superstition and reh- 
 gious imposture : while this remote country, anciently 
 the jest and contempt of the polite Romans, is become 
 the happy seat of liberty, plenty, and letters ; flourishing 
 in all the arts and refinements of civil life ; yet running 
 perhaps the same course which Rome itself had run 
 before it, from virtuous industry to wealth ; fromw^ealth 
 to luxury ; from luxury to an impatience of discipline, 
 and corruption of morals : till, by a total degeneracy and 
 loss of virtue, being grown ripe for destruction, it fall a 
 prey at last to some nardy oppressor, and, with the loss 
 of liberty, losing every thing that is valuable, sinks 
 gradually again into its original barbarism."! 
 53. 
 And apostolic statues climb 
 To crush the imperial urn., whose ashes slept sublime. 
 
 Stanza ex. lines 8 and 9. 
 The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter ; 
 that of Aurelius by St. Paul. See — Historical Illustra- 
 tions of the rVth Canto, &c. 
 54. 
 Still we Trajan's name adore. 
 
 Stanza cxi. line 9. 
 Trajan was proverbially the best of the Roman 
 
 * Academ. 1. 13. 
 
 t The History of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero, sect. vi. vol. ii. p. 102. 
 The contrast has been reversed in a late extraordinary instance. A 
 gentleman was thrown into prison at Paris ; efforts were made for his 
 release. The French minister continued to detain him, under the pretext 
 that he was not an Englishman, but only a Roman. See " Interestiij^ 
 Facts relating to Joachim Mural," pag. 139. 
 
76 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 princes ;* and it would be easier to find a sovereign 
 uniting exactly the opposite characteristics, than one 
 possessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to this 
 emperor. "When he mounted the throne," says the 
 nistorian Dion,t " he was strong in body, he was vigor- 
 ous in mind ; age had impaired none of his faculties ; 
 he was altogether free from envy and from detraction ; 
 he honoured all the good, and he advanced them ; and 
 on this account they could not be the objects of his 
 fear, or of his hate ; he never listened to informers ; he 
 gave not way to his anger ; he abstained equally from 
 unfair exactions and unjust punishments 5 he had rather 
 be loved as a man than honoured as a sovereign ; he 
 was aifable with his people, respectful to the senate, 
 and universally beloved by both ; he inspired none with 
 dread but the enemies of his country." 
 55. 
 Rienzi, last of Ro7nans. 
 
 Stanza cxiv. line 5. 
 
 The name and exploits of Rienzi must be familiar to 
 the reader of Gibbon. Some details and inedited 
 manuscripts relative to this unhappy hero will be seen 
 in the Illustrations of the IVth Canto. 
 56. 
 Egeria! sweet creation of some heart 
 Which fowid no mortal resting-place so fair 
 As thine ideoJi breast. 
 
 Stanza cxv. lines 1, 2, and 3. 
 
 The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca would 
 incline us to beUeve in the claims of the Egerian grotto. J 
 He assures us that he saw an inscription in the pave- 
 ment, stating that the fountain was that of Egeria, 
 dedicated to the nymphs. The inscription is not there 
 at this day ; but Montfaucon quotes two linesS of Ovid 
 from a stone in the Villa Giustiniani, which he seems 
 to think had been brought from the same grotto. 
 
 This grotto and valley were formerly frequented in 
 summer, and particularly the first Sunday in May, by 
 the modern Romans, who attached a salubrious quality 
 to the fountain which trickles from an orifice at the 
 bottom of the vault, and, overflowing the little pools, 
 creeps down the matted grass into the brook below. 
 The brook is the Ovidian Almo, whose name and 
 cjualities are lost in the modern Aquataccio. The valley 
 itself is called Valle di CafTarelli, from the dukes of that 
 name who made over their fountain to the Pallavicini, 
 with sixty ruhbia of adjoining land. 
 
 There can be little doubt that this long dell is the 
 Egerian valley of Juvenal, and the pausing place of 
 Umbritius, notwithstanding the generality of his com- 
 mentators have supposed the descent of the satirist and 
 his friend to have been into the Arician grove, where 
 the nymph met Hippolitus, and where she was more 
 peculiarly worshipped. 
 
 The step from the Porta Capena to the Alban hill, 
 fifteen miles distant, would be too considerable, unless 
 we v/ere to beheve in the vnXA conjecture of Vossius, 
 who makes that gate travel from its present station, 
 
 * " Hujus tantum memoria delatum est, ut, usque ad noetram aetatem 
 nou aliler In Senatu principibus acclamatur, nisi, FELICIOR . 
 AVGVSTO . MELIOB . TRAJANO." Eutrop. Brev. Hist. Rom. 
 lib. viii. cap. v. 
 
 t T^i T£ ydp o-to/iart cppuiTO Kat.Tr\ipvx'ri riKy-aliVjia^ 
 
 fiTid' irrd yT/pcoj inSMvicrSai .... Kal ovt' i(pSovuovTt KadrjpuTiva, 
 iWd Kal ndvv Ttavras roix; ayadovs iTifia Kal l/icyaXwc- Kal SlcL 
 TOVTO OVTS. 1<PoSsXt6 Tiva aiiriuv, ovrt ifiCa-ei . . liaSoXaXi ts -qKiiTTa 
 ini,(Trtvt, Kal hoyrj rjKUTTa coovXovto- ruiv rt xgyj^idTti^v r&v 
 iXKuiToluiV Hca Kal (pdviav t&v iSlKmv aneixtTO .... ^iXoviicvog t£ 
 oiv Ik' ai)ToXc juaAXov »j riiiuiftzvos cxaiQC, Kal tui ts Sriii,if) jut' 
 inieCKuas <Tvvtylv£7o. Kal '''71 yrigova-Ca cny-vnoQiKSi^ diiilXci,- dyan-i;- 
 Tdj lUv natri- (j>oScpd^ Ci fhrjCivl, ttXtjv TCoXtf.ioiSuiV. Hist. Rom. lib. 
 Uviii.cap. vi. el vii. torn. ii. p. 1123, 1124, edit. Hamb. 1750. 
 
 I " Poco loutano dal dettc luogosi scende ad un casaletto, del qualen 
 e 8ono Padroni li Cafarelli, che con questo noma e cliiamato il luogo ; vi 
 e una fontana sotto una gran volta antica, che al presente si gode, e li 
 Roraani vi vanno I'eslate a ricrearsi ; n£l pavimento di essa fonte si legge 
 in un epilaiBo essere quella la fonte 4i E?eria, dedioaia alle ninfe, e 
 questa, dice I'epilaffio, essere la medeeima'fonte in cui fu convertita." 
 Memorie, &c. aj). Nardini, pag. 13. He does not give the inscription 
 
 ^ " In villa Justiniana extat ingens lapis quadratus solidus in q 
 fculpu hsEc duo Ovidii carmina sunt : 
 
 where he pretends it was durin» the reign of the kings, 
 as far as the Arician grove, and then makes it recede 
 to its old site with the shrinking city.* The tufo, or 
 pumice, which the poet prefers to marble, is the sub- 
 stance composing the barili in which the grotto is sunk. 
 The modern topographers"]" find in the grotto the 
 statue of the nymph and nine niches for the Muses, and 
 a late traveller| has discovered that the cave is restored 
 to that simplicity which the poet regretted had been 
 exchanged for injudicious ornament. But the headless 
 statue is palpably rather a male than a nymph, and has 
 none of the attributes ascribed to it at present visible. 
 The nine Muses could hardly have stood in six niches ; 
 and Juvenal certainly does not allude to any individual 
 cave.§ Nothing can be collected from the satirist but 
 that somewhere near the Porta Capena was a spot in 
 which it was supposed Numa held nightly consultations 
 with his nymph, and where there was a grove and a 
 sacred fountain, and fanes once consecrated to the 
 Muses ; and that from this spot there was a descent 
 into the valley of Egeria, where were several artificial 
 caves. It is clear that the statues of the Muses made 
 no part of the decoration which the satirist thought 
 misplaced in these caves ; for he expressly assigns other 
 fanes (delubra) to these divinities above the vauley, and 
 moreover tells us that they had been ejected to make 
 room for the Jews. In fact, the little temple, now called 
 that of Bacchus, was formerly thought to belong to the 
 Muses, and Nardini || places them m a poplar grove, 
 which was in his time above the valley. 
 
 It is probable, from the inscription and position, that 
 the cave now shown may be one of the " artificial 
 caverns," of which, indeed, there is another a little way 
 higher up the valley, under a tuft of alder bushes : but 
 a single grotto of Egeria is a mere modern invention, 
 grafted upon the apphcation of the epithet Egerian to 
 these nymphea in general, and which might send us to 
 look for the haunts of Numa upon the banks of the 
 Thames. 
 
 Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mistrans- 
 lation by his acquaintance with Pope: he carefully 
 preserves the correct plural — 
 
 " Thence slowly winding down the vale, we view 
 The Egerian grata ; oh, how unlike the true !" 
 
 The valley abounds with springs,ir and over these 
 springs, which the Muses might haunt from their neigh- 
 bouring groves, Egeria presided: hence she was said 
 to supply them with water; and she was the nymph of 
 the grottos through which the fountains were taught to 
 flow. 
 
 The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of the 
 Egerian valley have received names at will, which have 
 been changed at will. Venuti** owns he can see no 
 traces of the temples of Jove, Saturn, Juno, Venus, and 
 Diana, which Nardini found, or hoped to find. The 
 mutatorium of Caracalla's circus, the temple of Honour 
 and Virtue, the temple of Bacchus, and, above all, the 
 temple of the god Rediculus, are the antiquaries* 
 despair. 
 
 The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of that 
 emperor cited by Fulvius ITrsinus, of which the reverse 
 shows a circus, supposed, however, by some to represent 
 the Circus Maximus. It gives a very good idea of that 
 place of exercise. The soil has been but little raised, 
 if we may judge from the small cellular structure at 
 the end of the Spina, which was probably the chapel 
 of the god Comus. This cell is half beneath the soil, 
 
 quo 
 
 Egeria est qus prjebet aquas dea grata Camoeoia 
 Ilia Numae conjunx consiliumque fuit. 
 0,111 lapis videtiir ex eodem Egeria fonte, aut eius vicinia isthuo compor- 
 tulus." Diariiim Italic n 153. 
 
 * De Magnit. "Vet. Rom. ap. Grjev. Ant. Rom. torn. iv. p. 1507. 
 t Echinard, Descrizione di Roma e dell' agro Romano, corretto dall' 
 Abate Venuti, in Roma, 1750. They believe in the grotto and nymph. 
 " Simulacro di questo fonte, essendovi sculpite le acque a pie di esio." 
 X Classical Tour, chap. vi. p. 217. vol. ii. 
 § " Substitit ad veteres arcus, madidamque Capenara, 
 
 Hie ubi nocturnse Numa constituebat amicae. 
 
 Nunc sacri fontis nemus, et delubra locantur 
 
 Judaeis quorum copbinum foeuamque supellei. 
 
 Omnis enim populo mercedem pendere jussa est 
 
 Arbor, et ejectis meudicat silva Camcenis. 
 
 In vallem Egeriae descendimus, et speluncas 
 
 Dissimiles veris : quanto prsstantius esset 
 
 Numen aquae, viridi si nmrgine c.lauderet undas 
 
 Herba, nee ingenuum violarenl marmora tophum." 
 
 SatJII. 
 II Lib. iii. cap. iii. 
 
 IT " Undique esoloaquje scaturiunt." Nardini, lib. iii, cap. iii. 
 *• Echinard, &c. Cic. cit. p. 297, 298. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 77 
 
 as it must have been in the circus itself, for Dionysius* 
 could not be persuaded to believe tliat this divinity was 
 the Roman Neptun^ because his altar was under 
 ground. 
 
 57. 
 Yet let lis ponder boldly. 
 
 Stanza cxxvii. line 1. 
 
 "At all events," says the author of the Academical 
 Questions, " I trust, whatever may be the fate of my 
 own speculations, that philosophy will regain tliat 
 estimation which it ought to possess. The free and 
 philosophic spirit of our nation has been the theme of 
 admiration to the world. This was the proud distinc- 
 tion of Englishmen, and the luminous source of all 
 their glory. Shall we then forget the manly and dignified 
 sentiments of our ancestors, to prate in the language 
 of the mother or the nurse about our good old preju- 
 dices ? This is not the way to defend the cause of 
 truth. It was not thus that our fathers maintained it 
 in the brilliant periods of our history. Prejudice may 
 be trusted to guard the outworks for a short space of 
 time while reason slumbers in the citadel ; but if the 
 latter sink into a lethargy, the former will quickly erect 
 a standard for herself. Philosophy, wisdom, and liberty, 
 support each other: he who will not reason is a bigot; 
 he who cannot, is a fool ; and he who dares not, is a 
 slave." Preface, p. xiv, xv. vol. i. 1805. 
 58. 
 
 Great Nemesis! 
 Hercy where the andeni paid thee homage long. 
 
 Stanza cxxxiL lines 2 and 3. 
 
 We read in Suetonius, that Augustus, from a warning 
 received in a dream,| counterfeited, once a year, the 
 beggar, sitting before the gate of his palace with his 
 hand hollowed and stretched out for charity. A statue 
 formerly in the Villa Borghese, and which should be 
 now at Paris, represents the Emperor in that posture 
 of supplication. The object of this self degradation was 
 the appeasementof Nemesis, the perpetual attendant on 
 good fortune, of whose power the Roman conquerors 
 were also reminded by certain symbols attached to 
 their cars of triumph. The symbols were the whip and 
 the crotalo, which were discovered in the Nemesis of 
 the Vatican. The attitude of beggary made the above 
 statue pass for that of Belisarius: and until the criti- 
 cism of Winkelmami| had rectified the mistake, one 
 fiction was called in to support another. It was the 
 same fear of the sudden termination of prosperity that 
 made Amasis king of Egypt warn his friend Polycrates 
 of Samos, that the gods loved those whose lives were 
 chequered with good and enl fortunes. Nemesis was 
 supposed to lie in wait particularly for the prudent; 
 that is for those whose caution rendered them accessi- 
 ble only to mere accidents : and her first altar was 
 raised on the banks of the Phrygian ^sepusby Adras- 
 tus, probably the prince of that name who killed the son 
 of Croesus by mistake. Hence the goddess was called 
 Adrastea.§ 
 
 The Roman Nemesis was sacred and august : there 
 was a temple to her in the Palatine under the name of 
 Rhamnusia:]! so great indeed was the propensity of 
 the ancients to trust to the revolution of events, and to 
 believe in the divinity of Fortune, that in the same 
 Palatine there was a temple to the Fortune of the day.lT 
 This is the last superstition which retains its hold over 
 the human heart ; and from concentrating in one object 
 the credulity so natural to man, has always appeared 
 strongest in those unembarrassed by other articles of 
 belief The antiquaries have supposed this goddess to 
 
 * Antiq. Rom. lib. ii. cap. xxxi. 
 
 t Sueton. in Vit. August!, cap. 91. Casaubon, in the note, refers to 
 Plutarch's Lives of Camillus and .Emilius Paulus and also to his apoph- 
 thegms, for the character of this deity. The hollowed hand was reckoned 
 the last degi-ee of degradation ; and when the dead body of the prefect 
 Rufinus was borne about in triumph by the people, the indignity was in- 
 creased by putting his hand in that position. 
 
 I Storia delle Arti, &c. lib. xii. cap. iii. torn. ii. p. 422. Visconti calls 
 the statue, however, a Cybele. It is given in the Museo Pio-Cleraent. 
 torn. i. par. 40. The Abate Fea (Spiegazjone del Rami. Storia, &c. torn, 
 iii. p. 513.) calls it a Chrisippus. 
 
 § Diet, de Bayle, article Adrastca. 
 
 It ia enumerated by the regionary Victor. 
 
 % PortunfB hujusce diei. Cicero mentions her, de Legib. lib. ii. 
 
 be synonymous with Fortune and with Fate ;♦ but it 
 
 was in her vindictive quality that she was worshipped 
 
 under the name of Nemesis. 
 
 59. 
 
 I see before me the Gladiator lie. 
 
 Stanza cxl. line 1. 
 
 Whether the wonderful statue which suggested this 
 image be a laquearian gladiator, which in spite of 
 Winkelmann's criticism has been stoutly maintained,! 
 or whether it be a Greek herald, as that great antiquary 
 positively asserted,! or whether it is to be thought a 
 Spartan or barbarian shield-bearer, according to the 
 opinion of his Italian editor,§ it must assuredly seem a 
 copy of that masterpiece of Ctesilaus which represented 
 " a wounded man dying who perfectly expressed what 
 there remained of life in him."|f MontfauconH and Maf- 
 fei** thought it the identical statue ; but that statue was 
 of bronze. The gladiator was once in the villa Ludo- 
 vizi, and was bought by Clement XII. The right arm 
 is an entire restoration of Michael Angelo.ll 
 60. 
 
 He, their sire, 
 Sutcher'd to make a Roman holiday. 
 
 Stanza cxU. lines 6 and 7. 
 
 Gladiators were of two kinds, compelled and volun- 
 tary ; and were supplied from several conditions : from 
 slaves sold for that purpose ; from culprits ; from bar- 
 barian captives either taken in war, and, after being 
 led in triumph, set apart for the games, or those seized 
 and condemned as rebels ; also from free citizens, some 
 fighting for hire {auctoraii,) others from a depraved 
 ambition : at last even knights and senators were exhi- 
 bited, a disgrace of which the first tyrant was naturally 
 the first inventor. IJ In the end, dwarfs, and even 
 women, fought ; an enormity prohibited by Severus. 
 Of these the most to be pitied undoubtedly were the 
 barbarian captives ; and to this species a Christian 
 vvriter§§ justly applies the epithet " innocent" to distin- 
 guish them from the professional gladiators. Aurelian 
 and Claudius supplied great numbers of these unfortu- 
 nate victims ; the one after his triumph, and the other 
 on the pretext of a rebellion. 1| || No war, says Lipsius,iril 
 was ever so destructive to the human race as these 
 sports. In spite of the laws of Constantine and Constans, 
 gladiatorial shows survived the old established religion 
 more than seventy years; but they owed their final 
 extinction to the courage of a Christian. In the year 
 404, on the kalends of January, they were exhibiting 
 the shows in the Flavian amphitheatre before the usuaJ 
 immense concourse of people. Almachius <;r Telema- 
 chus, an eastern monk, who had travelled to Rome 
 intent on his holy purpose, rushed into the midst of the 
 arena, and endeavoured to separate the combatants. 
 
 * DEAE NEMESI 
 
 SIVE FORTUNAE 
 
 PISTORXVS 
 
 RVGIANVS 
 
 V. C. LEGAT. 
 
 LEG. XIII. G. 
 
 CORD. 
 
 See duestiones Romanse, &c. ap. Greev. Antiq. Roman, tom. v. p. 942. 
 
 See also Muratori.Nov. Thesaur. Inscrip. Vet. tom. i. p. 88, 89, where 
 
 there are three Latin and one Greek inscription to Nemesis, and others 
 
 to Fate. 
 
 J By the Abate Bracci,dis3ertazione supra un clipeo volivo, &c. Preface, 
 pag. 7. who accounts for the cord round the neck, but not for the horn, 
 which it does not appear the gladiators themselves ever used. Note A, 
 Storia delle Arti, tom. ii. p. 205. 
 
 J Either Polifontes, herald of Laius, killed by CBdipus ; or Cepreas, 
 herald of Euritheus, killed by the Athenians when he endeavoured to drag 
 the HeraclidK from the altar of mercy, and in whose honour they insti- 
 tuted annual games, continued to the time of Hadrian ; or Anlhemo- 
 critus, the Athenian herald, killed by the Megarenses, who never recov- 
 ered the impiety. See Storia delle Arti, &c. torn. ii. p. 203, 204, 205, 206, 
 207. lib. ix. cap. ii. 
 
 § Storia, &c. tom. ii. p. 207. Not. (A.) 
 
 II " Vulneratum deficientem fecit in quo possit intelligi quantum restat 
 animae." Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. xx_xiv. cap. 
 
 IT Antiq. tom. iii. par. 2. tab. 155. 
 
 ** Race. Stat. tab. 64. 
 
 tt Mus. Capitol, tom. iii. p. 154. edit. 1755. 
 
 XX Julius Cffisar. who rose by the fall of the aristocracy, brouglit Ftinus 
 Leptinus and A. Calenus upon the arena. 
 
 §§ TertuUian, " certe quidem et innocentes gladiatores in ludum veni- 
 unt, et voluptatis publicse hostiee fiant." Just. Lips. Saturn. Sermon. 
 lib. ii. cap. iii. 
 
 nil Vopiscus, in vit. Aurel. and in vit. Claud, ibid. 
 
 Till " Credo imbscionullumbellumtantamclademvaBtitiemque generi 
 humanointulisse, quamhosadvoluptatemludos." Just. Lips. ibid. lib. 
 i. cap. xii. 
 
78 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 The prgetor Alypius, a person incredibly attached to 
 these games,* gave instant orders to the gladiators to 
 slay him ; and Telemachus gained the crown of mar- 
 tyrdom, and the title of saint, which surely has never 
 either before or since been awarded for a more noble 
 exploit. Honorius immediately abolished the sliows, 
 which were never afterwards revived. The story is 
 told by Theodore! and Cassiodorus,| and seems wor- 
 thy of credit notwithstanding its place in the Roman 
 martyrology.§ Besides the torrents of blood which 
 flowed at the funerals, in the amphitheatres, the circus, 
 the forums, and other public places, gladiators were in- 
 troduced at feasts, and tore each other to pieces amidst 
 the supper tables, to the great delight and applause of 
 the guests. Yet Lipsius permits himself to suppose 
 the loss of courage, and the evident degeneracy of man- 
 kind, to be nearly connected with the aboUtion of these 
 bloody spectacles.il 
 
 61. 
 Here, where tlve Roman million's blame or praise 
 IVas death or life, the playthings of a crowd. 
 
 Stanza cxlii. lines 5 and 6. 
 When one gladiator wounded another, he shouted, 
 * he has it," "hoc habet," or "habet." The wounded 
 combatant dropped his weapon, and advancing to the 
 edge of the arena, supplicated the spectators. If he had 
 fought well, the people saved him ; if otherwise, or as 
 they happened to be inclined, they turned down their 
 thumbs, and he was slain. They were occasionally so 
 savage that they were impatient if a combat lasted 
 longer than ordinary without wounds or death. The 
 emperor's presence generally saved the vanquished : 
 and it is recorded as an instance of Caracalla's ferocity, 
 that he sent those who supplicated him for life, in a 
 spectacle at Nicomedia, to ask the people ; in other 
 words, handed them over to be slain. A similar cere- 
 mony is observed at the Spanish bull-fights. The 
 magistrate presides ; and after the horsemen and picca- 
 dores have fought the bull, the matadore steps forward 
 and bows to him for permission to kill the animal. If 
 the bull has done his duty by killing two or three horses, 
 or a man, which last is rare, the people interfere with 
 shouts, the ladles wave their handkerchiefs, and the 
 animal is saved. The wounds and death of the horses 
 are accompanied with the loudest acclamations, and 
 many gestures of delight, especially from the female 
 
 Cortion of the audience, including those of the gentlest 
 lood. Every thing depends on habit. The author of 
 Childe Harold, the Avriter of this note, and one or two 
 other Englishmen, who have certainly in other day 
 borne the sight of a pitched battle, were, during thi 
 summer of 1809, in the governor's box at the great am- 
 phitheatre of Santa Maria, opposite to Cadiz. The 
 death of one or two horses completely satisfied their 
 curiosity. A gentleman present, observing them shud 
 der and look pale, noticed that unusual reception of so 
 delightful a sport to some young ladies, who stared 
 and smiled, and continued their applauses as another 
 horse fell bleeding to the ground. One bull killed three 
 horses oj^his own horns. He was saved by acclamations, 
 which were redoubled when it was known he belonged 
 to a priest. 
 
 An Englishman, who can be much pleased with see- 
 ing two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot bear to 
 look at a horse galloping round an arena with his 
 bowels trailing on the ground, and turns from the 
 spectacle and the spectators with horror and disgust. 
 62. 
 Like laurels on the bald first Ccesa/s head. 
 
 Stanza cxliv. line 6. 
 Suetonius informs us that Julius Czesar was particu- 
 
 * j\ugustinus (lib. vi. confess, cap. viii.) "Alypiumsuum gladiatori spec- 
 taculi inhialu incredibiliter abreptum," scribit. ib. lib. i. cap. xii. 
 
 t Hist. Eccles. cap. xxvi. lib. v. 
 
 J Cassiort, Tripartita,!, x. c. xi. Saturn, ih. ib. 
 
 § Baroiiiua, ad. ann. et in nolis ad Martvrol. Rom. 1. Jan. See — 
 Marangoni delle memorie sacre e profane deil' Anfiteatro Flavio, p. 25. 
 edit. 1746. 
 
 II " Q,uocl? non tu Lip?i momentum aliquod habuisse censes ad Tirlii- 
 tem.'' Magnum. Tempora nostra, nosque ipsos videamiis. Oppidum 
 ecce uniim alterumve captum, direptum est ; tumultiis circa nos, non in 
 nobis : et tamen concidimiis et turbamur. Ubi robur, ubi tot per anno3 
 meditaia sapientia stndia ? ubi ille animus qui possii dicere, si fraclus 
 illnJiatur orbittV &c. ibid lib. ii. cap. xxv. The prototype of Mr. 
 Wiiidham'B pane«yric on bull-baitiug. 
 
 larly gratified by that decree of the senate, which ena- 
 bled him to wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. 
 He was anxious, not to show that he was the conqueror 
 of the world, but to hide that he was bald. A stranger 
 at Rome would hardly have guessed at the motive, nor 
 should we without the help of the historian. 
 63. 
 While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand. 
 
 Stanza cxlv. line 1. 
 This is quoted in the Decline and Fall of the Roman 
 Empire ; and a notice on the Coliseum may be seen in 
 the Historical Illustrations to thelVth Canto of Childe 
 Harold. 
 
 64. 
 
 spared and blest by time. 
 
 Stanza cxlvi, line S. 
 " Though plundered of all its brass, except the ring 
 which was necessary to preserve the aperture above ^ 
 though exposed to repeated fires, though sometimes 
 flooded by the river, and always open to the rain, no 
 monument of equal antiquity is so well preserved as 
 this rotunda. It passed with little alteration from the 
 Pagan into the present worship ; and so convenient 
 were its niches for the Christian altar, that Michael 
 Angelo, ever studious of ancient beauty, introduced 
 their design as a model in the Catholic church." 
 
 Forsyth's Remarks, &c. on Italy, p. 137. sec. edit. 
 65. 
 And they who feel for genius may repose 
 Their eyes on honour' d forms, whose busts around them close. 
 Stanza cxlvii. lines 8 and 9. 
 The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for the 
 busts of modern great, or, at least, distinguished, men. 
 The flood of light which once fell through the large orb 
 above on the whole circle of divinities, now shines on a 
 numerous assemblage of mortals, some one or two of 
 whom have been almost deified by the veneration of 
 their countrymen. 
 
 66. 
 
 There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light. 
 
 Stanza cxlviii. line 1. 
 This and the three next stanzas allude to the story 
 of the Roman daughter, which is recalled to the traveller 
 by the site, or pretended site, of that adventure, now 
 shown at the church of St. Nicholas in carcere. The 
 difficulties attending the full belief of the tale are stated 
 in Historical Illustrations, &c. 
 67. 
 Turn to the 3Iole, which Hadrian rear''d mi high. 
 Stanza clii. line 1. 
 The castle of St. Angelo. See — Historical Illustra- 
 tions. 
 
 68. 
 
 Stanza cliii. 
 This and the six next stanzas have a reference to the 
 church of St. Peter's. For a measurement of the com- 
 parative length of this basilica, and the other great 
 churches of Europe, see the pavement of St. Peter's, 
 and the classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. pag. 125. 
 et seq. chap. iv. 
 
 69. 
 
 the strange fate 
 Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns. 
 
 Stanza clxxi. lines 6 and 7. 
 Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken 
 heart; Charles V. a hermit; Louis XIV. a bankrupt 
 in means and glory; Cromwell of anxiety; and, "the 
 greatest is behind," Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these 
 sovereigns a long but superfluous list might be added 
 of names equally illustrious and unhappy. 
 70. 
 Lo, JVemi! naveWd in the woody hills. 
 
 Stanza clxxjii. line 1. 
 The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of 
 Egeria, and from the shades which embosomed the 
 temple of Diana, has preserved to this day its distinc- 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 79 
 
 live appellation of Tke Grove. Nemi is but an even- 
 ing's ride from the comfortable inn of Albano. 
 71. 
 And afar 
 The Tiber xvinds, and the broad ocean laves < 
 
 The Latian coast, &c. &c. 
 
 Stanza clxxiv. lines 2, 3, and 4. 
 
 The whole declivity of the Alban hUl is of unrivalled 
 beauty, and from the convent on the highest pomt, which 
 has succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jupiter, the 
 prospect embraces all the objects alluded to in the cited 
 stanza; the Mediterranean; the whole scene of the 
 latter half of the ^neid, and the coast from beyond the 
 mouth of the Tiber to the headland of Circaeumand the 
 Cape of Terracina. 
 
 The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either at 
 the Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tusculum of Prince Lu- 
 cien Buonaparte. 
 
 The former was thought some years ago the actual 
 site, as may be seen from Middleton's Life of Cicero. 
 At present it has lost something of its credit, except for 
 the Domenichinos. Nine monks of the Greek order 
 live there, and the adjoining villa is a cardinal's sum- 
 mer-house. The other villa, called Rufinella, is on the 
 summit of the hill above Frascati, and many rich re- 
 mains of Tusculum have been found there, besides 
 seventy-two statues of different merit and preservation, 
 and seven busts. 
 
 From the same eminence are seen the Sabme hills, 
 embosomed in which hes the long valley of Rustica. 
 There are several circumstances which tend to esta- 
 bUsh the identity of this valley with the " Ustica" of 
 Horace ; and it seems possible that the mosaic pave- 
 ment which the peasants uncover by throwing up the 
 earth of a vineyard may belong to his villa. Rustica is 
 pronounced short, not "'according to our stress upon— 
 « UsticcB cubantis."— It is more rational to think that 
 we are wrong than that the inhabitants of this secluded 
 valley have changed their tone in this word. The addi- 
 tion of the consonant prefixed is nothing : yet it is neces- 
 sary to be aware that Rustica may be a modern name 
 which the peasants may have caught from the antiqua- 
 
 The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a knoll 
 covered with chestnut trees. A stream runs down the 
 valley, and although it is not true, as said in the guide 
 books, that this stream is called Licenza, yet there is a 
 village on a rock at the head of the valley which is so 
 denominated, and which may have taken its name from 
 the Digentia. Licenza contains 700 inhabitants. On a 
 peak a°little way beyond is Civitella, containing 300. 
 On the banks of the Anio, a little before you turn up into 
 Valle Rustica, to the left, about an hour from the villa, 
 is a town called Vicovaro, another favourable coinci- 
 dence with the Varia of the poet. At the end of the 
 valley, towards the Anio, there is a bare hill, crowned 
 with a Uttle town called Bardela. At the foot of this 
 hill the rivulet of Licenza flows, and is almost absorbed 
 in a wide sandy bed before it reaches the Anio. Nothing 
 can be more fortunate for the lines of the poet, whether 
 in a metaphorical or direct sense : 
 
 " Me quotiens reficit gelidus Digentia rivu3, 
 (iuera Mamdela bibil rugosus frigore pagus." 
 The stream is clear high up the valley, but before it 
 reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yellow like 
 a sulphur rivulet. , .„ , 
 
 Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hiUs, halt an 
 hour's walk from the vineyard where the pavement is 
 shovm,does seem to be the sight of the fane of Vacuna, 
 and an inscription found there tells that this temple of 
 the Sabine Victory was repaired by Vespasian.* With 
 these helps, and a position corresponding exactly to 
 every thing which the poet has told us of his retreat, 
 we may feel tolerably secure of our site. 
 
 The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Campa- 
 
 nile, and by following up the rivulet to the pretended 
 Bandusia, you come to the roots of the higher mountain 
 Gennaro. Singularly enough, the only spot of ploughed 
 land in the whole valley is on the knoll where this Ban- 
 dusia rises. 
 
 " . . . . tu frigus amabile 
 Fessis vomere tauris 
 Praebea, et pecovi vago." 
 
 The peasants show another spring near the mosaic 
 pavement which they call " Oradina,* and which flows 
 down the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and thence 
 trickles over into the Digentia. 
 
 But we must not hope 
 
 " To trace the Muses upwards to their spring" 
 
 by exploring the windings of the romantic valley in 
 search of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange 
 that any one should have thought Bandusia a fountam 
 of the Digentia— Horace has not let drop a word of it; 
 and this immortal spring has in fact been discovered m 
 possession of the holders of many good things in Italy, 
 the monks. It was attached to the church of St. Ger- 
 vais and Protais near Venusia, where it was most likely to 
 be found.* We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller 
 in finding the occasional pine still pendent on the poetic 
 villa. There is not a pine in the whole valley, but tliere 
 are two cypresses, which he evidently took, or mistook, 
 for the tree in the ode.t The truth is, that the pine is 
 now, as it was in the days of Virgil, a garden tree, and 
 it was not at all likely to be found in the craggy acclivi- 
 ties of the valley of Rustica. Horace probably had one 
 of them in the orchard close above his farm, imme- 
 diately overshadowing his villa, not on the rocky heights 
 at some distance from his abode. The tourist may have 
 easily supposed himself to have seen this pine figured 
 in the above cypresses, for the orange and lemon trees 
 which throw such a bloom over his description of the 
 royal gardens at Naples, unless they have been since 
 displaced, were assuredly only acacias and other com- 
 mon garden shrubs.J The extreme disappointment 
 experienced by choosing the Classical Tourist as a 
 guide in Italy must be allowed to find vent m a few 
 observations, which, it is asserted without fear of con- 
 tradiction, will be confirmed by every one who has 
 selected the same conductor through the same country. 
 This author is in fact one of the most inaccurate, unsa- 
 tisfactory writers that have in our times attained a 
 temporary reputation, and is very seldom to be trusted 
 even when he speaks of objects which he must be pre- 
 sumed to have seen. His errors, from the simple 
 exaggeration to the downright misstatement, are so 
 frequent as to induce a suspicion that he had either 
 never visited the spots described, or had trusted to the 
 
 fidelity of former writers. 
 
 Indeed the Classical Tour 
 
 has every characteristic of a mere compilation of former 
 notices, strung together upon a very slender thread of 
 personal observation, and swelled out by those deco- 
 rations which are so easily supplied by a systematic 
 adoption of all the common places of praise, applied to 
 
 ery thing, and therefore signifying nothing. 
 
 The style which one person thinks cloggy and cum- 
 brous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of others, aiid 
 such may experience some salutary excitement m 
 ploughing through the periods of the Classical Tour. 
 It must be said, however, that pohsh and weight are 
 apt to beget an expectation of value. It is amongst the 
 pains of the damned to toil up a climax with a huge 
 
 "^^The^tTurist had the choice of his words, but there 
 was no such latitude allowed to that of his sentiments. 
 The love of virtue and of liberty, which must have dis- 
 tineuished the character, certainly adorns the pages ot 
 Mr. Eustace, and the gentlemanly spirit, so recommen- 
 datory either in an author «!;his. productions^ is very 
 conspicuous throughout the Classical Tour. But these 
 generous quaUties are the foliage of such a perforrnance, 
 Ind may be spread about it so prommently, and pro- 
 
 * IMP. C^SAR VESPASIANV3 
 
 PONTIFEX MAXIMVS. TRIB. 
 
 POTEST. CENSOR. JEDEM 
 
 VICTORIA. VETVSTATE ILLAPSAM. 
 
 BVA. IMPENSA. EESTITVIT. 
 
 . See— Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto, p. 43. 
 
 dei, iSd out in parterres,' and walks shaded by rows of orange trees. 
 I Classical Tour, &c. chap. xi. vol. ii. oct. i«)&. 
 
80 
 
 NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 fusely as to embarrass those who wish to see and find ] 
 the fruit at hand. The unction of the divine, and the 
 exhortations of the morahst, may have made this work 
 something more and better than a book of travels, but 
 they have not made it a book of travels ; and this ob- 
 servation applies more especially to that enticing method 
 of instruction conveyed by the perpetual introduction 
 of the same Gallic Helot to reel and bluster before the 
 rising generation, and terrify it into decency by the dis- 
 play of all the excesses of the revolution. An animosity 
 against atheists and regicides in general, and French- 
 men specifically, may be honourable, and may be useful 
 as a record ; but that antidote should either be admi- 
 nistered in any work rather than a tour, or, at least 
 should be served up apart, and not so mixed with the 
 whole mass of information and reflection, as to give a 
 bitterness to every page : for who would choose to have 
 the antipathies of any man, however just, for his travel- 
 ling companions ? A tourist, unless he aspires to the 
 cre'clit of prophecy, is not answerable for the changes 
 which may take place in the country which he describes ; 
 but his reader may very fairly esteem all his political 
 portraits and deductions as so much waste paper, the 
 moment they cease to assist, and more particularly if 
 they obstruct, his actual survey. 
 
 Neither encomium nor accusation of any government, 
 or governors, is meant to be here offered ; but it is 
 stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the change ope- 
 rated, either by the address of the late imperial system, 
 or by the disappointment of every expectation by those 
 who" have succeeded to the Italian thrones, has been so 
 considerable, and is so apparent, as not only to put Mr. 
 Eustace's antigallican philippics entirely out of date, 
 but even to throw some suspicion upon the competency 
 and candour of the author himself. A remarkable ex- 
 ample may be found in the instance of Bologna, over 
 whose papal attachments, and consequent desolation, 
 the tourist pours forth such strains of condolence and 
 revenge, made louder by the borrowed trumpet of Mr. 
 Burke. Now Bologna is at this moment, and has been 
 for some years, notorious amongst the states of Italy 
 
 for its attachment to revolutionary principles, and was 
 almost the only city which made any demonstrations in 
 favour of the unfortunate Murat. This change may, 
 however, have been made since Mr. Eustace visited 
 this country ; but the traveller whom he has thrilled 
 with horror at the projected stripping of the copper from 
 the cupola of St. Peter's, must be much relieved to find 
 that sacrilege out of the power of the French, or any 
 other plunderers, the cupola being covered with lead.* 
 
 If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics had 
 not given considerable currency to the Classical Tour, 
 it would have been unnecessary to warn the reader, 
 that however it may adorn his library, it will be of little 
 or no service to him in his carriage ; and if the judg- 
 ment of those critics had hitherto been suspended, no 
 attempt would have been made to anticipate their deci- 
 sion. As it is, those who stand in the relation of pos- 
 terity to Mr. Eustace may be permitted to appeal from 
 cotemporary praises, and are perhaps more hkely to be 
 just in proportion as the causes of love and hatred are 
 the farther removed. This appeal had, in some mea- 
 sure, been made before the above remarks were written ; 
 for one of the most respectable of the Florentine pub- 
 lishers, who had been persuaded by the repeated inqui- 
 ries of those on their journey southwards to reprint a 
 cheap edition of the Classical Tour, was, by the con- 
 curring advice of returning travellers, induced to aban- 
 don his design, although he had already arranged his 
 types and paper, and had struck off one or two of the 
 first sheets. 
 
 The writer of these notes would wish to part (like 
 Mr. Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope and the 
 Cardinals, but he does not think it necessary to extend 
 the same discreet silence to their humble partisans. 
 
 * " What then, will be the aBionishmeul, or rather the horror, of my 
 
 reader, when I inform him the French committee turned 
 
 its attention to Saint Peter'3, and employed a company of Jews toesti- 
 mate and purchase the gold, silver, and bronze that adorn the inside of 
 the edifice, as well as the copper that covers the vaults and dome on the 
 outside." Chap. iv. p. 130. vol. ii. The story about the Jews is posi- 
 tirely denied at Rome. 
 
THE GIAOUR; 
 
 A FRAGMENT OP A TURKISH TALE. 
 
 One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws 
 Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes — 
 To which life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
 For which joy hatli no balm, and affliction no sting. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESa. 
 
 AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION OP HIS GENIUS, 
 
 RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIEI\-DSHIP, 
 
 THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The Tale which these disjointed fragments present, is 
 founded upon circumstances now less common in the 
 East than formerly; either because the ladies are 
 more circiunspect than in the "olden time;" or be- 
 cause the Christians have better fortune, or less en- 
 terprise. The story, when entire, contained the 
 adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the 
 Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and 
 avenged by a yoimg Venetian, her lover, at the time 
 the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of 
 Venice, and soon after the Amaouts were beaten 
 back from the Morea, wliich they had ravaged for 
 some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The 
 desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plun- 
 der of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enter- 
 prise, and to tlie desolation of the Morea, during 
 which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unpa- 
 ralleled even in the amials of the faithful. 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 No breath of air to break the wave 
 That rolls below the Athenian's grave. 
 That tomb ^ which, gleaming o'er the chif, 
 First greets the homeward-veering skiff, 
 High o'er the land he saved in vain: 
 When shall such hero live again ? 
 ****** 
 
 Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
 Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
 Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
 Make glad the heart that hails the sight. 
 And lend to loneliness delight. 
 There, mildly dimpling. Ocean's cheek 
 Reflects the tints of many a peak 
 
 Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
 These Edens of the eastern wave ; 
 And if, at times, a transient breeze 
 Break the blue crystal of the seas, 
 Or sweep one blossom from the trees. 
 How welcome is each gentle air 
 That wakes and wafts the odours there I 
 For there — the rose o'er crag or vale, 
 Suhana of the nightingalo,^ 
 
 The maid for whom his melody. 
 His thousand songs are heard on high, 
 Blooms blusliing to her lover's tale: 
 His queen, the garden queen, his rose^ 
 Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows. 
 Far from the winters of the west, 
 By every breeze and season blest, 
 Returns the sweets by Nature given, 
 In softest incense back to heaven ; 
 And grateful yields that smiling sky 
 Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
 And many a summer flower is there. 
 And many a shade that love might share, 
 And many a grotto, meant for rest 
 That holds the pirate for a guest ; 
 Whose bark in sheltering cove below 
 Lurks for the passing peaceful prow 
 Till the gay mariner's guitar ^ 
 Is heard, and seen the evening star 
 Then stealing ^^-ith the muffled oar, 
 Far shaded by the rocky shore. 
 Rush the night-prowlers on the prey. 
 And turn to groans his roundelay. 
 Strange — that where Nature loVd to trace 
 As if for gods, a dwelling-place, 
 And every charm and grace hath mix'd 
 Within the paradise she fix'd, 
 There man, enamour'd of distress, 
 Should mar it into wilderness, 
 And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 
 That tasks not one laborious hour ; 
 Nor claims the culture of his hand 
 To bloom along the fairy land, 
 
82 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 But springs as to preclude his care, 
 
 While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 
 
 And sweetly woos him — but to spare! 
 
 Have left a nameless pyramid, 
 
 Strange — that where all is peace beside 
 
 Thy heroes, though the general doom 
 
 There passion riots in her pride, 
 
 Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
 
 And lust and rapine wildly reign 
 
 A mightier monument command. 
 
 To darken o'er the fair domain. 
 
 The mountains of their native land ! 
 
 It is as though the fiends prevail'd 
 
 There points thy muse to stranger's eye 
 
 Against the seraphs they assail'd, 
 
 The graves of those that cannot die ! 
 
 And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell 
 
 'T were long to tell, and sad to trace. 
 
 The freed inheritors of hell; 
 
 Each step from splendour to disgrace; 
 
 So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, 
 
 Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
 
 So curst the tyrants that destroy ! 
 
 Thy soul, till from itself it feU; 
 
 
 Yes ! self-abasement paved the way 
 
 He who hath bent him o'er the dead, 
 
 To villain-bonds and despot-sway. 
 
 Ere the first day of death is fled, 
 
 
 The first dark day of nothingness, 
 
 What can he tell who treads thy shore ? 
 
 The last of danger and distress, 
 
 No legend of thine olden time. 
 
 (Before decay's effacing fingers 
 
 No theme on which the muse might soar, 
 
 Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) 
 
 High as thine own in days of yore, 
 
 And mark'd the mild angelic air. 
 
 When man was worthy of thy clime. 
 
 The rapture of repose that's there. 
 
 The hearts within thy valleys bred, 
 
 The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak 
 
 The fiery souls that might have led 
 
 The languor of the placid cheek, 
 
 Thy sons to deeds sublime. 
 
 And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 
 
 Now crawl from cradle to the grave, 
 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now. 
 And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
 Where cold obstruction's apathy '* 
 Appals the gazing mourner's heart. 
 As if to liim it could impart 
 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; 
 Yes, but for these, and these alone, 
 Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour 
 He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 
 So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd. 
 The first, last look by death reveal'd ! * 
 Such is the aspect of this shore; 
 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! 
 So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 
 We start, for soul is wanting there. 
 Hers is the loveliness in deatli, 
 That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
 But beauty with that fearful bloom, 
 That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 
 Expression's last receding ray, 
 A gilded halo hovering roimd decay. 
 The farewell beam of feeling past away ! 
 Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth. 
 Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished 
 eartli I 
 
 Chme of the unforgotten brave ! 
 Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
 Was freedom's home or glory's grave! 
 Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, 
 That tliis is all remains of thee? 
 Approacli, thou craven crouching slave 
 
 Say, is not this Thermopylae? 
 These waters blue that round you lave. 
 
 Oh servile offspring of the free — 
 Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? 
 The gulf, the rock of Salamis! 
 These scenes, their story not unknown, 
 Arise, and make again your own ; 
 Snatch fi-om the ashes of yoiu- sires 
 The embers of their former fires ; 
 And he who in the strife ex-pires 
 Will add to theirs a name of fear 
 That tyranny shall quake to hear. 
 And leave his sons a hope, a fame 
 They too will ratlier die than shame : 
 For freedom's battle once begun, 
 Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son, 
 Though baffled oft, is ever won. 
 Bear \\itness, Greece, tliy livmg page. 
 Attest it many a deatlaless age ! 
 
 Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave, • 
 
 And callous, save to crime; 
 Stain'd \vith each evil that pollutes 
 Mankind, where least above the brutes; 
 Without even savage virtue blest, 
 Without one free or valiant breast. 
 Still to the neighbouring ports they waft 
 Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 
 In this the subtle Greek is found, 
 For this, and this alone, renown'd. 
 In vain might liberty invoke 
 The spirit to its bondage broke, 
 Or raise the neck that courts the yoke: 
 No more her sorrows I bewail, 
 Yet this will be a mournful tale. 
 And they who listen may believe. 
 Who heard it first had cause to grieve.' 
 
 * + **** + 
 
 Far, dark, along the blue-sea glancing, 
 The shadows of the rocks advancing, 
 Start on the fisher's eye like boat 
 Of island-pirate or Mainote ; 
 And, fearful for his light caique. 
 He shuns the near, but doubtfiil creek: 
 Though V, orn and weary with his toil, 
 And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, 
 Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar. 
 Till Port Leone's safer shore 
 Receives him by the lovely light 
 That best becomes an eastern night. 
 
 ***** + ♦ 
 
 Who thundering comes on blackest steed, 
 With slacken'd bit, and hoof of speed ? 
 Beneath the clattering iron's sound 
 The cavern'd echoes wake around 
 In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 
 The foam that streaks the courser's side 
 Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide ; 
 Though weary waves are sunk to rest, 
 There 's none within his rider's breast ; 
 And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
 'Tis calmer than thy heart, yoimg Giaour ! ^ 
 I know thee not, I loathe thy race. 
 But in thy lineaments I trace 
 What time shall strengthen, not efface : 
 Though young and pale, that sallow front 
 Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt ; 
 Though bent on earth ihine evil eye. 
 As meteor-like thou glides! by. 
 Right well I view and deem thee one 
 Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 On — on he hastened, and he drew 
 My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
 Though like a demon of the night 
 He pass'd and vanish'd from my sight, 
 His aspect and his air impress'd 
 A troubled memory on my breast, 
 And long upon my startled ear 
 Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
 He spurs his steed ; he nears the steep, 
 That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 
 He winds around ; he hurries by ; 
 The rock relieves him from mine eye ; 
 For well I ween unwelcome he 
 Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee ; 
 And not a star but shines too bright 
 On him who takes such timeless flight. 
 He wound along ; but, ere he pass'd, 
 One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, 
 A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 
 A moment breathed him from his speed, 
 A moment on his stirrup stood — 
 Why looks he o'er the olive-wood? 
 The crescent glimmers on the hill. 
 The mosque's high lamps are quivering still: 
 Though too remote for sound to wake 
 In echoes of the far tophaike,^ 
 The flashes of each joyous peal 
 Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 
 To-night, set Rhamazani's sun ; 
 To-night the Bairam feast's begun; 
 To-night — but who and what art thou, 
 Of foreign garb and fearful brow ? 
 And what are these to thine or thee, 
 That thou shouldst either pause or flee ? 
 He stood — some dread was on his face, 
 
 Soon hatred settled in its place 
 
 It rose not with the reddening flush 
 
 Of transient anger's darkening blush, 
 But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 
 
 Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 
 
 His brow was bent, his eye was glazed. 
 
 He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 
 
 And sternly shook his hand on high, 
 
 As doubting to return or fly : 
 
 Impatient of his flight delay'd, 
 
 Here loud his raven charger neigh'd — 
 
 Down glanced that hand, and grasped his blade ; 
 
 That sound had burst his waking dream. 
 
 As slumber starts at owlet's scream. 
 
 The spur hath lanced his courser's sides ; 
 
 Away, away, for life he rides ; 
 
 Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed,' 
 
 Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 
 
 The rock is doubled, and the shore 
 
 Shakes with the clattering tramp no more ; 
 
 The crag is won, no more is seen 
 
 His Christian crest and haughty mien. 
 
 'T was but an instant he restrain'd 
 
 That fiery barb so sternly rein'd : 
 
 'T was but a moment that he stood, 
 
 Then sped as if by death pursued ; 
 
 But in that instant o'er his soul 
 
 Wmters of memory seem'd to roll, 
 
 And gather in that drop of time 
 
 A life of pain, an age of crime. 
 
 O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 
 
 Such moment pours the grief of years 
 
 What felt he then, at once opprest 
 
 By all that most distracts the breast? 
 
 That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, 
 
 Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! 
 
 Though in tune's record nearly nought. 
 
 It was eternity to thought ! 
 
 For infinite as boundless space 
 
 The thought that conscience must embrace, 
 
 Which in itself can comprehend 
 Wo without name, or hope, or end. 
 
 The hour is past, the Giaour is gone 
 And did he fly or fall alone ? 
 Wo to that hour he came or went ! 
 The curse for Hassan's sin was sent, 
 To turn a palace to a tomb : 
 He came, he went, hke the simoom,'° 
 That harbinger of fate and gloom, 
 Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 
 The very cypress droops to death — 
 Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled, 
 The only constant mourner o'er the dead ! 
 
 The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; 
 No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 
 The lonely spider's thin gray pall 
 Waves slowly widening o'er the wall \ 
 The bat builds in his haram bower ; 
 And in the fortress of his power 
 The owl usurps the beacon-tower; 
 The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 
 With baffled thirst, and famine grim ; 
 For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed. 
 Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread, 
 'T was sweet of yore to see it play, 
 And chase the sultriness of day. 
 As, springing high, tlie silver dew 
 In whirls fantastically flew. 
 And flung luxurious coolness round 
 The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 
 'T was sweet, when cloudless stars were bright^ 
 To view the wave of watery light, 
 And hear its melody by night, 
 And oft had Hassan's childhood play'd 
 Around the verge of that cascade ; 
 And oft upon his mother's breast 
 That sound had harmonized his rest; 
 And oft had Hassan's youth along 
 Its bank been soothed by beauty's song; 
 And softer seemed each melting tone 
 Of music mingled with its own. 
 But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose 
 Along the brink at twilight's close : 
 The stream that fill'd that font is fled— 
 The blood that warm'd his heart is shed ! 
 And here no more shall human voice 
 Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice ; 
 The last sad note that swell'd the gale 
 Was woman's wildest funeral wail: 
 That quench'd in silence, all is still, 
 But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill: 
 Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 
 No hand shall close its clasp again. 
 On desert sands 'twere joy to scan 
 The rudest steps of fellow man — 
 So here the very voice of grief 
 Might wake an echo hke relief; 
 At least 't would say, " all are not gone ; 
 " There lingers life, though but in one — "^ 
 For many a gilded chamber 's there, 
 Which solitude might well forbear; 
 Within that dome as yet decay 
 Hath slowly work'd her cankering way — 
 But gloom is gathered o'er the gate 
 Nor there the fakir's self will wait ; 
 Nor there will wandering dervise stay 
 For bounty cheers not his delay; 
 Nor there will weary stranger halt 
 To bless the sacred "bread and salt."" 
 Alike must wealth and poverty 
 Pass heedless and unheeded by, 
 For courtesy and pity died 
 With Hassan on the mountain side. 
 His roof, that refuge unto men, 
 Is desolation's hungry den. 
 
84 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 The guest flies the hall, and the vassals from labour, 
 Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre ! '^ 
 
 I hear the sound of coming feet. 
 But not a voice mine ear to greet; 
 More near — each turban I can scan, 
 And silver-sheathed ataghan ; '' 
 The foremost of the band is seen, 
 An emir by his garb of green : ** 
 "Ho! who art thou?— this low salam '* 
 Replies of Moslem faith I am. 
 The burden ye so gently bear, 
 Seems one that claims your utmost care, 
 And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 
 My humble bark would gladly wait." 
 
 " Thou speakest sooth, thy skiff unmoor, 
 And waft us from the silent shore ; 
 Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 
 The nearest oar that 's scatter'd by ; 
 And midway to those rocks where sleep 
 The channell'd waters dark and deep, 
 Rest from your task — so — bravely done, 
 Our course has been right swiftly run 
 Yet 't is the longest voyage, I trow, 
 
 That one of " 
 
 ****** 
 
 SuUen it plung'd, and slowly sank, 
 The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 
 I watch'd it as it sank, methought 
 Some motion from the current caught 
 Bestirr'd it more, — 't was but the beam 
 That chequer'd o'er the living stream : 
 I gazed, till vanishing from view, 
 Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 
 Still less and less, a speck of white 
 That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight : 
 And all its hidden secrets sleep. 
 Known but to genii of the deep. 
 Which, trembling in their coral caves 
 They dare not whisper to the waves. 
 * + ***» 
 
 As rising on its purple wing 
 The insect-queen ^^ of eastern spring, 
 O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
 Invites the young pursuer near, 
 And leads him on from flower to flower 
 A weary chase and wasted hour. 
 Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
 With panting heart and tearful eye : 
 So beauty lures the full-grown child, 
 With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; 
 A chase of idle hopes and fears. 
 Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
 If won, to equal ills betray'd. 
 Wo waits the insect and the maid 
 A life of pain, the loss of peace, 
 From infant's play, and man's caprice : 
 The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
 Hath lost its charm by being caught. 
 For every touch that wooed its stay 
 Hath brush'd its brightest hues away, 
 Till, charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
 'T is left to fly or fall alone. 
 With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, 
 Ah ! where shall either victim rest ? 
 Can this with faded pinion soar 
 From rose to tulip as before ? 
 Or beauty, blighted in an hour. 
 Find joy within her broken bower ? 
 No ! gayer insects fluttering by 
 Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, 
 
 And lovelier things have mercy shown 
 To every failing but their own, 
 And every wo a tear can claim 
 Except an erring sister's shame. 
 
 * '^ + * * * * 
 
 The mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, 
 
 Is like the scorpion girt by fire, 
 In circle narrowing as it glows. 
 The flames around their captive close. 
 Till, inly search'd by thousand throes, 
 
 And maddening in her ire, 
 One sad and sole relief she knows. 
 The sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
 Whose venom never yet was vain, 
 Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, 
 And darts into her desperate brain : 
 So do the dark in soul expire. 
 Or live like scorpion girt by fire ; ^^ 
 So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, 
 Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, 
 Darkness above, despair beneath. 
 Around it flame, within it death ! 
 ***** 
 
 Black Hassan from the haram flies, 
 Nor bends on woman's form his eyes ; 
 The unwonted chase each hour employs, 
 Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
 Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
 When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
 Doth Leila there no longer dwell ? 
 That tale can only Hassan tell : 
 Strange rumours in our city say 
 Upon that eve she fled away. 
 When Rhamazan's ^^ last sun was set. 
 And, flashing from each minaret. 
 Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
 Of Bairam through the boundless east. 
 'T was then she went as to the bath, 
 Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; 
 For she was flown her master's rage. 
 In likeness of a Georgian page. 
 And far beyond the Moslem's power 
 Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour. 
 Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd ; 
 But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 
 Too well he trusted to the slave 
 Whose treachery deserv'd a grave : 
 And on that eve had gone to mosque. 
 And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
 Such is the tale his Nubians tell, 
 Who did not watch their charge too well ; 
 But others say, that on that night, 
 By pale Phingari's ^^ trembling light. 
 The Giaour upon his jet black steed 
 Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
 With bloody spur along the shore, 
 Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Her eyes dark charm 't were vain to tell, 
 But gaze on that of the gazelle. 
 It will assist thy fancy well ; 
 As large, as languishingly dark. 
 But soul beam'd forth in every spark 
 That darted from beneath the hd. 
 Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 2° 
 Yea, soul and should our prophet say 
 That form was nought but breathing clay, 
 By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 
 Though on Al-Sirat's ^i arch I stood. 
 Which totters o'er the fiery flood. 
 With paradise within my view, 
 And all his houris beckoning through. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 85 
 
 Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 
 
 And keep that portion of his creed 22 
 
 Which saith that woman is but dust, 
 
 A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ? 
 
 On her might muftis gaze, and own 
 
 That through her eye the Immortal shone ; 
 
 On her fair cheek's unfading hue 
 
 The young pomegranate's ^^ blossoms strew 
 
 Their bloom in blushes ever new ; 
 
 Her hair in hyacinthine 2* flow, 
 
 When left to roll its folds below, 
 
 As 'midst her handmaids in the hall 
 
 She stood superior to them all, 
 
 Hath swept the marble where her feet 
 
 Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet. 
 
 Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 
 
 It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 
 
 The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 
 
 So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 
 
 The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! ^* 
 
 As rears her crest the ruffled swan, 
 
 And spurns the wave with vmigs of pride, 
 When pass the steps of stranger man 
 
 Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
 Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
 Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
 Intrusion's glance, till folly's gaze 
 Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
 Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
 Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
 Her mate — stem Hassan, who was he ? 
 Alas ! that name was not for thee ! 
 * + + * * 
 
 Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
 With twenty vassals in his train. 
 Each arm'd, as best becomes a man. 
 With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
 The chief before, as deck'd for war. 
 Bears in his belt the scimitar 
 Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood, 
 When in the pass the rebels stood. 
 And few retum'd to tell the tale 
 Of what befell in Fame's vale. 
 The pistols which his girdle bore 
 Were those that once a pasha wore, 
 Wliich still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold, 
 Even robbers tremble to behold. 
 'T is said he goes to woo a bride 
 More true than her who left his side ; 
 The faithless slave that broke her bower, 
 And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 
 ****** 
 
 The sun's last rays are on the hill, 
 And sparkle in the fountain rill, 
 Whose welcome waters, cool and clear. 
 Draw blessings from the mountaineer : 
 Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
 Find that repose 't were vain to seek 
 In cities lodged too near his lord. 
 And trembling for his secret hoard — 
 Here may he rest where none can see, 
 In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
 And with forbidden wine may stain 
 The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 
 ******* 
 
 The foremost Tartar 's in the gap, 
 Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
 The rest in lengthening Ime the while 
 Wind slowly through the long defile : 
 Above, the mountain rears a peak, 
 Where vultures whet the thirsty beak. 
 And theirs may be a feast to-night, 
 Shall tempt them dovra ere morrow's light ; 
 
 Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
 Has shrunk before the summer beam. 
 And left a channel bleak and bare, 
 Save shrubs that spring to perish there . 
 Each side the midway path there lay 
 Small broken crags of granite gray. 
 By time, or mountam lightning, riven 
 From summits clad in mists of heaven { 
 For where is he that hath beheld 
 The peak of Liakura unveil'd ? 
 ******* 
 
 They reach the grove of pine at last . 
 " Bismillah ! ^^ now the peril 's past ; 
 For yonder view the opening plain. 
 And there we '11 prick our steeds amain*" 
 The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
 A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
 The foremost Tartar bites the ground i 
 
 Scarce had they time to check the rein. 
 Swift from their steeds the riders boimd ; 
 
 But three shall never mount again : 
 Unseen the foes that gave the wound. 
 
 The dying ask revenge in vain. 
 With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent, 
 Some o'er their courser's harness leant, 
 
 Half shelter'd by' the steed ; 
 Some fly behind the nearest rock, 
 And there await the coming shock. 
 
 Nor tamely stand to bleed 
 Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, 
 Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
 Stern Hassan only from his horse 
 Disdains to light, and keeps his course. 
 Till fiery flashes in the van 
 Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
 Have well secured the only way 
 Could now avail the promised prey ; 
 Then curl'd his very beard ^^ with ire. 
 And glared his eye with fiercer fire : 
 " Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
 I 've scaped a bloodier hour than this." 
 And now the foe their covert quit. 
 And call his vassals to submit ; 
 But Hassan's frown and furious word 
 Are dreaded more than hostile sword. 
 Nor of his httle band a man 
 Resign'd carbine or ataghan. 
 Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! ^a 
 In fuller sight, more near and near, 
 The lately ambush'd foes appear, 
 And, issuing from the grove, advance 
 Some who on battle-charger prance. 
 Who leads them on with foreign brand, 
 Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
 " 'T is he ! 't is he ! I know him now ; 
 I know him by his pallid brow ; 
 I know him by the evil eye ^^ 
 That aids his envious treachery ; 
 I know him by his jet-black barb: 
 Though now array'd in Arnaut garb. 
 Apostate from his own vile faith. 
 It shall not save him from the death 
 'T is he ! well met in any hour ! 
 Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour !" 
 
 As rolls the river into ocean. 
 In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 
 
 As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
 In azure column proudly gleaming. 
 Beats back the current many a rood, 
 In curling foam and mingling flood. 
 While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, 
 Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; 
 Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash, 
 The lightnings of the waters flash 
 
86 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 In a\vful whiteness o'er the shore, 
 That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; 
 Thus — as the stream and ocean greet, 
 With waves that madden as they meet — 
 Thus join the bands, ^Yhom mutual wTong, 
 And fate, and fury, drive along. 
 The bickering salsres' shivering jar ; 
 
 And pealing wide or ringing near 
 
 Its echoes on the throbbing ear, 
 The death-shot hissing from afar ; 
 The shock, the shouty the groan of war, 
 
 Reverberate along that vale, 
 
 More suited to the shepherd's tale : 
 Though few the numbers — theirs the strife, 
 That neither spares nor speaks for life ! 
 Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press, 
 To seize and share the dear caress ; 
 But love itself could never pant 
 For all that beauty sighs to grant 
 With half the fervour hate bestows 
 Upon the last embrace of foes. 
 When gray)pling in the fight they fold 
 Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold 
 Friends meet to part ; love laughs at faith ; 
 True foes, once met, are join'd till death ! 
 ******* 
 
 With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, 
 
 Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ; 
 
 Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 
 
 "VSTiich quivers round that faithless brand ; 
 
 His turban far behind him roU'd, 
 
 And cleft in twain its firmest fold ; 
 
 His flowing robe by falcliion torn. 
 
 And crimson as those clouds of mom 
 
 That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 
 
 The day shall have a stormy end; 
 
 A stain on every bush that bore 
 
 A fragment of his palampore, 2° 
 
 His breast with wounds urmumber'd riven, 
 
 His back to earth, his face to heaven, 
 
 Fallen Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 
 
 Yet lowering on his enemy, 
 
 As if the hour that seal'd his fate 
 
 Survi\Tng left his quenchless hate ; 
 
 And o'er him bends that foe \vith brow 
 
 As dark as his that bled below. — 
 
 ******* 
 
 " Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave,' 
 But his shall be a redder grave ; 
 Her spirit pointed well the steel 
 Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
 He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
 Was vain against the vengeful Giaour: 
 He call'd on Alia — ^but the word 
 Arose unheeded or unheard. 
 Thou Paynim fool! could Leila's prayer 
 Be pass'd, and thine accorded there? 
 I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, 
 The traitor in his turn to seize ; 
 My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, 
 And now I go — but go alone." 
 ****** 
 ****** 
 
 The browsing camels' bells are tinkling : 
 His mother look'd from her lattice high. 
 
 She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
 The pasture green beneath her eye. 
 
 She saw the planets faintly twinkling: 
 *"T is twilight — sure his train is nigh." 
 She could not rest in the garden-bower, 
 But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower : 
 "A\Tiy comes he not? his steeds are fleet, 
 
 Nor shrink they from the summer heat; 
 
 Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift? 
 
 Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift '^ 
 
 Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 
 
 Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, 
 
 And warily the steep descends, 
 
 And now within the valley bends ; 
 
 And he bears the gift at his saddlebow — 
 
 How could I deem his courser slow? 
 
 Right well my largess shall repay 
 
 His welcome speed, and weary way." 
 
 The Tartar lighted at the gate, 
 
 But scarce upheld his fainting weight 
 
 His swarthy visage spake distress. 
 
 But this might be from weariness ; 
 
 His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, 
 
 But these might be from his courser's side ; 
 
 He drew the token from his vest — 
 
 Angel of Death ! 't is Hassan's cloven crest 
 
 His calpac" rent — his caftan red — 
 
 " Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed : 
 
 Me, not from mercy, did they spare, 
 
 But this empurpled pledge to bear. 
 
 Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt: 
 
 Wo to the Giaour ! for his the guilt." 
 
 ****** 
 
 A turban ^^ carved in coarsest stone, 
 A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown. 
 Whereon can now be scarcely read 
 The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 
 Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
 A victim in that lonely dell. 
 There sleeps as tme an Osmanlie 
 As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; 
 As ever scom'd forbidden wine, 
 Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 
 In orisons resumed anew 
 At solemn sound of "Alia Hu!"" 
 Yet died he by a stranger's hand, 
 And stranger in his native land ; 
 Yet died he as in arms he stood, 
 And unavenged, at least in blood. 
 But him the maids of paradise 
 
 Impatient to their halls invite. 
 And the dark heaven of Houri's eyes 
 
 On him shall glance for ever bright ; 
 They come — their kerchiefs green they wave,'* 
 And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 
 Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
 Is worthiest an immortal bower. 
 
 But thou, false infidel ! shalt writhe 
 Beneath avenging Monkir's '* scythe ; 
 And from its torment 'scape alone 
 To wander round lost Eblis'-*" throne; 
 And fire unquench'd, unquenchable. 
 Around, within, thy heart shall dwell ; 
 Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 
 The tortures of that inward hell ! 
 But first, on earth as vampire '' sent, 
 Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent : 
 Then ghastly haunt thy native place. 
 And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
 There from thy daughter, sister, wife. 
 At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
 Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
 Must feed thy livid living corse : 
 Thy victims ere they yet expire 
 Shall know the demon for their sire, 
 As cursing thee, thou cursing them, 
 Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
 But one that for thy crime must fall, 
 The youngest, most beloved of all, 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 87 
 
 Shall bless thee with a father's name — 
 That word shall wrap thy heart in flame ! 
 Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
 Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark, 
 And the last glassy glance must view 
 Which freezes o'er its Ufeless blue ; 
 Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear 
 The tresses of her yellow hair, 
 Of which in life a lock when shorn 
 
 Affection's fondest pledge was worn ; 
 
 But now is borne away by thee, 
 
 Memorial of thine agony ! 
 
 Wet with tliine own best blood shall drip ^^ 
 
 Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip ; 
 
 Then stalking to thy sullen grave, 
 
 Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave ; 
 
 Till these in horror shrink away 
 
 From spectre more accursed than they! 
 
 ** + * + *♦ 
 
 ** How name ye yon lone Caloyer? 
 
 His features I have scann'd before 
 In mine own land : 't is many a year, 
 
 Since, dashmg by the lonely shore, 
 I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
 As ever served a horseman's need. 
 But once I saw that face, yet then 
 It was so mark'd with inward pain,' 
 I could not pass it by again ; 
 It breathes the same dark spirit now, 
 As death were stamp'd upon his brow." 
 
 " 'T is twice three years at summer-tide 
 Since first among our freres he came ; 
 And here it soothes him to abide 
 
 For some dark deed he will not name. 
 But never at our vesper prayer, 
 Nor e'er before confession chair 
 Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
 Incense or anthem to the skies. 
 But broods within his cell alone, 
 His faith and race alike unknown. 
 The sea from Paynim land he crost, 
 And here ascended from the coast; 
 Yet seems he not of Othman race. 
 But only Christian in his face : 
 I' d judge him some stray renegade. 
 Repentant of the change he made. 
 Save that he shuns our holy shrine, 
 Nor tastes the sacred bread and wane. 
 Great largess to these walls he brought, 
 And thus our abbot's favour bought ; 
 But were I prior, not a day 
 Should brook such stranger's further stay, 
 Or pent within our penance cell 
 Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
 Much in his visions mutters he 
 Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea ; 
 Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 
 Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
 On cliflf he hath been known to stand. 
 And rave as to some bloody hand 
 Fresh sever'd from its parent limb 
 Invisible to all but him. 
 Which beckons onward to his grave, 
 And lures to leap mto the wave." 
 **** + + 
 
 Dark and unearthly is the scowl 
 That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 
 The flash of that dilating eye 
 Reveals too much of times gone by; 
 Though varying, indistinct its hue, 
 Oft will his glance the gazer rue 
 
 For in it lui-ks that nameless spell 
 
 Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 
 . A spirit yet unquell'd and high, 
 
 That claims and keeps ascendancy ; 
 
 And hke the bird whose pinions queike, 
 
 But cannot fly the gazing snake. 
 
 Will others quail beneath his look. 
 
 Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 
 
 From him the half-affrighted friar 
 
 When met alone would fain retire, 
 
 As if that eye and bitter smile 
 
 Transferr'd to others fear and guile : 
 
 Not oft to smile descendeth he, 
 
 And when he doth 't is sad to see 
 
 That he but mocks at misery. 
 
 How that pale lip will curl and quiver 
 
 Then fix once more as if for ever ; 
 
 As if his sorrow or disdain 
 Forbade him e'er to smile again. 
 Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 
 From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. 
 But sadder still it were to trace 
 What once were feelings in that face : 
 Tune hath not yet the features fix'd, 
 But brighter traits with evil mix'd ; 
 And there are hues not always faded. 
 Which speak a mmd not all degraded 
 Even by the crimes through which it waded: 
 The common crowd but see the gloom 
 Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 
 The close observer can espy 
 A noble soul, and lineage high : 
 Alas ! though both bestow'd in vain. 
 Which grief could change, and guilt could stain, 
 It was no vulgar tenement 
 To which such lofl;y gifts were lent, 
 And still with little less than dread 
 On such the sight is riveted. 
 The roofless cot, decay'd and rent. 
 Will scarce delay the passer by ; 
 The tower by war or tempest bent. 
 While yet may fro\vn one battlement, 
 
 Demands and daunts the stranger's eye ; 
 Each ivied arch, and pillar lone, 
 Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 
 
 " His floating robe around him folding, 
 
 Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle ; 
 
 With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 
 The rites that sanctify the pile. 
 
 But when the anthem shakes the choir, 
 
 And kneel the monks, his steps retire 
 
 By yonder lone and wavering torch 
 
 His aspect glares within the porch ; 
 
 There will he pause till all is done — 
 
 And hear the prayer, but utter none. 
 
 See — by the half-illumined wall 
 
 His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 
 
 That pale brow wildly vin-eathing round, 
 
 As if the Gorgon there had bound 
 
 The sablest of the serpent-braid 
 
 That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 
 
 For he declines the convent oath. 
 
 And leaves those locks unhallovir'd growth, 
 
 But wears our garb in all beside ; 
 
 And, not from piety but pride, 
 
 Gives wealth to walls that never heard 
 
 Of his one holy vow nor word. 
 
 Lo ! — mark ye, as the harmony 
 
 Peals louder praises to the sky, 
 
 That livid cheek, that stony air 
 
 Of mix'd defiance and despair ! 
 
 Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine ! 
 
 Else may we dread the wrath divine 
 
 Made manifest by awful sign. 
 
8S 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 If ever evil angel bore 
 
 The form of mortal, such he wore : 
 
 By all my hope of sins forgiven, 
 
 Such looks are not of earth nor heaven !" 
 
 To love the softest hearts are prone, 
 But such can ne'er be all his o^vn ; 
 Too timid in his woes to share, 
 Too meek to meet, or brave despair ; 
 And sterner hearts alone may feel 
 The v/ound that time can never heal. 
 The rugged metal of the mine 
 Must burn before its surface shine, 
 But plunged within the furnace-flame, 
 It bends and melts — though still the same ; 
 Then temper'd to thy want, or will, 
 'T will serve thee to defend or kiU ; 
 A breastplate for thine hour of need, 
 Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ; 
 But if a dagger's form it bear, 
 Let those who shape its edge beware ! 
 Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, 
 Can turn and tame the sterner heart ; 
 From these its form and tone are ta'en, 
 And what they make it, must remain, 
 But break — ^before it bend again. 
 ****** 
 ****** 
 
 tf solitude succeed to grie^ 
 Release from pain is slight relief; 
 The vacant bosom's wilderness 
 Might thank the pang that made it less. 
 We loathe what none are left to share : 
 Even bliss — 'twere wo alone to bear ; 
 The heart once left thus desolate 
 Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
 It is as if the dead could feel 
 The icy worm around them steal, 
 And shudder, as the reptiles creep 
 To revel o'er their rotting sleep. 
 Without the power to scare away 
 The cold consumers of their clay .' 
 It is as if the desert-bird,^^ 
 
 Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 
 
 To still her famish'd nestlings' scream, 
 Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, 
 Should rend her rash devoted breast, 
 And find them flown her empty nest. 
 The keenest pangs the wretched find 
 
 Are rapture to the dreary void. 
 The leafless desert of the mind, 
 
 The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
 Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
 A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
 Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
 Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
 Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
 A lonely wTeck on fortune's shore, 
 'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay. 
 Unseen to drop by duU decay ; — 
 Better to sink beneath the shock 
 Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! 
 
 ****** 
 
 Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 
 'Mid coimted beads, and countless prayer ; 
 To bid the sins of others cease, 
 
 Thyself without a crime or care, 
 Save transient ills that all must bear, 
 Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 
 And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 
 Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd, 
 Such as thy penitents unfold, 
 Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 
 Within thy pure and pitying breast. 
 
 My days, though few, have pass'd below 
 
 In much of joy, but more of wo; 
 
 Yet still in hours of love or strife, 
 
 I' ve 'scaped the weariness of life : 
 
 Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, 
 
 I loathed the languor of repose. 
 
 Now nothing left to love or hate. 
 
 No more with hope or pride elate, 
 
 I' d rather be the thing that crawls 
 
 Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 
 
 Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 
 
 Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 
 
 Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 
 
 For rest — but not to feel 't is rest. 
 
 Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 
 
 And I shall sleep without the dream 
 Of what I was, and would be still, 
 
 Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : 
 My memory now is but the tomb 
 Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom: 
 Though better to have died with those 
 Than bear a life of lingering woes. 
 My spirits shrunk not to sustain 
 The searching throes of ceaseless pain ; 
 Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
 Of ancient fool and modern knave : 
 Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 
 And in the field it had been sweet, 
 Had danger woo'd me on to move 
 The slave of glory, not of love. 
 I've braved it — not for honour's boast ; 
 I smile at laurels won or lost ; 
 To such let others carve their way, 
 For high reno^\•n, or hireling pay : 
 But place again before my eyes 
 Aught that I deem a worthy prize, 
 The maid I love, the man I hate ; 
 And I will hunt the steps of fate. 
 To save or slay, as these require. 
 Through rending steel, and rolling fire : 
 Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one 
 Who would but do — what he hath done. 
 Death is but what the haughty brave. 
 The weak must bear, the wTetch must crave 
 Then let life go to him who gave : 
 I have not quail'd to danger's brow 
 When high and happy — need I new? 
 
 * * * 4: + * 
 
 " I loved her, friar ! nay, adored — 
 
 But these are words that all can 
 I proved it more in deed than word 
 There 's blood upon that dinted sword, 
 
 A stain its steel can never lose : 
 'T was shed for her, who died for me, 
 
 It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd ; 
 Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, 
 
 Nor midst my sins such act record ; 
 Thou wilt absolve, me from the deed, 
 For he was hostile to thy creed ! 
 The very name of Nazarene 
 Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 
 Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands 
 Well wielded in some hardy hands, 
 And wounds by Galileans given. 
 The surest pass to Turkish heaven, 
 For him his Houris still might wait 
 Impatient at the prophet's gate. 
 I loved her — ^love vn& find its way 
 Through paths where wolves would fear to prey, 
 And if it dares enough, 't were hard 
 If passion met not some reward — 
 No matter how, or where, or why 
 I did not vainly seek^ nor sigh ; 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 89 
 
 Yet sometimes, \vith remorse, m vairi 
 
 I wish she had not loved again. 
 
 She died — I dare not tell thee how ; 
 
 But look — 't is written on my brow ! 
 
 There read of Cain the curse and crime, 
 
 In characters unworn by time : 
 
 Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; 
 
 Not mine the act, though I the cause. 
 
 Yet did he but what I had done 
 
 Had she been false to more than one. 
 
 Faitliless to him, he gave the blow ; 
 
 But true to me, I laid him low : 
 
 Howe'er deserved her doom might be, 
 
 Her treachery was trutli to me ; 
 
 To me she gave her heart, that all 
 
 Which tyranny can ne'er enthral ; 
 
 And I, alas ! too late to save ! 
 
 Yet all I then could give, I gave, 
 
 'T was some relief, our foe a gi-ave. 
 
 His death sits lightly ; but her fate 
 
 Has made me — what thou well may's! hate. 
 
 His doom was seal'd — he knew it well, 
 Wani'd by the voice of stem Taheer, 
 Deep in whose darkly boding ear''^" 
 The death-shot peal'd of murder near, 
 
 As filed the troop to where tliey fell 
 He died too ia the battle broil, 
 A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 
 One cry to JN'Iahomet for aid. 
 One prayer to Alia all he made : 
 He knew and cross'd me in the fray — 
 I gazed upon him where he lay, 
 And watch'd his spirit ebb away : 
 Though pierc'd Uke pard by hunters' steel. 
 He felt not half that now I feel. 
 I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find 
 The workings of a wounded mind ; 
 Each feature of that sullen corse 
 Betra/d his rage, but no remorse. 
 Oh, what had vengeance given to trace 
 Despair upon liis d}nng face ! 
 The late repentance of that hour, 
 When penitence hath lost her power 
 To tear one terror firom the grave, 
 And will not soothe, and cannot save. 
 
 ****** 
 
 " The cold in clime are cold in blood, 
 
 Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
 But mine was like the lava flood 
 
 That boils in Etna's breast of flame. 
 I cannot prate in puling strain 
 Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : 
 If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 
 Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 
 If bursting heart, and madd'nmg brain, 
 And daring deed^ and vengefiil steel,. 
 And all that 1 have felt, and feel. 
 Betoken love — that love was mine, 
 And shown by many a bitter sign. 
 'T is true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
 I knew but to obtain or die. 
 I die — but first I have possess'd, 
 And, come what may, I have been blest. 
 Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 
 No — reft of all, yet undismayed 
 But for the thought of Leila slain, 
 Give me the pleasure with the pain. 
 So would I live and love again. 
 I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 
 For him who dies, but her who died : 
 She sleeps beneadi the wandering wave — 
 Ah ! had she but an earthy grave. 
 This breaking heart and tlirobbing head 
 Should seek and share her narrow bed. 
 M 
 
 She was a form of life and light, 
 That, seen, became a part of sight; 
 And rose, where'er I turned mine eye, 
 The morning star of memory ! 
 
 " Yes, love mdeed is hght from heaven ; 
 
 A spark of that immortal fje 
 With angels shared, by Alia given. 
 
 To lift from earth our low desire. 
 Devotion wafts the mind above. 
 But heaven itself descends in love ; 
 A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
 To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
 A ray of him who form'd the whole ; 
 A glory circlLng roimd the soul ! 
 I grant my love imperfect, all 
 That mortals by the name miscall ; 
 Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
 But say, oh say, hers ■was not guilt ! 
 She was my hfe's unerring light : 
 That quench' d, what beam shall break my night? 
 Oh ! would it shone to lead me still. 
 Although to death or deadUest ill ! 
 Why marvel ye, if they who lose 
 
 This present joy, tliis future hope, 
 
 No more %v-itli sorrow meekly cope; 
 [n phrensy then their fate accuse: 
 In madness do those fearfijl deeds 
 
 That seem to add but guilt to wo ? 
 Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 
 
 Hath nought to dread fi-om outward blow : 
 Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
 Cares little into what abyss. 
 Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 
 
 To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 
 I read abhorrence on thy brow. 
 
 And this too was I boiTi to beeir ! 
 'T is true, that, like that bird of prey. 
 With havoc have I mark'd my way : 
 But this was taught me by the dove, 
 To die — and know no second love. 
 This lesson yet hath man to learn, 
 Taught by the thing he dares to spurn . 
 The bird that sings within the brake. 
 The swan that swims upon the lake, 
 One mate, and one alone, will take. 
 And let tlie fool still prone to range, 
 And sneer on all who cannot change, 
 Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 
 I envy not his varied joys. 
 But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
 Less than yon solitary swan ; 
 Far, far beneath tlie shallow maid 
 He left believing and betray'd. 
 Such shame at least was never mine — 
 Leila ! each thought was only thine ! 
 My good, my guilt, my weal, my wo, 
 My hope on high — my all below. 
 Earth holds no other like to thee, 
 Or, if it doth, in vain for me : 
 For worlds I dare not view the dame 
 Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
 The very crimes that mar my youth, 
 This bed of death — attest my truth ! 
 'T is all too late — thou wert, thou art 
 The cherish'd madness of my heart ! 
 
 « And she was lost — and yet I breathed. 
 
 But not the breath of himian life : 
 A serpent round my heart was ^vreathedi 
 
 And stvmg my every thought to strife. 
 Alike all time, abhorr'd all place. 
 Shuddering I shi-unk from nature's face. 
 Where every hue that charm'd before 
 The blackness of my bosom wore. 
 
90 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 The rest thou dost already know, 
 
 And all my sins, and half my wo. 
 
 But talk no more of penitence ; 
 
 Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence 
 
 And if thy holy tale were true, 
 
 The deed that's done can'st thou undo? 
 
 Think me not tliankless — but this grief 
 
 Looks not to priesthood for reUef.*^ 
 
 My soul's estate in secret guess: 
 
 But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 
 
 When thou canst bid my Leila live, 
 
 Then will I sue thee to forgive ; 
 
 Then plead my cause in that high place 
 
 Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
 
 Go, when the hunter 's hand hath ^vrung 
 
 From forest-cave her shrieking yoimg, 
 
 And cakn the lonely lioness : 
 
 But sootli not — mock not my distress. 
 
 " In earlier days, and calmer hours, 
 
 When heart wth heart delights to blend, 
 Where bloom my native valley's bowers 
 
 I had — ah ! have I now ? — a friend I 
 To liim this pledge I charge thee send, 
 
 IVIemorial of a youthful vow ; 
 I would remind him of my end ; 
 
 Though souls absorbed like mine allow 
 Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 
 Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
 'Tis strange — he prophesied my doom, 
 
 And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
 When prudence would his voice assume. 
 
 And warn — I reck'd not what — the while ; 
 But now remembrance whispers o'er 
 Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 
 Say — that his bodings came to pass. 
 
 And he \^•ill start to hear their truth. 
 
 And %vish his words had not been sooth : 
 Tell him, unheeding as I was, 
 
 Through many a busy bitter scene 
 
 Of all our golden youth had been. 
 In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
 To bless his memory ere I died ; 
 But Heaven in ^vrath would turn away. 
 If gmlt should for the guiltless pray. 
 I do not ask him not to blame, 
 Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
 And what have I to do with fame ? 
 I do not ask him not to mourn. 
 Such cold request might sound like scorn 
 And what than friendship's manly tear 
 May better grace a brother's bier ? 
 But bear tliis ring, his own of old. 
 And tell him — what thou dost behold 
 The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 
 The ^vrack by passion left behind, 
 A shriveU'd scroll, a scatter'd lea^ 
 Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief! 
 * * * * ♦ -» 
 
 •* Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 
 No, father, no, 'twas not a dream; 
 Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 
 I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep ; 
 But could not, for my burning brow 
 Throbb'd to the very brain as now: 
 I wish'd but for a single tear, 
 As something welcome, new, and dear: 
 I wish'd it then, I wish it still; 
 Despair is stronger than my will. 
 
 Waste not tliine orison, despair 
 Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 
 I would not, if I might, be blest ; 
 1 want no paradise, but rest. 
 'T was then, I tell thee, father ! then 
 I saw her ; yes, she Uved again ; 
 And shining in her white symar,** 
 As tlirough yon pale gray cloud the star 
 Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
 Who look'd and looks far loveher ; 
 Dimly I view its trembUng spark ; 
 To-morrow's night shall be more dark; 
 And I, before its rays appear, 
 That lifeless thing the Uving fear. 
 I wander, father ! for my soul 
 Is fleeting towai-ds the final goal. 
 I saw her, friar! and I rose 
 Forgetful of our former woes ; 
 And rusliing from my couch, I dart. 
 And clasp her to my desperate heart; 
 I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
 No breatliing form within my grasp, 
 No heart that beats reply to mine, 
 Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
 And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 
 As meet my eye, yet mock my touch? 
 Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
 I care not ; so my arms enfold 
 The all they ever wish to hold. 
 Alas ! around a shadow prest, 
 They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
 Yet still 'tis there! in silence stamds, 
 And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
 With braided hair, and bright-black eye- 
 I knew 'twas false — she could not die ! 
 But he is dead ! within the dell 
 I saw him buried where he fell ; 
 He comes not, for he cannot break 
 From earth ; why then art thou awake ? 
 They told me wild waves roll'd above 
 The face I view, the form I love ; 
 They told me — 'twas a hideous tale! 
 I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail: 
 If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
 Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave, 
 Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
 This brow that then will bum no more ; 
 Or place them on my hopeless heart: 
 But, shape or shade ! w^hate'er thou art, 
 In mercy ne'er again depart! 
 Or farther wth tliee bear my soul. 
 Than winds can waft or waters roll! 
 + *** + ♦ 
 
 " Such is my name, and such my tale. 
 
 Confessor! to thy secret ear 
 I breathe the sorrows I bewail. 
 
 And thank thee for the generous tear 
 This glazing eye could never shed. 
 Then lay me vsdth the humblest dead, 
 And, save the cross above my head. 
 Be neither name nor emblem spread, 
 By prying stranger to be read. 
 Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." 
 
 He pass'd — nor of his name and race 
 Hath left a token or a trace. 
 Save what the father must not say 
 Who shrived him on his dying day . 
 This broken tale was all we knew 
 Of her he loved, or him he slew.*' 
 
NOTES TO THE GIAOUR. 
 
 Notel. Page 81, line 3. 
 That tomb, which, gleaming o'er the cliff". 
 
 A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some 
 supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. 
 Note 2. Page 81, line 22. 
 Sultana of the nightingale. 
 The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a 
 well-known Persian fable. It I mistake not, the "Bul- 
 bul of a thousand tales" is one of his appellations. 
 
 Note 3. Page 81, line 40. 
 
 Till the gay nmrinei^s guitar. 
 
 The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek 
 
 sailor by night : with a steady fair wind, and during a 
 
 calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often 
 
 by dancing. 
 
 Note 4. Page 82, line 26. 
 Where cold obstruction's apathy. 
 
 " Ay, but to die and go we know not where, 
 To lie in cold obstruction." 
 
 Measure for Measure, Act III. 130. Sc. 2. 
 
 Note 5. Page 82, line 34. 
 TheJiTst, loM look by death reveoTd. 
 I trust that few of my readers have ever had an op- 
 portunity of witnessing what is here attempted in de- 
 scription, but those who have, will probably retain a 
 painful remembrance of that singular beauty which 
 pervades, with few exceptions, the features of the 
 dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours, after " the 
 spirit is not there." It is to be remarked, in cases of 
 violent death by gunshot wounds, the expression is 
 always that of languor, whatever the natural energy of 
 the sufferer's character : but in death from a stab the 
 countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, 
 and the mind its bias to the last. 
 
 Note 6. Page 82, line 96. 
 Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave. 
 Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga, (the slave 
 of the seraglio and guardian of the women,) who ap- 
 points the Waywode. A pander and eunuch — these 
 are not polite, yet true appellations — now governs the 
 governor of Athens ! 
 
 Note 7. Page 82, line 135. 
 T ts calmer than thy heart, young Giaour. 
 Infidel. 
 
 Note 8. Page S3, line 26. 
 
 In echoes of the far tophaike. 
 
 " Tophaike," musket. — The Bairam is announced by 
 
 the cannon at sunset ; the illumination of the Mosques, 
 
 and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with 
 
 ball, proclaim it during the night. 
 
 Note 9. Page 83, line 52. 
 Swift as the hurVd on highjerreed. 
 Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which 
 IS darted from horseback with great force and precision. 
 It is a favourite exercise of the Mussulmans ; but I 
 know not if it can be called a manly one, since the 
 most expert in the art are the Black Eunuchs of Con- 
 stantinople. I think, next to these, a Mamlouk at Smyrna 
 was the most skilful that came within my observation. 
 
 Note 10. Page 83, line 83. 
 He came, he went, like the simoom. 
 The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living. 
 and often alluded to in eastern poetry. 
 
 Note 11. Page 83, line 144. 
 To bless the sacred '■^ bread and salt." 
 To partake of food, to break bread and salt with your 
 
 host, ensures the safety of the guest ; even though an 
 enemy, his person from that moment is sacred. 
 
 Note 12. Page 84, hne 2. 
 
 Since his turban was cleft by the infideVs sabre. 
 
 I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality 
 are the first duties enjoined by Mahomet ; and, to say 
 truth, very generally practised by his disciples. The 
 first praise that can be bestowed on a chief is a pane- 
 gyric on his bounty ; the next, on his valour. 
 
 Note 13. Page 84, line 6. 
 And silver-sheathed ataghan. 
 The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the 
 beh, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver; and, 
 among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. 
 
 Note 14 Page 84, line 8. 
 An emir by his garb of green. 
 
 Green is the privileged colour of the prophet's nu- 
 merous pretended descendants; with them, as here, 
 faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede 
 the necessity of good works : they are the worst of a 
 very indifferent brood. 
 
 Note 15. Page 48, line 9. 
 Ho ! who art thou ? — this low salam. 
 Salam aleikoum ! aleikoum salam ! peace be with 
 you ; be with you peace — the salutation reserved for 
 the faithful : — to a Christian, " Urlarula," a good jour- 
 ney ; or saban hiresem, saban serula ; good morn, 
 good even ; and sometimes, " may your end be happy ;" 
 are the usual salutes. 
 
 Note 16. Page 84, line 40. 
 The insect-queen of eastern spring. 
 The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most 
 rare and beautiful of the species. 
 
 Note 17. Page 84, Ime 85. 
 Or live like scorpion girt by fire. 
 Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so 
 placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. Some 
 maintain that the position of the sting, when turned 
 towards the head, is merely a convulsive movement ; 
 but others have actually brought in the verdict, "Felo 
 de se." The scorpions are surely interested in a speedy 
 decision of the question ; as, if'once fairly established 
 as insect Catos, they will probably be allowed to live as 
 long as they think proper, without being martyred for 
 the sake of an hypothesis. 
 
 Note 18. Page 84, line 100. 
 When Rhamazan's last sun was set. 
 The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See 
 note 8. 
 
 Note 19. Page 84, line 119. 
 
 By pale PhingarCs trembling light. 
 Phingari, the moon. 
 
 Note 20. Page 84, line 130. 
 Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 
 The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, 
 the embellisher of Istakhar ; from its splendour, named 
 Schebgeras, "the torch of night;" also, "the cup of the 
 sun," &c.— In the first edition, "Giamschid" was 
 written as a word of three syllables, so D'Herbelothas 
 it ; but I am told Richardson reduces it to a dissyllable, 
 and writes "Jamshid." I have left in the text the 
 orthography of the one with the pronunciation of the 
 other. 
 
 Note 21. Page 84, line 134. 
 Though on Al-Sirafs arch I stood. 
 Al-Sirat, the bridge of breadth less than the thread 
 
92 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 of a famished spider, over which the Mussulmans must. 
 skate into paradise, to which it is the only entrance ; 
 but this IS not the worst, the river beneath being hel 
 itself, into which, as may be expected, the unskilful and 
 tender of foot contrive to tumble with a " facuis de- 
 scensus Averni," not very pleasing m prospect to the 
 next passenger. There is a shorter cut downwards tor 
 the Jews and Christians. 
 
 Note 22. Page 85, line 2. 
 Aiid keep that portion of his creed. 
 A vulvar error : the .Koran allots at least a third of 
 paradise' to well-behaved women ; but by far the 
 greater number of Mussulmans interpret the text 
 their own way, and exclude their moieties from 
 heaven. Deing enemies to Platonics, they cannot 
 discern " any fitness of things" in the souls of the 
 other sex, conceiving them to be superseded by the 
 Houris. 
 
 Note 23. Page 85, line 8. 
 The young pmnegranate 's blossoms strew. 
 An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly 
 stolen, be deemed " plus Arabe qu'en Arable." 
 Note 24. Page 85, line 10. 
 Her hair in hyacinthine flow. 
 Hyacinthine, in Arabic, " Sunbul ;" as common a 
 thought in the eastern poets, as it was among the 
 Greeks* 
 
 Note 25. Page 85, line 20. 
 The loveliest bird of Franguestan. 
 " Franguestan," Circassia. 
 
 Note 26. Page 85, line 82. 
 Bismillah ! now the peritspast. 
 Bismillah— " In the name of God ;" the commence- 
 ment of all the chapters of the Koran but one, and of 
 prayer and thanksgiving. 
 
 Note 27. Page 85, line 107. 
 TTien curl 'd his very beard with ire. 
 A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussul- 
 man. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whiskers, at a 
 diplomatic audience, were no less lively with indig- 
 nation than a tiger cat's, to the horror of all the dra- 
 gomans ; the portentous mustachios twisted, they stood 
 erect of their own accord, and were expected every mo- 
 ment to change their colour, but at last condescended 
 to subside, which, probably, saved more heads than they 
 contained hairs. 
 
 Note 28. Page 85, line 117. 
 Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun t 
 " Amaun," quarter, pardon. 
 
 Note 29. Page 85, line 126. 
 / know him by the evil eye. 
 The " evil eye," a common superstition in the Le- 
 vant, and of which the imaginary effects are yet very 
 singular, on those who conceive themselves affected. 
 
 Note 30. Page 86, line 37. 
 A fragment of his palampore. 
 The flowered shawls, generally worn by persons of 
 rank. 
 
 Note 31. Page 86, line 88. 
 His calpac rent — his caftan red. 
 The " calpac" is the solid cap or centre part of the 
 headdress ; the shawl is wound round it, and forms 
 the turban. 
 
 Note 32. Page 86, line 94. 
 A turban carved in coarsest stone. 
 The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate 
 the tombs of the Osmanlies,whetner in the cemetery or 
 the wilderness. In the mountains you frequently pass 
 similar mementos ; and, on inquiry, you are informed, 
 that they record some victim of rebellion, plimder, or 
 revenge. 
 
 Note 33. Page 86, line 105. 
 At solemn sound of *^AUa Hu ."' 
 "Alia Hu!" the concluding words of the Muezzin's 
 call to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior 
 of the minaret. On a still evening, w^hen the Muezzin 
 has a fine voice, which is frequently the case, the eff"ect 
 is solemn and beautiful beyond all the bells in Christen- 
 dom. 
 
 Note 34. Page 86, line 114. 
 They come — their kerchiefs green they wave. 
 The following is part of a battle-song of the Turks: 
 _« I see— I see a dark-eyed girl of paradise, and she 
 waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of peen ; and cries 
 aloud, Come, kiss me, for I love thee,' etc. 
 Note 35. Page 86, line 119. 
 Beneath avenging Monkir 's scythe. 
 Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, 
 before whom the corpse undergoes a slight novitiate 
 and preparatory training for damnation. If the answers 
 are none of the clearest, he is h.auled up with a scythe 
 and thumped down with a red-hot mace till property 
 seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary probations. The 
 office of these angels is no sinecure ; there are but two, 
 and the number of orthodox deceased being in a small 
 proportion to the remainder, their hands ai-e always 
 full. 
 
 Note 36. Page 86, line 121. 
 To wander round lost Ehlis 's throne, 
 Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. 
 Note 37. Page 86, line 126. 
 But first, on earth, as vampire sent. 
 The Vampire superstition is still general in the Le- 
 vant. Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr. 
 Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes, about these 
 " Vroucolochas," as he calls them. The Romaic term 
 is "Vardoulacha." I recollect a whole family being 
 terrified by the scream of a child, which they imagined 
 must proceed from such a visitation. The Greeks 
 never mention the word without horror. I find that 
 " Broucolokas'' is an old legitimate Hellenic appella- 
 tion — at least is so applied to Arsenius, who, according 
 to the Greeks, was after his death animated by the 
 Devil, — The moderns, however, use the word I men- 
 tion. 
 
 Note 38. Page 87, line 13. 
 Wet with thine own best blood shall drip. 
 The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip 
 with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire. 
 The stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul 
 feeders are singular, and some of them most incredibly 
 attested. 
 
 Note 39. Page 88, line 40. 
 It is as if the desert-bird. 
 The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the 
 imputation of feeding her chickens with her blood. 
 Note 40. Page 89, line 24. 
 Deep in vjhose darkly boding ear. 
 This superstition of a second-hearing (for I never 
 met with dov.-nright second-sight in the east) fell once 
 under my own observation. — On my tliird journey to 
 Cape Colonna early in 1811, as we passed through the 
 defile that leads from the hamlet between Keratiar and 
 Colonna, I observed Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of 
 the path, arid leaning his head upon his hand, as if in 
 pain. I rode up and inquired. " We are in peril," he 
 answered. " What peril ? we are not now in Albania, 
 nor in the passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or Lepanto; 
 there are plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates 
 have not courage to be tliieves." — " True, AfFendi, but 
 nevertheless the shot is ringing in my ears." — "The 
 shot ! not a tophaike has been fired this morning."— 
 " I hear it notwithstanding — Bom — Bom — ^as plainly as 
 I hear your voice." — "Pshaw." — *' As you please, Af- 
 fendi ; if" it is written, so will it be." — I left this quick- 
 eared predestinarian, and rode up to Basili, his Chris- 
 tian compatriot, whose ears, though not at all prophetic, 
 by no means relished the intelligence. We all arrived 
 at Colonna, remained some hours, and returned lei* 
 surely, saying a variety of brilliant things, in more 
 languages than spoiled the building of Babel, upon the 
 mistaken seer ; Romaic, Arnaout, Turkish, ItaUan, and 
 English were all exercised, in various conceits, upon 
 the unfortunate Mussulman. While we were contem- 
 plating the beautiful prospect. Dervish was occupied 
 about the columns. I thought he was deranged into an 
 antiquarian, and asked him if he had become a "FalaO' 
 casiro" man :" No," said he, "but these pillars will be 
 useful in making a stand ;" and added other remarks, 
 which at least evinced his own belief in his troublesome 
 
Canto I. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 93 
 
 faculty o^ fore-hearing. On our return to Athens, we 
 heard from Leone (a prisoner set ashore some days 
 after) of the intended attack of the Mainotes, men- 
 tioned, with the cause of its not taking place, in the 
 notes to Childe Harold, Canto 2d. I was at some 
 pains to question the man, and he described the dresses, 
 arms, and marks of the horses of our party so accu- 
 rately, that, with other circumstances, we could not 
 doubt of his having been in " villainous company," and 
 ourselves in a bad neighbourhood. Dervish became a 
 soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now hearing more 
 musketn^ than ever will be fired, to the great refresh- 
 ment 01 the Arnaouts of Berat, and his native moun- 
 tains. — I shall mention one trait more of this singular 
 race. In March, 1811, a remarkably stout and active 
 Arnaout came (I believe the 10th on the same errand) 
 to offer himself as an attendant, which was declined : 
 " Well, Affendi," quoth he, " may you live ! — you would 
 have found me useful. I shall leave the town for the 
 hills to-morrow, in the winter I return, perhaps you 
 will then receive me." — Dervish, who was present, re- 
 marked, as a thing of course, and of no consequence, 
 " in the mean time he will join the Klephtes" (robbers,) 
 which was true to the letter. — If not cut off, they come 
 down in the winter, and pass it unmolested in some 
 town, where they are often as well known as their 
 exploits. 
 
 Note 41. Page 90, line 8. 
 Looks not to priesthood for relief. 
 
 The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had 
 so little effect upon the patient, that it could have no 
 hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that 
 it was of a customary length (as may be perceived from 
 the interruptions and uneasiness of the penitent,) and 
 was delivered in the nasal tone of ail orthodox preachers. 
 Note 42. Page 90, line 74. 
 And shining in her white symar^ 
 
 "Svmar" — shroud. 
 
 Note 43. Page 90, line 135. 
 
 The circumstance to which the above story relates 
 was not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago 
 the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of 
 his son's supposed infidelity ; he asked with whom, 
 and she had the barbarity to give in a list of the twelve 
 handsomest women in Yanina. They were seized, 
 fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same 
 night! One of the guards who was present informed me, 
 that not one of the victims uttered a ciy, or showed a 
 symptom of terror at so sudden a " wrench from all we 
 know, from all we love." The fate of Phrosine, the 
 fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic 
 and Arnaout ditty. The story in the text is one told 
 of a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly 
 forgotten. I heard it by accident recited by one of the 
 coffee-house story-tellers who abound in the Levant, 
 and sing or recite their narratives. The additions and 
 interpolations by the translator will be easily distin- 
 guished from the rest by the want of Eastern imagery ; 
 and I regret that my memory has retained so few frag- 
 ments of the original. 
 
 For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted 
 partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most eastern, 
 and, as Mr. Weber justly entitles it, " sublime tale," 
 the "Caliph Vathek." I do not know from what source 
 the author of that singular volume may have drawn his 
 materials ; some of his incidents are to be found in the 
 " Bibliotheque Orientale ; but for correctness of cos- 
 tume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, 
 it far surpasses all European imitations; and bears 
 such marks of originality, that those who have visited 
 the East, will find some difficulty in believing it to be 
 more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even 
 
 Rasselas must bow before it ; his " Happy Valley" will 
 not bear a comparison with the " Hall of El " 
 
 Iblis." 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS, 
 
 A TURKISH TALE. 
 
 *' Had we never loved so kindly, 
 
 Had we never loved so blindly, 
 
 Never met or never parted, 
 
 We had ne'er been broken-liearted." 
 
 Burns. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, 
 
 THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGFD AND 
 SINCERE FRIEND- 
 BYRON. 
 
 CANTO L 
 
 Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
 Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, 
 
 Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 
 Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 
 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
 
 Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ; 
 
 Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, 
 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gull ^ in her bloom ; 
 
 Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
 
 And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; 
 
 Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
 In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, 
 And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
 Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
 And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
 'Tis the clime of the east ; 'tis the land of the sun — 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? ' 
 Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
 Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which 
 they tell. 
 
94 
 
 THE BRIDE OP ABYDUS. 
 
 Caxto I. 
 
 Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
 Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 
 Awaiting each his lord's behest 
 To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 
 Old Giaffir sat in his Divan: 
 
 Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 
 And though the face of Mussuhnan 
 
 Not oft betrays to standers by 
 The mind within, well skill'd to liide 
 All but unconquerable pride. 
 His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
 Did more than he was wont avow. 
 
 '* Let the chamber be clear 'd." — The train disappear 'd- 
 
 " Now call me the chief of the Haram guard." 
 With GiafBr is none but his only son, 
 
 And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 
 
 '* Haroom — when aU tlie crowd that wait 
 
 Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, 
 
 (Wo to the head whose eye beheld 
 
 My child Zuleika's face unveil'd i ) ■ 
 
 Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; 
 
 Her fate is fix'd this very hour : 
 
 Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 
 
 By me alone be duty taught 1" 
 
 "Pacha ! to hear is to obey." 
 No more must slave to despot say — 
 Then to the tower had ta'en his way. 
 But here young Selim silence brake. 
 
 First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 
 And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 
 
 Still standing at the Pacha's feet : 
 For son of Moslem must expii-e, 
 Ere dare to sit before his sire I 
 
 "Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
 My sister, or her sable giude, 
 Know — for the fault, if fault there be. 
 Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me — 
 So lovelily the morning shone, 
 
 That — let the old and weary sleep — 
 I could not ; and to view alone 
 
 The fairest scenes of land and deep. 
 With none to listen and reply 
 To thoughts \vith which ray heart beat high 
 Were ii-ksome — ^for whate 'er my mood, 
 In sooth I love not solitude ; 
 I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 
 
 And, as thou knowest that for me 
 
 Soon turns the Haram 's grating key, 
 Before the guardian slaves awoke 
 We to the cypress groves had flown. 
 And made earth, main, and heaven our own ! 
 There Unger'd we, beguiled too long 
 With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song ; ' 
 Till I, who heard the deep tambour •* 
 Beat thy Divan's approacliing hour, 
 To thee, and to my duty true, 
 Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee fiew : 
 But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
 Nay, father, rage not — nor forget 
 That none can pierce that secret bower 
 But those who watch the women's tower." 
 
 " Son of a slave I" — the Pacha said- 
 " From unbelieving mother bred, 
 Vain were a father's hope to see 
 Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
 
 Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow 
 And hurl the dart, and curb the steed 
 Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, 
 Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
 And watch luifolding roses blow. 
 Would that yon orl), whose matin glow 
 Thy listless eyes so much admire, 
 Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
 Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 
 By Cliristian cannon piecemeal rent; 
 Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 
 Before tlae dogs of Moscow fall, 
 Nor strike one stroke for hfe and death 
 ■Against the curs of Nazareth ! 
 Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
 Assume the distaff — not the brand. 
 But, Haroun! — to my daughter speed; 
 And hark — of tliine own head take heed— 
 If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
 Thou see'st yon bow — it hath a string 1" 
 
 V. 
 
 No sound from Selim's lip was heard, 
 
 At least that met old Giaffir's ear, 
 But every fro\Mi and every word 
 Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 
 
 " Son of a slave ! — reproach'd -nath fear ! 
 
 Those gibes had cost another dear. 
 Son of a slave ! — and toho my sire ?" 
 
 Thus held his thoughts their dark career; 
 And glances. even of more than ire 
 
 Flash forlh, then faintly disappear. 
 Old GiafSr gazed upon his son 
 
 And started : for within his eye 
 He read how much his wrath hath done , 
 He saw rebellion there begun : 
 
 " Come hither, boy — what, no reply ? 
 I mark thee — and I know thee too ; 
 But there be deeds thou dar'st not do : 
 But if thy beard had manlier length. 
 And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
 I'd joy to see thee break a lance, 
 Albeit against my own perchance." 
 As sneeringly these accents fell. 
 On SeUm's eye he fiercely gazed: 
 
 That eye retum'd him glance for glance, 
 And proudly to his sire's was raised, 
 
 Till Giaffir's quaii'd and slirunk askance— 
 And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
 " Much I misdoubt this way^vard boy 
 Will one day work me more annoy : 
 I never loved him from liis birth. 
 And — but his arm is little worth. 
 And scarcely in the chase could cope 
 With timid fawn or antelope, 
 Far less would venture into strife 
 Where man contends for fame and life- — 
 I would not trust that look or tone : 
 No — nor the blood so near my own. 
 That blood — he hath not heard — no more- 
 I 'U watch him closer than before. 
 He is an Arab ^ to my sight, 
 Or Christian crouching in the fight — 
 But hark I — I hear Zuleika's voice ; 
 
 Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear : 
 She is the offsprmg of my choice ; 
 
 Oh ! more than ev'n her mother dear, 
 With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
 My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
 Sweet as the desert-fountain's wave 
 To Ups just cooVd in time to save — 
 
 Such to my longing sight art thou ; 
 Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
 More thanks for life, than I for thine. 
 
 Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now." 
 
Canto I. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 95 
 
 Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 
 
 When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 
 Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — 
 
 But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling ; 
 Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendent vision 
 
 To sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, 
 When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 
 
 And paints the lost on earth revived in heaven ; 
 Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
 Pure, as the prayer which childhood wafts above ; 
 Was she — the daughter of tliat rude old chiefj 
 Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief. 
 
 Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
 To fix one spark of beauty 's heavenly ray ? 
 Who doth not feel, until liis faUing sight 
 Faints into dimness with its own delight, 
 His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
 The might — the majesty of loveliness ? 
 Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
 The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 
 The Ught of love, the pm-ity of grace. 
 The mind, the music breathing from her face, ^ 
 The heart v.'hose softness harmonized the whole — 
 And, oh ! that eye was in itself a soul I 
 
 Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
 Across her gently budding breast ; 
 
 At one kind word those arms extending 
 To clasp the neck of him who blest 
 His child caressing and carest 
 Zuleika ccime — and Giaffir felt 
 His purpose half vnthin him melt: 
 Not that against her fancied weal 
 His heart though stern could ever feel , 
 Affection chain'd her to that heart ; 
 Ambition tore the links apart. 
 
 "Zuleika! child of gentleness 
 
 How dear this very day must tell. 
 When I forget my own distress, 
 In losing what I love so well. 
 To bid thee with another dwell: 
 Another ! and a braver man 
 Was never seen in battle's van. 
 We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 
 
 But yet the line of Carasman ' 
 Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 
 First of the bold Timariot bands 
 That won and well can keep their lands. 
 Enough that he who comes to woo 
 Is kmsman of the Bey Oglou : 
 His years need scarce a thought employ ; 
 I would not have thee wed a boy. 
 And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
 And his and my united power 
 Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
 Which others tremble but to scan. 
 And teach the messenger ^ what fate 
 The bearer of such boon may wait. 
 And now thou know'st thy father's will ; 
 
 AU that thy sex hath need to know: 
 'T was mine to teach obedience still — 
 The way to love thy lord may show." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 
 
 And if her eye was fiU'd wdth tears, 
 That stifled feeUng dare not shed. 
 And changed her cheek from pale to red, 
 
 And red to pale, as through her ears 
 Those wmged words like arrows sped, 
 
 What could such be but maiden fears ? 
 
 So bright the tear in beauty's eye, 
 
 Love half regrets to kiss it diy ; 
 So sweet the blush of bashfulness, 
 
 Even pity scarce can wish it less ' 
 Whate'er it was the sire forgot; 
 Or if remember'd, rnark'd it not ; 
 Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed,' 
 
 Resign'd his gem-adorn'd Chibouke, '° 
 And momiting featly for the mead, 
 
 With Maugrabee" and Mamaluke, 
 
 His way amid his Delis took, 12 
 To witness many an active deed 
 With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
 The Kislar only and his Moors 
 Watch'd well the Haram's massy doors. . 
 
 His head was leant upon his hand. 
 
 His eye look'd o'er the dark-blue water 
 That swiftly glides and gently swells 
 Between the winding Dardanelles ; 
 But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
 Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 
 
 Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
 Careering cleave the folded felt '' 
 With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
 Nor rnark'd the javeUn-darting crowd, 
 Nor heard their Ollahs ^'^ wild and loud — 
 He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter ! 
 
 No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
 One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 
 Still gazed he through the lattice grate, 
 Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
 To him Zuleika's eye was tum'd. 
 But little from his aspect learn'd : 
 Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
 Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 
 But yet tliat heart alarm'd or weak. 
 She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
 Yet speak she must — but when essay? 
 "How strange he thus should turn away! 
 Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
 Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
 Thrice paced she slowly through the room 
 
 And watch'd his eye — it still was fix'd ; 
 
 She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
 The Persian Atar-gul's^* peifume, 
 And sprinkled all its odours o'er 
 The pictured roof ^^ and marble floor: 
 The drops, that through his glittering vest 
 The playful giii's appeal addrest, 
 Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
 As if that breast were marble too. 
 "What, sullen yet? it must not be — 
 Oh ! gentle Selim, tliis from thee !" 
 She saw in curious order set 
 
 The fa.irest flowers of Eastern land — 
 " He loved them once ; may touch them yet, 
 
 If ofFer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
 The childish thought was hardly breath'd 
 Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed ; 
 The next fond moment saw her seat 
 Her fairy form at SeUm's feet : 
 " This rose to cahn my brother's cares 
 A message from the Bulbul ^'' bears ; 
 It says to-night he will prolong 
 For Selim's ear iiis sweetest song; 
 And though his note is somewhat sad, 
 He '11 try for once a strain more glad, 
 With some faint hope his alter'd lay 
 May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 
 
96 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 " What I not receive my foolish flower ? 
 
 Nay then I am indeed imblest: 
 On me can tluis thy forehead lower ? 
 
 And know'st thou not who loves thee best ? 
 Oh, SelJm dear ! oh, more than dearest ! 
 Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest? 
 Come, lay thy head upon my breast, 
 And I will kiss thee into rest, 
 Since words of mine, and songs must fail, 
 Even from ray fabled nightingale. 
 I knew our sire at times was stem, 
 But this from thee had yet to learn : 
 Too well I know he loves thee not; 
 But is Zuleika's love forgot? 
 Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan — 
 This kinsman Bey of Carasman 
 Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. 
 If so, I swear by Mecca's slirine, 
 If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
 To woman's step admit her vow, 
 Without thy free consent, command, 
 The Sultan should not have my hand I 
 Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
 With thee, and learn to halve my heart ? 
 Ah ! were 1 sever'd from thy side, 
 W^here were tliy friend — and who my guide? 
 Years have not seen, time shall not see 
 The hour that tears my soul from thee: 
 Even Azrael, '^ from his deadly quiver 
 
 When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
 That parts all else, shall doom for ever 
 
 Our hearts to imdivided dust 1" 
 
 He lived — he breatlied — he moved — ^he felt ; 
 He raised the maid from where she knelt; 
 His trance was gone — liis keen eye shone 
 With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 
 With thoughts that bum — in rays that melt. 
 As the stream late conceal'd 
 
 By the fringe of its wiUows, 
 When it rushes reveal'd 
 
 In the light of its billows ; 
 As the bolt bursts on high 
 
 From the black cloud that bound it, 
 Flash'd the soul of that eye 
 
 Through the long lashes round it. 
 A war-horse at the trumpet's soimd, 
 A lion roused by heedless hound, 
 A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
 By graze of ill-directed knife, 
 Starts not to more convulsive life 
 Than he, who heard that vow, display'd, 
 And all, before repress'd, betray 'd : 
 " Now thou art mine, for ever mine. 
 With Ufe to keep, and scarce with life resign ; 
 Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, 
 Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 
 Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 
 That vow hath saved more heads than one : 
 But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
 Claims more from me than tenderness ; 
 I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
 That clusters round thy forehead fair, 
 For all the treasures buried far 
 Within the caves of Istakar.^^ 
 This morning clouds upon me lower'd," 
 Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 
 And Giaflir almost called me coward ! 
 Now I have motive to be brave; 
 The son of his neglected slave, 
 Nay, start not, 't was the term he gave. 
 May show, though Uttle apt to vaunt, 
 A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 
 
 His son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to thee, 
 
 Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 
 
 But let our plighted secret vow 
 
 Be only knowTi to us as now. 
 
 I know the ^^Tetch who dares demand 
 
 From GiafEr thy reluctant hand ; 
 
 More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 
 
 Holds not a Musselim's ^'^ control : 
 
 Was he not bred in Egripo?2i 
 
 A viler race let Israel show ! 
 
 But let that pass — to none be told 
 
 Our oath; the rest shall time unfold. 
 
 To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 
 
 I 've partisans for peril's day : 
 
 Think not I am what I appear ; 
 
 I 've arms, and friends, and vengeance near. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Think not thou art what thou appearest ! 
 
 My SeUm, thou art sadly changed: 
 Tliis mora I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 
 
 But now thou 'rt from thyself estranged. 
 My love thou surely kneVst before, 
 It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
 To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, 
 
 And hate the night I know not why, 
 Save that we meet not but by day ; 
 
 With thee to live, wth thee to die, 
 
 I dare not to my hope deny : 
 Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, 
 Like this — and this — no more than this ; 
 For, AQa ! sure thy lips are flame : 
 
 What fever in thy vems is flushing ? 
 My own have nearly caught the same. 
 
 At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 
 To sooth thy sickness, watch thy health, 
 Partake, but never waste thy weahh, 
 Or stand \\ith smiles unmurmuring by. 
 And hghten half thy poverty ; 
 Do all but close thy dying eye, 
 For that I covild not Uve to try ; 
 To these alone my thoughts aspire: 
 More can I do ? or thou require ? 
 But, Selim, thou must answer why 
 We need so much of mystery? 
 The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 
 But be it, since thou say'st 't is well ; 
 Yet what thou mean'st by ' arms' and * friends, 
 Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
 I meEoit that Giafiir should have heard 
 
 The very vow I plighted thee ; 
 His wrath would not revoke my word : 
 
 But surely he would leave me free. 
 
 Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 
 To be what I have ever been? 
 What other hath Zuleika seen 
 From simple childhood's earhest hour ? 
 
 WTiat other can she seek to see 
 Than thee, companion of her bower, 
 
 The partner of her infancy? 
 These cherisb'd thoughts with life begun, 
 
 Say, why must I no more avow ? 
 What change is wTOUght to make me shun 
 
 The truth; my pride, and thine till now 
 To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
 Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
 Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
 At such, our Prophet's will repine: 
 No ! happier made by that decree ! 
 He left me all in leaving thee. 
 Deep were my anguish, thus compelled 
 To wed with one I ne'er beheld: 
 This wherefore should I not reveal? 
 Why wilt thou urge me to conceal ? 
 I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
 To thee hath never boded good: 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 97 
 
 And lie so often storms at nought, 
 Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
 And why, I know not, but within 
 My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
 If then such secrecy be crime, 
 
 And such it feels while lurking here ; 
 Oh, Sehm! tell me yet in time, 
 
 Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
 Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar, ^^ 
 My father leaves the mimic war; 
 I tremble now to meet his eye — 
 Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why ? " 
 
 " Zuleika ! to thy tower's retreat 
 
 Betake thee — GiatTir I can greet : 
 
 And now with him I fain must prate 
 
 Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 
 
 There 's fearful news from Danube's banks, 
 
 Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks. 
 
 For which the Giaour may give him thanks ! 
 
 Our Sultan hath a shorter way 
 
 Such costly triumph to repay. 
 
 But, mark me, when the twilight drum 
 Hath warn 'd the troops to food and sleep, 
 
 Unto thy cell will Selim come : 
 Then softly from the Haram creep 
 Where we may wander by the deep : 
 Our garden-battlements are steep; 
 
 Nor these wU rash intruder climb 
 
 To Ust our words, or stint our time ; 
 
 And if he doth, I want not steel 
 
 Which some have felt, and more may feel. 
 
 Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
 
 Than thou hast heard or thought before 
 
 Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
 
 Thou know'st I hold a Haram key." 
 
 " Fear thee, my Sehm ! ne'er till now 
 Did word like this — " 
 
 " Delay not thou ; 
 I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
 Have some, and hope of more reward. 
 To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
 My tale, my purpose, and my fear: 
 I am not, love ! what I appear." 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 The winds are high on Helle's wave, 
 
 As on that night of stormy water 
 When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
 The young, the beautiful, the brave. 
 
 The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
 Oh ! when alone along the sky 
 Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
 Though rising gale, and breaking foam. 
 And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home; 
 And clouds aloft and tides below. 
 With signs and sounds, forbade to go. 
 He could not see, he would not hear 
 Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
 His eye but saw that Ught of love, 
 The only star it hail'd above ; 
 His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
 " Ye waves, divide not lovers long ! " — 
 That tale is old, but love anew 
 May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 
 
 The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
 Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 
 
 And night's descending shadows hide 
 That field with blood bedew 'd in vahi, 
 
 The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
 The tombs, sole rehcs of his reign. 
 
 All— save immortal dreams that could beguile 
 
 The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle ! 
 
 Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; 
 
 These feet have press'd the sacred shore. 
 These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne — 
 Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, 
 
 To trace again those fields of yore. 
 Believing every hillock green 
 
 Contains no fabled hero's ashes, 
 And that around the undoubted scene 
 
 Thine o'wai " broad Hellespont " ^^ still dashes, 
 Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
 Who there could gaze denying thee ! 
 
 The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 
 
 Nor 3'et hath risen on Ida's liill 
 That moon, which shone on his high theme ; 
 No warrior chides her peaceful beam. 
 
 But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
 Their flocks are grazing on the mound 
 
 Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow: 
 That might)'- heap of gather'd ground 
 Which Ammon's ^'^ son ran proudly round, 
 By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd. 
 
 Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 
 
 Within — thy dwelling-place hov/ narrow! 
 Without — can only strangers breathe 
 The name of him that was beneath : 
 Dust long outlasts the storied stone ; 
 But thou — thy very dust is gone ! 
 
 Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 
 
 The swain, and chase the boatman's fear; 
 
 Till then — no beacon on the cUflf 
 
 May shape the course of struggling skiff; 
 
 The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay 
 
 All, one by one, have died away ; 
 
 The only lamp of this lone hour 
 
 Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 
 
 Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 
 
 And o'er her silken Ottoman 
 Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 
 
 O'er which her fairy fingers ran;^* 
 Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
 (How could she thus that gem forget?) 
 Her mother 's sainted amulet, ^^ 
 Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
 Could smooth this life, and win the next ; 
 And by her Comboloio^'' lies 
 A Koran of illumined dyes ; 
 And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
 By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; 
 And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute. 
 Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
 And round her lamp of fretted gold 
 Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould; 
 The richest work of Iran's loom. 
 And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
 All that can eye or sense delight 
 
 Are gather'd in that gorgeous room: 
 
 But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
 She, of tliis Peri cell the sprite. 
 What doth she hence, and on so rude a night 1 
 
98 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 
 
 Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 
 To guard from winds of heaven the breast 
 
 As heaven itself to SeUm dear, 
 With cautious steps the thicket threading, 
 
 And starting oft, as through the glade 
 
 The gust its hollow moanings made. 
 Till on the smoother pathway treading. 
 More free her timid bosom beat, 
 
 The maid pursued her silent guide ; 
 And though her terror urged retreat. 
 
 How could she quit her Selim's side ? 
 
 How teach her tender lips to chide ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 
 
 By nature, but enlarged by art, 
 Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 
 
 And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
 And oft in youthful reverie 
 She dream'd what Paradise might be : 
 Where woman's parted soul shall go 
 Her prophet had disdain'd to show ; 
 But Selim's mansion was secure. 
 Nor deem'd she, could he long endure 
 His bower in other worlds of bliss. 
 Without her, most beloved in this 1 
 Oh! who so dear with him could dwell? 
 What Houri sooth him half so well? 
 
 Since last she visited the spot 
 
 Some change seem'd wrought within the grot : 
 
 It might be only that the night 
 
 Disguised things seen by better Ught: 
 
 That brazen lamp but dimly threw 
 
 A ray of no celestial hue ; 
 
 But in a nook within the cell 
 
 Her eye on stranger objects fell. 
 
 There' arms were piled, not such as wield 
 
 The turban'd Delis in the field ; 
 
 But brands of foreign blade and liilt, 
 
 And one was red — perchance with guilt ! 
 
 Ah! how wthout can blood be spilt? 
 
 A cup too on the board was set 
 
 That did not seem to hold sherbet. 
 
 What may this mean ? she tum'd to see 
 
 Her Selim— "Oh! can this be he?" 
 
 His robe of pride was thrown aside, 
 
 His brow no high-crown'd turban bore. 
 But in its stead a shawl of red. 
 
 Wreathed hghtly round, his temples wore : 
 That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
 Were worthy of a diadem, 
 No longer glitter'd at his waist. 
 Where pistols imadom'd were braced ; 
 And from his belt a sabre swung, 
 And from his shoulder loosely hung 
 The cloak of white, the thin capote 
 That decks the wandering Candiote: 
 Beneath — his golden-plated vest 
 Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; 
 The greaves below his knee that wound 
 With silvery scales were sheathed and boimd. 
 But were it not that high command 
 Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
 All that a careless eye could see^ 
 In him was some young GaUongee,^^ 
 
 * I said I was not what I seem'd ; 
 And now thou seest ray words were true: 
 
 I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 
 
 If sooth— its truth must others rue. 
 My story now 't were vain to hide •, 
 I must not see thee Osman's bride : 
 But had not thine own lips declared 
 How much of that young heart I shared, 
 I could not, must not, yet have shown 
 
 The darker secret of my ovm. 
 
 In this I speak not now of love ; 
 
 That, let time, truth, and peril prove : 
 
 But first — Oh ! never wed another — 
 
 Zuleika! I am not thy brother!" 
 
 XI. 
 
 « Oh ! not my brother !— yet unsay— 
 
 God ! am I left alone on earth 
 To mourn — I dare not curse— the day 
 
 That saw my solitary bii-th ? 
 Oh! thou wilt love me now no more! 
 
 My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 
 But know me all I was before. 
 
 Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
 Thou led'st me here perchance to kill ; 
 
 If thou hast cause for vengeance, see ! 
 My breast is ofFer'd— take thy fill ! 
 Far better with the dead to be 
 Than live thus nothing now to thee : 
 Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
 Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe; 
 And I alas ! am Giaffir's child. 
 For whom thou wert conteimi'd, reviled. 
 If not thy sister — wouldst thou save 
 My life, Oh ! bid me be thy slave 1" 
 
 XII. 
 
 « My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I 'm thine : 
 But, gentle love, tliis transport calm. 
 Thy lot shall yet be hnk'd with mine ; 
 I swear it by our Prophet's shrme, 
 
 And be that thought thy sorrow's bahn. 
 So may the Koran ^^ verse display'd 
 Upon its steel direct my blade. 
 In danger's hour to guard us both. 
 As I preserve that awful oath ! 
 The name in which thy heart hath prided 
 
 Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know, 
 That tie is widen'd, not divided. 
 
 Although thy Sire 's my deadhest foe. 
 My father was to Giafiir all 
 
 That Selim late was deem'd to thee ; 
 That brother wrought a brother's fall, 
 
 But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
 And lull'd me with a vain deceit 
 That yet a hke return may meet. 
 He rear'd me, not with tender help, 
 
 But like the nephew of a Cain ; '° 
 He watch'd me like a hon's whelp, 
 
 That gnaws and yet may break his chain. 
 My father's blood in every vein 
 Is boiUng ; but for thy dear sake 
 No present vengeance will I take ; 
 
 Though here I must no more remain. 
 But first, belord Zuleika ! hear 
 How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. 
 
 «' How first their strife to rancour grew, 
 
 If love or envy made them foes, 
 It matters Uttle if I knew ; 
 In fiery spirits, slights, though few 
 
 And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
 In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
 Remember'd yet in Bosniac song, 
 And Paswan's '' rebel hordes attest 
 How little love they bore such guest : 
 
Caxto II. 
 
 THE BRIDE OP ABYDOS. 
 
 99 
 
 His death is all I need relate, 
 The stem effect of Giaffir's hate ; 
 And how my birth disclosed to me, 
 Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me free. 
 
 " When Paswan, after years of strife. 
 At last for power, but first for life. 
 In Widin's walls too proudly sate, 
 Our Pacha's raUied round the state ; 
 Nor last nor least in high command 
 Each brother led a separate band ; 
 They gave their horsetails ^^ to the wind. 
 
 And, mustering in Sophia 's plain, 
 Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'd : 
 
 To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
 What need of words '? the deadly bowl, 
 By GiafHr's order di-u^g'd and given, 
 With venom subtle as his soul, 
 
 Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
 Reclined and feverish in the bath, 
 
 He, when the hunter's sport was up. 
 But httle deem'd a brother's wrath 
 
 To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
 The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
 He drank one drought, ^^ nor needed more ! 
 If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
 Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 
 
 " The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
 In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 
 
 Abdallah's pachaUck was gain'd : — 
 Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
 Can wealth procure for worse than man — 
 
 Abdallah's honours were obtain'd 
 By him a brother's murder stain'd 
 'Tis true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
 His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. 
 Would'st question whence ? Survey the wEiste, 
 And ask the squaUd peasant how 
 His gains repay his broiling brow ! — 
 Why me the stem usurper spared. 
 Why thus with me his palace shared, 
 I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
 And htde fear from infant 's force ; 
 Besides, adoption as a son 
 By Mm whom Heaven accorded none. 
 Or some unknown cabal, caprice. 
 Preserved me thus : but not in peace : 
 He cannot curb his haughty mood. 
 Nor I forgive a father's blood. 
 
 " Within thy father's house are foes ; 
 
 Not all who break his bread are true : 
 To these should I my birth disclose, 
 
 His days, his very hours were few : 
 They only want a heart to lead, 
 A hand to point them to the deed. 
 But Haroun only knows, or knew 
 
 This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
 He in Abdallah's palace grew. 
 
 And held that post in his Serai 
 
 Which holds he here — he saw liim die; 
 But what could single slavery do? 
 Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 
 Or save his son from such a fate? 
 He chose the last and when elate 
 
 With foes subdued, or friends betrayd, 
 Proud Giaffir m high triumph sate, 
 He led me helpless to his gate, 
 
 And not in vain it seems essay'd 
 
 To save the life for which he prav'd. 
 
 The knowledge of my birth secured 
 
 From all and each, but most from me ; 
 Thus Giaffir's safety was ensured. 
 
 Removed he too from Roumehe 
 To this our Asiatic side, 
 Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 
 
 With none but Haroun, who retains 
 Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels 
 
 A t}Tant's secrets are but chains. 
 From which the captive gladly steals, 
 And this and more to me reveals : 
 Such still to guilt just AOa sends — 
 Slaves, tools, accompHces — ^no friends! 
 
 " All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ; 
 
 But harsher still my tale must be : 
 Howe'er my tongue thy softness woimds, 
 
 Yet I must prove all truth to thee, 
 
 I saw thee start this garb to see. 
 Yet is it one I oft have worn. 
 
 And long must wear : this GaHongee, 
 To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, 
 
 Is leader of those pirate hordes. 
 
 Whose laws and lives are on their swords , 
 To hear whose desolating tale 
 Would make thv waning cheek more pale ; 
 Those arms thou see'st my band have brought, 
 The hands that \vield are not remote ; 
 This cup too for the mgged knaves 
 
 Is fill'd — once quaff 'd, they ne'er repine • 
 Our Prophet might forgive the slaves 5 
 
 They 're only uifidels in wine. 
 
 xvni. 
 " What could I be ? Proscribed at home, 
 And taunted to a ■R-ish to roam ; 
 And hstless left — for Giaffir's fear 
 Denied the courser and the spear — 
 Though ofl; — Oh, Mahomet ! how oft ! — 
 In fulT Divan the despot scoff'd, 
 As ]f my weak unwilling hand 
 Refiised the bridle or the brand : 
 He ever went to war alone. 
 And pent me here imtried, unknown ; 
 To Haroun's care with women left, 
 By hope unblest, of fame berefl, 
 While thou — whose softness long endear'd, 
 Though it unmann'd me, still had cheer'd — 
 To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 
 Awaited'st there the field's event. 
 Haroim, who saw my spirit pining 
 
 Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke. 
 His captive, though with dread resigning, 
 
 My thraldom for a season broke, 
 On promise to return before 
 The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
 'T is vain — my tongue cannot impart 
 My ahnost dnmlvenness of heart, 
 When first this hberated eye 
 Surveyd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, 
 As if "mv spirit pierced them through, 
 And alltheir inmost wonders knew! 
 One word alone can pamt to thee 
 That more than feeling — I was Free ! 
 E'en for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
 The Worid — nay — Heaven itself was mine I 
 
 « The shallop of a trusty ISIoor 
 Convey'd me from this idle shore ; 
 I long'd to see the isles that gem 
 Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
 I sought by tums, and saw them all;** 
 But when and where I join'd the crew, 
 
100 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 With whom I 'ni pledged to rise or fall, 
 
 When all thai we design to do 
 Is done, 'twill then he time more meet 
 To tell thee, when the tale 's complete. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " 'T is true, they are a lawless brood. 
 But rough in form, nor mild in mood ; 
 And every creed, and every race, 
 With them hath found — may find a place : 
 But open speech, and ready hand. 
 Obedience to their chiefs command ; 
 A soul for every enterprise, 
 That never sees with terror's eyes ; 
 Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
 And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, 
 Have made them fitting instruments 
 For more than even my own intents. 
 And some — and I have studied all 
 
 Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank, 
 But chiefly to my counsel call 
 
 The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
 And some to higher thoughts aspire, 
 The last of Lambro's ^^ patriots there 
 Anticipated freedom s"hare ; 
 And oft around the cavern fire 
 On visionary schemes debate, 
 To snatch the Rayahs ^"^ from their fate. 
 So let them ease their hearts with prate 
 Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew ; 
 1 have a love for freedom too. 
 Ay ! let me like the ocean-patriarch ^^ roam, 
 Or only laiow on land the Tartar's home ! '^ 
 My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
 Are more than cities and serais to me : 
 Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sai], 
 Across the desert, or before the gale, 
 Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow ! 
 But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou ! 
 Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; 
 The dove of peace and promise to mine ark! 
 Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
 Be thou the rambow to the storms of life ! 
 The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
 And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 
 Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
 To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call : 
 Soft — as the melody of youtliful days, 
 That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; 
 Dear — as his native song to exile's ears. 
 Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. 
 For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 
 Blooming as Aden ^' in its earliest hour. 
 A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, 
 Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command ! 
 Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side. 
 The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 
 The Haram's languid years of listless ease 
 Are well resign'd for cares — for joys like these : 
 Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 
 Urmumber'd perils — but one only love ! 
 Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 
 Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. 
 How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill. 
 Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! 
 Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown; 
 To thee be SeUm's tender as thine own ; 
 To sooth each sorrow, share in each delight, 
 Blend every thought, do all — but disunite! 
 Once free, 't is mine our horde again to guide ; 
 Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 
 Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 
 By fatal nature to man's warring kind : 
 Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease ! 
 Ho makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ' 
 
 I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength, 
 But ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 
 Power sways but by division — her resource 
 The blest alrernauve of fraud or force! 
 Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come 
 When cities cage us in a social home : 
 There even thy soul might err — tiow oft the heart 
 Corruption shakes v, hich peril could not part ! 
 And woman, more than man, when death or wo 
 Or even disgrace wouid lay her lover low, 
 Sunk in the lap of luxury v, ill shame — 
 Away suspicion ! not Zuleika's name ! 
 But life is hazard at the best ; and here 
 No more remains to win, and much to fear: 
 Yes, fear ! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 
 By Osman's power and Giaffir's stern decree. 
 That dread shall vanish wi'.h the favouring gale, 
 Which love to-night hath promised to my sail : 
 No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest, 
 
 Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 
 
 With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms ; 
 
 Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms ! 
 
 Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, 
 
 So that those arms cling closer round my neck : 
 
 The deepest m.urmur of this lip shall be 
 
 No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 
 
 The war of elements no fears impart 
 
 To love, whose deadliest bane is human art : 
 
 There lie the only rocks our course can check ; 
 
 Here moments menace — there are years of ^vreck ! 
 
 But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shape ! 
 
 This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 
 
 Few words remain of mine my tale to close : 
 
 Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 
 
 Yea — foes — to me will Giaffir's hate decline ? 
 
 And is not Osman, who would part us, thine ? 
 
 " His head and faith from doubt and death 
 
 Return'd in time my guard to save ; 
 
 Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
 From isle to isle I roved the while : 
 And since, though parted fi-om my band. 
 Too seldom now I leave the land. 
 No deed they 've done, nor deed shall do, 
 Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 
 I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
 'T is fit I oftener share the toil. 
 But now too long I 've held thine ear : 
 Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
 We leave behind but hate and fear. 
 To-morrow Osman with his train 
 Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : 
 And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, 
 
 Perchance his life who gave thee thine, 
 With me this hour away — away ! 
 
 But yet, though thou art pUghted mine, 
 Wouldst thou recall thy wUing vow, 
 Appall'd by truths imparted now, 
 Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 
 But be that peril on my head !" 
 
 Zuleika, mute and motionless. 
 
 Stood like that statue of distress, 
 
 When, her last hope for ever gone. 
 
 The mother harden'd into stone ; 
 
 All in the maid that eye could see 
 
 Was but a younger Niobe. 
 
 But ere her lip, or even her eye, 
 
 Essay'd to spealc, or look reply, 
 
 Beneath the garden's wicket porch 
 
 Far flashed on high a blazmg torch! 
 
 Another — and another — and another — [ther P 
 
 '• Oh ! fly — no more — yet now my more than bro- 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 101 
 
 Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 
 The fearful Ughts are gleaming red; 
 Nor these alone — for each right hand 
 Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
 They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
 With searching flambeau, shining steel « 
 And last of all, his sabre waving 
 Stem Giaffir in his fury ra\ang : 
 And now almost they touch the cave — 
 Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave 
 
 Dauntless he stood — " 't is come — soon past- 
 One kiss, Zuleika — 't is my last : 
 
 But yet my band not far from shore 
 May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
 Yet now too few — the attempt were rash 
 
 No matter — yet one effort more." 
 Forth to the cavern mouth he stept 
 
 His pistol's echo rang on high, 
 Zuleika started not, nor wept, 
 
 Despair benumb'd her breast and eye ! — 
 " They hear me not, or if they ply 
 Their oars, 't is but to see me die ; 
 That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
 Then forth my father's scimitar, 
 Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
 Farewell, Zuleilia ! — Sweet ! retire : 
 
 Yet stay -within — here hnger safe, 
 
 At thee his rage will only chafe. 
 Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
 Some errmg blade or ball should glance. 
 Fear'st thou for him ? — may I expire 
 If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
 No — though by him that poison pour'd ; 
 No — though again he call me coward ! 
 But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
 No — as each crest save his may feel!" 
 
 One bound he made, and gain'd the sand : 
 
 Already at his feet hath sunk 
 The foremost of the prying band, 
 
 A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
 Another falls — but round him close 
 A swarming circle of his foes ; 
 From right to left his path he cleft. 
 
 And almost met the meeting wave : 
 
 His boat appears — not five oars' length — 
 His comrades strain with desperate strength- 
 
 Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 
 
 His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
 His band are plunging in the bay, 
 Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
 Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
 They struggle — now they touch the land ! 
 They come — 't is but to add to slaughter — 
 His heart's best blood is on the water. 
 
 Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 
 
 Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 
 
 Had Selim won, betray'd, beset. 
 
 To where the strand and billows met : 
 
 There as his last step left the land. 
 
 And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 
 
 Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 
 
 For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
 That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 
 
 Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
 Sad proofs in peril and in pain, 
 How late will lover's hope remain ! 
 His back was to the dashing spray ; 
 Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
 
 When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — 
 
 "So may the foes of Giaffir fall!" 
 
 Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang? 
 
 Whose bullet tlirough tlie night-air sang, 
 
 Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err? 
 
 'T is thine — Abdallah's murderer! 
 
 The father slowly rued thy hate. 
 
 The son hath found a quicker fate : 
 
 Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
 
 The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling — 
 
 If aught his Hps essay'd to groan. 
 
 The rushing billows chok'd the tone ! 
 
 Mom slowly rolls the clouds away ; 
 
 Few trophies of the fight are there : 
 The shouts that shook the midnight bay 
 Are silent ; but some signs of fray 
 
 That strand of strife may bear. 
 And fragments of each shiver'd brand ; 
 Steps stam.p'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
 The print of many a struggling hand 
 
 May there be mark'd ; nor far remote 
 
 A broken torch, an oarless boat; 
 And tangled on the weeds that heap 
 The beach where shelving to the deep 
 
 There lies a white capote ! 
 'T is rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
 The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 
 
 But where is he who wore ? 
 Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep, 
 Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
 Their burden round Sigseum's steep, 
 
 And cast on Lemnos' shore : 
 The sea-birds shriek above the prey, 
 O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
 As shaken on his restless pillow. 
 His head heaves with the heaving billow ; 
 That hand, whose motion is not life, 
 Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 
 Flung by the tossing tide on high, 
 
 Then levell'd with the wave — 
 What recks it, though that corse shall lie 
 
 Within a hving grave? 
 The bird that tears that prostrate form 
 Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
 The only heart, the only eye 
 Had bled or wept to see him die, 
 Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 
 
 And mourn'd above his turban-stone,'*" 
 That heart hath burst — that eye was closed — 
 
 Yea — closed before his own ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail! 
 And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale, 
 Zuleika ! last of Giaffir's race. 
 
 Thy destined lord is come too late , 
 He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 
 
 Can he not hear 
 The loud Wul-wulleh*' warn his distant ear? 
 
 Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 
 
 The Koran-chaunters of the hymn of fate. 
 
 The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 
 Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 
 
 Tell him thy tale! 
 Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 
 
 That fearfid moment when he left the cave 
 Thy heart grew chill : 
 He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all — 
 
 And that last thought on him thou couldst not save 
 Sufficed to kill; 
 Burst forth in one wdld cry — and all was still. 
 
 Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 
 
102 
 
 NOTES TO THE BRIDE OP ABYDOS. 
 
 Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! 
 
 That grief— though deep— though fatal — was thy first ! 
 
 Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
 
 Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! 
 
 And, oh ! that pang where more than madness Ues ! 
 
 The worm that will not sleep — and never dies ; 
 
 Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, 
 
 That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light, 
 
 That winds around and tears the quivering heart! 
 
 Ah ! wherefore not consume it — and depart ! 
 
 Wo to tliee, rash and unrelenting chief ! 
 
 Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, 
 Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth spread : 
 By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled. 
 
 Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief : 
 
 Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed. 
 
 She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, 
 Thy daughter's dead! 
 Hope of diine age, thy twilight's lonely beam. 
 The star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. 
 
 What quench'd its ray ? — the blood that thou hast shed ! 
 
 Hark ! to the hurried question of despair : 
 
 " Where is my child ?" — an echo answers — " Where ?" ^^ 
 
 Within the place of thousand tombs 
 
 That shine beneath, while dark above 
 The sad but living cypress glooms. 
 And withers not, though branch and leaf 
 Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, 
 
 Like early luirequited love, 
 One spot exists, which ever blooms, 
 
 Even in that deadly grove — 
 A single rose is shedding there 
 
 Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 
 It looks as planted by despair — 
 
 So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
 Might whirl the leaves on high ; 
 
 And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
 And hands more rude than wintry sky 
 
 May wring it from the stem — in vain — 
 
 To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
 The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
 And waters with celestial tears ; 
 
 For well may maids of Helle deem 
 That this can be no earthly flower, 
 Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 
 
 And buds unshelter 'd by a bower ; 
 
 Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower, 
 
 Nor woos the summer beam : 
 To it the livelong night there sing.s 
 
 A bird unseen — but not remote : 
 Invisible his airy wings, 
 But soft as harp that Houri strings 
 
 His long entrancing note ! 
 It were the bulbul ; but his throat, 
 
 Though mournful, pours not such a strain: 
 For they who listen cannot leave 
 The spot, but linger there and grieve 
 
 As if they loved in vain ! 
 And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
 'T is sorrow so unmix'd with dread, 
 They scarce can bear the mom to break 
 
 That melancholy spell. 
 And longer yet would weep and wake, 
 
 He sings so wild and well! 
 But when the day-blush bursts from high- 
 Expires that magic melody. 
 And some have been who could believe 
 (So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 
 
 Yet harsh be they that blame) 
 That note so piercing and profound 
 Will shape and syllable its sound 
 
 Into Zuleika's name.''^ 
 'T is from her cypress' summit heard, 
 That melts in air the liquid word: 
 'T is from her lowly virgin earth 
 That white rose takes its tender birth. 
 There late was laid a marble stone ; 
 Eve saw it placed — the morrow gone! 
 It was no mortal arm that bore 
 That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore ; 
 For there, as Helle 's legends tell. 
 Next morn 't was found where Selim fell ; 
 Lcish'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
 Denied his bones a holier grave : 
 And there by night, reclined, 't is said, 
 Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 
 And hence extended by the billow, 
 "T is named the "Pirate-phantom's pillow !" 
 Where first it lay that mourning flower 
 Hath flourish'd ; flourished this hour, 
 Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 
 As weeping beauty's cheek at sorrow's tale! 
 
 NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 Note 1. Page 93 Une 8. 
 
 fVax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom. 
 " Gtil," the rose. 
 
 Note 2. Page 93, line 17. 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? 
 
 " Souls made of fire, and cliildren of the suii, 
 With whom revenge is virtue." 
 
 Young^a Revenge. 
 
 Note 3. Page 94, line 53. 
 With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song. 
 Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the 
 East. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 
 Note 4. Page 94, line 34. 
 Till I. who heard the deep tambour. 
 Tambour, Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, 
 noon, and twihght. 
 
 Note 5. Page 94, line 125. 
 
 He is an Arab to my sight. 
 The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compli- 
 ment a hundred fold,) even more than they hate the 
 Christians. 
 
 Note 6. Page 95, line 22. 
 The mind, the music breathing from her face. 
 This expression has met with objections. I will not 
 refer to " him who hath not music in his soul," but 
 merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, 
 the features of the woman whom he believes to be the 
 most beautiful ; and if he then does not comprehend 
 fully what is feebly ex^pressed in the above line, I shall 
 be sorry for us both. For an eloquent passage in the 
 latest work of the first female writer of this, perhaps 
 of any age, on the analogy (and the immediate com- 
 parison excited by that analogy,) between " painting 
 and music," see vol. iii. cap. 10. De L'ALLEMAffNE. 
 
NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 103 
 
 And is not this connexion still stronger with the original 
 than the copy? With the colouring of nature than of 
 art ? After all, this is rather to be felt than described ; 
 still I think there are some who will understand it, at 
 least they would have done, had they beheld the coun- 
 tenance whose speaking harmony suggested the idea; 
 for this passage is not drawn from imagmation, but 
 memory, that mirror which affliction dashes to the 
 earth, and looking down upon the fragments, only be- 
 holds the reflection multiplied . 
 
 Note 7. Page 95, line 44. 
 But yet the line of Carasman. 
 Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osraan Oglou, is the 
 principal landholder in Turkey ; he governs Magnesia : 
 those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on 
 condition of service, are called Timariots : they serve 
 as Spahis, according to the extent of territory, and 
 bring a certain number into the field, generally cavalry. 
 Note 8. Page 95, Une 56. 
 And teach the messenger what fate. 
 When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the 
 single messenger, who is always the firsl bearer of the 
 order for his death, is strangled instead, and some- 
 times five or six, one after the other, on the same 
 errand, by command of the refractory patient ; ifj on 
 the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, kisses the 
 Sultan's respectable signature, and is bowstrung with 
 great complacency. In 1810, several of these presents 
 were exhibited in the niche of the Seragho gate ; 
 among others, the head of the Pacha of Bagdat, a 
 brave young man, cut off by treachery, after a despe- 
 rate resistance. 
 
 Note 9. Page 95, line 75. 
 Thrice clapp'd his hands, and calTd his steed. 
 Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The 
 Turks hate a superfluous expenditure of voice, and 
 they have no bells. 
 
 Note 10. Page 95, line 76. 
 Resigned his gem-adorned chibouque. 
 Chibouque, the Turkish pipe, of which the amber 
 mouth-piece and sometimes the ball which contains 
 the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in posses- 
 sion of the wealthier orders. 
 
 Note 11. Page 95, Une 78. 
 With Maugrabee and Mamaluke. 
 Maugrabee, Moorish mercenaries. 
 
 Note 12. Page 95, Une 79. 
 His way amid his Delis took. 
 Deli, bravos who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry, 
 and always begin the action. 
 
 Note 13. Page 95, line 91. 
 Careering cleave the folded felt. 
 A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar practice 
 by the Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut 
 through it at a single stroke : sometimes a tough tur- 
 ban is used for the same purpose. The jerreed is a 
 game of blunt javelins, animated and graceful. 
 Note 14. Page 95, Une 94. 
 j^or heard their Ollahs wild and loud. 
 " OUahs," AUail Allah, the " LeiUes," as the Span- 
 ish poets call them, the sound is Ollah ,• a cry of 
 which the Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat 
 profuse, particularly during the jerreed, or in the 
 chase, but mostly in battle. Their animation in the 
 field, and gravity in the chamber, with their pipes and 
 comboloios, form an amusing contrast. 
 
 Note 15. Page 95, line 113. 
 The Persian Atar-gul 's perfume. 
 "Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the 
 finest. 
 
 Note 16. Page 95, line 115. 
 The pictured roof and marble floor. 
 The ceiling and wainscots, or rather waUs, of the 
 Mussulman apartments are generally painted, in great 
 houses, with one eternal and highly coloured view of 
 Constantinople, wherein the principal feature is a 
 noble contempt of perspective ; below, arms, scimi- 
 
 Note 17. Page 95, line 131. 
 A message from the Bulbul bears. 
 It has been much doubted whether the notes of this 
 " Lov6r of the rose," are sad or merry ; and Mr. Fox's 
 remarks on the subject have provoked some learned 
 controversy as to the opinions of the ancients on the 
 subject. I dare not venture a conjecture on the point, 
 thouoh a Uttle incUned to the "errare mallem," &c. if 
 Mr. Fox was mistaken. 
 
 Note 18. Page 96, line 29. 
 Even Azrael, from his deadly quiver. 
 " Azrael" — the angel of death. 
 
 Note 19. Page 96, Une 64. 
 Within the caves of Istakar. 
 The treasures of the Preadamite Sultans. See 
 D'Herbelot, article Istakar. 
 
 Note 20. Page 96, Une 80. 
 Holds not a Musselim's control. 
 MusseUm, a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha ; 
 a Waywode is the third ; and then come the Agas. 
 
 Note 21. Page96, hneSl. 
 
 Was he not bred in JEgripo ? 
 
 Egripo — the Negropont. — According to the proverb 
 
 the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and the 
 
 Greeks of Athens, are the worst of their respective 
 
 races. 
 
 Note 22. Page 97, Une 9. 
 Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar. 
 " Tchocadar" — one of the attendants who precedes a 
 man of authority. 
 
 Note 23. Page 97, line 79. 
 Thijie own " broad Hellespont" still dashes. 
 The wrangling about this epithet, " the broad Helles- 
 pont" or the " boundless HelIespont,"whether it means 
 one or the other, or what it means at aU, has been 
 beyond all possibility of detail. I have even heard it 
 disputed on the spot; and, not foreseeing a speedy 
 conclusion to the controversy, amused myself with 
 swimming across it in the meantime, and probably may 
 again, before the point is settled. Indeed the question 
 as to the truth of "the tale of Troy divine" stiU conti- 
 nues, much of it resting upon the talismanic word 
 " aireipos :" probably Homer had the same notion of 
 distance that a coquette has of time, and when he talks 
 of boundless, means half a mile ; as the latter, by a like 
 figure, when she says eternal attachment, simply spe- 
 cifies three weeks. 
 
 Note 24. Page 97, line 90. 
 Which Ammon's son ran proudly round. 
 Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar 
 with laurel, &c. He was afterwards imitated by Cara- 
 caUa in his race. It is believed that the last also 
 poisoned a friend, named Festus, for the sake of new 
 Patroclan games. I have seen the sheep feeding on 
 the tombs of jEsietes and Antilochus ; the first is in 
 the centre of the plain. 
 
 Note 25. Page 97, line 109. 
 O^er ichich her fairy fingers ran. 
 When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, 
 which is sUght, but not disagreeable. 
 
 Note 26. Page 97, line 112. 
 Her mother^s sainted amidet. 
 The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or inclosed 
 in gold boxes, containing scraps from the Koran, worn 
 round the neck, wrist, or arm, is stiU universal in the 
 East. The Koorsee (throne) verse in the second chap, 
 of the Koran describes the attributes of the most High, 
 and is engraved in this manner, and worn by the pious, 
 as the most esteemed and sublime of all sentences. 
 Note 27. Page 97, line 115. 
 Aiid by her Comboloio lies. 
 " Comboloio"— a Turkish rosary. TheMSS. par- 
 ticularly those of the Persians, are richly adorned and 
 iUuminated. The Greek females are kept in utter 
 ignorance ; but many of the Turkish girls are highly 
 accomplished, though not actually quaUfied for a Chris- 
 
 tars, &c. are in general fancifully and not inelegantly tian coterie ; perhaps some of our owt) " blue^' might 
 disposed. 1 not be the worse for bleaching. 
 
104 
 
 NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 Note 28. Page 98, line 64. 
 In him was some young Galiougee. 
 "Galiongee" — or Gaiiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turk- 
 ish sailor; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the 
 guns. Their dress is picturesque ; and I have seen 
 the Captain Pacha more than once wearing it as a 
 kind of incog. Their legs, however, are generally 
 naked. The buskins described in the text as sheathed 
 behind with silver, are those of an Arnaut robber, who 
 was my host, (he had quilted the profession,) at his 
 Pyrgo, near Gaslouni in the Morea ; they were plated 
 in scales one over the other, like the back of an arma- 
 dillo. 
 
 Note 29. Page 98, line 103. 
 So may the Koran verse display'^d. 
 The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain 
 sometimes the name of the place of their manufacture, 
 but more generally a text from the Koran, in letters of 
 gold. Among those in my possession, is one with a 
 blade of singular construction ; it is very broad, and the 
 edge notched into serpentine curves like the ripple of 
 water, or the wavering of flame. I asked the Armenian 
 who sold it, what possible use such a figure could add : 
 he said, in Itahan, that he did not know ; but the Mus- 
 sulmans had an idea that those of this form gave a 
 severer wound ; and liked it because it was " piu fe- 
 roce." I did not much admire the reason, but bought 
 it for its peculiarity. 
 
 Note 30. Page 98, line 118. 
 Sut like the nephew of a Cain. 
 It is to be observed, that every allusion to any tiling 
 or personage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark, 
 or Cain, is equally the privilege of Mussulman and 
 Jew: indeed, the former profess to be much better 
 acquainted with the lives, true and fabulous, of the pa 
 iriarchs, than is warranted by our own sacred writ, and 
 not content with Adam, they have a biography of Pre- 
 Adamites. Solomon is the monarch of all necromancy, 
 and Moses a prophet infeiior only to Christ and Ma- 
 homet. Zuleika is the Persian name of Potiphar's 
 wife, and her amour with Joseph constitutes one of the 
 finest poems in the language. It is therefore no vio- 
 lation of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noah, 
 into the mouth of a Moslem. 
 
 Note 31. Page 98, line 134. 
 And Paswan^s rebel hordes attest. 
 Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin, who for the last 
 years of his life, set the whole power of the Porte at 
 defiance. 
 
 Note 32. Page 99, line 11. 
 They gave their horsetails to the wind. 
 Horsetail, the standard of a Pacha. 
 
 Note 33. Page 99, line 24. 
 He drank one draught, nor needed more. 
 Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not 
 sure which, was actually taken off by the Albanian Ali, 
 in the manner described in the text. Ali Pacha, while 
 I was in the country, married the daughter of his vic- 
 tim, some years after the event had taken place, at a 
 bath in Sophia, or Adrianople. The poison was mixed 
 in the cup of coffee, which is presented before the sher- 
 bet by the bath-keeper, after dressing. 
 
 Note 34. Page 99, line 136. 
 I sought by turns and saw them all. 
 The Turkish notions of almost all islands are con- 
 fined to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 
 
 Note 35. Page 100, line 22. 
 The last of iMmbro's patriots there. 
 Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts in 
 1789-90 for the independence of his country; aban- 
 doned by the Russians, he became a pirate, and the 
 Archipelago was the scene of his enterprises. He is 
 said to be still alive at Petersburgh. He and Riga are 
 the two most celebrated of the Greek revolutionists. 
 
 Note 36. Page 100, line 26. 
 To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. 
 " Rayahs" all w ho pay the capitation tax, called the 
 " Haratch." 
 
 Note 37. Page 100, line 30. 
 Ay! let me like the ocean-patriarch roam. 
 The first of voyages is one of the few with which the 
 Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 
 Note 38. Page 100, line 31. 
 Or only know on land the Tartar's home. 
 The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Turko- 
 mans, will be found well detailed in any book of Eastern 
 travels. That it possesses a charm peculiar to itself 
 cannot be denied. A young French renegado con- 
 fessed to Chateaubriand, that he never found himself 
 alone, galloping in the desert, without a sensation ap- 
 proachmg to rapture, which was indescribable. 
 Note 39. Page 100, line 51. 
 Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. 
 " Jannat al Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mussul- 
 man Paradise. 
 
 Note 40. Page 101, line 116. 
 And mourn'd above his turhan-stone. 
 A turban is carved in stone above the graves of m,en 
 only. 
 
 Note 41. Page 101, line 125. 
 The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear. 
 The death-song of the Turkish women. The " silent 
 slaves" are the men whose notions of decorum forbid 
 complaint in public. 
 
 Note 42. Page 102, line 23. 
 '^Wliere is my child?" — an echo answers — " IVhere?^^ 
 " I came to the place of my birth and cried, * the 
 friends of my youth, where are they?' and an Echo 
 answered, 'Where are they?'" 
 
 From an Arabic 3IS. 
 The above quotation (from which the idea in the 
 text is taken) must be already familiar to every reader 
 — it is given in the first annotation, page 67, of " the 
 Pleasures of Memory ;" a poem so well known as to 
 render a reference almost superfluous ; but to whose 
 pages all will be delighted to recur. 
 
 Note 43. Page 102, line 72. 
 
 Into Zuleika's name. 
 
 " And airy tongues that syllable men's names." 
 
 Milton. 
 For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the 
 form of birds, we need not travel to the east. Lord 
 Lyttleton's ghost story, the belief of the Dutchess of 
 Kendal that George I. flew into her window in the 
 shape of a raven, (see Orford's Reminiscences,) and 
 many other instances, bring this superstition nearer 
 home. The most singular was the whim of a Wor- 
 cester lady, who, believing her daughter to exist in the 
 shape of a singing bird, literally furnished her pew in 
 the Cathedral with cages-full of the kind ; and as she 
 was rich, and a benefactress in beautifying the church, 
 no objection was made to her harmless folly. For this 
 anecdote see Orford's Letters. 
 
THE CORSAIR, 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 I Buol pensieri in lul dormir non ponno," 
 
 TASSO, Canto decimo, Gerusalemme Liberata. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE, ESa. 
 
 MV DEAR MOORE, 
 
 I dedicate to you the last production with which 1 
 shall trespass on public patience, and your indulgence, 
 for some years ; and I own that I feel anxious to avail 
 myselfof this latest and only opportunity of adornuig my 
 pages \vith a name, consecrated by unshaken public 
 principle, and the most undoubted and various talents. 
 While Ireland ranks you among tlie firmest of her pa- 
 triots ; while you stand alone the first of her ba.rds in her 
 estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, 
 permit one, whose only regret, since our first acquaint- 
 ance, has been the years he had lost before it commenced, 
 to add the humble but smcere suffrage of friendship, to 
 the voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove 
 to you, that I have neither forgotten the gratification 
 derived from your society, nor abandoned the prospect 
 of its renewal, whenever your leisure or inclination allows 
 you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It 
 is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are 
 engaged in the composition of a poem whose scene will 
 be laid in the East ; none can do those scenes so ir.uch 
 justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnifi- 
 cent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and feehiig of 
 her daughters, may there be found; and Collins, when 
 he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, was not 
 aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. Your 
 imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded 
 sky; but wildness, tenderness and originality are part 
 of your national claim of oriental descent, to which you 
 have already thus far proved your title more clearly than 
 the most zealous of your country's antiquarians. 
 
 May I add a few words on a subject on which all men 
 are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable ? — Self. 
 I have written much, and published more than enough 
 to demand a longer silence than I now meditate ; but for 
 some years to come it is my intention to tempt no 
 further the award of " gods, men, nor columns." In 
 the present composition I have attempted not the most 
 difficult, but, perhaps, the best adapted measure to our 
 language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. 
 The stanza of Spencer is perhaps too slow and dignified 
 for narrative ; though, I confess, it is the measure most 
 after my ov/n heart : Scott alone, of the present genera- 
 tion, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal 
 facility of the octo-syllabic verse ; and this is not the least 
 victory of his fertile and mighty genius : in blank verse, 
 Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the beacons 
 that shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough 
 and barren rock on which they are kindled. The heroic 
 couplet is not the most popular measure certainly ; but 
 as I did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter 
 what is called oublic opinion, I shall quit it without 
 O 
 
 further apology, and take my chance once more with tliat 
 versification, in which I have hitherto published nothing 
 but compositions whose former circulation is part of my 
 present, and will be of my future regret. 
 
 With regard to my story, and stories in general, I 
 should have been glad to have rendered my personages 
 more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I 
 have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less 
 responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had 
 been personal. Be it so — if I have deviated into the 
 gloomy vanity of " drawing from self," the pictures are 
 probably hke, since they are unfavourable ; and if not, 
 those who know me are undeceived, and those who do 
 not, I have little interest in undeceiving, I have no 
 particular desire that any but my acquaintance should 
 think the author better than the beings of his imagining ; 
 but I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amuse- 
 ment, at some odd critical exceptions in the present 
 instance, when I see several bards, (far more deserving, 
 I allow,) in very reputable plight, and quite exempted 
 from all participation in the faults of those heroes, who, 
 nevertheless, might be found with little more morality 
 than " The Giaour," and perhaps — but no — I must admit 
 Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage ; and as 
 to his identity, those who like it must give hmi whatever 
 " alias" they please. 
 
 If, however, it were worth while to remove the im- 
 pression, it might be of some service to me, that the man 
 who is alike the deUght of his readers and his friends, 
 the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permits 
 me here and elsewhere to subscribe myself, 
 
 most truly, and affectionately, 
 his obedient servant, 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 January 2, 1814. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 -nessun maggior dolore, 
 
 Che ricordarsi del tempo felke 
 Nella rajseria,- 
 
 O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
 Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
 Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
 Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 
 These are our realms, no Hmits to their sway — 
 Oiu- flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
 Oui-s the wild hfe in tumult still to range 
 From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
 
106 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Ca;sio 1. 
 
 Oh, who can tell? not thou, luximous slave ! 
 
 Whose soul would sicken o'er the hea\Tng wave ; 
 
 Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
 
 Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please — 
 
 Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
 
 And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide. 
 
 The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play. 
 
 That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
 
 That for itself can woo the approaching fight, 
 
 And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
 
 That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 
 
 And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
 
 Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
 
 Its hope awaken and its spirits soar ? 
 
 No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 
 
 Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
 
 Come when it \\i\l — we snatch the life of life — 
 
 W^hen lost — what recks it — by disease or strife ? 
 
 Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay 
 
 CUng to his couch, and sicken years away ; 
 
 Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 
 
 Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
 
 While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul. 
 
 Ours ^^•ith one pang — one bomid — escapes control. 
 
 His corse may boast its um and narrow cave, 
 
 And they who loathed his life may gild his grave : 
 
 Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed. 
 
 When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
 
 For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
 
 In the red cup that crowns our memoiy ; 
 
 And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 
 
 When those who win at length dinde the prey. 
 
 And cr}', remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 
 
 How had the brave who fell exulted tiow ."' 
 
 Such were the notes that from the pirate's isle 
 
 Aroimd the kindling watch-fire rang the while ; 
 
 Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, 
 
 And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song ! 
 
 In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, 
 
 They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand ; 
 
 Select the arms — to each his blade assign. 
 
 And careless eye the blood that dims its shine ; 
 
 Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar. 
 
 While others straggling muse along the shore ; 
 
 For the -vs-ild bird the busy springes set, 
 
 Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 
 
 Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 
 
 With all the thirsting eye of enterprise ; 
 
 Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, 
 
 And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : 
 
 No matter where — their chief's allotment this ; 
 
 Theii-s, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 
 
 But who that Chief ? His name on eveiy shore 
 
 Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. 
 
 With these he mingles not but to command ; 
 
 Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 
 
 Ne'er seasons he ^ith mirth their jovial mess, 
 
 But they forgive his silence for success. 
 
 Ne'er for his Up the purpling cup they fill, 
 
 That goblet passes him untasted still — 
 
 And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 
 
 Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too \ 
 
 Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots, 
 
 And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 
 
 His short repast in humbleness supply 
 
 With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 
 
 But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 
 
 His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 
 
 « Steer to that shore '."—they sail. « Do this !"— 't is done 
 
 " Now form and follow me !" — the spoil is won. 
 
 Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 
 
 And ail obey and few inquire his will ; 
 
 To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
 Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 
 
 III. 
 " A sail ! — a sail !" — a promised prize to hope ! 
 Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope ? 
 No prize, alas ! — but yet a welcome sail : 
 The blood-red signal ghtters in tlie gale. 
 Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — 
 Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark. 
 Akeady doubled is the cape — our bay 
 Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 
 How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 
 Her white A%-ings flying — never from her foes — 
 She walks tlie waters like a thing of life, 
 And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
 Who would not brave the battle-fire — the ^Teck— 
 To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 
 
 The sails are furl'd ; and anchoring round she swings . 
 
 And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
 
 Her boat descending from the latticed stem. 
 
 'T is mann'd — ^the oars keep concert to the strand, 
 
 Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 
 
 Hail "to the welcome shout! — the friendly speech! 
 
 When hand gi-asps hand uniting on the beach ; 
 
 The smile, the question, and the quick reply. 
 
 And the heart's promise of festi^aty ! 
 
 V. 
 
 The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd : 
 The humof voices, and the laughter loud. 
 And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
 Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear word 
 " Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — 
 But shall we see them ? vrui their accents bless ? 
 From where the battle roars — the billows chafe — 
 They doubtless boldly did — but who are safe ? 
 Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
 And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes !" 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Where is our chief? for him we bear report — 
 And doubt that joy — which hails our coming — short j 
 Yet thus sip.cere — 't is cheering, though so brief; 
 But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief: 
 Our trreetins paid, we '11 feast on our return, 
 And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." 
 Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 
 To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay, 
 By bushy brake, and wild flo%^ers blossoming. 
 And fi-eshness breathing from each silver spring. 
 Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst, 
 Leap into fife, and sparkling woo your thirst ; 
 From crag to cliff they mount — Near yonder cave, 
 What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 
 In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 
 Not oil a resting-staff to that red hand ? 
 "'Tis he — 'tis Conrad — here — as wont — alone; 
 On — Juan 1 — on-^-and make our purpose known. 
 The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 
 His ear with tidings he must quickly meet: 
 We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his mood, 
 When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 
 
 yii. 
 Him Juan sought, and told of their intent — 
 He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. 
 These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 
 He bends him shghtly, but his Ups are mute. 
 " These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — the spy 
 W^ho still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 
 Whate'er his tidings we can well report, 
 Much that" — " Peace, peace !" — he cuts their prating 
 short. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 107 
 
 Wondering they turn, abash'd, ^vhile each to each 
 Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech: 
 They watch his glance with many a stealing look, 
 To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
 But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside, 
 Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride. 
 He read the scroll — "My tablets, Juan, hark — 
 Where is Gonsalvo ?" 
 
 " In the anchor'd bark." 
 " There let him stay — to him tliis order bear — 
 Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
 Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 
 "To-night, Lord Conrad?" 
 
 "Ay! at set of sun: 
 The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
 My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone. 
 Sling on thy bugle — see that free from rust 
 My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; 
 Be the edge sharpen'd of a\y boarding brand, 
 And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
 This let the Armourer with speed dispose ; 
 Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
 Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, 
 To tell us when the hour of stay's expired." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
 Too soon to seek again the watery waste: 
 Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides, 
 And who dare question aught that he decides ? 
 That man of loneliness and mystery, 
 Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
 Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
 And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue ; 
 Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
 That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
 What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
 Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain ? 
 "What should it be, that thus their fate can bind 7 
 The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind ! 
 Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, 
 That moulds another's weaJ^ness to its will ; 
 Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown, 
 Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 
 Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun 
 The many still must labour for the one ! 
 'T is Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils, 
 Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils 
 Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
 How Ught the balance of his humbler pains ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Unlike the heroes of each ancient race. 
 
 Demons in act, but Gods at least in face. 
 
 In Conrad's form seems little to admire. 
 
 Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire; 
 
 Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 
 
 No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 
 
 Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again. 
 
 Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 
 
 They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 
 
 That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 
 
 Sim-burnt liis cheek, his forehead high and pale 
 
 The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 
 
 And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 
 
 The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 
 
 Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien, 
 
 Still seems there something he would not have seen : 
 
 His features' deepening lines and varying hue 
 
 At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 
 
 As if within that murkiness of mind 
 
 V\^ork'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 
 
 Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 
 
 Too close inquiry his stem glance would quell. 
 
 There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 
 
 The full encounter of his searching eye : 
 
 He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 
 
 To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 
 
 At once the observer's purpose to espy. 
 
 And on himself roll back his scrutiny. 
 
 Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 
 
 Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day. 
 
 There was a laugliing Devil in his sneer. 
 
 That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; 
 
 And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
 
 Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell '. 
 
 X. 
 
 Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 
 
 Within — within — 't was there the spirit wrought ! 
 
 Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition, Guile, 
 
 Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 
 
 The Hp's least curl, the Ughtest paleness thrown 
 
 Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 
 
 Of deeper passions ; and to judge their mien, 
 
 He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 
 
 Then — with the hun-ied tread, the upward eye. 
 
 The clenched hand, the pause of agony, 
 
 That hstens, starting, lest the step too near 
 
 Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
 
 Then — with each feature w^orking from the heart, 
 
 With feehngs loosed to strengthen — not depart : 
 
 That rise — convulse — conterid — that freeze, or glow, 
 
 Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
 
 Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not, 
 
 Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
 
 Mark — how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
 
 The scathing thought of execrated years ! 
 
 Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
 
 Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 
 
 Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 
 
 To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument — 
 
 His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 
 
 Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
 
 Warp'd by the world in Disappouitment's school, 
 
 In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 
 
 Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 
 
 Doom'd by his very Airtues for a dupe. 
 
 He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 
 
 And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; 
 
 Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 
 
 Had left him joy, and means to give again. 
 
 Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere youth had lost her force, 
 
 He hated man too much to feel remorse. 
 
 And thought the voice of wrath a. sacred call, 
 
 To pay the injuries of some on all. 
 
 He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 
 
 The rest no better than the thing he seem'd ; 
 
 And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 
 
 Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
 
 He knew himself detested, but he knew 
 
 The hearts that loathed him, crouch'd and dreaded too. 
 
 Lone, wild, and strange, he stood 'alike exempt 
 
 Fium all affection and from all contempt: 
 
 His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 
 
 But they that fear'd him dared not to despise : 
 
 Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
 
 The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 
 
 The first may turn — but not avenge the blow; 
 
 The last expires — but leaves no Uving foe ; 
 
 Fast to the doom'd offender's form it chngs, 
 
 And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings ! 
 
 None are all evil — quickening round his heart, 
 One softer feelmg would not yet depart ; 
 Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 
 By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 
 Yet 'gamst that passion vainly still he strove, 
 And even in him it asks the name of Love ! 
 
108 
 
 THE CORSAIR, 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged, 
 
 Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 
 
 Though fairest captives daily met his eye, 
 
 He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by ; 
 
 Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, 
 
 Noneever soothed his most unguarded hour. 
 
 Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness, 
 
 Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, 
 
 Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime. 
 
 And yet — Oh more than all ! — untired by time ; 
 
 Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, 
 
 Could render sullen were she near to smils, 
 
 Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
 
 On her one murmur of his discontent ; 
 
 Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part, 
 
 Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 
 
 Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove — 
 
 If there be love in mortals — this was love \ 
 
 He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 
 
 On him — but not the passion, nor its power, 
 
 Which only proved, all other \artues gone. 
 
 Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He paused a moment — till his hastening men 
 
 Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 
 
 " Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I past, 
 
 Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 
 
 Yet so my heart forbodes, but must not fear, 
 
 Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 
 
 'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
 
 Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 
 
 And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile. 
 
 We '11 furnish mourners for our funeral-pile. 
 
 Ay — let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams ! 
 
 Mom ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 
 
 As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!) 
 
 To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 
 
 Now to Medora — Oh ! my sinking heart, 
 
 Long may her o-wn be Ughter than thou art! 
 
 Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are brave ! 
 
 Ev'n insects sting for a\ight they seek to save. 
 
 This common courage which with brutes we share, 
 
 That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, 
 
 Small merit claims — but 't was my nobler hope 
 
 To teach my few with numbers still to cope ; 
 
 Long have I led them — ^not: to vainly bleed : 
 
 No medium now — we perish or succeed ! 
 
 So let it be — it irks not me to die ; 
 
 But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 
 
 My lot hath long had little of my care, 
 
 But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare : 
 
 [9 this my skill ? my craft ? to set at last 
 
 Hope, power, and life upon a smgle cast? 
 
 Oh, Fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 
 
 6he may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Thus with himself communion held he, till 
 He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill : 
 There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
 He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
 Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung, 
 And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : 
 
 * Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 
 Lonely and lost to Hght for evermore. 
 
 Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 
 Then trembles into silence as before. 
 
 ' There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
 Biims the slow flame, eternal — but unseen ; 
 
 Which not the darkness of despair can damp, 
 Though vain its ray as it had never been. 
 
 "Remember me — Oh! pass not thou my grave 
 Withoijt one thought whose relics there recline : 
 
 The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
 Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 
 
 " My fondest — faintest — latest accents hear — 
 Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove ; 
 
 Then give me ail I ever ask'd — a tear. 
 
 The first — the last — sole reward of so much love !" 
 
 He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridore, 
 And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er: 
 " My own Medora ! sure tliy song is sad — " 
 
 "In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad? 
 Without thine ear to listen to my lay. 
 Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray 
 Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
 My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute ! 
 Oh i many a night on this lone couch recHned, 
 My dreaming fear vdth storms hath wing'd the mnd, 
 And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
 The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 
 Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
 That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge ; 
 Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire. 
 Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 
 And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
 And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 
 Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew. 
 And day broke dreary on my troubled view. 
 And stiU I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
 Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 
 At length — 'twas noon — I hail'd and blest the mast 
 That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it past ! 
 Another came — Oh God! 'twas thine at last! 
 Would that those days v.'ere over ! ^vilt thou ne'er, 
 My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
 Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
 As bright as this invites us not to roam ; 
 Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
 I only tremble when thou art not here ; 
 Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
 Which flies from love and languishes for strife — 
 How strange that heart, to me so tender still. 
 Should war with nature and its better will !" 
 
 " Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long been changed, 
 
 Worm-like 't was trampled — adder-like avenged, 
 
 Without one hope on earth beyond thy love. 
 
 And scarce a glim])se of mercy from above. 
 
 Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 
 
 My very love to thee is hate to them, 
 
 So closely mingling here, that disentwined, 
 
 I cease to love thee when I love mankind : 
 
 Yet dread not this — ^the proof of all that past 
 
 Assures the future that my love ^^^U rest ; 
 
 But — Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentle heart, 
 
 This hour again — but not for long — we part." 
 
 « This hour we part ! — my heart foreboded this : 
 
 Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
 
 This hour — it cannot be — this hour away ! 
 
 Yon bark hath hardly anchor 'd in the bay : 
 
 Her consort still is absent, and her crew 
 
 Have need of rest before they toil anew : 
 
 My love ! thou mock'st my M'eakness ; and wouldst steel 
 
 My breast before the time when it must feel ; 
 
 But trifle now no more with my distress. 
 
 Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 
 
 Be silent, Conrad! — dearest! come and shara 
 
 The feast these hands delighted to prepare ,• 
 
 Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare 
 
Canto 1. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 109 
 
 See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best, 
 
 And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guess'd 
 
 At such as seeni'd the fairest: thrice the hill 
 
 My steps have wound to try the coolest rill : 
 
 Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 
 
 See how it sparldes in its vase of snow ! 
 
 The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
 
 Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears : 
 
 Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 
 
 What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
 
 But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 
 
 Is trimm'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp : 
 
 Then shall my handmaids v/hile the time along, 
 
 And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 
 
 Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear. 
 
 Shall sooth or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, 
 
 We 'II turn the tale, by Ariosto told, 
 
 Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. * 
 
 Why — thou wert vrovse than he who broke Iiis vow 
 
 To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 
 
 Or even that traitor chief — I 've seen thee smile. 
 
 When the clear sky shov/'d Ai'iadne's Isle, 
 
 Which I have pointed from these cUfTs the while : 
 
 And thus half sportive, half in fear, I said. 
 
 Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than dread, 
 
 Thus Conrad, too, -will quit me for the main: 
 
 And he deceived me — for — he came again !" 
 
 "Again — again — and oft again — my love! 
 
 If there be life below, and hope above. 
 
 He will return — but now, the moments bring 
 
 The time of parting with redoubled wing : 
 
 The vvliy — the where — what boots it now to tell ? 
 
 Since all must end in that wild word — farewell ! 
 
 Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 
 
 Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 
 
 And here shall v/atch a more than wonted guard, 
 
 For sudden siege and long defence prepared : 
 
 Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord 's away. 
 
 Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay ; 
 
 And this thy comfort — that, when next we meet, 
 
 Security shall make repose more sweet. 
 
 List ! — 't is the bugle — Juan shrilly blew — 
 
 One kiss — one more— another — Oh ! Adieu !" 
 
 She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace, 
 Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
 He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye. 
 Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
 Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms. 
 In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 
 Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
 So full — thai feeling seem'd almost unfelt ! 
 Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun ! 
 It told 'twas sunset — and he cursed that sun. 
 Again — again — that form he madly press'd, 
 Which mutually clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ! 
 And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 
 One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; 
 Felt — that for him earth held but her alone, 
 Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad gone ? 
 
 " And is he gone ?" — on sudden solitude 
 
 How oft that fearful question \vill intrude ! 
 
 " 'T was but an instant past — and here he stood ! 
 
 And now" — without the portal's porch she rush'd. 
 
 And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 
 
 Big — bright — and fast, unknown to her they fell ; 
 
 But still her lips refused to send — " Farewell !" 
 
 For in that word — that fatal word — howe'er 
 
 We promise — hope — believe — there breathes despair. 
 
 O'er every feature of that still, pale face, 
 
 Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase : 
 
 The tender blue of that large lo^^ng eye 
 Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, 
 Till-^Oh, how far ! — it caught a ghmpse of him, 
 And then it flow'd — and phrensied seem'd to swim 
 Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd 
 With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 
 " He 's gone !" — against her heart that hand is driven, 
 Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven 
 She look'd and s'aw the heaving of the main ; 
 The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 
 But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 
 " It is no dream — and I am desolate 1" 
 
 XVI. 
 
 From crag to crag descending — swiftly sped 
 
 Stern Conrad dowTi, nor once he turn'd his head; 
 
 But slirunli whene'er the windings of his way 
 
 Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 
 
 His lone, but lovely dwelhng on the steep. 
 
 That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep : 
 
 And she — the dim and melancholy star, 
 
 Whose ray of beauty reach'd liim from afar. 
 
 On her he must not gaze, he must not think, 
 
 There he might rest— but on Destruction's brink ■ 
 
 Yet once ahnost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 
 
 His fate to chance, his projects to the wave ; 
 
 But no — it must not be— a worthy chief 
 
 IMay melt, but not betray to woman 's grief. 
 
 He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 
 
 And sternly gathers all his might of mind ; 
 
 Again he hurries on — and as he hears 
 
 The clang of tumult \abrate on his ears 
 
 The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 
 
 The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 
 
 As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast, 
 
 The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, 
 
 The waving kerchiefs of the crowd tliat urge 
 
 That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 
 
 And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft. 
 
 He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 
 
 Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 
 
 He feels of all his former self possest ; 
 
 He boimds — he flies— imtil Ms footsteps reach 
 
 The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach. 
 
 There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 
 
 The breezy freshness of the deep beneath. 
 
 Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
 
 Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view ; 
 
 For well had Conrad leam'd to curb the crowd, 
 
 By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; 
 
 His was the lofty port, tb.e distant mien, 
 
 That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen : 
 
 The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, 
 
 That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 
 
 All these he wielded to command assent : 
 
 But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent. 
 
 That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, 
 
 And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, 
 
 When echo'd to the heart as from his own 
 
 His deep yet tender melody of tone : 
 
 But such was foreign to his wonted mood. 
 
 He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued , 
 
 The evil passions of his youth had made 
 
 Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. 
 
 xvir. 
 Aromid him mustering ranged his ready guard. 
 Before him Juan stands— "Are all prepared?" 
 
 " They are — nay more — embark'd : the latest boat 
 
 Waits but my chief " 
 
 " My sword, and my capote. 
 Soon firmly girded on, and Hghtly slung, 
 His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung : 
 " Call Pedro here !" He comes — and Conrad bends, 
 With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; 
 
110 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 "Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, 
 Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
 Double the giiard, and when Ansehno's bark 
 Arrives, let him alike these orders mark: 
 In three days (serve the breeze) the sim shall shine 
 On our return — till then all peace be thine !" 
 This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung, 
 Then to liis boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
 Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke, 
 Around the waves' phosphoric ^ brightness broke ; 
 They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands, 
 Shrieks the shrill wliistle — ply the busy hands — 
 He marks how well the ship her helm obeys. 
 How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
 His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
 Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn? 
 Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
 And live a moment o'er the parting hour ; 
 She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ? 
 Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
 But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
 Again he mans himself and turns away ; 
 DowTi to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends. 
 And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends ; 
 Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the chart, 
 And all that speaks and aids the naval art \ 
 They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 
 To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
 Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, 
 And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew; 
 Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle 
 To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile : 
 And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
 Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
 Count they each sail — and mark how there supine 
 The hghts in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
 Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
 And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie ; 
 Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape. 
 That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
 Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
 Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
 While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood. 
 And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 Conosceste I dubiosi desiri f '' 
 
 In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
 Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
 For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night : 
 A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 
 When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers home; 
 Tliis hath he sworn by Alia and liis sword, 
 And faitliful to hLs firman and Ms word, 
 His summon'd prows collect along the coast. 
 And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast : 
 Already shared the captives and the prize. 
 Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
 'T is but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's Sun 
 Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won ! 
 Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will. 
 Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
 Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
 To flesh tlieir glowing valour on the Greek ; 
 
 How well such deed becomes the turban'd brave — 
 
 To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 
 
 Infest his dv/elling— but forbear to slay, 
 
 Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day. 
 
 And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
 
 Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 
 
 To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
 
 Revel and rout the evening hours beguile. 
 
 And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; 
 
 For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 
 
 And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 
 
 II. 
 
 High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
 Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
 Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff" — 
 Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quaf^ 
 Though to the rest the sober berry's juice ^ 
 The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use; 
 The long Chibouque's "* dissolving cloud supply, 
 While dance the Almus * to wild minstrelsy. 
 The rising morn will view the cliiefs embark ; 
 But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark : 
 And revellers may more securely sleep 
 On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep ; 
 Feast there who can — nor combat till they must, 
 And less to conquest than to Korans trust ; 
 And yet the numbers crowded in liis host 
 IMight warrant more than even the Pacha's boast. 
 
 III. 
 With cautious reverence from the outer gate 
 Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait. 
 Bows liis bent head — his hand salutes the floor. 
 Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidmgs bore : 
 " A captive Der\nse, from the pirate's nest 
 Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest." 
 He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, 
 And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
 His arms were folded on his dark-green vest, 
 His step was feeble, and his look deprest ; 
 Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than years, 
 And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
 Vow'd to his God — liis sable locks he wore, 
 And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : 
 Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, 
 And wrapt a breast bestow'd on heaven alone 
 Submissive, yet With, self-possession marm'd, 
 He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
 And question of his coming fain would seelc. 
 Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Whence com'st thou, Dervise 'P 
 
 '• From the outlaw's den, 
 A fugitive — ^ 
 
 " Thy capture where and when ?" 
 "From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle. 
 The Saick was bound : but Alia did not smile 
 Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
 The Rovers won : our limbs have worn their chains. 
 I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast. 
 Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
 At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
 Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight : 
 I seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
 With thee — most mighty Pacha ! who can fear?" 
 
 " How speed the outlaws ? stand they well prepared. 
 Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard ? 
 Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
 To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed ?" 
 
 " Pacha ! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye. 
 
 That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy 
 
 I only heard the reckless waters roar, 
 
 Those waves tliat would not bear me from the shore ; 
 
Canto It. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky. 
 Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 
 And felt — that all which Freedom's bosom cheers, 
 Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
 This ma/st thou judge, at least, from my escape, 
 They Uttle deem of aught in peril's shape ; 
 Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 
 That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 
 The careless guard that did not see me fly, 
 May watch as idly when thy power is nigh : 
 Pacha ! — my limbs are famt — and nature craves 
 Food for ray hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
 Permit my absence — peace be v\'ith thee ! Peace 
 With aU around ! — now grant repose — release." 
 " Stay, Dervise I I have more to question — stay, 
 I do command thee — sit — dost hear ? — obey ! 
 More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring ; 
 Thou shalt not pine w-here all are banqueting : 
 The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 
 Clearly and fuU — I love not mystery." 
 
 'T were vain to guess what shook the pious man, 
 Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 
 Nor show'd high rehsh for the banquet prest, 
 And less respect for every fellow guest. 
 'T was but a moment's peevish hectic past 
 Along his cheek, and tranquilhzed as fast : 
 He sate liim dovm in silence, and his look 
 Resumed the calnmess which before forsook : 
 The feast wels usher'd ki — but sumptuous fare 
 He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
 For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
 Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 
 " What ails thee, Dervise ? eat — dost thou suppose 
 This feast a Christian's? or my friends thy foes? 
 Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred pledge, 
 Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 
 Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
 And hated hosts seem brethi-en to the sight !" 
 
 " Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
 The hiunblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 
 And my stern vow and order's ^ laws oppose 
 To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ] 
 It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread. 
 That peril rests upon my single head ; 
 But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultein's throne, 
 I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ; 
 Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
 To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 
 
 ""VVell — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
 
 One question answer ; then in peace depart. 
 
 How many ? — Ha ! it cannot sure be day ? 
 
 What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 
 
 It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 
 
 Ho ! treachery ! my guards ! my scimitar ! 
 
 The galleys feed the flames — and I afar! 
 
 Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 
 
 Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him now ! 
 
 Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
 Nor less his change of form appaU'd the sight : 
 Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 
 But like a warrior bounding on liis barb, 
 Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
 Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! 
 His close but gUttering casque, and sable plume. 
 More gUttering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom, 
 Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, 
 Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
 The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
 Of flames on high, and torches from below ; 
 The shriek of terror, and the mingling yeU — 
 For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell, 
 Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell ! 
 
 Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
 
 Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
 
 Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 
 
 Thei/ seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai I 
 
 He saw their terror — check'd the first despair 
 
 That urged him but to stand and perish there. 
 
 Since far too early and too well obe/d. 
 
 The flame was kindled ere the signal made ; 
 
 He saw their terror — from his baidi-ic drew 
 
 His bugle — brief the blast — but shriUy blew ; 
 
 'T is answer'd — " Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 
 
 Why did I doubt their quickness of career ? 
 
 And deem design had left me single here?" 
 
 Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whii-hng sway 
 
 Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
 
 Completes his fury, what their fear begun. 
 
 And maJies the many basely quail to one. 
 
 The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
 
 And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 
 
 Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhehn'd, %vith rage, surprise, 
 
 Retreats before him, though he still defies. 
 
 No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 
 
 So much Confiision magnifies his foe ! 
 
 His blazing galleys stiU distract his sight, 
 
 He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight ; ^ 
 
 For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate, 
 
 And burst within — and it were death to wait; 
 
 Where wild Amazement slii-ieking — kneehng — throws 
 
 The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 
 
 The Corsahs poin-ing, haste to where within, 
 
 Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
 
 Of groaning \ictims, and wild cries for life, 
 
 Proclaun'd how well he did the work of strife. 
 
 They shout to find liim grim and lonely there, 
 
 A glutted tiger manghng in his lair ! 
 
 But short their greeting — shorter liis reply — 
 
 •' 'Tis well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die — 
 
 Much hath been done — but more remains to do — 
 
 Their galleys blaze — why not their city too ?" 
 
 V. 
 
 duick at the word — they seized hun each a torch, 
 
 And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
 
 A stern dehght was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 
 
 But sudden sunk — for on his eai- the cry 
 
 Of women struck, and Uke a deadly knell 
 
 I^ock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 
 
 " Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not on your lives 
 
 One female form — remember — we have wdves. 
 
 On them such outrage Vengeance will repay; 
 
 Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay : 
 
 But StiU we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 
 
 Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven wiU not forgive 
 
 If at my word the helpless cease to live : 
 
 FoUow^ who win — I go — we yet have time 
 
 Our souls to Ughten of at least a crime." 
 
 He climbs the crackling stau- — he bursts the door, 
 
 Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 
 
 His breath choked gaspmg with the volumed smoke, 
 
 But StiU fi-om room to room his way he broke. 
 
 They search — they find — they save : with lusty arms 
 
 Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; 
 
 Cahn then- loud fears ; sustain their sinking firames 
 
 With aU the care defenceless beauty claims : 
 
 So weU could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, 
 
 And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 
 
 But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 
 
 From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away — 
 
 ■Who but the love of liim he dooms to bleed? 
 
 The Haram queen — but stiU the slave of Seyd ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Brief time had Conrad now to greet GuLiare,^ 
 Few words to reassure the trembling fair ; 
 For in that pause compassion snatch'd from war, 
 The foe before retiring, fast and far, 
 
112 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Cakto II. 
 
 With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 
 
 First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. 
 
 This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few, 
 
 Compared with hi?, tlie Corsair's roving crew, 
 
 And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 
 
 The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 
 
 Alia il Alia ! Vengeance swells the cry — 
 
 Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 
 
 And flame for tlame and blood for blood must tell, 
 
 The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well — 
 
 When wrath returns to renovated strife. 
 
 And those who fought for conquest strike for life. 
 
 Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 
 
 His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd : 
 
 " One effort — one — to break the circling host !" 
 
 They form — unite — charge — waver — all is lost! 
 
 Within a narrov.-er ring compress'd, beset. 
 
 Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 
 
 Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 
 
 Hemm'd in — cut off — clefl down — and trampled o'er ; 
 
 But each strilces singly, silently, and home, 
 
 And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome. 
 
 His last faint quittance rendering with his breath, 
 
 Till the blade glimmers in the gi-asp of death ! 
 
 But first, ere came the rallying host to blows, 
 
 And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 
 
 Guhmre and all her Haram handmaids freed. 
 
 Safe in the dome of one who held their creed, 
 
 By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd, 
 
 And dried those tears f jr life and fame that flow'd : 
 
 And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
 
 Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair, 
 
 Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
 
 That smooth'd his 9.ccents ; soften'd in his eye: 
 
 'T was strange — that robber thus \vith gore bedew'd, 
 
 Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
 
 The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
 
 Must seem dehghted with the heart he gave ; 
 
 The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright, 
 
 As if his homage were a woman's right. 
 
 " The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — vain : 
 
 Yet much I long to view that cliief again ; 
 
 If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 
 
 The life — my loving lord remember'd not !" 
 
 And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 
 
 But gather'd breathing' from the happier dead ; 
 
 Far from his bemd, and battling with a host 
 
 That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 
 
 Fell'd — bleeding — baffled of the death he sought, 
 
 And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 
 
 Preserved to hnger and to live in vam. 
 
 While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain 
 
 And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed agam — 
 
 But drop by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 
 
 Would doom him ever dying — ^ne'er to die ! 
 
 Can this be he? triumphant late she saw. 
 
 When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law ! 
 
 'T is he indeed — disarm'd but undeprest, 
 
 His sole regret the life he still possest ; 
 
 His wounds too sHght, though taken with that will. 
 
 Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could kill. 
 
 Oh were there none, of all the many given, 
 
 To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven ? 
 
 Must he alone of all retain his breath, 
 
 Who more tiian all had striven and struck for death ? 
 
 He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel. 
 
 When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel. 
 
 For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
 
 Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — 
 
 He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 
 
 That led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 
 
 Still in his stern and self-collected mien 
 
 A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen, 
 
 Though faint with wasting toil and stiffenmg wound, 
 
 But few that saw — so calmly gazed around : 
 
 Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, 
 
 Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud. 
 
 The better warriors who beheld him near. 
 
 Insulted not the foe who taught them fear ; 
 
 And the grim guards that to his durance led. 
 
 In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there, 
 To note how much the life yet lefl could bear ; 
 He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 
 And promise feeling for the wTench of pain : 
 To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 
 Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 
 And rising with the wonted blush of morn 
 Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
 Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
 Which adds all other agony to thirst, 
 That day by day death still forbears to slake, 
 While famish'd vultures flit around the stake. 
 Oh! water — water!" — smiling Hate denies 
 The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — he dies. 
 This was his doom: — the Leech, the guard, were gone, 
 And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 
 
 X. 
 
 'T were vain to paint to what his feelings grew — 
 It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
 There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 
 Wlien all its elements convulsed — combined- 
 Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 
 And gnashing with impenitent Remorse ; 
 That juggling fiend — who never spake before — 
 But cries " I warn'd thee !" when the deed is o'er. 
 Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent, 
 May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent ! 
 Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 
 And, to itself, all— all that self reveals. 
 No single passion, and no ruling thought 
 That leaves the rest as once unseen, imsought; 
 But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 
 AU rushing through their thousand avenues. 
 Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 
 Endanger'd glory, life itself beset ; 
 The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 
 'Gainst those who fain would triumph in ow fate ; 
 The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 
 Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; 
 Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd not 
 So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 
 Things Ught or lovely in their acted time. 
 But now to stern reflection each a crime ; 
 The withering sense of evil unreveal'd. 
 Not cankering less because the more conceal'd — 
 AU, in a word, from which aU eyes must start, 
 That opening sepulchre — the naked heart 
 Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake. 
 To snatch the mirror from the soul — and breaJc. 
 Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all, 
 All — all — before—beyond — the deadliest fall. 
 Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, 
 The only hypocrite deserving praise : 
 Not the loud recreant wi-etch who boasts and flies , 
 But he who looks on death — and silent dies. 
 So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career, 
 He half-way meets him should he menace near! 
 
 XI. 
 
 In the high chamber of his highest tower 
 Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
 His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort 
 Contain'd at once his captive and hia court. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE CORSAIRi 
 
 113 
 
 Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 
 
 His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same : — 
 
 Alone he sate — in sohtude had scann'd 
 
 His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd: 
 
 One thought alone he could not — dared not meet — 
 
 " Oh, how these tidings vnAl Medora greet ?" 
 
 Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised. 
 
 And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed ; 
 
 But soon he found — or feign'd — or dream'd rehef, 
 
 And smiled in self-derision of his grie^ 
 
 " And now come torture when it will — or may, 
 
 More need of rest to nerve me for the day!" 
 
 This said, with languor to his mat he crept, 
 
 And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 
 
 'T was hardly midnight when that fray begun, 
 
 For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done ; 
 
 And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, 
 
 She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
 
 One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd — 
 
 Disguised — discover'd — conquering-ta'en-condemn'd — 
 
 A cliief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 
 
 DestrojTng — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 
 
 Was hush'd so deep — Ah ! happy if in death ! 
 
 He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends ? 
 
 His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends 
 
 Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace? 
 
 No, 't is an earthly form with heavenly face ! 
 
 Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 
 
 Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
 
 Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain. 
 
 And once unclosed — but once may close again. 
 
 That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 
 
 And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair ; 
 
 With shape of fairy hghtness — naked foot. 
 
 That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — 
 
 Through guards and dunnest night how came it there ? 
 
 Ah ! rather ask what will not woman dare ? 
 
 Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare ! 
 
 She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest 
 
 In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest. 
 
 She left his side — his signet-ring she bore. 
 
 Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — 
 
 And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 
 
 Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
 
 Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 
 
 Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose ; 
 
 And chUl and nodding at the turret door. 
 
 They stretch their hstless limbs, and watch no more : 
 
 Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 
 
 Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 
 
 She gazed in wonder, "Can he calmly sleep. 
 While other eyes his fall or ravage weep? 
 And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 
 What sudden spell hath made this man so dear ? 
 True — ' tis to Mm my life, and more, I owe. 
 And me and mine he spared from worse than wo : 
 'T is late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — 
 How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes !" 
 
 He raised his head — and dazzled with the light, 
 
 His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright : 
 
 He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 
 
 Too harshly told him that he lived again. 
 
 ^ What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 
 
 Methinks, my jailor's face shows wond'rous fair!" 
 
 " Pirate ! thou know'st me not — but I am one, 
 Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
 Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
 Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band. 
 P 
 
 I come through darkness — and I scarce know why — 
 Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 
 
 " If so, kind lady I thme the only eye 
 
 That would not here in that gay hope deUght : 
 
 Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right. 
 
 But still I thank their courtesy or thine. 
 
 That would confess me at so fair a shrine I" 
 
 Strange though it seem — yet with extremest grief 
 
 Is Unk'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 
 
 That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles. 
 
 And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; 
 
 And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 
 
 Till even the scaffold ^° echoes with their jest ! 
 
 Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 
 
 It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 
 
 Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 
 
 A laughing wildness half unbent his brow : 
 
 And these his accents had a soimd of mirth, 
 
 As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 
 
 Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life, 
 
 Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. 
 
 " Corsair ! thy doom is named — but I have power 
 
 To sooth the Pacha in his weaker hour. 
 
 Thee would I spare — nay more — would save thee now, 
 
 But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow ; 
 
 But all I can, I wUl: at least delay 
 
 The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
 
 More now were ruin — even thyself w-ere loath 
 
 The vain attempt should bring but doom to both." 
 
 *' Yes ! — loath indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, 
 
 Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : 
 
 Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope 
 
 Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : 
 
 Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly. 
 
 The one of all my band that would not die ? 
 
 Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 
 
 Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 
 
 My sole resources in the path I trod 
 
 Were these — my bark — my sword — my love — my God ! 
 
 The last I left in youth — he leaves me now — 
 
 And man but w^orks his will to lay me low. 
 
 1 have no thought to mock his throne with prayer 
 
 Wrung from the coward crouching of despair ; 
 
 It is enough — 1 breathe — and I can bear. 
 
 My s%vord is shaken from the worthless hand 
 
 That might have better kept so true a brand ; 
 
 My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 
 
 For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
 
 Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — 
 
 And this will break a heart so more than kind, 
 
 And blight a form — till thine appear'd Gulnare 
 
 Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair." 
 
 " Thou lov'st another then ? — but what to me 
 Is this — 't is nothing — nothing e'er can be : 
 But yet — thou lov'st — and — Oh ! I envy those 
 Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, 
 Who never feel the void — the wandering thought 
 That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath wrought." 
 
 " Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
 This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 
 
 " My love stern Seyd's ! Oh — No — No — not my love- 
 Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove 
 To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
 I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free. 
 I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, 
 To share his splendour, and seem very blest ! " 
 
114 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 Oft must my soul the qiiesiion undergo, 
 
 Of—' Dost thou love ?' and burn to answer, ' No !' 
 
 Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 
 
 And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 
 
 But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 
 
 And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
 
 He takes the hand 1 give not — nor withhold — 
 
 Its pulse not check'd — nor quicken'd — calmly cold: 
 
 And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 
 
 From one I never loved enough to hate. 
 
 No warmth these lips return by his imprest, 
 
 And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 
 
 Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 
 
 The change to hatred were at least to feel: 
 
 But still — he goes mimourn'd — returns unsought — 
 
 And oft when present — absent from my thought. 
 
 Or when reflection comes, and come it must — 
 
 I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust; 
 
 I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 
 
 'T were worse than bondage to become his bride. 
 
 Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease I 
 
 Or seek another and give mine release. 
 
 But yesterday — I could have said, to peace ! 
 
 Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign, 
 
 Remember — captive ! 't is to break thy chain ; 
 
 Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 
 
 To give thee back to all endear'd below. 
 
 Who share such love as I can never know. 
 
 Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away : 
 
 'T will cost me dear — but dread no death to-day !" 
 
 XV. 
 
 She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart. 
 
 And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart. 
 
 And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 
 
 And was she here ? and is he now alone ? 
 
 What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain ? 
 
 The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain, 
 
 That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's mine, 
 
 Already polish'd by the hand divine ! 
 
 Oh! too convincmg — dangerously dear — 
 
 In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! 
 
 That weapon of her weakness she can wield. 
 
 To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield: 
 
 Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs, 
 
 Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! 
 
 What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 
 
 The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 
 
 Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven, 
 
 By this — how many lose not earth — ^but heaven ! 
 
 Consign their souls to man's eternal foe. 
 
 And seal their own to spare some wanton's wo! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 'T is morn— and o'er his alter'd features play 
 The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
 What shall he be ere night ? perchance a thing 
 O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing: 
 By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt. 
 While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt. 
 Chill — wet — and misty round each stiflen'd limb, 
 Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! — 
 
 CANTO m. 
 
 Come vedi— ancornon m'abbacdona." 
 
 Dante. 
 
 I. 
 
 Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run. 
 Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
 Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, 
 But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 
 
 O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 
 Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 
 On old jEgina's rock, and Idra's isle. 
 The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
 O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 
 Though there his altars are no more divine ; 
 Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss 
 Thy glorious gulfj unconquer'd Salamis ! 
 Their azure arches through the long expanse 
 More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, 
 And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
 Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 
 Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep. 
 Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 
 On such an eve, his palest beam he cast. 
 When — Athens ! here thy Wisest look'd his last. 
 How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray. 
 That closed their murder'd sage's " latest day ! 
 Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
 The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
 But sad his light to agonizing eyes. 
 And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 
 Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
 The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before, 
 But ere he sank below Cithceron's head. 
 The cup of wo was quafF'd — the spirit fled; 
 The soul of him who scorn 'd to fear or fly — 
 Who liv'd and died, as none can live or die ! 
 
 But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain. 
 
 The queen of night asserts her silent reign.' ^ 
 
 No murky vapour, herald of the storm. 
 
 Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 
 
 With cornice glimmering as the moon-beams play 
 
 There the white column greets her grateful ray, 
 
 And, bright around with quivering beams bese^ 
 
 Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
 
 The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 
 
 Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 
 
 The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
 
 The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk," 
 
 And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 
 
 Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm. 
 
 All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye — 
 
 And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 
 
 Again the ^gean, heard no more afar, 
 
 LuUs his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
 
 Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
 
 Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 
 
 MLxt with the shades of many a distant isle, 
 
 That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile.*'* 
 
 II. 
 Not now my theme — why turn ray thoughts to thee? 
 Oh ! who can look along thy native sea. 
 Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale. 
 So much its magic must o'er all prevail? 
 Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set. 
 Fair Athens ! could thine evening face forget ? 
 Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance frees, 
 Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades ! 
 Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, 
 His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — 
 Would that with freedom it were thine again! 
 
 III. 
 
 The Sun hath sunK — ana, darker than the night, 
 Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height, 
 Medora's heart — the third day 's come and gone — 
 With it he comes not — sends not — faithless one ! 
 The wind was fair though Ught ; and storms were 
 
 none. 
 
 Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet 
 His only tidings that they had not met ! 
 Though wild, as now, far different were the tale 
 Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 
 
Canto III. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 115 
 
 The night-breeze freshens — she that day had past 
 In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast ; 
 Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
 At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, 
 And there she wander'd heedless of the spray 
 That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away : 
 She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart. 
 Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart ; 
 Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
 His very Sight had shock'd from hfe or sense ! 
 
 It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat. 
 
 Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought ; 
 
 Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — 
 
 Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knew. 
 
 In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait 
 
 His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : 
 
 Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear 
 
 To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 
 
 She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not— 
 
 Beneath that griefj that loneliness of lot. 
 
 Within that meek fair form, were feelings high. 
 
 That deem'd not till they found their energy. 
 
 While yet was Hope — they soften'd — flutter'd — wept — 
 
 All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 
 
 And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said, 
 
 "With nothing left to love — there's nought to dread." 
 
 'T is more than nature's ; like the burning might 
 
 Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 
 
 " Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 
 
 What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well — 
 
 Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 
 
 The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." 
 
 "Lady! we know not — scarce with life we fled; 
 
 But here is one denies that he is dead : 
 
 He saw him bound ; and bleeding — ^but alive." 
 
 She heard no further — ^"t was in vain to strive — 
 So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then with- 
 stood ; 
 Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued : 
 She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
 Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave ; 
 But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes. 
 They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies: 
 Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
 Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew ; 
 Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
 That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve ; 
 Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
 The tale too tedious — ^when the triumph short. 
 
 In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange, 
 With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; 
 All, save repose or flight : still lingering there 
 Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ; 
 Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led 
 Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
 Wo to his foes ! there yet survive a few. 
 Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 
 
 Within the Haram's secret chamber sate 
 
 Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate ; 
 
 His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, 
 
 Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell; 
 
 Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined 
 
 Surveys his brow — would sooth his gloom of mind : 
 
 While many an anxious glance her large dark eye 
 
 Sends in its idle search for sympathy, 
 
 His only bends in seeming o'er his beads," 
 
 But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 
 
 " Pacha ! the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
 Sits triumph — Conrad taken — fall'n the rest ! 
 His doom is fix'd — he dies : and well his fate 
 Was eam'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate; 
 Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
 With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 
 Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard — 
 Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! 
 While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray — 
 Watch'd — follow'd — he were then an easier prey ; 
 But once cut off" — the remnant of his band 
 Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 
 
 "Gulnare ! — if for each drop of blood a gem 
 
 Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 
 
 If for each hair of his a massy mine 
 
 Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; 
 
 If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 
 
 Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem ! 
 
 It had not now redeem'd a single hour; 
 
 But that I know him fetter'd, in my power ; 
 
 And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 
 
 On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 
 
 " Nay, Seyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
 Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
 My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
 His riches — thus released, he were not free: 
 Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 
 His capture could but wait thy first command." 
 
 " His capture could ! — and shall I then resign 
 
 One day to him — the wretch already mine ? 
 
 Release my foe !— at whose remonstrance ? — thine 
 
 Fair suitor ! — to thy virtues gratitude. 
 
 That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 
 
 Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 
 
 No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, 
 
 My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear ! 
 
 I have a council for thy gentler ear : 
 
 I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 
 
 Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 
 
 Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 
 
 Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly? 
 
 Thou need'st not answer — thy confession speaks. 
 
 Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 
 
 Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 
 
 'T is not his life alone may claim such care ! 
 
 Another word and — nay — I need no more. 
 
 Accursed was the moment when he bore 
 
 Thee from the flames, which better far — but — ^no — 
 
 I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's wo — 
 
 Now 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing! 
 
 Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wmg ? 
 
 In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 
 
 Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe !" 
 
 He rose — ^and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
 Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu : 
 Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 
 Which frowns ne'er quelj'd, nor menaces subdued ; 
 And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare ! 
 When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. 
 His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 
 How deep the root from whence compassion grew — 
 She was a slave — from such may captives claim 
 A fellow-feeling, differing but in name ; 
 Still half unconscious — heedless of his wi-ath, 
 Again she ventured on the dangerous path, 
 Again his rage repell'd — until arose 
 That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — the same 
 RoU'd day and night — his soul could never tame — 
 
118 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 
 
 "When every hour might doom him \vorse than dead, 
 
 When every step that echo'd by the gate 
 
 IMisht entering lead where axe and stake await; 
 
 "When ever)' voice that grated on liis ear 
 
 Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 
 
 Could terror tame — that spirit stem and high 
 
 Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 
 
 'T wELs worn — perhaps decay'd — ^j-et silent bore 
 
 That conflict deadlier far than all before : 
 
 The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 
 
 Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 
 
 But boimd and fix'd in fetter'd solitude, 
 
 To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 
 
 To gaze on thine o^vn heart ; and meditate 
 
 Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — 
 
 Too late the la^t to shun — the first to mend — 
 
 To count the hours that struggle to thine end^ 
 
 With not a friend to animate, and tell 
 
 To other ears that deaUi became thee well: 
 
 Aroiuid thee foes to forge the ready he, 
 
 And blot life's latest scene with calumny ; 
 
 Before the tortiu-es, which the soul can dare. 
 
 Yet doubts how well the skrinking flesh may bear ; 
 
 But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 
 
 To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim | 
 
 The life thou learst below, denied above 
 
 By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 
 
 And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 
 
 Of eartlily hope — tliy loved one from thee riven. 
 
 Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 
 
 And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 
 
 And those sustain'd he — ^boots it well or ill? 
 
 Since not to sink beneath, is something still ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 The first day pass'd — he saw not her — Gulnare — 
 
 The second — third — and still she came not there ; 
 
 But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done. 
 
 Or else he had not seen another sun. 
 
 The fourth day roU'd along, and with the night 
 
 Came storm and darkness in their mingling might : 
 
 Oh I how he listen'd to the rushing deep. 
 
 That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep ; 
 
 And his '«-ild spirit Nvilder wishes sent, 
 
 Roused by the roar of his o^ti element ! 
 
 Oft had he ridden on that winged wave. 
 
 And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ; 
 
 And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 
 
 A long known voice — alas ! too vainlv near ! 
 
 Loud simg the ■nind above; and, doublv loud, 
 
 Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; 
 
 And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, 
 
 To him more genial than the midnight star : 
 
 Close to the ghmmering grate he dragg'd his chain. 
 
 And hope that peril might not prove in vain. 
 
 He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 
 
 One pit}Tng flash to mar the form it made : " 
 
 His steel and impious prayer attract aUke — 
 
 The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike ; 
 
 Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone, 
 
 As if some faithless friend had spum'd his groan ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The midnight pass'd — and to the massy door 
 A hght step came — ^it paused — it moved once more ; 
 Slow turns the grating boh and sullen kev: 
 'T is as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! 
 Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
 And beauteous still as hermif's hope can paint ; 
 Yet changed since last -.vithin that cell she came, 
 More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame: 
 On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
 Which spoke before her accent^— " thou must die! 
 Yes, thou must die— there is but one resource, 
 The last — the worst— if tortu.-e- were not worse." 
 
 " Lady '. I look to none — my lips proclaim 
 What last proclaim'd they— Conrad still the same: 
 "Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
 And change the sentence I deserve to bear? 
 Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
 Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 
 
 " "Why should I seek ? because — Oh ! didst thou not 
 
 Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot? 
 
 Why should I seek ? — hath misery made thee blind 
 
 To the fond workings of a woman's mind ! 
 
 And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 
 
 With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 
 
 Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved : 
 
 It fear'd thee — thanlrd thee — pitied — madden'd — loved. 
 
 Reply not, tell not now thy tale again. 
 
 Thou loy St another — and I love in vain ; 
 
 Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
 
 I rush thi'ough peril which she would not dare. 
 
 If that thy heart to hers were truly dear. 
 
 Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 
 
 An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! 
 
 WTiat hath such gentle dame lo do with home ? 
 
 But speaJv not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 
 
 Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 
 
 If thou hast cotirage still, and wouWst be free. 
 
 Receive this poniard — rise — and follow me !" 
 
 ** Ay — in my chains I my steps wiU gentry tread, 
 With these adorrmaents, o'er each slumbering head! 
 Thou hcLst forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
 Or is that instrument more fit for fight?" 
 
 * Misdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the guard, 
 
 Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 
 
 A single word of mine removes that chain : 
 
 Without some aid how here could I remain ? 
 
 Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time. 
 
 If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 
 
 The crime — 't is none to punish those of Seyd. 
 
 That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed 1 
 
 I see thee shudder — ^but my soul is changed — 
 
 Wrong'd, spum'd, reviled — and it shall be avenged — 
 
 Accused of what till now mv heart disdain'd — 
 
 Too faitliful, though to biner bondage chain'd. 
 
 Yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 
 
 I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear: 
 
 But he has said it — and the jealous well, 
 
 Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel. 
 
 Deserve the fate their fretting lips foreteU. 
 
 I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 
 
 Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 
 
 I was a slave unmurmuring : he hath said, 
 
 But for his rescue 1 with thee had fled. 
 
 'T was false thou knowst — but let such augurs rue. 
 
 Their words are omens Insult renders true. 
 
 Nor was thy respite granted to mv praver; 
 
 This fleeting grace was only to prepare 
 
 New torments for thy life, and my despair. 
 
 Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 
 
 Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 
 
 When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, 
 
 There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea ! 
 
 What, am I then a toy for dotard's plav, 
 
 To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 
 
 I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — ^would save. 
 
 If but to show how grateful is a slave. 
 
 But had he not thus menaced fame and life, 
 
 (And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife) 
 
 Instill had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 
 
 Now I am all thme own— for all prepared : 
 
 Thou lov'st me not — nor knoVst — or but the worst. 
 
 Alas 1 this love — that hatred are the first — 
 
 Oh! could'st thou prove my truth, thou would'st not star^ 
 
 Nor fear the fixe that lights an Eastern heart, 
 
CA^-To III. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 117 
 
 'T is now the beacon of thy safety — now 
 Ir. points within tlie port a Mainote prow : 
 But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
 There sleeps — he must not wake — tlie oppressor Seyd I 
 
 * Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt til! now 
 
 My abject fortune, ^\ither'd fame so low: 
 
 Seyd is mine enemy ; had swept my band 
 
 From earth with ruthless but ■srith open hand, 
 
 And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 
 
 To smite the smiter \vitli the scimitar ; 
 
 Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 
 
 Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 
 
 Thine saved I gladly. Lady, not for this — 
 
 Let me not deem that n.ercy shown amiss. 
 
 Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast ! 
 
 Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest !" 
 
 'Rest! rest! by sum-ise must thy sinews shake, 
 
 And thy hmbs wTithe around the ready stake. 
 
 I heard the order — saw — I wiU not see — 
 
 If thou wilt perish, I will fall wth thee. 
 
 My life — ray love — ^my hatred — all below 
 
 Are on this cast — Corsair! 'tis but a blow! 
 
 Without it flight were idle — how evade 
 
 His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid, 
 
 My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years. 
 
 One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 
 
 But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 
 
 I '11 try the firmness of a female hand, 
 
 The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o'er — 
 
 Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 
 
 If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 
 
 Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud." 
 
 She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 
 
 But his glance foUow'd far Avith eager eye ; 
 
 And gathering, as he could, the links that boimd 
 
 His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 
 
 Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude. 
 
 He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 
 
 'T was dark and winding, and he knew not where 
 
 That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : 
 
 He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 
 
 Or shim tliat ray so indistinct and weak ? 
 
 Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to bear 
 
 Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 
 
 He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye 
 
 Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : 
 
 Yet scarcely heeded these — another Ught 
 
 From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 
 
 Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing door 
 
 Reveal'd the ray %vithin, but nothing more. 
 
 With hasty step a figure outward past. 
 
 Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 't is She at last ! 
 
 No poniard m that hand — nor sign of ill — 
 
 " Thanks to that softening heart — she could not kiU !" 
 
 Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 
 
 Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 
 
 She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hair, 
 
 That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair : 
 
 As if she late had bent her leaning head . 
 
 Above some object of her doubt or dread. 
 
 They meet — upon her brow — ^unkno\\-n — forgot — 
 
 Her hurrying hand had left — 't was but a spot — 
 
 Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 
 
 Oh ! shght but certain pledge of crime — 't is blood ! 
 
 He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 
 O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshowTi ; 
 He had been tempted — chastened — and the chain 
 Yet on his arms might ever there remain : 
 
 But ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 
 From all his feehngs in their inmost force — 
 So thrill'd — so shudder'd every creeping vein. 
 As now they froze before that purple stain. 
 That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 
 Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 
 Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — ^but then 
 It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men. 
 
 " 'T is done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
 Corsair ! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 
 All words would now be vain — away — away ! 
 Our bark is tossing — 'tis already day. 
 The few gain'd over, now are whoUy mine. 
 And these thy yet sursdving band shall join : 
 Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, 
 When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 
 
 She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour 
 Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor ; 
 Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind; 
 Once more his hmbs are free as mountain wind 
 But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 
 As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
 No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 
 Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
 The city Ues behind — they speed, they reach 
 The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; 
 And Conrad following, at her beck, obeyed, 
 Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd ; 
 Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
 Yet Uved to view the doom Ms ire decreed. 
 
 Embark'd the sail unfurl'd, the hght breeze blew — 
 How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 
 Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape 
 Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
 Ah ! — since that fatal night, though brief the time, 
 Had swept an age of terror, griefj and crime. 
 As its far shadow fro^vn'd above the mast, 
 He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he past ; 
 He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band, 
 His fleeting triumph and his failing hand ; 
 He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
 He turn'd and saw — Guhiare, the homicide ! 
 
 She watch'd his features tiU she could not bear 
 Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
 And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 
 Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
 She knelt beside him and his hand she prest, 
 " Thou may st forgive though AUa's self detest ; 
 But for that deed of darkness what wert thou ? 
 Reproach me — but not yet — Oh ! spare me now ! 
 I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
 My brain bewilder'd — do not madden quite ! 
 If I had never loved — though less my gviilt, 
 Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — ^if thou wilt." 
 
 She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 
 Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made ; 
 But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest. 
 They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 
 Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, 
 The blue waves sport aroimd the stern they urge ; 
 Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 
 A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 
 Their little bark her men of watch descry, 
 And ampler canvass woos the wind from high 
 She bears her down majestically near, 
 Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier 
 
118 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 
 
 Booms harmless, liissing to the deep below. 
 
 Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 
 
 A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 
 
 "'T is^nine — my blood-red flag! again — again — 
 
 I am not all deserted on the main l" 
 
 They own the signal, answer to the hail, 
 
 Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 
 
 «'Tis Conrad! Conrad 1" shouting from the deck, 
 
 Command nor duty could their transport check ! 
 
 With light alacrity and gaze of pride. 
 
 They view him mount once more his vessel's side 
 
 A smile relaxing in each rugged face. 
 
 Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 
 
 He, half forgetting danger and defeat. 
 
 Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 
 
 Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand, 
 
 And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 
 
 These greetings o'er, the feehngs that o'erflow, 
 
 Yet grieve to vnn him back without a blow ; 
 
 They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they known 
 
 A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 
 
 She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
 
 Than haughty Conrad how they wm their way. 
 
 With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, 
 
 They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; 
 
 And her, at once above — beneath her sex, 
 
 Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. 
 
 To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye. 
 
 She drops her veil, and stands in silence by; 
 
 Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, 
 
 Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest. 
 
 Though worse than phrensy could that bosom fill, 
 
 Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill. 
 
 The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! 
 
 This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah! could he less? — 
 
 Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 
 
 What she has done no tears can wash awavj 
 
 And Heaven must punish on its angry day : 
 
 But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt. 
 
 For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt \ 
 
 And he was free ! — and she for him had given 
 
 Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 
 
 And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave 
 
 Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave. 
 
 Who now seem'd changed and humbled : — faint and meek 
 
 But varying oft the colour of her cheek 
 
 To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
 
 That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! 
 
 He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 
 
 So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate ; 
 
 He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his owti 
 
 Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
 
 * Gulnare !" — but she replied not — " dear Gulnare l" 
 
 She raised her eye — her only answer there — 
 
 At once she sought and surxk in his embrace : 
 
 If he had driven her from that resting-place, 
 
 His had been more or less than mortal heart, 
 
 But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
 
 Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 
 
 His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 
 
 Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
 
 That ask'd from form so fair no more than this, 
 
 The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 
 
 To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath. 
 
 To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling, 
 
 As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 They gain by tvidlight's hour tlieir lonely isle. 
 To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 
 
 The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 
 
 The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 
 
 The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 
 
 And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray ; 
 
 Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, 
 
 Greets like the Vv'elcome of his tuneless beak ! 
 
 Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams. 
 
 Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 
 
 Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home, 
 
 Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
 
 And midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower: 
 
 He looks in vain — 't is strange — and all remark, 
 
 Amid so many, her's alone is dark. 
 
 *T is strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd, 
 
 Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd. 
 
 With the first boat descends he for the shore. 
 
 And looks impatient on the fingering oar. 
 
 Oh ! for a v/ing beyond the falcon's flight, 
 
 To bear him like an arrow to that height ! 
 
 With the first pause the resting rowers gave. 
 
 He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave. 
 
 Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high 
 
 Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 
 
 He reach'd his turret door — he paused — no sound 
 Broke from within ; and all was night around. 
 He knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply 
 Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
 He knock'd — but faintly — for his trembling hand 
 Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
 The portal opens — 'tis a well known face — • 
 But not the form he panted to embrace. 
 Its Ups are silent — tvsdce his own essay'd, 
 And fail'd to frame the question they delayed ; 
 He snatch'd the lamp — ^its fight will answer all — 
 It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
 He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
 As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
 But, glimmering through the dusky corridore. 
 Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor; 
 His steps the chamber gain — ^his eyes behold 
 All that his heart befieved not — yet foretold ! 
 
 He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — ^fix'd his look, 
 
 And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
 
 He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain. 
 
 And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 
 
 In life itself she was so still and fair. 
 
 That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; 
 
 And that cold flowers '^ her colder hand contain'd, 
 
 In the last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 
 
 As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, 
 
 And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 
 
 The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 
 
 And veil'd — thought shrmks from all that lurk'd below— 
 
 Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might, 
 
 And hurls the spirit from her throne of fight ! 
 
 Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 
 
 But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — 
 
 Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 
 
 And wish'd repose — but only for a while ; 
 
 But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
 
 Long — fair — but spread in utter fifelessness. 
 
 Which, late the sport of every summer wind. 
 
 Escaped the baflied wreath that strove to bind ; 
 
 These — and the pale pure cheelc, became the bier— 
 
 But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 
 
 XXI. 
 
 He ask'd no question — all were answer'd now 
 By the first glance on that still — marble brow. 
 It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how ? 
 
NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 
 
 119 
 
 The love of youth, the hope of better years, 
 
 The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 
 
 The only hving thing he could not hate. 
 
 Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate. 
 
 But did not feel it less ; — the good explore. 
 
 For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar : 
 
 The proud — the wayward — who have fix'd below 
 
 Their joy, and find this earth enough for wo, 
 
 Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 
 
 But who in patience parts with all deUght ? 
 
 Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
 
 Mask hearts where grief hath httle left to learn ; 
 
 And many a withering thought hes hid, not lost, 
 
 In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 
 
 By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
 The indistmctness of the suffering breast ; 
 Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one. 
 Which seeks from all the refuge found in none ; 
 No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
 For Truth denies all eloquence to Wo. 
 On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
 And stupor almost luU'd it into rest ; 
 So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 
 To those vpild eyes, which like an infant's wept : 
 It was the very weakness of his brain. 
 Which thus confess'd without reheving pain. 
 None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if seen, 
 That useless flood of grief had never been : 
 Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, 
 In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : 
 The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim ; 
 And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
 There is no darkness like the cloud of mind. 
 On Griefs vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
 Which may not—dare not see — but turns aside 
 To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! 
 
 His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to wrong 
 Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; 
 Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 
 Within the grot ; like that had harden'd too ; 
 Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 
 But sunk, and chiU'd, and petrified at last. 
 Yet tempests wear, and Ughtning cleaves the rock, 
 If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 
 There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 
 Though dark the shade — it shelter'd — saved till now 
 The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 
 The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth: 
 The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
 Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell, 
 And of its cold protector, blacken round 
 But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground ! 
 
 'T is morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
 Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his tower 
 He was not there — nor seen along the shore 
 Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er 
 Another morn — another bids them seek. 
 And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
 Mount — grotto — cavern— valley search'd in vain, 
 They find on shore a seaboat's broken chain : 
 Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main, 
 'T is idle all — moons roll on moons away. 
 And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 
 Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
 
 Where Uves his griefj or perish'd his despair ! 
 
 Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside ; 
 
 And fair the monument they gave his bride ; 
 
 For him they raise not the recording stone — 
 
 His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 
 
 He left a Corsair's name to other times, 
 
 Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.** 
 
 NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 
 
 The time in this poem may seem too short for the 
 occurrences, but the whole of the ^gean isles are 
 within a few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader 
 must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often 
 found it. 
 
 Note 1 page 109, line 18. 
 Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. 
 Orlando, Canto 10. 
 
 Note2, page 110, line 10. 
 Around the waves phosphoric brightness broke. 
 By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroke 
 of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is followed 
 by a slight flash like sheet lightning from the water. 
 
 Note 3, page 110, line 17. 
 Though to the rest the sober berry's juice. 
 
 Coffee. 
 
 Note 4, page 110, line 79. 
 The long Chibouque's dissolving cloud supply. 
 Pipe. 
 
 Note 5, page 110, line 80. 
 IVhile dance the Mmas to wild minstrelsy. 
 Dancing girls. 
 
 Note to Canto II. page 110, line 93. 
 It has been objected that Conrad's entering disguised 
 as a spy is out of nature. — Perhaps so. I find some- 
 thing not unlike it in history. 
 " Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of 
 
 the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the 
 colour of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of 
 his own ambassador ; and Genseric was afterwards 
 mortified by the discovery, that he had entertained and 
 dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an anec- 
 dote may be rejected as an improbable fiction ; but it is 
 a fiction which would not have been imagined unless 
 in the life of a hero." Gibbon, D. and F. vol. \i,p. 180, 
 
 That Conrad is a character not altogether out of na- 
 ture I shall attempt to prove by some historical coinci- 
 dences which I have met with since writing "The 
 Corsair." 
 
 " Eccelin prisonnier," dit Rolandmi, " s'enfermoit dans 
 un silence menafant, il fixoit sur la terre son visage 
 feroce, et ne donnoit point d'essor a sa profonde indig- 
 nation. — De toutes parts cependant les soldats et les 
 peuples accouroient ; ils vouloient voir cet homme, jadis 
 si puissant, et la joie universelle eclatoit de toutes parts. 
 
 3|C ^ ^ ^p 5jC 3|C 
 
 " Eccehn etoit d'une petite taille ; mais tout I'aspecl 
 de sa personne, tous ses mouvemens, indiquoient un 
 soldat, — Son langage etoit amer, son deportement su- 
 perbe — et par son seul egard, il faisoit trembler les plus 
 hardis." Sismondi, tome iii. page 219, 220. 
 
 " Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the con- 
 queror of both Carthage and Rome) statura mediocris, 
 et equi casu claudicans, animo profundus, sermone rarus. 
 luxuries contemptor, ira turbidus, habendi cupidus, ad 
 solicitandas gentes providentissimus," &c. &c. Jor- 
 nandes de Rebus Geiicis, c. 33. 
 
120 
 
 NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 
 
 I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep 
 in countenance my Giaour and Corsair. 
 
 Notes 6j page 111, Ime 41. 
 And my stern vow and order's law oppose. 
 The dervises are in colleges, and of different orders, 
 as the monks. 
 
 Note 7, page 111, line 76. 
 They seize that Dervise .' — seize on Zatancd I 
 Satan. 
 
 Note 8, page 111, line 97. 
 He tore his beard, and foaming Jied ihejight. 
 A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman 
 anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 24. "The 
 Seraskier received a wound in the thigh \ he plucked 
 up his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to 
 quit the field." 
 
 Note 9, page 111, Une 141. 
 Brief time had Conrad, now to greet Gtdnare. 
 Gulnare. a female name ; it means, Uterally, the flower 
 of the pomegranate. 
 
 Note 10, page 113, Une 82. 
 Tyi even the scaffold echoes with their jest I 
 In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, 
 and Anne Boleyn, in the Tower, when grasping her 
 neck, she remarked, that it " was too slender to trouble 
 the headsman much." During one part of the French 
 Revolution, it became a fashion to leave some "mot'' 
 as a legacy; and the quantity of facetious last words 
 spoken during that period would form a melancholy 
 jest-book of a considerable size. 
 
 Note 11, page 114, line 80. 
 That closed their murder'd sages latest day. 
 Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sun- 
 set, (the hour of execution,) notwithstanding the entrea- 
 ties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 
 
 Note 12, page 114, line 92. 
 The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 
 The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
 own country : the days in winter are longer, but in sum- 
 mer of shorter duration. 
 
 Note 13, page 114, Une 102. 
 The gleaming turret ofltie gay Kiosk. 
 The Kiosk is a Turkish summerhouse : the palm is 
 without the present walls of Athens, not far from the 
 temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the 
 wall intervenes. — Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, 
 and liissus has no stream at all. 
 
 Note 14, page 114, line 112. 
 Thatfrown^ — where gentler ocean seems to smile. 
 The opening lines as far as section II. have, perhaps, 
 little business here, and were annexed to an unpublished 
 (though printed) poem ; but they were written on the 
 spot in the spring of 1811, and — I scarce know why — 
 the reader must excuse their appearance here if he can. 
 
 Note 15, page 115, line 66. 
 ECis only bends in seeming o'er his beads. 
 The Comboloio, or Mahometan rosary ; the beads 
 are in number ninety-nine. 
 
 Note 16, page 130, line 9. 
 And the cold flowers Jier colder hand contain'd. 
 In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the 
 bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young person to 
 place a nosegay. 
 
 Note 17, page 133, last Une. 
 LinJid with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. 
 That the point of honour which is represented in one 
 instance of Conrad's character has not been carried 
 beyond the bounds of probability may perhaps be in 
 some degree confirmed by the following anecdote of a 
 brother Buccaneer in the year 1814. 
 
 Our readers have all seen the account of the enter- 
 prise against the pirates of Barrataria ; but few, we 
 
 • See" Curse of Minerva.'' 
 
 believe, were informed of the situation, history, or na- 
 ture of that estabhshment. For the information of such 
 as were unacquainted v.ith it, we have procured from 
 a friend the following interesting narrative of the main 
 facts, of which he ha's personal knowledge, and which 
 cannot fail to interest some of our readers. 
 
 Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the gulf of 
 Mexico : it runs through a rich but very flat country, 
 until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, 
 fifteen miles below the city of New Orleans. The bay 
 has branches almost innumerable, in which persons can 
 lie concealed from the severest scrutiny. It communi- 
 cates whh three lakes which lie on the southwest side, 
 and these, with the lake of the same name, and which 
 lies contiguous to the sea, where there is an island formed 
 by the two arms of this lake and the sea. The east and 
 west points of this island were fortified, in the year 
 1811, by a band of pirates under the command of one 
 Monsieur La Fitte. A large majority of these outlaws 
 are of that class of the population of the state of Louis- 
 iana who fled from the island of St. Domingo during the 
 troubles there, and took refuge in the island of Cuba: 
 and when the last war between France and Spain com- 
 menced, they were compelled to leave that island with 
 the short notice of a few days. Without ceremony, 
 they entered the United States, the most of them the 
 state of Louisiana, with all the negroes they had pos- 
 sessed in Cuba. They were notified by the Governor 
 of that State of the clause in the constitution which for- 
 bad the importation of slaves ; but, at the same time, 
 received the assurance of the Governor that he would 
 obtain, if possible, the approbation of the General Go- 
 vernment for their retaining this property. 
 
 The Island of Barratariais situated about lat. 29 deg. 
 15 min. Ion. 92. 30. and is as remarkable for its health 
 as for the superior scale and shell-fish with which its 
 waters abound. The chief of this horde, like Charles 
 de Moor, had mLxed with his many vices some virtues. 
 In the year 1813, this party had, from its turpitude and 
 boldness, claimed the attention of the Governor of Lou- 
 isiana ; and to break up the establishment, he thought 
 proper to strike at the head. He therefore offered a 
 reward of 500 dollarsfor the head of Monsieur La Fitte, 
 who was weU known to the inhabitants of the city of 
 New Orleans, from his immediate connexion, and his 
 once havmg been a fencing-master in that city of great 
 reputation, which art he learnt in Buonaparte's army, 
 where he was a captain. The reward which was of- 
 fered by the Governor for the head of La Fitte was 
 answered by the offer of a reward from the latter of 
 15,000 for the head of the Governor. The Governor 
 ordered out a company to march from the city to La 
 Fitte's island, and to burn and destroy all the property, 
 and to bring to the city of New Orleans all his banditti. 
 This company, under the command of a man who had 
 been the intimate associate of this bold Captain, ap- 
 proached very near to the fortified island, before he saw 
 a man, or heard a sound, until he heard a whistle, not 
 unlike a boatswain's call. Then it was he found him- 
 self surrounded by armed men who had emerged fi-om 
 the secret avenues which led into Bayou. Here it was 
 that the modern Charles de Moor developed his few 
 noble traits : for to this man, who had come to destroy 
 his life and all that was dear to him, he not only spared 
 his life, but offered him that which would have made 
 the honest soldier easy for the remainder of his days, 
 which was indignantly refused. He then, with the ap- 
 probation of his captor, returned to the city. This cir- 
 cumstance, and some concomitant events, proved that 
 this band of pirates was not to be taken by land. Our 
 naval force having always been small in that quarter, 
 exertions for the destruction of this illicit establishment 
 could not be expected from them until augmented ; for 
 an officer of the navy, with most of the gunboats on 
 that station, had to retreat from an overwhelming force 
 of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation of th^ navy 
 authorized an attack, one was made ; the overthrow of 
 this banditti has been the result ; and now this almost 
 invulnerable point and key to New Orleans is clear of 
 an enemy, it is to be hoped the government will hold it 
 by a strong military force. — From an American iVeuw- 
 papers 
 
Cakio I. 
 
 LARA. 
 
 121 
 
 111 Nob!e''s continuation of Granger's Biographical 
 History, there is a singular passage in his account of 
 archbishop Blackbourne, and as in some measure con- 
 nected with the profession of the hero of the foregoing 
 poem, I cannot resist the temptation of extracting it. 
 
 " There is something mysterious in the history and 
 character of Dr. Blackbourne. The former is but 
 imperfectly known ; and report has even asserted he 
 VI as a bucaneer ; and that one of his brethren in that 
 profession having asked, on his arrival in England, what 
 nad become of his old chum, Blackbourne, was an- 
 swered, he is archbishop of York. We are informed, 
 that Blackbourne was installed sub-dean of Exeter, in 
 1694, which office he resigned in 1702; but after his 
 successor Lewis Barnet's death, in 1'704, he regained 
 it. In the following year he became dean ; and, in 1714, 
 held with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. He was 
 consecrated bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716; and 
 translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, 
 according to court scandal, for uniting George L to the 
 Duchess of Munster. This, however, appears to have 
 been an unfounded calumny. As archbishop he be- 
 haved with great prudence, and was equally respectable 
 as the guardian of the revenues of the see. ilumour 
 whispered he retained the vices of his youth, and that 
 a passion for the fair sex formed an item in the list of 
 his weaknesses; but so far from being convicted by] 
 
 seventy witnesses, he does not appear to have been 
 directly criminated by one. In short, I look upon these 
 aspersions as the effects of mere malice. How is it 
 possible a bucaneer should have been so good a scholar 
 as Blackbourne certainly v.as ? he who had so perfect 
 a knowledge of the classics, (particularly of the Greek 
 tragedians,) as to be able to read them with the same 
 ease as he could Shakspeare, must have taken great 
 pains to acquire the learned languages ; and have had 
 both leisure and good masters. But he was undoubt- 
 edly educated at Cliristchurch College, Oxford. He 
 is allowed to have been a pleasant man : this, however, 
 was turned against him, by its being said, 'he gained 
 more hearts tfian souls.' " 
 
 "The only voice that could sooth the passions of the 
 savage, (Alphonso Sd,) was that of an amiable and 
 virtuous wife, the sole object of his love ; the voice of 
 Donna Isabella, the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, 
 and the granddaughter of Philip 2d, King of Spain. — 
 Her dying words sunk deep into his memory ; his fierce 
 spirit melted into tears ; and after the last embrace, 
 Alphonso retired into his chamber to bewail his irre- 
 parable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human 
 life." — Miscellaneous Works of Gibbon, Nem Edition, 
 8vo. vol. iii. page 473. 
 
 LARA; 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 The Serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain, 
 
 And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; 
 
 He, their urihoped, but unforgotten lord, 
 
 The long self-exiled chieftain is restored ; 
 
 There be bright faces in the busy hall, 
 
 Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 
 
 Far checkermg o'er the pictured windov/, plays 
 
 The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze ; 
 
 And gay retainers gather round the hearth. 
 
 With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. 
 
 II. 
 The chief of Lara is return'd again : 
 And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main? 
 Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
 liord of himself; — that heritage of wo. 
 That fearful empire which the human breast 
 But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! — 
 With none to check, and few to point in time 
 The thousand paths that slope the way to crime ; 
 Then, when he most required commandment, then 
 Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
 It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 
 His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
 Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
 Rut long enough to leave him half undone. 
 
 III. 
 And Lara left in youth his father-land; 
 But from the hour he waved his parting hand 
 Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
 Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
 His sire was dust, his vassals cotild declare, 
 'T was all they laiew, that Lara was not there ; 
 Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
 Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 
 
 His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
 His portrait darkens in its fading frame. 
 Another chief consoled his destined bride, 
 The young forgot him, and the old had died , 
 " Yet doth he live ! ' exclaims the impatient heir. 
 And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
 A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace. 
 The Lara's last and longest dwelling-place \ 
 But one is absent from the mouldering file. 
 That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 
 
 He comes at last in sudden loneliness. 
 
 And whence they know not, why they need not guess ; 
 
 They more might mai-vel, when the greeting 's o'er, 
 
 Not that he cam.e, but came not long before : 
 
 No train is his beyond a single page. 
 
 Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 
 
 Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away 
 
 To those that wander as to those that stay ; 
 
 But lack of tidings from another clime 
 
 Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 
 
 They see, they recognise, yet almost deem 
 
 The present dubious, or the past a dream. 
 
 He lives, nor yet is past his raanhoood's prime. 
 Though seard by toil, and something touch'd by time ; 
 His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, 
 Might be untaught him by his varied lot ; 
 Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
 Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame : 
 His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins ^ 
 No more than pleasure from the stripUng wins ; 
 And such, if not yet harden'd in their course. 
 Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 
 
 And they indeed were changed — 'lis quickly seen, 
 Whate'ei- he be, 'twas not what he had been : 
 
122 
 
 LARA. 
 
 Canto 1. 
 
 That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last, 
 
 And spake of passions, but of passion past : 
 
 The pride, but not the fire, of early days. 
 
 Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise ; 
 
 A high demeanour, and a glance that took 
 
 Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 
 
 And that sarcastic levity of tongue, 
 
 The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 
 
 That darts in seeming playfulness around. 
 
 And makes those feel that will not own the wound ; 
 
 All these seem'd liis, and sometliing more beneath, 
 
 Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. 
 
 Ambition, glory, love, the common aim. 
 
 That some can conquer, and that all would claim, 
 
 Within his breast appear'd no more to strive. 
 
 Yet seem'd as lately they had been aUve ; 
 
 And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 
 
 At moments Ughten'd o'er his Uvid face. 
 
 Not much he loved long question of the past, 
 Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast. 
 In those far lands where he had wander'd lone. 
 And — as himself would have it seem — unknown ; 
 Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
 Nor glean experience from his fellow man ; 
 But what he had beheld he shumi'd to show. 
 As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; 
 If still more prying such inquiry grew, 
 His brow fell darker, and his w^ords more few. 
 
 Not unrejoiced to see Iiim once again, 
 Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men ; 
 Bora of high lineage, link'd in high command, 
 He mingled with the Magnates of his land ; 
 Join'd the carousals of the great and gay. 
 And saw them smile or sigh their hours away ; 
 But still he only saw, and did not share 
 The common pleasure or the general care ; 
 He did not follow what they all pursued 
 With hope still baffled still to be renew'd ; 
 Nor shadow^ honour, nor substantial gain, 
 Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : 
 Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
 Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone ; 
 Upon his eye sate sometliing of reproof 
 That kept at least frivolity aloof; 
 And things more timid that beheld him near, 
 In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear; 
 And they the wiser, friendher few confest 
 They deem'd him better than his air exprest. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 'T was strange — in youth all action and all life, 
 Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
 Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave, 
 Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 
 In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below, 
 And found his recompense in joy or wo, 
 No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 
 In that intenseness an escape from thought : 
 The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
 On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
 The rapture of his heart had look'd on high, 
 And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 
 Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
 How woke he from the wildness of that dream ? 
 Alas ! he told not — but he did awake 
 To curse the wither'd heart that would not break. 
 
 Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
 With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, 
 And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day 
 From all communion he would start away: 
 
 And then, his rarely call'd attendants said. 
 
 Through night's long hours would sound his hurried tread 
 
 O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 
 
 In rude but antique portraiture around : 
 
 They heard, but whisper'd — '^that must not be known—* 
 
 The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
 
 Yes, they who chose might snule, but some had seen 
 
 They scarce knew what, but more than should have been 
 
 Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 
 
 Which hands profane had gather'd from the dead, 
 
 That still beside his open'd volume lay, 
 
 As if to startle all save him away ? 
 
 Why slept he not when others were at rest ? 
 
 Why heard no music, and received no guest ? 
 
 All was not well, they deem'd — but where the wrong'. 
 
 Some knew perchance — but 't were a tale too long ; 
 
 And such besides were too discreetly \vise. 
 
 To more than hint their knowledge m surmise ; 
 
 But if they would — they could" — around the board, 
 
 Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their Lord. 
 
 It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 
 
 The stars are studding, each with imaged beam ; 
 
 So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 
 
 And yet they gUde like happiness away ; 
 
 Reflecting far and faiiy-like from high 
 
 The immortal hghts that live along the sky : 
 
 Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree. 
 
 And flowers the fahest that may feast the bee ; 
 
 Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove. 
 
 And Innocence would offer to her love, 
 
 These deck the shore ; the waves their channel make 
 
 In windings bright and mazy hke the snake. 
 
 All was so still, so soft in earth and air. 
 
 You scarce would start to meet a spirit there 
 
 Secure that nought of evil could dehght 
 
 To walk in such a scene, on such a night! 
 
 It was a moment only for the good : 
 
 So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, 
 
 But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate ; 
 
 Such scene his soul no more could contemplate: 
 
 Such scene reminded him of other days. 
 
 Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 
 
 Of nights more soft and firequent, hearts that now — 
 
 No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 
 
 Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like this, 
 
 A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his. 
 
 XI. 
 
 He turn'd witliin his solitary hall, 
 And his high shadow shot along the wall < 
 There were the painted forms of other times, 
 'T was all they left of virtues or of crimes, 
 Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults 
 That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults } 
 And half a column of the pompous page. 
 That speeds the specious tale from age to age , 
 Where history's pen its praise or blame suppUes, 
 And lies hke trutli, and still most truly lies. 
 He wemdering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 
 Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 
 And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
 O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
 Reflected in fantastic figures grew. 
 Like life, but not hke mortal life, to view ; 
 His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom. 
 And the wide waving of his shaken plume. 
 Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
 His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 
 
 XII. 
 
 'T was midnight — all was slumber ; the lone liglit 
 Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 
 Hark! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
 A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! 
 
Canto 1. LARA. 
 
 123 
 
 A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
 That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 
 They heard and rose, and tremulously brave 
 Rush where the sound ijavoked their aid to save ; 
 They come with half-ht tapers in their hands. 
 And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 
 
 Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 
 
 Pale as the beam that o'er his feature's play'd. 
 
 Was Lara stretch'd ; his half di-awn sabre near, 
 
 Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear ; 
 
 Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 
 
 And still defiance knit his gather'd brow ; 
 
 Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay. 
 
 There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 
 
 Some half form'd threat in utterance there had died, 
 
 Some imprecation of despairing pride ; 
 
 His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook, 
 
 Even in its trance the gladiator's look. 
 
 That oft awake his aspect could disclose. 
 
 And now was fixed in horrible repose. 
 
 They raise him — bear him ; — hush ! he breathes, he speaks. 
 
 The swarthy blush recolours m his cheeks. 
 
 His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim. 
 
 Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering hmb 
 
 Recalls its function, but his words are strung 
 
 In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 
 
 Distinct but strange, enough they understand 
 
 To deem them accents of another land. 
 
 And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
 
 That hears him not — alas ! that cannot hear ! 
 
 His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 
 To know the import of the words they heard ; 
 And, by the changes of his cheek and brow, 
 They were not such as Lara should avow. 
 Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise 
 Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes, 
 But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside. 
 And in that tongue which seem'd his owti replied. 
 And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
 To sooth away the horrors of his dream ; 
 If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 
 A breast that needed not ideal wo. 
 
 "Whate'er his phrensy dream'd or eye beheld, 
 If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal'd, 
 Rests at his heart: the custom'd morning came, 
 And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame ; 
 And solace sought he none from priest nor leech, 
 And soon the same in movement and in speech 
 As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours. 
 Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lours, 
 Than these were wont ; and if the coming night 
 Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 
 He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not, 
 Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot. 
 In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
 The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hzdl; 
 The waving banner, and the clapping door. 
 The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor ; 
 The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
 The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze ; 
 Aught they behold or hear their thought appals. 
 As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 
 Came not again, or Lara could assume 
 A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 
 His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 
 Had memory vanish'd then ^ith sense restored? 
 Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
 
 Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these 
 
 That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 
 
 Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke 
 
 Those strange wld accents ; his the cry that broke 
 
 Their slumber ? his the oppress'd o'erlabour'd heart 
 
 That ceased to beat, the look that made them start ? 
 
 Could he who thus had suffer 'd, so forget, 
 
 Wheji such as saw that suffering shudder yet 
 
 Or did that silence prove his memory fLx'd 
 
 Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 
 
 In that corroding secrecy which gnavv's 
 
 The heart to show the effect, but not the cause ? 
 
 Not so in Inm ; his breast had buried both, 
 
 Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
 
 Of thoughts that mortal Ups must leave half told 
 
 They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 
 
 In him inexplicably nux'd appear'd 
 
 Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 
 
 Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 
 
 In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot: 
 
 His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 
 
 They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would know his 
 
 fate. 
 What had he been? what was he, thus unknown. 
 Who walk'd their world, liis lineage only kno^^Ti ? 
 A hater of his kind ? yet some would say. 
 With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
 But own'd, that smile if oft observed and near. 
 Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer ; 
 That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by, 
 None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 
 Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
 At times, a heart as not by nature hard. 
 But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
 Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 
 And steel'd itself as scoiTiing to redeem 
 One doubt from others' half withheld esteem; 
 In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
 Which tenderness might once have ^^Tung from rest ; 
 In vigilance of grief that would compel 
 The soul to hate for having loved too well. 
 
 There was in him a vital scorn of all : 
 As if the worst had fall'n which could befall, 
 He stood a stranger in this breathing world. 
 An erring spirit from another hurl'd ; 
 A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 
 By choice tlie perils he by chance escaped ; 
 But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
 His mind would half exult and half regret : 
 With more capacity for love than earth 
 Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, 
 His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, 
 And troubled manhood follow'd baffled j-outh ; 
 With thought of years in phantom chase mispent, 
 And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; 
 And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 
 In hurried desolation o'er his path, 
 And left the better feelings all at strife 
 In viild reflection o'er his stormy life ; 
 But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 
 He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame. 
 And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 
 She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; 
 Till he at last confounded good and Ul, 
 And half mistook for fate the acts of will : 
 Too high for common selfishness, he could 
 At times resign his own for others' good, 
 But not in pity, not because he ought. 
 But in some strange perversity of thought, 
 That sway'd him onward with a secret pride 
 To do what few or none would do beside ; 
 
124 
 
 LARA. 
 
 Caxto 1. 
 
 And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 
 
 Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 
 
 So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath 
 
 The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe 
 
 And long'd by good or ill to separate 
 
 Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 
 
 His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne 
 
 Far from the world, in regions of her own : 
 
 Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below. 
 
 His blood in temperate seeming now would flow : 
 
 Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd 
 
 But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd ! 
 
 'T is true, with other men their path he walk'd, 
 
 And like the rest in seeming did and talli'd, 
 
 Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start, 
 
 His madness was not of the head, but heart ; 
 
 And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 
 
 His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 
 
 With all that chilling mystery of mien, 
 And seeming gladness to remain unseen. 
 He had (if 't were not nature's boon) an art 
 Of fixing memory on another's heart : 
 It was not love perchance — nor hate — nor aught 
 That words can image to express the thought ; 
 But they who saw him did not see in vain, 
 And once beheld, would ask of him again : 
 And those to whom he spake remember'd well, 
 And on the words, however Ught, would dwell : 
 None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
 Himself perforce around the hearer's mind ; 
 There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate, 
 If greeted once ; however brief the date 
 That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, 
 Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
 You could not penetrate his soul, but found. 
 Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 
 His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
 He forced an all unwilling interest : 
 Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 
 His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget! 
 
 XX. 
 There is a festival, where lajights and dames, 
 And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims 
 Appear — a highborn and a welcome guest, 
 To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
 The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
 Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball ; 
 And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
 Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
 Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
 That mingle there in well according bands ; 
 It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
 And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth. 
 And Youth forget such hour was past on earth, 
 So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad, 
 His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 
 And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair, 
 Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there : 
 He lean'd against the lofty piUar nigh. 
 With folded arms and long attentive eye, 
 Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his— 
 III brook'd high Lara scrutiny Uke this: 
 At length he caught it, 'tis a face unknown, 
 But seems as searching his, and his alone ; 
 Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien, 
 Who still till now had gazed on him unseen ; 
 At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 
 Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze ; 
 On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew. 
 As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 
 
 Along the stranger's aspect fix'd and stem, 
 
 Flash'd more dian thence the vulgar eye could learn. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 "'Tis he!" the stranger cried, and those that heard 
 
 Re-echoed fast and far the whisper'd word. 
 
 " 'T is he 1" — " 'T is who ?" they <iUcstion far and near, 
 
 Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 
 
 So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 
 
 The general marvel, or that single look ; 
 
 But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 
 
 That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
 
 Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised 
 
 Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed ; 
 
 And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, 
 
 « 'T is he ! — how came he thence ? — what doth he here ?" 
 
 It were too much for Lara to pass by 
 
 Such questions, so repeated fierce and high ; 
 
 With look collected, but with accent cold, 
 
 More mildly firm than petulantly bold, 
 
 He tuin'd, and met the inquisitorial tone — 
 
 " My name is Lara ! — when thine own is known, 
 
 Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
 
 The unlook'd for courtesy of such a knight. 
 
 'T is Lara ! — further wouldst thou mark or ask ? 
 
 1 shun no question, and I wear no mask." 
 
 "Thou shunn'st no question! Ponder — is there none 
 Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun ? 
 And deem'st thou me unknown too ? Gaze again 
 At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
 Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 
 Eternity forbids thee to forget." 
 With slow and searching glance upon his face 
 Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
 They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look 
 He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook. 
 And half contemptuous turn'd to pass awaj^ ; 
 But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
 "A word! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 
 To one, who, wert thou noble, v/ere thy peer. 
 But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 
 If false, 't is easy to disprove the word — 
 But, as thou wast and art, on thee looks down. 
 Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 
 
 Art thou not he ? whose deeds " 
 
 « Whate'er I be, 
 Words wild as these, accusers like to thee 
 I list no further ; those with whom they weigh 
 May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
 The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
 Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
 Let Otho cherish here his pohsh'd guest. 
 To him my thanks and thoughts shall be exprest." 
 And here their wondering host hath interposed — 
 " Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, 
 This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
 The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
 If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
 Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know. 
 To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
 Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest ; 
 I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, 
 Though hke Count Lara now return'd alone 
 From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
 And if from Lara's blood and gende birth 
 I augur right of courage and of worth. 
 He will not that untainted line belie. 
 Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 
 
 " To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 
 
 "And here our several worth and truth be tried; 
 
 I gage my life, my falchion to attest 
 
 My words, so may I mingle with the blest !" 
 
Canto I. 
 
 LARA. 
 
 125 
 
 What answers Lara? to its centre shrunk 
 His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; 
 The words of many, and the eyes of all 
 That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall ; 
 But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 
 In far forgetfuhiess away — away — 
 Alas ! that heedlessness of all around 
 Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " To-morrow ! — ay, to-morrow !" further word 
 
 Than those repeated none from Lara heard j 
 
 Upon his brow no outward passion spoke ; 
 
 From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 
 
 Yet there was sometliing fix'd in that low tone, 
 
 Wliich show'd resolve, determined, though unloiown. 
 
 He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bo^v'd, 
 
 And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd ; 
 
 And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frowia 
 
 With which that chieftain's brow would bear him down 
 
 It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 
 
 That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; 
 
 But that of one in his own heart secure 
 
 Of all that he would do, or could endui-e. 
 
 Could tliis mean peace ? the calmness of the good ? 
 
 Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood ? 
 
 Alas ! too like in confidence are each. 
 
 For man to trust to mortal look or speech; 
 
 From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 
 
 Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. 
 
 xxr. 
 And Lara call'd his page, and went his way — 
 Well could that stripling word or sign obey; 
 His only follower from those climes afar. 
 Where the soul glows beneatli a brighter star ; 
 For Lara left the sJiore from whence he sprung, 
 In duty patient, and sedate though young ; 
 Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
 Above his station, and beyond his years. 
 Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
 In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
 But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, 
 When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of liome: 
 Those accents as his native mountains dear, 
 Awake their absent echoes in his ear. 
 Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice recall, 
 Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all: 
 For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; 
 What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Light was his form, and darkly delicate 
 
 That brow whereon his native sun had sate. 
 
 But had not marr'd. though in his beams he grew, 
 
 The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone through ; 
 
 Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show 
 
 All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 
 
 But 't was a hectic tint of secret care 
 
 That for a burning moment fever'd there ; 
 
 And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
 
 From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, 
 
 Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe 
 
 Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 
 
 Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there. 
 
 Or if 't were grief, a grief tliat none should share : 
 
 And pleased not him the sports that please his age, 
 
 The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page ; 
 
 For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 
 
 As all-forgotten in that v.-atchful trance ; 
 
 And from his chief withdravvii, he wander'd lone, 
 
 Brief were his answers, and his questions none ; 
 
 His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 
 
 His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 
 
 He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 
 
 From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
 
 To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
 No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 If aught he loved, 'twas Lara; but was shown 
 
 His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 
 
 In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 
 
 Each wish, fulfiil'd it ere the tongue express'd. 
 
 Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 
 
 A spirit deep that broolc'd not to be chid ; 
 
 His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 
 
 In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 
 
 As if 't was Lara's less than his desire 
 
 That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 
 
 Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord, 
 
 To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 
 
 To tune his lute, or if he will'd it more. 
 
 On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 
 
 But ne'er to mingle with the menial tram. 
 
 To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 
 
 But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 
 
 No sympathy with that familiar crew: 
 
 His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, 
 
 Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 
 
 Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 
 
 Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 
 
 So femininely white it might bespeak 
 
 Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek, 
 
 But for his garb, and something in liis gaze. 
 
 More vvild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 
 
 A latent fierceness that far more became 
 
 His fiery climate than his tender frame : 
 
 True, in liis words it broke not fi-om his breast. 
 
 But fi-om his aspect might be more than guess'd 
 
 Kaled his name, though rimiour said he bore 
 
 Another ere he left his mountain-shore ; 
 
 For sometimes he would hear, however nigh. 
 
 That name repeated loud wthout reply, 
 
 As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 
 
 Start to the sound, as but rememberd then ; 
 
 Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake. 
 
 For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 He had look'd down upon the festive hall. 
 
 And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 
 
 And v.hen the crowd around and near him told 
 
 Their wonder at the calmness of the bold. 
 
 Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 
 
 Such msult from a stranger, doubly sore. 
 
 The colour of young Kaled went and came. 
 
 The Up of ashes, and the cheek of flame ; 
 
 And o'er his brow the -dampening heart-drops tlirew 
 
 The sickening iciness of that cold dew. 
 
 That rises as the busy bosom sinks 
 
 With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 
 
 Yes — there be things which we must dream and dare 
 
 And execute ere thought be half aware : 
 
 Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 
 
 To seal his lip, but agonise his brow. 
 
 He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 
 
 That sidelong smile upon the knight he past; 
 
 When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 
 
 As if from something recognised right well; 
 
 His memory read in such a meaning more 
 
 Than Lara's aspect unto others wore : 
 
 Fonvard he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 
 
 And all within that hall seem'd left alone ; 
 
 Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, 
 
 All had so rmx'd their feelings with that scene, 
 
 That when his long dark shadow through the porch 
 
 No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 
 
 Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 
 
 To bound as doubting fi-om too black a dream, 
 
 Such as we know is false, yet dread m sooth. 
 
 Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 
 
126 
 
 And they are gone — but Ezzelln is there, 
 With thoughtful visage and imperious air ; 
 But long remain'd not ; ere an hour expired 
 He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 
 
 The courteous host, and all-approving guest, 
 
 Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 
 
 Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 
 
 And man, o'erlabour'd with his being's strife. 
 
 Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : 
 
 There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile, 
 
 Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile ; 
 
 O'er each vain eye obUvioh's pinions wave. 
 
 And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 
 
 What better name may slumber's bed become ? 
 
 Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 
 
 Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine, 
 
 Alike in nalced helplessness recline ; 
 
 Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath, 
 
 Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death. 
 
 And shun, though day but dawn on ills increast, 
 
 That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 
 
 CANTO n. 
 
 Night wanes — the vapours round the mountains curl'd 
 
 Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
 
 Man has another day to swell the past, 
 
 And lead him near to little, but his last ; 
 
 But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, 
 
 The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 
 
 Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, 
 
 Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream 
 
 Immortal man 1 behold her glories shine, 
 
 And cry, exulting inly, " they are thine !" 
 
 Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see ; 
 
 A morrow comes when they are not for thee ; 
 
 And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 
 
 Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 
 
 Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 
 
 Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; 
 
 But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 
 
 And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 
 
 II. 
 'T is morn — 't is noon — assembled in the hall. 
 The galher'd cliieftains come to Otho's call , 
 'T is now the promised hour, that must proclaim 
 The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 
 When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, 
 And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
 His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, 
 To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 
 Why comes he not ? Such truths to be divulged, 
 Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 
 
 III. 
 The hour is past, and Lara too is there, 
 With self-confiding, coldly patient air ; 
 Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past, 
 And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow o'ercast. 
 " I know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear, 
 If yet he be on earth, expect him here ; 
 The roof that held him in the valley stands 
 Between my own and noble Lara's lands ; 
 My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd, 
 Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd, 
 But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
 And urged him to prepare against to-day 5 
 
 LARA. 
 
 Canto IT. 
 
 The word I pledged for his I pledge again, 
 Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 
 
 He ceased — and I-ara answer'd "I am here 
 
 To lend at thy demand a listening ear 
 
 To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 
 
 Whose words already might my heart have wrung. 
 
 But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad. 
 
 Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 
 
 I know him not — but me it seems he knew 
 
 In lands where — but I must not trifle too: 
 
 Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge ; 
 
 Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 
 
 Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
 His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew 
 " The last alternative befits me best. 
 And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 
 
 Witli cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 
 
 However near his own or other's tomb ; 
 
 With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 
 
 Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke; 
 
 With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 
 
 Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 
 
 In vain the circling chieftains round them closed, 
 
 For Otho's phrensy would not be opposed; 
 
 And from his lip those words of insult fell — 
 
 His sword is good who can maintain them well. 
 
 Short was the conflict; furious, blindly rash, 
 
 Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 
 
 He bled, and fell ; but not with deadly wound, 
 
 Stretch'd by a dextrous sleight along the ground. 
 
 " Demand thy life !" He answer'd not : and then 
 
 From that red floor he ne'er had risen again. 
 
 For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 
 
 Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; 
 
 And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 
 
 Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow ; 
 
 Then all was stern collectedness and art. 
 
 Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart ; 
 
 So little sparing to the foe he fell'd, 
 
 That when the approaclaing crowd his arm withheld, 
 
 He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those. 
 
 Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 
 
 But to a moment's thought that purpose bent ; 
 
 Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 
 
 As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 
 
 That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life ; 
 
 As if to search how far the wound he gave 
 
 Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 
 
 They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
 Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ; 
 The others met within a neighboring hall, 
 And he, incensed and heedless of them all, 
 The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
 In haughty silence slowly strode away ; 
 He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took, 
 Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 
 
 But where was he? that meteor of a night. 
 Who menaced but to disappear with light ? 
 Where was this Ezzelin? who came and went 
 To leave no other trace of his intent. 
 He left the dome of Otho long ere mom, 
 In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
 He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay ; 
 But there he was not, and with coming day 
 Came fast mquiry, which unfolded naught 
 Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 LARA. 
 
 127 
 
 A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest. 
 His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distrest: 
 Their search extends along, around the path, 
 In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath : 
 But none are there, and not a brake hath borne, 
 Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
 Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass. 
 Which still retains a mark where murder was ; 
 Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 
 The bitter print of each convulsive nail. 
 When agonised hands, that cease to guard, 
 Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward. 
 Some such had been, if here a life was reft. 
 But these were not ; and doubting hope is left ; 
 And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name, 
 Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame ; 
 Then sudden silent when his form appear'd, 
 Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd 
 Again its wonted wondering to renew. 
 And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 
 
 Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd. 
 
 But not his pride ; and hate no more conceal'd : 
 
 He was a man of power, and Lara's foe, 
 
 The friend of all who sought to work him wo. 
 
 And from his country's justice now demands 
 
 Account of Ezzehn at Lara's hands. 
 
 Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 
 
 His presence? who had made him disappear. 
 
 If not the man on whom his menaced charge 
 
 Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 
 
 The general rumour ignorantly loud. 
 
 The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 
 
 The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 
 
 To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 
 
 The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd, 
 
 The skill with which he wielded his keen blade ; 
 
 Where had his arm unwarhke caught that art ? 
 
 Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart ? 
 
 For it was not the blind capricious rage 
 
 A word can kindle and a word assuage ; 
 
 Bat the deep working of a soul unmix'd 
 
 With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd ; 
 
 Such as long power and overgorged success 
 
 Concentrates into all that 's merciless : 
 
 These, link'd with that desire which ever sways 
 
 Mankind, the rather to condenm than praise, 
 
 'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm. 
 
 Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 
 
 And he must answer for the absent head 
 
 Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Within that land was many a malcontent. 
 Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 
 That soil fuU many a wringing despot saw. 
 Who work'd his wantonness in form of law ; 
 Long war without and frequent broil within 
 Had made a path for blood and giant sin, 
 That waited but a signal to begin 
 New havock, such as civil discord blends, 
 Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends ; 
 Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord. 
 In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 
 Thus Lara had inherited his lands. 
 And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands ; 
 But that long absence from his native clime 
 Had left him stainless of oppression's crime. 
 And now diverted by his milder sway, 
 All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 
 The menials felt their usual awe alone. 
 But more for him than them that fear was grown ; 
 They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 
 Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst, 
 
 And each long restless night, and silent mood, 
 
 Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 
 
 And though his lonely habits threw of late 
 
 Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate ; 
 
 For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew, 
 
 For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 
 
 Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, 
 
 The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ^ 
 
 Much he would speak not, but beneath liis roof^ 
 
 They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 
 
 And they who watch'd might mark tliat day by day 
 
 Some new retainers gather'd to his sway ; 
 
 But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost. 
 
 He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host; 
 
 Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 
 
 Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; 
 
 Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains 
 
 With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 
 
 If this were policy, so far 't was sound. 
 
 The million judged but of him as they found ; 
 
 From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 
 
 They but required a shelter, and 't was given. 
 
 By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot, 
 
 And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot ; 
 
 With him old avarice found its hoard secure, 
 
 With him contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 
 
 Youth, present cheer, and promised recompense 
 
 Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence : 
 
 To hate he oflier'd, with the coming change. 
 
 The deep reversion of delay'd revenge ; 
 
 To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 
 
 The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 
 
 All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 
 
 That slavery nothing which was still a name. 
 
 The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 
 
 Secure at last the vengeance which he sought • 
 
 His summons found the destined criminal 
 
 Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall. 
 
 Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, 
 
 Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 
 
 That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves 
 
 Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves! 
 
 Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 
 
 Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right : 
 
 ReUgion — freedom — vengeance — what you vidll, 
 
 A word's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 
 
 Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread, 
 
 That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed! 
 
 Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 
 Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd ; 
 Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth. 
 The Serfs conteran'd the one, and hated both 
 They waited but a leader, and they found 
 One to their cause inseparably bound ; 
 By circumstance compell'd to plunge again. 
 In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
 Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 
 Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes. 
 Had Lara from that night, to him accurst. 
 Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 
 Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
 Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
 By mingling with his own the cause of all. 
 E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
 The sullen calm that long his bosom kept. 
 The storm that once had spent itself and slept. 
 Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge 
 His gloomy fortunes to theu* utmost verge, 
 Burst forth, and made him all he once had been. 
 And is again ; he only changed the scene. 
 Light care had he for life, and less for fame, 
 But not less fitted for the desperate game : 
 
128 
 
 LARA. 
 
 Gawto II. 
 
 I 
 
 He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate, 
 
 And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. 
 
 What cared he for the freedom of the crowd ? 
 
 He raised the hiunble but to bend the proud. 
 
 He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 
 
 But man and destiny beset him there: 
 
 Inured to hunters, he was found at bay ; 
 
 And tliey must kiH, they cannot snare the prey. 
 
 Stern, unambitious, silent, he liad been 
 
 Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 
 
 But, di-agg'd again upon the arena, stood 
 
 A leader not unequal to the feud ; 
 
 In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke. 
 
 And from his eye the gladiator broke. 
 
 What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 
 
 The feast of vultures, and the waste of Ufe ? 
 
 The varying fortune of each separate field, 
 
 The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that peld f 
 
 The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 
 
 In this the sti-uggle was tlie same with all ; 
 
 Save that disternper'd passions lent their force 
 
 In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 
 
 None sued, for Mercy Icnew her cry was vain, 
 
 The captive died upon the battle-plain : 
 
 In either cause, one rage alone possest 
 
 The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 
 
 And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 
 
 Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd to sla 
 
 It was too late to check the wasting brand, 
 
 And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land ; 
 
 The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, 
 
 And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 
 
 Fresh with the nerve the new-bom impulse strung, 
 
 The first success to Lara's numbers clung: 
 
 But that vain victory hath ruin'd all, 
 
 They form no longer to their leader's call ; 
 
 In blind confusion on the foe they press, 
 
 And think to snatch is to secure success. 
 
 The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate, 
 
 Lure on the broken brigands to their fate : 
 
 In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do. 
 
 To check tlie headlong fury. of that crew ; 
 
 In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame, 
 
 The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame 
 
 The wary foe alone hath tum'd their mood, 
 
 And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 
 
 The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 
 
 The daily harass, and the fight delay'd, 
 
 The long privation of the hoped supplv. 
 
 The tentless rest beneath the humid sky. 
 
 The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, 
 
 And palls the patience of hb bafiied heart. 
 
 Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 
 
 They could encounter as a veteran may ; 
 
 But more preferr'd the fury of the strife, 
 
 And present death, to hourly suffering life : 
 
 And famme wrings, and fever sweeps away 
 
 His numbers meltmg fast from their array ; 
 
 Intemperate triumph fades to discontent. 
 
 And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent : 
 
 But few remain to aid his voice and hand, 
 
 And thousands dmndled to a scanty band 
 
 Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 
 
 To mourn the disciphne they late disdain'd. 
 
 One hope survives, the frontier is not far, 
 
 And thence they may escape from native war; 
 
 And bear witliin tliem to the neighbouring state 
 
 An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 
 
 Hard is the task their father-land to qiut, 
 
 But harder still to perish or submit. 
 
 It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
 Guides Avith her star their dim and torchless flight, 
 Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
 Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
 Already they descry — Is yon the bank ? 
 Away ! 't is fined with many a hostile rank. 
 Return or fly ! — What glitters in the rear? 
 'T is Otho's barmer — the pursuer's spear! 
 Are those the shepherds' fu-es upon the height? 
 Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 
 Cut off fi-om hope, and compass'd in the toil, 
 Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A moment's pause, 't is but to breathe their band, 
 Or shall they onward press, or here withstand? 
 It matters little — if they charge the foes 
 Who by the border-stream their march oppose, 
 Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line^ 
 However link'd to baffle such design. 
 " The charge be ours ! to wait for their assault 
 Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
 Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 
 And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed : 
 In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
 How many shall but hear the voice of death ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 His blade is bared, in him there is an air 
 As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 
 A something of indifference more than then 
 Becomes the bravest, if tliey feel for men — 
 He tum'd his eye on Kaled, ever near. 
 And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 
 Perchance 't was but the moon's dim twilight threw 
 Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
 Of mournflil paleness, whose deep tint exprest 
 The trath, and not the terror of his breast. 
 This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his: 
 It trembled not in such an hour as this ; 
 His Up was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 
 His eye alone proclaimed, " We will not part ! 
 Thy band may perish, or thy fi-iends may flee, 
 Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee !" 
 
 The word hath pass'd liis Ups, and onward driven, 
 Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven; 
 ¥7ell has each steed obey'd the amied heel, 
 And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 
 Outnumber'd not outbraved^ they still oppose 
 Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 
 And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 
 Which runs all redly till the raoming beam. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Commanding, aiding, animating all, 
 
 Where foe appear'd to press, or niend to fall. 
 
 Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his stee!, 
 
 Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
 
 None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain , 
 
 But those that waver turn to smite again. 
 
 While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
 
 Recoil before their leader's look and blow : 
 
 Now girt with numbers, now abnost alone, 
 
 He foils theii- ranks, or reunites his own ; 
 
 Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly — 
 
 Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, 
 
 And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed crest? 
 
 The shaft is sped — the arrow 's in his breast ! 
 
 That fatal gesture left the unguarded side. 
 
 And Death hath striken down yon arm of pride. 
 
 The word of triumph fainted fi-om his tongue ; 
 
 That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 
 
 But yet the sword instinctively retains. 
 
 Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins 
 
Canto II. LARA. 
 
 These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow, 
 And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
 Perceives not Lara that his al^xious page 
 Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage : 
 Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
 Too mix'd the slayers now to heed tlie slain ! 
 
 129 
 
 Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 
 The cloven cuirass, and the hehnless head; 
 The war-horse niasterless is on the earth, 
 And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
 And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd. 
 The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd ; 
 And some too near that rolling torrent lie, 
 Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
 That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
 Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, 
 In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
 One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
 With feeble and convulsive effort swept, 
 Their hmbs along the crimson'd turf have crept ; 
 The faint remains of hfe such struggles waste, 
 But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste: 
 They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
 Why pause ? No further thirst have they to slake — 
 It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not ; 
 It was an agony — but now forgot ! 
 
 Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 
 
 Where but for him that strife had never been, 
 
 A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 
 
 'T was Lara bleeding fast from life away. 
 
 His follower once, and now his only guide. 
 
 Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, 
 
 And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rush, 
 
 With each convulsion, in a blacker gush ; 
 
 And then, as his faint breathing waxes low. 
 
 In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow : 
 
 He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain, 
 
 And merely adds another throb to pain. 
 
 He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage. 
 
 And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page. 
 
 Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, 
 
 Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees ; 
 
 Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, 
 
 Held all the Ught that shone on earth for hira. 
 
 The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field, 
 Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield ; 
 They would remove him, but they see 't were vain, 
 And he regards them vath a calm disdain, 
 That rose to reconcile him wath his fate. 
 And that escape to death from living hate : 
 And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed, 
 Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
 And questions of his state ; he answers not, 
 Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, 
 And turns to Kaled : — each remaimng word, 
 They understood not, if distinctly heard 5 
 His dying tones are in that other tongue, 
 To which some strange remembrance %vildly clung. 
 They speak of other scenes, but what — is known 
 To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone ; 
 And he replied, though fcdntly, to their sound, 
 While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round : 
 They seem'd even then — that twain — unto the last 
 To half forget the present in the past ; 
 To share between themselves some separate fate, 
 Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 
 
 Their words though famt were many — from the tcme 
 Their import those wha heard could judge alone; 
 
 From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's death 
 
 More near than Lara's by his voice and breath. 
 
 So skd, so deep, and hesitating broke 
 
 The accents his scarce-mo\ing pale lips spoke ; 
 
 But Lara's voice, though lev/, at first v.-as clear 
 
 And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near: 
 
 But from his visage little could we guess, 
 
 So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 
 
 Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 
 
 Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
 
 And once as Kaled's answering accents ceast. 
 
 Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 
 
 Where (as then the breaking sun from high 
 
 Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 
 
 Or that 'twas chance, or some remember'd scene, 
 
 That raised his arm to point where such had been, 
 
 Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away, 
 
 As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day. 
 
 And shrunk his glance before that morning light, 
 
 To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 
 
 Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss 
 
 For when one near display'd the absoh/ing cross, 
 
 And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead, 
 
 Of which his parting soul might own the need. 
 
 He look'd upon it with an eye profane. 
 
 And smiled — Heaven pardon ! if 't were with disdain : 
 
 And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
 
 From Lara's face his fix'd despaii-mg view. 
 
 With brow repulsive, and with gesture swifl, 
 
 Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift. 
 
 As if such but disturb'd the expiring man, 
 
 Nor seem'd to know his life but then began. 
 
 That life of Immortahty, secure 
 
 To none, save them whose faith in Clirist is sure. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 
 
 And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 
 
 His hmbs stretch'd fluttering, and liis head droop'd er 
 
 The weak yet stiU untiring knee that bore ; 
 
 He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 
 
 It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
 
 With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, 
 
 For that faint throb which answers not again. 
 
 "It beats!" — away, thou dreamer! he is gone — 
 
 It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 
 
 The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 
 
 And those around have roused him from his trance, 
 
 But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 
 
 And when in raising him from where he bore 
 
 Within his arms the form that felt no more, 
 
 He saw the head his breast would still sustain, 
 
 Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain; 
 
 He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 
 
 The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, 
 
 But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, 
 
 Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 
 
 Than that he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath 
 
 The breast of man such trusty love may breathe! 
 
 That tr>-ing moment hath at once reveal'd 
 
 The secret long and yet but half-conceal'd ; 
 
 In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 
 
 Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confest ; 
 
 And hfe return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 
 
 What now to her was Womanhood or Fame? 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, 
 
 But where he died his grave was dug as deep ; 
 
 Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, 
 
 Though priest nor Hess'd nor marble deck'd the moimd 
 I And he was rnourn'd by one whose quiet grief, 
 I Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 
 
130 
 
 LARA. 
 
 Vain was all question ask'd her of the past, 
 
 And vain e'en menace — silent to the last ; 
 
 She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
 
 Her all for one who seem'd but litile kind. 
 
 Why did she love him? Curious fool! — be still — 
 
 Is human love the growth of human will ? 
 
 To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
 
 Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, 
 
 And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
 
 Beats the strong heart, though less the hps avow. 
 
 They were not common links, that form'd the chain 
 
 That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain, 
 
 But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold, 
 
 And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 
 
 They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
 Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 
 They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar, 
 Which were not planted there in recent war ; 
 Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life, 
 It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife ; 
 But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 
 These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
 And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
 Return'd no more — that night appear'd his last. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
 
 A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale, 
 
 When Cynthia's light almost gave way to mom. 
 
 And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn ; 
 
 A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, 
 
 And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 
 
 Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
 
 Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
 
 He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
 
 From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
 
 Wrapt round some burden at his saddle-bow, 
 
 Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
 
 Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 
 
 And some foreboding that it might be crime. 
 
 Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course, 
 
 Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, 
 
 And Ufting thence the burden which he bore. 
 
 Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore, 
 
 Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to watch. 
 
 And still another hurried glance would snatch. 
 
 And follow with his step the stream that flow'd, 
 
 As if even yet too much its surface show'd : 
 
 At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
 
 The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone ; 
 
 Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there. 
 
 And slung them with a more than common care. 
 
 Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen 
 
 Himself might safely mark what this might mean ; 
 
 He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast. 
 
 And something ghtter'd starlike on the vest, 
 
 But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
 
 A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk: 
 
 It rose again but indistinct to view, 
 
 And left the waters of a purple hue. 
 
 Then deeply disappear'd : the horseman gazed, 
 
 Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 
 
 Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed. 
 
 And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
 
 His face was mask'd — the features of the dead, 
 
 If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 
 
 But if in sooth a star its bosom bore. 
 
 Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 
 
 And such 't is known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
 
 Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
 
 If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul ! 
 
 His imdiscover'd limbs to ocean roll ; 
 
 And charity upon the hope would dwell 
 
 It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 
 
 And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone, 
 
 Alike without their monumental stone ! 
 
 The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
 
 From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been; 
 
 Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud, 
 
 Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 
 
 But furious would you tear her from the spot 
 
 Where yet she scarce believed that he was not. 
 
 Her eye shot forth with all the hving fire 
 
 That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire 
 
 But left to waste her weary moments there, 
 
 She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air, 
 
 Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints. 
 
 And woos to Usten to her fond complaints : 
 
 And she would sit beneath the very tree 
 
 Where lay his drooping head upon her knee ; 
 
 And in that posture where she saw him faU, 
 
 His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall ; 
 
 And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair. 
 
 And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, 
 
 And fold, and press it gently to the ground. 
 
 As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wound. 
 
 Herself would question, and for him reply ; 
 
 Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 
 
 From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 
 
 Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 
 
 And hide her visage with her meagre hand, 
 
 Or trace strange characters along the sand — 
 
 This could not last — she Ues by him she loved ; 
 
 Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved. 
 
 NOTE TO LARA. 
 
 The event in section 24, Canto 2d, was suggested by 
 the description of the death or rather burial of the Duke 
 of Gandia. 
 
 The most interesting and particular account of this 
 mysterious event is given by Burchard, and is in sub- 
 stance as follows : " On the eight day of June, the car- 
 dinal of Valenza, and the duke of Gandia, sons of the 
 Pope, supped with their mother, Vanozza, near the 
 church of iS. Pietro ad vincula ; several other persons 
 being present at the entertainment. A late hour ap- 
 proaching, and the cardinal having reminded his brother, 
 that it was time to return to the apostolic palace, they 
 mounted their horses or mules, with only a few attend- 
 ants, and proceeded together as far as the palace of 
 cardinal Ascanio Sforza, when the duke informed the 
 cardinal, that before he returned home, he had to pay a 
 
 visit of pleasure. Dismissing therefore all his attend- 
 ants, excepting his stqffiero, or footman, and a person in 
 a mask, who had paid him a visit whilst at supper, and 
 who, during the space of a month or thereabouts, pre- 
 vious to this time, had called upon him almost daily, at 
 the apostolic palace, he took this person behind him on 
 his mule, and proceeded to the street of the Jews, where 
 he quitted his servant, directing him to remain there 
 until a certain hour ; when, if he did not return, he might 
 repair to the palace. The duke then seated the person 
 in the mask behind him, and rode, I know not whither ; 
 but in that night he was assassinated, and thrown into 
 the river. The servant, after having been dismissed, 
 was also assaulted and mortally wounded ; and al- 
 though he was attended with great care, yet such was 
 his situation, that he could give no intelligible account 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 131 
 
 of what had befallen his master. In the morning, the 
 duke not having returned to the palace, his servants 
 began to be alarmed ; and one of them informed the 
 pontiff* of the evening excursion of his sons, and that 
 the duke had not yet made his appearance. This gave 
 the pope no small anxiety , but he conjectured that the 
 duke had been attracted by some courtesan to pass the 
 night with her, and not choosing to quit the house in 
 open day, had waited till the following evening to return 
 home. When, however, the evening arrived, and he 
 found himself disappointed in his expectations, he be- 
 came deeply afflicted, and began to make inquiries from 
 different persons, whom he ordered to attend him 
 for that purpose. Among these was a man named 
 Giorgio Schiavoni, who, hann^ discharged some timber 
 from a bark in the river, had remained on board the 
 vessel to watch it, and being interrogated whether he 
 had seen any one thrown into the river on the night pre- 
 ceding, he replied, that he saw two men on foot, who 
 came down the street, and looked diligently about, to 
 observe whether any person was passing. That see- 
 ing no one, they returned, and a short time afterwards 
 two others came, and looked around in the same man- 
 ner as the former : no person still appearing, they gave 
 a sign to their companions, when a man came, mounted 
 on a white horse, having behind him a dead body, the 
 head and arms of which hung on one side, and the feet 
 on the other side of the horse • the two persons on foot 
 supporting the body, to prevent its falling. They 
 thus proceeded towards that part, where the filth of the 
 city is usually discharged into the river, and turning 
 the horse, with his tail towards the water, the two per- . 
 sons took the dead body by the arms and feet, and with , 
 
 all their strength flun^ it into the river. The person on 
 horseback then asked if they had thrown it in, to which 
 they replied, Signor, si, (yes. Sir.) He then looked 
 towards the river, and seeing a mantle floating on the 
 stream, he inquired what it was that appeared black, to 
 which they answered, it Avas a mantle ; and one of them 
 threw stones upon it, in consequence of which it sunk. 
 The attendants of the pontiff" then inquired from Gior- 
 gio, why he had not revealed this to the governor of the 
 city ; to which he replied, that he had seen in his time 
 a hundred dead bodies thrown mto the river at the same 
 place, without any inquiry being made respecting them, 
 and that he had not, therefore, considered it as a matter 
 of any im.portance. The fishermen and seamen were 
 then collected, and ordered to search the river, where, 
 on the following evening, they foimd the body of the 
 duke, with his habit entire, and thirty ducats in his purse. 
 He was pierced with nine wounds, one of which was in 
 his throat, the others in his head, body, and Umbs. No 
 sooner was the pontiff" informed of the death of his son, 
 and that he had been thrown, like filth, into the river, 
 than, giving way to his grief^ he shut himself up in a 
 chamber, and wept bitterly. The cardinal of Segovia, 
 and other attendants on the pope, went to the door, and 
 after many hours spent in persuasions and exhortations, 
 prevailed upon him to admit them. From the evening 
 of Wednesday, till the following Saturday, the pope took 
 no food; nor did he sleep from Thursday morning till 
 the same hour on the ensuing day. At length, however, 
 giving way to the entreaties of his attendants, he began 
 to restrain his sorrow, and to consider the injury which 
 his own health might sustain, by the further indulgence 
 of his grief."— Roscoe's Leo Tenth, vol. i, page 265. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESd. 
 
 THIS POEM 13 INSCRIBED BY HIS FRIEKD. 
 
 January 23, 1316. 
 ADVERTISEMENT, 
 
 " The grand army of the Turks, (in 1715,) under the 
 Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the heart 
 of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli di Roma- 
 nia, the most considerable place in all that country,* 
 thought it best in the first place to attack Corinth, upon 
 which they made several storms. The garrison being 
 weakened, and the governor seeing it was impossible to 
 hold out against so mighty a force, thought it fit to beat 
 a parley : but while they were treating about the articles, 
 one of the magazines in the Turkish camp, wherein they 
 had six hundred barrels of powder, blew up by accident, 
 whereby sLx or seven hmidred men were killed ; which 
 so enraged the infidels, that they would not grant any 
 capitulation, but stormed the place with so much fury, 
 that they took it, and put most of the garrison, with 
 Signior Minotti, the governor, to the sword. The rest, 
 with Antonio Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were made 
 prisoners of war." — History of the Turks, vol. iu. p. 151. 
 
 * Napoli di Romania is not now the most considerable place in tlie 
 Morea, but TripoUtza, where the Pacha resides, and maintains his 
 goverument. Napoli is near Argos. I visited all three in 1810-11; and 
 in the course of jounieying through the country from my first arrival in 
 1809, I crossed the Isthmus eight times in ray way from Attica to the 
 Morea, over the raouataius, or in the other direction, when passing from 
 the Guif of Athens to that of Lepanto. Both the routes are pictures(j'je 
 and heaatifnl, though very diffei-ent : that by sea has more sameness, but 
 the voyage being always within sight of land, and often very near it, 
 presents many attractive views of the islands Salamis, Mgiaa., Voro, &c. 
 \ai lh« coast of the continent. 
 
 Many a vanish'd year and age, 
 
 And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 
 
 Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands 
 
 A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands. 
 
 The whirhvind's wrath, the earthquake's shock| 
 
 Have left untouch'd her hoary rock, 
 
 The keystone of a land, which still, 
 
 Though falfn, looks proudly on that hill, 
 
 The landmark to the double tide 
 
 That purphng rolls on either side, 
 
 As if their waters chafed to meet, 
 
 Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 
 
 But could the blood before her shed 
 
 Since first Timoleon's brother bled, 
 
 Or baffled Persia's despot fled, 
 
 Arise from out the earth which drank 
 
 The stream of slaughter as it sank, 
 
 That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 
 
 Her isthmus idly spread below; 
 
 Or could the bones of all the slain, 
 
 "Who perish'd there, be piled again, 
 
 That rival pyramid would rise 
 
 More mountaui-Uke, through those clear ekiei^ 
 
 Than yon tower-capt Acropohs, 
 
 Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 
 
 On dun Cithaeron's ridge appears 
 
 The gleam of twice ten thousand spoara ; 
 
132 
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
 From shore to shore of either main, 
 The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
 Along the Moslem's ieaguering lines ; 
 And the dusk Spahi's bands advance 
 Beneath each bearded pacha's glance ; 
 And far and mde as eye can reach 
 The tiirhan'd cohorts throng the beach ; 
 And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
 And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
 The Turcoman hath left his herd,i 
 The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
 And there the volleying thunders pour, 
 Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
 The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
 Wings the far hissing globe of death ; 
 Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
 Which crumbles with the ponderous ball ; 
 And from that wall the foe replies, 
 O'er dusty plain and smoky skies. 
 With fires that answer fast and well 
 The summons of the Infidel. 
 
 But near and nearest to the wall 
 Of those who wish and work its fall, 
 With deeper skill in war's black art 
 Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
 As any chief that ever stood 
 Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
 From post to post, and deed to deed, 
 Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 
 Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
 And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
 Or where the battery, guai-ded well. 
 Remains as yet impregnable, 
 Alighting cheerly to inspire 
 The soldier slackening in his fire 
 The first and freshest of the host 
 Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 
 To guide the follower o'er tlie field, 
 To point the tube, the lance to wield 
 Or whirl around the bickering blade ;— 
 Was Alp, the Adrian renegade ! 
 
 From Venice — once a race of worth 
 His gentle sires — he drew his birth ; 
 But late an exile from her shore, 
 Against his coantr}'men he bore 
 The arms they taught to bear ; and now 
 The turban girt his shaven brow. 
 Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 
 With Greece to Venice' rule at last; 
 And here, before her walls, with those 
 To Greece and "Venice equal foes. 
 He stood a foe, with all the zeal 
 Which young and fiery converts feel 
 Withm whose heated bosom throngs 
 The memory of a thousand wrongs. 
 To him had Venice ceased to be 
 Her ancient civic boast — "the Free;" 
 And in the palace of St. Mark 
 Unnamed accusers in the dark 
 Within the "Lion's mouth" had placed 
 A charge against him unefTaced : 
 He fled in time, and saved his life, 
 To waste his future years in strife. 
 That taught his land how great her loss 
 In him who triumph'd o'er the Cross, 
 'Gainst which he rear'd the Crescent high. 
 And batded to avenge or die. 
 
 Coumourgi ^ — he whose closing scene 
 Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 
 When on Carlowitz' bloody plain. 
 The last and mightiest of the slain, 
 He sank, regretting not to die. 
 But curst the Christian's victory — 
 Coumourgi — can his glory cease, 
 That latest conqueror of Greece, 
 Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
 The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
 A hundi'ed years have roll'd away 
 Since he reiix'd the Moslem's sway, 
 And now he led the Mussulman, 
 And gave the guidance of the van 
 To Alp, who well repaid the trust 
 By cities levell'd with the dust ; 
 And proved, by many a deed of death, 
 How firm his heart in novel faith. 
 
 The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 
 Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 
 With unabating fury sent 
 From battery to battlement ; 
 And thunder-hke the pealing din 
 Rose from each heated culverin; 
 And here and there some crackling dome 
 Was fired before the exploding "bomb : 
 And as the fabric sank beneadi 
 The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 
 In red and wreathing columns flash'd 
 The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd. 
 Or into countless meteors driven. 
 Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 
 Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun, 
 Impervious to the hidden sun, 
 With volumed smoke that slowly grev? 
 . To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 
 
 But not for vengeance, long delay'd. 
 
 Alone, did Alp, the renegade. 
 
 The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
 
 His skill to pierce the promised breach : 
 
 Within these walls a maid was pent 
 
 His hope would win without consent 
 
 Of that inexorable sire, 
 
 Whose heart refused him in its ire, 
 
 When Alp, beneath his Christian name. 
 
 Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
 
 In happier mood, and earlier time, 
 
 While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime, 
 
 Gayest in gondola or hall, 
 
 He glitter'd through the Carnival ; 
 
 And tuned the softest serenade 
 
 That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 
 
 At midnight to ItaUan maid. 
 
 And many deem'd her heart was won , 
 For sought by numbers, given to none, 
 Had young Francesca's hand remain'd 
 Still by the church's bonds unchain'd: 
 And when the Adriatic bore 
 Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, 
 Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 
 And pensive wax'd the maid and pale ; 
 More constant at confessional, 
 More rare at masque and festival; 
 Or seen at such, with do\N-ncast eyes. 
 Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize: 
 With listless look she seems to gaze 
 With humbler care her form arrays ; 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 133 
 
 Her voice less lively in the song ; 
 Her step, though light, less fleet among 
 The pairs, on whom the Morning's glance 
 Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 
 
 Sent by the state to guard the land, 
 (Which wrested from the Moslem's hand, 
 While Sobieski tamed his pride 
 By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 
 The chiefs of Venice wTung away 
 From Patra to Euboea's bay,) 
 Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
 The Doge's delegated powers. 
 While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
 Smiled o'er her long-forgotten Greece : 
 And ere that faithless truce was broke 
 Which freed her from the unchristian yok^ 
 With him his gentle daughter came 
 Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
 Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
 What woes await on lawless love, 
 Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
 Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 
 
 The wall is rent, the ruins yawn ; 
 And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
 O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
 The foremost of the fierce assault. 
 The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
 Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
 The full of hope, misnamed " forlorn," 
 Who hold the thought of death in scorn, 
 And win their way with falchion's force. 
 Or pave the path with many a corse, 
 O'er which the following brave may rise, 
 Their stepping-stone — the last who dies ! 
 
 'T is midnight : on the mountains brown 
 
 The cold, round moon shines deeply down ; 
 
 Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
 
 Spreads like an ocean hung on high. 
 
 Bespangled with those isles of light. 
 
 So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
 
 Who ever gazed upon them shining. 
 
 And turn'd to earth without repining, 
 
 Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 
 
 And mix with their eternal ray ? 
 
 The waves on either shore lay there 
 
 Calm, clear, and azure as the air; 
 
 And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 
 
 But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 
 
 The winds were piUow'd on the waves ; 
 
 The banners droop'd along their staves. 
 
 And, as they fell around them furling, 
 
 Above them shone the crescent curling; 
 
 And that deep silence was unbroke. 
 
 Save where the watch his signal spoke. 
 
 Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill. 
 
 And echo answer'd from the hill, 
 
 And the wide hum of that wild host 
 
 Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 
 
 As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
 
 In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 
 
 It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 
 
 Lilce some lone spirit's o'er the plain: 
 
 'T was musical, but sadly sweet, 
 
 Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 
 
 And take a long unmeasured tone. 
 
 To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 
 
 It seem'd to those within the wall 
 
 A cry prophetic of their fall: 
 
 It struck even the besieger's ear 
 With something ominous and drear, 
 An undefined and sudden thrill. 
 Which makes the heart a moment still, 
 Then beat witli quicker pulse, ashamed 
 Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 
 Such as a sudden passing-bell • 
 Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 
 
 The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 
 
 The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er ; 
 
 The watch was set, the night-round made, 
 
 All mandates issued and obey'd : 
 
 'T is but another anxious night. 
 
 His pains the morrow may requite 
 
 With all revenge and love can pay. 
 
 In guerdon for their long delay. 
 
 Few hours remain, and he hath need 
 
 Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 
 
 Of slaughter ; but within his soul 
 
 The thoughts Uke troubled waters roll. 
 
 He stood alone among the host; 
 
 Not his the loud fanatic boast 
 
 To plant the crescent o'er the cross. 
 
 Or risk a life with htde loss. 
 
 Secure in paradise to be 
 
 By Houris loved immortally : 
 
 Nor his, v.'hat burning patriots feel, 
 
 The stern exaltedness of zeal. 
 
 Profuse of blood, untired in toil. 
 
 When battling on the parent soil. 
 
 He stood alone — a renegade 
 
 Against the country he betray'd ; 
 
 He stood alone amidst his band, 
 
 Without a trusted heart or hand : 
 
 They follow'd him, for he was brave. 
 
 And great the spoil he got and gave ; 
 
 They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 
 
 To warp and wield the vulgar will : 
 
 But still his Christian origin 
 
 With them was little less than sin. 
 
 They envied even the faithless fame 
 
 He eam'd beneath a Moslem name ; 
 
 Since he, their mightiest chiefj had been 
 
 In youth a bitter Nazarene. 
 
 They did not know how pride can stoop, 
 
 When baffled feelings withering droop ; 
 
 They did not know how hate can burn 
 
 In hearts once changed from soft to stern ; 
 
 Nor all the false and- fatal zeal 
 
 The convert of revenge can feel. 
 
 He ruled them — man may rule the worst, 
 
 By ever daring to be first : 
 
 So lions o'er the jackal sway; 
 
 The jackal points, he fells the prey. 
 
 Then on the vulgar yelling press. 
 
 To gorge the relics of success. 
 
 His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 
 The quick successive throbs convulse ; 
 In vain from side to side he throws 
 His form, in courtship of repose ; 
 Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 
 Awoke him with a sunken heart. 
 The turban on his hot brow press'd, 
 The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast, 
 Though oft and long beneath its weight 
 Upon his eyes had slumber sate. 
 Without or couch or canopy. 
 Except a rougher field and sky 
 Than now might yield a warrior's bed, 
 Than now along the heaven was spread ; 
 
134 
 
 THE SIEGE OP CORINTH. 
 
 He could not rest, he could not stay 
 Within his tent to wait for day, 
 But walk'd him forth along the sand, 
 Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand. 
 What pillow'd them? and why should he 
 More wakeful than the humblest be, 
 Since more their peril, worse their toil ? 
 And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
 While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
 A nisht of sleep, perchance their last, 
 In sickly vigil wander'd on. 
 And envied all he gazed upon. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 He felt his soul become more hght 
 Beneath the freshness of the night. 
 Cool was the silent sky, though cahn, 
 And bathed his brow with airy balm : 
 Behind, the camp — before liim lay, 
 In many a winding creek and bay, 
 Lepanto's gulf; and, on the brow 
 Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, 
 High and eternal, such as shone 
 Through thousand summers brightly gone, 
 Along the gulfj the mount, the clime ; 
 It will not melt, Uke man, to time : 
 Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
 Less form'd to wear before the ray ; 
 But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
 Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
 While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
 Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 
 In form a peak, in height a cloud. 
 In texture like a hovering shroud. 
 Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
 As from her fond abode she fled. 
 And linger'd on the spot, where long 
 Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
 Oh, still her step at moments falters 
 O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars, 
 And fain would wake, in souls too broken, 
 By pointing to each glorious token. 
 But vain her voice, till better days 
 Dawn in those yet remember'd rays 
 Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
 And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Not mindless of these mighty times 
 
 Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes ; 
 
 And through this night, as on he wander'd. 
 
 And o'er the past and present ponder'd, 
 
 And thought upon the glorious dead 
 
 Who there in better cause had bled. 
 
 He felt how faint and feebly dim 
 
 The fame that could accrue to him, 
 
 Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, 
 
 A traitor in a turban'd horde ; 
 
 And led them to the lawless siege. 
 
 Whose best success were sacrilege. 
 
 Not so had those his fancy number'd, 
 
 The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd ; 
 
 Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain, 
 
 Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 
 
 They fell devoted, but undying ; 
 
 The very gale their names seem'd sighing: 
 
 The waters murmur'd of their name ; 
 
 The woods were peopled with their fame ; 
 
 The silent pillar, lone and gray, 
 
 Claira'd kindred with their sacred clay ; 
 
 Their spirits wrapt tlie dusky mountain. 
 
 Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 
 
 The meanest rill, the mightiest river 
 
 RoU'd mingling with their fame for ever. 
 
 Despite of every yoke she bears, 
 
 That land is glory's still and theirs 1 
 
 'T is still a watchword to the earth: 
 When man would do a deed of worth 
 He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 
 So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head : 
 He looks to her, and rushes on 
 Where life is lost, or freedom won. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Still by the shore Alp mutely mused. 
 
 And woo'd the freshness Night diffused. 
 
 There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,' 
 
 Which changeless rolls eternally ; 
 
 So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood, 
 
 Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood ; 
 
 And the pow erless moon beholds them flow. 
 
 Heedless if she come or go : 
 
 Calm or high, in main or baj'. 
 
 On their course she hath no sway. 
 
 The rock unworn its base doth bare, 
 
 And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there ; 
 
 And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 
 
 On the Une that it left long ages ago : 
 
 A smooth short space of yellow sand 
 
 Between it and the greener land. 
 
 He wander'd on, along the beach. 
 
 Till wthin the range of a carbine's reach 
 
 Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not, 
 
 Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? 
 
 Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 
 
 Were their hands grown stiffj or their hearts wax'd 
 
 cold? 
 I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
 There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, 
 Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
 That flank'd the sea- ward gate of the town ; 
 Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 
 The sullen words of the sentinel, 
 As his measured step on the stone below 
 Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
 And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
 Hold o'er the dead their carnival, 
 Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb ; 
 They were too busy to bark at him ! 
 From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, 
 As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
 And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull,* 
 As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge 
 
 grew dull. 
 As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
 W^hen they scarce could rise from the spot where 
 
 they fed ; 
 So well had they broken a lingering fast 
 With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 
 And Alp knew, by the turbans that roU'd on the 
 
 sand, 
 The foremost of these were the best of his band ; 
 Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear 
 And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,* 
 All the rest was shaven and bare. 
 The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 
 The hair was tangled round his jaw. 
 But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf. 
 There sat a vulture flapping a wolf. 
 Who had stolen fi-om the hills, but kept away. 
 Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 
 But he seized on his share of a steed that lay 
 Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Alp tum'd him from the sickening sight- 
 Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 
 But he better could brook to behold the dying 
 Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
 Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vam 
 Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 135 
 
 There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 
 
 "Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower 
 
 For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 
 
 And Honour's eye on daring deeds ! 
 
 But when all is past, it is humbhng to tread 
 
 O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 
 
 And see worms of the earth, and fowls of tlie air, 
 
 Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 
 
 All regarding man as their prey, 
 
 All rejoicing in his decay. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 There is a temple in ruin stands, 
 
 Fashion'd by long forgotten hands ; 
 
 Two or three columns, and many a stone, 
 
 Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 
 
 Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 
 
 Of the things to come than the things before ! 
 
 Out upon Time ! who for ever will leave 
 
 But enough of the past for the future to grieve 
 
 O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must 
 
 be: 
 What we have seen, our sons shall see ; 
 Remnants of things that have pass'd away. 
 Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay ! 
 
 He sate him down at a pillar's base, 
 
 And pass'd his hand athwart has face ; 
 
 Like one in dreary musing mood, 
 
 Declining was his attitude ; 
 
 His head was drooping on his breast, 
 
 Fever'd, throbbing, and opprest ; 
 
 And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 
 
 Oft his beating fingers went, 
 
 Hurriedly, jls you may see 
 
 Your own run over the ivory key. 
 
 Ere the measured tone is taken 
 
 By the chords you would awaken. 
 
 There he sate all heavily, 
 
 As he heard the night-wind sigh. 
 
 Was it the wind, through some hollow stone,^ 
 
 Sent that soft and tender moan ? 
 
 He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea. 
 
 But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 
 
 He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a blade ; 
 
 How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 
 
 He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 
 
 So did the leaves on Cithseron's hill, 
 
 And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; 
 
 What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 
 
 He tum'd to the left — is he sure of sight ? 
 
 There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! 
 
 He st-arted up with more of fear 
 
 Than if an armed foe were near. 
 
 " God of my fathers ! what is here ? 
 
 Who art thou, and wherefore sent 
 
 So near a hostile armament ?" 
 
 His trembling hands refused to sign 
 
 The cross he deem'd no more divine: 
 
 He had resumed it in that hour, 
 
 But conscience wrung away the power. 
 
 He gazed, he saw : he knew the face 
 
 Of beauty, and the form of grace ; 
 
 It was Francesca by his side. 
 
 The maid who might have been his bride ! 
 
 The rose was yet upon her cheek, 
 But mellow'd with a tenderer streak : 
 Where was the play of her soft hps fled ? 
 Gone was the smile that enhven'd their red. 
 The ocean's calm within their view. 
 Beside her eye had less of blue : 
 
 But like tliat cold wave it stood still, 
 
 And its glance, though clear, was chill : 
 
 Around her form a thin robe twining, 
 
 Nought conceal'd her bosom shining ; 
 
 Through the parting of her hair. 
 
 Floating darkly downward there. 
 
 Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 
 
 And ere yet she made reply, 
 
 Once she raised her hand on high ; 
 
 It was so wan, and transparent of hue, 
 
 Y"ou might have seen the moon shine through. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 "I come fi-om my rest to him I love best. 
 
 That I may be happy, and he may be blest. 
 
 I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall 
 
 Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 
 
 'T is said the hon will turn and flee 
 
 From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 
 
 And the Power on high, that can shield the good 
 
 Thus from the tyrauit of the wood. 
 
 Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 
 
 From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 
 
 I come — and if I come in vain, 
 
 Never, oh never, we meet again ! 
 
 Thou hast done a fearful deed 
 
 In falling away from thy father's creed : 
 
 But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
 
 The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine 
 
 Wring the black drop from thy heart. 
 
 And to-morrow umtes us no more to part." 
 
 " And where should our bridal couch be spread ? 
 
 In the midst of the dj-ing and the dead ? 
 
 For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 
 
 The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 
 
 None, save thou and thine, I 've sworn, 
 
 Shall be left upon the morn: 
 
 But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 
 
 Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow 
 
 forgot. 
 There thou yet shalt be my bride. 
 When once again I 've quell'd the pride 
 Of Veiuce ; and her hated race 
 Have felt the arm they would debase, 
 Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 
 Whom vice and envy made my foes." 
 
 Upon his hand she laid her own — 
 
 Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 
 
 And shot a dullness to his heart. 
 
 Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 
 
 Though sUght was that grasp so mortal cold, 
 
 He could not loose him from its hold; 
 
 But never did clasp of one so dear 
 
 Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear. 
 
 As those thin fingers, long and white. 
 
 Froze through his blood by their touch that night. 
 
 The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 
 
 And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 
 
 As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue 
 
 So deeply changed from what he knew : 
 
 Fair but faint — vrithout the ray 
 
 Of mind, that made each feature play 
 
 Like sparkhng w aves on a sunny day ; 
 
 And her motionless hps lay still as death, 
 
 And her words came forth without her breath. 
 
 And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell 
 
 And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 
 
 Though her eye shone out, yet the hds were fix'd. 
 
 And the glance that it gave was wild and uimiix'd 
 
 With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 
 
 Of the restless who walk in a troubled di-eam ; 
 
 Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 
 
 Stirr'd by fiie breath of the wintry air 
 
136 
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, 
 
 Lifeless, but life-like, and a^vful to sight \ 
 
 As tliey seem, through the dimness, about to come 
 
 down 
 From the shadowy wall where their images frown ; 
 Fearfully flitting to and fro, 
 As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 
 " If not for love of me be given 
 Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, — 
 Again I say — that turban tear 
 From off thy faithless brow, and swear 
 Thine injured country's sons to spare, 
 Or thou art lost ; and never shalt see 
 Not earth — that 's past — but heaven or me. 
 If this thou dost accord, albeit 
 A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, 
 
 That doom shall half absolve thy sin. 
 
 And mercy's gate may receive thee within: 
 
 But pause one moment more, and take 
 
 The curse of Him thou didst forsake ; 
 
 And look once more to heaven, and see 
 
 Its love for ever shut from thee. 
 
 There is a light cloud by the moon — ' 
 
 'T is passing, and will pass full soon — 
 
 I^ by the time its vapoury sail 
 
 Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 
 
 Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
 
 Then God and man are both avenged; 
 
 Dark will thy dooAi be. darker still 
 
 Thine iramortaUty of ill." 
 
 Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 
 
 The sign she spake of in the sky ; 
 
 But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside, 
 
 By deep interminable pride. 
 
 This first false passion of his breast 
 
 Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 
 
 He sue for mercy ! He disma/d 
 
 By wild words of a timid maid ! 
 
 He, wTong'd by Venice, vow to save 
 
 Her sons, devoted to the gi-ave ! 
 
 No — though that cloud were thunder's worst, 
 
 And charged to crush him — let it burst ! 
 
 He look'd upon it earnestly. 
 
 Without an accent of reply ; 
 
 He watch'd it passing ; it is flown : 
 
 Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 
 
 And thus he spake — '■ "Whate'er my fate, 
 
 I am no changeling — 't is too late : 
 
 The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 
 
 Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 
 
 What Venice made me, I must be. 
 
 Her foe in all, save love to thee : 
 
 But thou art safe : oh, fly ^^^th me 1" 
 
 He turn'd, but she is gone ! 
 
 Nothing is there but the column stone. 
 
 Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air ? 
 
 He saw not, he knew not ; but nothing is there. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The night is past, and shines the sun 
 
 As if that mom were a jocund one. 
 
 liightly and brightly breaks away 
 
 The Morning from her mantle gray. 
 
 And the Noon wiU look on a sultry day. 
 
 Hark to the trump, and the drum, 
 
 And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 
 
 And the flap of the banners that flit as they 're borne, 
 
 And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 
 
 And the clash, and the shout, " they come, they come !' 
 
 The horsetails ^ are pluck'd from the ground, and the 
 
 sword 
 From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the 
 
 word. 
 
 Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
 
 Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; 
 
 Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain. 
 
 That the fugitive may flee in vain. 
 
 When he breaks from the town ; and none escape, 
 
 Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 
 
 Wliile your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 
 
 Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 
 
 The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; 
 
 Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 
 
 White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 
 
 The spears are uphfted ; the matches are lit ; 
 
 The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, 
 
 And crush the wall tliey have crumbled before : 
 
 Forms in his phalanx each Janizar ; 
 
 Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare. 
 
 So is the blade of his scimitar ; 
 
 The khan and the pachas are all at their post: 
 
 The vizier himself at the head of the host. 
 
 When the culverin's signal is fired, then on 
 
 Leave not in Corinth a living one — 
 
 A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 
 
 A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 
 
 God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 
 
 Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 
 
 " There the breach lies for passage the ladder to scale ; 
 
 And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye 
 
 fail? 
 He who first downs with the red cross may crave 
 His heart's dearest wish ; let liim ask it, and have !" 
 Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier; 
 The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, 
 And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire : — 
 Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 As the wolves, that headlong go 
 
 On the stately buffalo, 
 
 Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 
 
 And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 
 
 He tramples on the earth, or tosses on high 
 
 The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die 
 
 Thus against the wall they went, 
 
 Thus the first were backwark bent ; 
 
 Many a bosom, sheath'd in brass, 
 
 Strew'd the earth like broken glass, 
 
 Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 
 
 The ground whereon they moved no more : 
 
 Even as they fell, in files they lay, 
 
 Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 
 
 When his work is done on the levell'd plain ; 
 
 Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 
 
 From the cliffs invading dash 
 
 Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, 
 
 TiU white and thundering down they go, 
 
 Like the avalanche's snow 
 
 On the Alpine vales 'below ; 
 
 Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 
 
 Corinth's sons were downward borne 
 
 By the long and oft renew'd 
 
 Charge of the Moslem multitude. 
 
 In firnmess they stood, and in masses they fell, 
 
 Heap'd, by the host of the infidel, 
 
 Hand to hand, and foot to foot: 
 
 Nothing there, save death, was mute ; 
 
 Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 
 
 For quarter, or for victory, 
 
 Mingle there %vith the volleying thtmder. 
 
 Which makes the distant cities wonder 
 
 How the sotmding battle goes, 
 
 If with them, or for their foes; 
 
 If they must mourn, or may rejoice 
 
 In that annihilating voice. 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 187 
 
 Which pierces the deep hills through and through 
 
 With an echo dread and new : 
 
 You might have heard it, on that day, 
 
 O'er Salamis and Megara ; 
 
 (We have heard the hearers say,) 
 
 Even unto Piraeus bay. 
 
 From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, 
 
 Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 
 
 But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, 
 
 And all but the after carnage done. 
 
 Shriller shrieks now mingling come 
 
 From within the plunder'd dome : 
 
 Hark to the haste of flying feet. 
 
 That splash in the blood of the slippery street ; 
 
 But here and there, where 'vantage ground 
 
 Against the foe may still be found. 
 
 Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 
 
 Make a pause, and turn again — 
 
 With banded backs against the wall. 
 
 Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 
 
 There stood an old man — his hairs were white, 
 
 But his veteran arm was full of might ; 
 
 So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 
 
 The dead before him, on that day, 
 
 In a semicircle lay ; 
 
 Still he combated unwounded, 
 
 Though retreating, unsurrounded. 
 
 Many a scar of former fight 
 
 Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright; 
 
 But of every wound his body bore, 
 
 Each and all had been ta'en before : 
 
 Though aged, he was so iron of Umb, 
 
 Few of our youth could cope with him ; 
 
 And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 
 
 Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver gray. 
 
 From right to left his sabre swept ; 
 
 Many an Othman mother wept 
 
 Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 
 
 His weapon first in Moslem gore, 
 
 Ere his years could count a score. 
 
 Of all he might have been the sire 
 
 Who fell that day beneath his ire : 
 
 For, sonless left long years ago. 
 
 His wrath made many a childless foe ; 
 
 And since the day, when in the strait* 
 
 His only boy had met his fate. 
 
 His parent's iron hand did doom 
 
 More than a human hecatomb. 
 
 If shades by carnage be appeased, 
 
 Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 
 
 Than his, Minotti's son, who died 
 
 Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 
 
 Buried he lay, where thousands before 
 
 For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore ; 
 
 What of them is left, to tell 
 
 Where they lie, and how they fell ? 
 Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in theii- graves ; 
 But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 
 
 Hark to the Allah shout ! a band 
 Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand : 
 Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 
 Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 
 Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on ; 
 Thus in the fight is he ever known : 
 Others a gaudier garb may show, 
 To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe ; 
 Many a hand 's on a richer hilt, 
 But none on a steel more ruddily gilt ; 
 Many a loftier turban may wear, — 
 S 
 
 Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 
 
 Look through the thick of the fight, 't is therd ! 
 
 There is not a standard on that shore 
 
 So well advanced the ranks before; 
 
 There is not a banner in Moslem war 
 
 Will lure the Delhis half so far ; 
 
 It glances like a falling star ! 
 
 Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 
 
 The bravest be, or late have been ; 
 
 There the craven cries for quarter 
 
 Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 
 
 Or the hero, silent lying. 
 
 Scorns to yeild a groan in dying ; 
 
 Mustering his last feeble blow 
 
 'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe, 
 
 Though faint beneath the mutual wound, 
 
 Grappling on the gory ground. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Still the old man stood erect. 
 
 And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
 
 "Yield thee, Minotti; quarter take, 
 
 For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 
 
 " Never, renegado, never ! 
 
 Though the life of thy gift would last for ever." 
 
 " Francesca ! — Oh my promised bride ! 
 
 Must she too perish by thy pride ?" 
 
 "She is safe."— "Where? where ?"— "In heaven; 
 
 From whence the traitor soul is driven — 
 
 Far from thee, and undefiled." 
 
 Grimly then Minotti smiled, 
 
 As he saw Alp staggering bow 
 
 Before his vv'ords, as with a blow. 
 
 « Oh God ! when died she ?" — " Yesternight — 
 
 Nor weep I for her spirit's flight : 
 
 None of my pure race shall be 
 
 Slaves to Mahomet and thee — 
 
 Come on !" — That challenge is in vain'; — 
 
 Alp 's already with the slain ! 
 
 While Minotti's words were wrealiing 
 
 More revenge in bitter speaking 
 
 Than his falchion's point had found, 
 
 Had the time allow'd to wound. 
 
 From within the neighbouring porch 
 
 Of a long defended church. 
 
 Where the last and desperate few 
 
 Would the failing fight renew, 
 
 The sharp shot dashed Alp to the ground ; 
 
 Ere an eye could view the wound 
 
 That Crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 
 
 Round he spun, and dovra he fell ; 
 
 A flash like fire within his eyes 
 
 Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 
 
 And then eternal darkness sunk 
 
 Through all the palpitating trunk ; 
 
 Nought of life left, save a quivering 
 
 Where his limbs were slightly shivering: 
 
 They turn'd him on his back ; his breast 
 
 And brow were stain'd with gore and dust. 
 
 And through his lips the life-blood oozed. 
 
 From its deep veins lately loosed ; 
 
 But in his pulse there was no throb, 
 
 Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 
 
 Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 
 
 Heralded his way to death : 
 
 Ere his very thought could pray, 
 
 Unanel'd he pass'd away. 
 
 Without a hope from mercy's aid,— 
 
 To the last a renegade. 
 
 XXTIII. 
 
 FearfijUy the yell arose 
 
 Of his followers, and his foes ; 
 
 These in joy, in fury those : 
 
138 
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Then again in conflict mixing, 
 Clashing swords, and spears transfixing, 
 Interchanged the blow and thrust, 
 Hurling warriors in the dust. 
 Street by street, and foot by foot, 
 Still Minotti dares dispute 
 The latest portion of the land 
 Lefl beneath his high command ; 
 With him, aiding heart and hand, 
 The remnant of his gallant band. 
 Still the church is tenable, 
 
 Whence issued late the fated ball 
 That half avenged the city's fall, 
 When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell : 
 Thither bending sternly back. 
 They leave before a bloody track ; 
 And, with their faces to the foe. 
 Dealing wounds with every blow, 
 The chief, and his retreating train, 
 Join to those within the fane ; 
 There they yet may breath awhile, 
 Shelter'd by the massy pile. 
 
 Brief breathing-time ! the turban'd host, 
 
 With adding ranlvs and raging boast, 
 
 Press onwards with such strength and heat, 
 
 Their numbers balk their own retreat ; 
 
 For narrow the way that led to the spot 
 
 Where still the Christians yielded not; 
 
 And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 
 
 Through the massy column to turn and fly; 
 
 They perforce must do or die. 
 
 They die ; but ere their eyes could close, 
 
 Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 
 
 Fresh and furious, fast they fill 
 
 The ranlvS unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still ; 
 
 And faint the weary Christians weix 
 
 Before the still renew'd attacks : 
 
 And now the Othmans gain the gate; 
 
 Still resists its iron weight, 
 
 And still, all deadly aim'd and hot, 
 
 From every cre-vice comes the shot; 
 
 From every shatter'd window pour 
 
 The volleys of the sulphurous shower : 
 
 But the portal wavering grows and weak — 
 
 The iron yields, the Imges creak — 
 
 It bends — it falls — and all is o'er ; 
 
 Lost Corinth may resist no more I 
 
 Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 
 
 Minotti stood o'er the altar stone : 
 
 Madonna's face upon him shone. 
 
 Painted in heavenly hues above, 
 
 With eyes of light and looks of love ; 
 
 And placed upon that holy shrine 
 
 To fix our thoughts on thmgs divine, 
 
 When pictured there, we kneeling see 
 
 Her, and the boy-God on her knee, 
 
 Smiling sweetly on each prayer 
 
 To heaven, as if to waft it there. 
 
 Still she smiled ; even now she smiles. 
 
 Though slaughter streams along her aisles; 
 
 Minotti hfted his aged eye. 
 
 And made the sign of a cross >vith a sigh, 
 
 Then seized a torch which blazed thereby; 
 
 And still he stood, while, with steel and flame, 
 
 Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 
 Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 
 Their names were on the graven floor, 
 But now illegible with gore, 
 
 The carved crests, and curious hues 
 
 The varied marble's veins diflTuse, 
 
 Were smeard, and slippery — stain'd, and stro^vn 
 
 "V^'ith broken swords, and helms o'erthrown: 
 
 There were dead above, and the dead below 
 
 Lay cold in many a coffin'd row; 
 
 You might see them piled in sable state, 
 
 By a pale fight through a gloomy grate ; 
 
 But War had enter'd their dark caves, 
 
 And stored along the vaulted graves 
 
 Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 
 
 In masses by the fleshless dead: 
 
 Here, throughout the siege, had been 
 
 The Christians' chiefest magazine ; 
 
 To these a late form'd train now led, 
 
 Minotti's last and stem resource 
 
 Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 
 
 The foe came on, and few remain 
 
 To strive, and those must strive in vain : 
 
 For lack of further lives, to slake 
 
 The thirst of vengeance now awake, 
 
 With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 
 
 And lop the already lifeless head. 
 
 And fell the statues from their niche, 
 
 And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, 
 
 And from each other's rude hands wrest 
 
 The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 
 
 To the high altar on they go ; 
 
 Oh, but it made a glorious show ! 
 
 On its table still behold 
 
 The cup of consecrated gold ; 
 
 Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 
 
 Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 
 
 That mom it held the holy wine. 
 
 Converted by Christ to his blood so divine. 
 
 Which his worshippers drank at the break of day 
 
 To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray. 
 
 Still a few drops within it lay ; 
 
 And round the sacred table glow 
 
 Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 
 
 From the purest metal cast ; 
 
 A spoil — the richest, and the last. 
 
 So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
 To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, 
 
 When old Minotti's hand 
 Touch'd with the torch the train — 
 
 'T is fired! 
 Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
 The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
 All that of living or dead remain, 
 Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane, 
 
 In one wild roar expired ! 
 The shatter'd to%^Ti — the walls thrown down— 
 The waves a moment backward bent — 
 The hills that shake, although unrent, 
 
 As if an earthquake pass'd — 
 The thousand shapeless things all driven 
 In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 
 
 By that tremendous blast — 
 Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
 On that too long afflicted shore : 
 Up to the sky like rockets go 
 All that mingled there below : 
 Many a tall and goodly man, 
 Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, 
 When he fell to earth again 
 Like a cinder strew'd the plain: 
 Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
 Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles 
 With a thousand circling wrinkles ; 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 139 
 
 Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
 Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay ; 
 Christian or Moslem, which be they ? 
 Let their mothers see and say! 
 "When in cradled rest they lay, 
 And each nursing mother smiled 
 On the sweet sleep of her child. 
 Little deera'd she such a day 
 Would rend those tender limbs away. 
 Not the matrons that them bore 
 Could discern their offspring more \ 
 That one moment left no trace 
 More of human form or face 
 Save a scatter'd scalp or bone ; 
 And down came blazing rafters, strown 
 Around, and many a falling stone, 
 Deeply dinted in the clay, 
 All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
 All the Uving things tliat heard 
 That deadly earth-shock disappear'd : 
 The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
 And howling lefl the unburied dead ; 
 
 The camels from their keepers broke ; 
 The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
 The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
 And burst his girth, and tore liis rein ; 
 The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, 
 Deepmouth'd arose, and doubly harsh 
 The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill 
 Where echo roU'd m thunder still ; 
 The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry,'" 
 Bav'd from afar complainingly. 
 With a mix'd and mournful sound. 
 Like crjang babe, and beaten hound : 
 With sudden wing, and ruffled breast, 
 The eagle left his rocky nest, 
 And mounted nearer to the sun, 
 The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun ; 
 Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, 
 And made him higher soar and shriek — 
 Thus was Corinth lost and won ! 
 
 NOTES TO THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Note 1, page 132, line IL 
 TVie Turcoman hath left his herd. 
 
 The life of the Turcomans is wandering and patriar- 
 chal : they dwell in tents. 
 
 Note 2, page 132, line 69. ' 
 Coumourgi — he whose closing scene. 
 
 Ali Coumourgi, the favourite of three sultans, and 
 Grand Vizier to Achmet III. after recovering Pelopon- 
 nesus from the Venetians in one campaign, was mor- 
 tally wounded in the next, against the Germans, at the 
 battle of Peterwaradin, (in fhe plain of Carlowitz.) in 
 Hungary, endeavouring to rally his guards. He died 
 of his wounds next day. His last order was the de- 
 capitation of General Breuner, and some other Ger- 
 man prisoners ; and his last words, " Oh that I could 
 thus serve all the Christian dogs !" a speech and act 
 not unlike one of Caligula. He was a young man of 
 great ambition and unbounded presumption : on being 
 told that Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, "was a 
 great general," he said, " I shall become a greater, and 
 at his expense." 
 
 Note 3, page 134, line 81. 
 TViere shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea. 
 
 The reader need hardly be reminded that there are 
 no perceptible tides in the Mediterranean. 
 
 Note 4, page 134, line 115. 
 And their white tusks crunched o''er the whiter skuU. 
 
 This spectacle I have seen, such as described, beneath 
 the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, in the little 
 cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the rock, a narrow 
 terrace of which projects between the wall and the 
 water. I think the fact is also mentioned in Hobhouse's 
 Travels. The bodies were probably those of some 
 refractory Janizaries. 
 
 Note 5, page 134, line 124. 
 And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair. 
 
 This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition that 
 Mahomet will draw them into Paradise by it. 
 
 Note 6, page 135, line 37. 
 
 I must here acknowledge a close, though unintention- 
 al, resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage in an 
 unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called " Christabel." 
 It was not till after these lines were written that I heard 
 that wild and singularly original and beautiful poem 
 recited ; and the MS. of that production I never saw 
 till very recently, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge him- 
 self, who, I hope, is convinced that 1 have not been a 
 wilful plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly per- 
 tains to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed 
 above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope that 
 he vvill not longer delay the publication of a production, 
 of which I can only add my mite of approbation to the 
 applause of far mo're competent judges. 
 
 Note 7, page 136, line 22. 
 There is a light cloud by the moon. 
 I have been told that the idea expressed from lines 
 588 to 603 has been admired by those whose approba- 
 tion is valuable. I am glad of it : but it is not original 
 — at least not mine ; it may be found much better ex- 
 pressed in pages 182-3-4 of the English version of 
 " Vathek," (Ifol-get the precise page of the French,) a 
 work to which I'have before referred, and never recur 
 to, or read, without a renewal of gratification. 
 
 Note 8, page 136, line 67. 
 The horsetails are plu^k''dfrom the ground, and the sword. 
 The horsetail, fixed upon a lance, a Pasha's standard. 
 Note 9, page 137, line 45. 
 And since the day, when in the strait. 
 In the naval battle, at the mouth of the Dardanelles 
 between the Venetians and the Turks. 
 Note 10, page 139, line 31. 
 ThejackaVs troop, in gather'd cry. 
 I believe I have taken a poetieal license to transplant 
 the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw nor heard 
 these animals ; but among the ruins of Ephesus I have 
 heard them by hundreds. They haunt ruins, and follow 
 armies. 
 
P A R I S I N A. 
 
 TO SCROPE BERDMORE DA VIES, Esq. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING POEM 13 INSCRIBED 
 BY ONE WHO HA9 LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 January 22, 1816. 
 
 The following poem is grounded on a circumstance 
 mentioned in Gibbon's •'Antiquities of the House of 
 Brunswick." — I am aware, that in modern times the deli- 
 cacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such sub- 
 jects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek drama- 
 tists, and some of the best of our old Enghsh writers, were 
 of a different opinion : as Alfieri and Schiller have also 
 been, more recently, upon the continent. The following 
 extract will explain the facts on wliich the story is founded. 
 The name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more 
 metricaL 
 
 •^ Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara was pol- 
 luted vnXh a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an 
 attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of Este 
 discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisina, and 
 Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant youth. They 
 were beheaded in the castle by the sentence of a father 
 and husband, who published his shame, and survived their 
 execution. He was unfortunate, if they were guilty ; if 
 they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate ; nor 
 is there any possible situation in which I can sincerely 
 approve the last act of justice of a parent." — GibborCs 
 Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 470, new edition. 
 
 It is the hour when from the boughs 
 
 The nightingale's high note is heard ; 
 It is the hour when lovers' vows 
 
 Seem sweet in every wliisper'd word ; 
 And gentle winds, and waters near, 
 Make music to the lonely ear. 
 Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 
 And in the sky the stars are met, 
 And on the wave is deeper blue, 
 And on the leaf a browner hue, 
 And in the heaven that clear obscure, 
 So softly dark, and darkly pure. 
 Which follows the decline of day, 
 As twiUght melts beneath the moon away.* 
 
 But it is not to list to the waterfall 
 That Parisina leaves her hall. 
 And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 
 That the lady walks in the shadow of night ; 
 And if she sits in Este's bower, 
 'T is not for the sake of its full-blo\vn flower- 
 She listens — -Tjut not for the nightingale — 
 Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 
 There glides a step through the foHage thick. 
 And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats 
 
 quick. 
 There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves , 
 And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves; 
 
 A moment more — and they shall meet — 
 'T is past — her lover 's at her feet. 
 
 And what unto them is the world beside, 
 With all its change of time and tide ? 
 Its hving things — its earth and sky — 
 Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
 And heedless as the dead are they 
 
 Of aught around, above, beneath ; 
 As if all else had pass'd away, 
 
 They only for each other breathe ; 
 Their very sighs are full of joy 
 
 So deep, that did it not decay. 
 That happy madness would destroy 
 
 The hearts which feel its fiery sway : 
 Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
 In that tumultuous tender dream? 
 Who that have felt that passion's power, 
 Or paused or fear'd in such an hour? 
 Or thought how brief such moments last? 
 But yet — they are already past ! 
 Alas ! we must awake before 
 We know such vision comes no more. 
 
 With many a lingering look they leave 
 
 The spot of guilty gladness past ; 
 And though they hope, and vow, they grieve 
 
 As if that parting were the last. 
 The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 
 
 The lip that there would cling for ever, 
 While gleams on Parisina''s face 
 
 The Heaven she fears ^vill not forgive her, 
 As if each calmly conscious star 
 Beheld her frailty from afar — 
 The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
 Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 
 But it must come, and they must part 
 In fearful heaviness of heart, 
 With all the deep and shuddering chill 
 Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 
 
 And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed. 
 
 To covet there another's bride ; 
 But she must lay her conscious head 
 
 A husband's trusting heart beside. 
 But fever'd in her sleep she seems. 
 And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 
 
 And mutters she in her unrest 
 A name she dare not breathe by day. 
 
 And clasps her lord imto the breast 
 Which pants for one away : 
 And he to that embrace awakes. 
 And, happy in the thought, mistakea 
 
PARISINA. 
 
 141 
 
 That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
 For such as he was wont to bless ; 
 And could in very fondness weep 
 O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 
 
 VI. 
 
 He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 
 And Usten'd to each broken word : 
 He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start, 
 As if the Archangel's voice he heard ? 
 And well he may — a deeper doom 
 Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, 
 When he shall wake to sleep no more, 
 And stand the eternal throne before. 
 And well he may — his earthly peace 
 Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. 
 That sleeping whisper of a name 
 Bespeaks her gmlt and Azo's shame. 
 And whose that name ? that o'er his pillow 
 Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 
 Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 
 
 And dashes on the pointed rock 
 The wretch who sinks to rise no more, — 
 
 So came upon his soul the shock. 
 And whose that name? 'tis Hugo's, — his — 
 In sooth he had not deem'd of this ! — 
 'T is Hugo's, — he, the child of one 
 He loved — his own all-evil son — 
 The offspring of his wayward youth. 
 When he betrayed Bianca's truth, 
 The maid whose folly could confide 
 In him who made her not his bride. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, 
 
 But sheath'd it ere the point was bare — ■ 
 Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
 He could not slay a thing so fair — 
 At least, not smiling — sleeping — there — 
 Nay more : — he did not wake her then, 
 But gazed upon her with a glance 
 Which, had she roused her from her trance. 
 Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
 And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
 Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 
 She spake no more — but still she sluraber'd — 
 While, in his thought, her days are number'd. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And wth the mom he sought, and found, 
 
 In many a tale from those around. 
 
 The proof of all he fear'd to know, 
 
 Their present guilt, his future wo ; 
 
 The long-conniving damsels seek 
 
 To save themselves, and would transfer 
 The guilt — the shame — the doom — to her : 
 
 Concealment is no more — they speak 
 
 All circumstance which may compel 
 
 Full credence to the tale they tell : 
 
 And Azo's tortured heart and ear 
 
 Have nothing more to feel or hear. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He was not one who brook'd delay: 
 
 Within the chamber of his state, 
 The chief of Este's ancient sway 
 
 Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 
 His nobles and his guards are there, — 
 Before him is the sinful pair ; 
 Both young — and one bow passing fair ! 
 With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand. 
 Oh, Christ ! that such a son should stand 
 
 Before a father's face ! 
 Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 
 And hear the sentence of his ire, 
 
 The tale of his disgrace \ 
 
 And yet he seems not overcome, 
 Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 
 
 X. 
 
 And still, and pale, and silently 
 
 Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
 How changed since last her speaking eye 
 
 Glanced gladness round the glittering room 
 Where high-born men were proud to wait — 
 Where Beauty watch'd to imitate 
 
 Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 
 And gather from her air and gait 
 
 The graces of its queen: 
 Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 
 A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 
 A thousand swords had sheathless shone, 
 And made her quarrel all their own. 
 Now, — what is she ? and what are they ? 
 Can she command, or these obey? 
 All silent and unheeding now, 
 With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 
 And folded arms, and freezing air. 
 And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 
 Her knights, and dames, her court — is there : 
 And he, the chosen one, whose lance 
 Had yet been couch'd before her glance, 
 Who — where his arm a moment free— - 
 Had died or gain'd her liberty ; 
 The minion of his father's bride, — 
 He, too, is fetter'd by her side ; 
 Nor sees her swohi and full eye swim 
 Less for her own despair than him : 
 Those lids — o'er which the voilet vein 
 Wandering, leaves a tender stain. 
 Shining through the smoothest white 
 That e'er did softest kiss invite — 
 Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 
 To press, not shade, the orbs below; 
 Which glance so heavily and fill. 
 As tear on tear grows gathering still. 
 
 And he for her had also wept, 
 
 But for the eyes that on him gazed : 
 His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 
 
 Stern and erect his brow was raised. 
 Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd. 
 He would not shrink before the crowd ; 
 But yet he dared not look on her ; 
 Remembrance of the hours that were — 
 His guUt — his love — his present state — 
 His father's wrath — all good men's hate — 
 His earthly, his eternal fate — 
 And her's, — oh, her's ! — he dared not throw 
 One look upon that deathlike brow! 
 Else had his rising heart betray'd 
 Remorse for all the wreck it made. 
 
 And Azo spake : — " But yesterday 
 
 I gloried in a wife and son ; 
 That dream this morning pass'd away ; 
 
 Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
 My life must linger on alone ; 
 ■YVell, — let that pass, — there breathes not one 
 Who' would not do as I have done : 
 Those ties are broken — not by me ; 
 
 Let that too pass ; — The doom 's prepared I 
 Hugo, the priest awaits on thee. 
 
 And then — thy crime's reward ! 
 Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 
 Before its evening stars are met — 
 Learn if thou there canst be forgiven 5 
 
 Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 
 
142 
 
 PARISINA. 
 
 But here, upon the earth beneath, 
 There is no spot where thou and I 
 
 Together, for an hour, could breathe : 
 Farewell ! I wll not see thee die — 
 
 But thou, frail thing ! shalt view liis head — 
 Away ! I cannot speak the rest : 
 Go ! woman of the wanton breast 
 
 Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 
 
 Go! if that sight thou canst outlive. 
 
 And joy thee in the life I give." 
 
 And here stern Azo hid his face — 
 For on his brow the swelling vein 
 Throbb'd as if back upon his brain 
 The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again ; 
 And therefore bow'd he for a space, 
 And pass'd his shaking hand along 
 His eye, to veil it from the throng ; 
 While Hugo raised his chained hands, 
 And for a brief delay demands 
 His father's ear: the silent sire 
 Forbids not what his words require, 
 
 " It is not that I dread the death — 
 For thou hast seen me by thy side 
 All redly through the battle ride. 
 And that not once a useless brand 
 Thy slaves have wTested from my hand, 
 Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, 
 Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : 
 
 Thou gav'st, and may'st resume my breath, 
 A gift for which I thank thee not ; 
 Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 
 Her slighted love and ruin'd name, 
 Her offspring's heritage of shame ; 
 But she is in the grave, where he, 
 Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 
 Her broken heart — my sever'd head — 
 Shall witness for thee from the dead 
 How trusty and how tender were 
 
 Thy youthful love — paternal care. 
 
 'T is true, that I have done thee wrong — 
 
 But wrong for wrong : — tliis, deem'd thy bride, 
 The other victim of thy pride, 
 
 Thou know'st for me was destined long. 
 
 Thou saVst, and coveted'st her charms — 
 And with thy very crime — my birth. 
 Thou taunted st me — as httle worth ; 
 
 A match ignoble for her arms. 
 
 Because, forsooth, I could not claim 
 
 The lawful heirship of thy name. 
 
 Nor sit on Este's Uneal throne : 
 
 Yet, were a few short summers mine. 
 My name should more than Este's shine 
 
 With honours all my own. 
 
 I had a sword — and have a breast 
 
 That should have won as haught^ a crest 
 
 As ever waved along the line 
 
 Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 
 
 Not always knightly spurs are worn 
 
 The brightest by the better born ; 
 
 And mine have lanced my courser's flank 
 
 Before proud chiefs of princely rank. 
 
 When charging to the cheering cry 
 
 Of 'Este and of Victory!' 
 
 I will not plead the cause of crime, 
 
 Nor sue thee to redeem from time 
 
 A few brief hours or days that must 
 
 At length roll o'er my reckless dust ; — 
 
 Such maddening moments as my past, 
 
 They could not and they did not, last — 
 
 Albeit my birth and name be base, 
 
 And thy nobility of race 
 
 Disdain'd to deck a tiling like me — 
 Yet in my hneaments they trace 
 
 Some features of my father's face, 
 And in my spirit — all of thee. 
 From thee — this tamelessness of heart- 
 From tliee — nay, wherefore dost thou start?— 
 From thee in all their \Tgour came 
 I\Iy arm of strength, my soul of flame- 
 Thou didst not give me life alone, 
 But all that made me more thme own. 
 See what thy guilty love hath done I 
 Repaid thee with too like a son ! 
 I am no bastard in my soul. 
 For that, like thine, abhorr'd control: 
 And for my breath, that hasty boon 
 Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, 
 I valued it no more than thou. 
 When rose thy casque above thy brow. 
 And we, all side by side, have striven. 
 And o'er the dead our coursers driven : 
 The past is nothing — and at last 
 The future can but be the past ; 
 Yet would I that I then had died : 
 
 For though thou work'dst my mother's ill. 
 And made thy own my destined bride, 
 
 I feel thou art my fatlier still ; 
 And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
 'T is not unjust, although from thee. 
 Begot in sin, to die in shame, 
 My hfe begun and ends the same : 
 As err'd the sire, so err'd the son, 
 And thou must ptinish both in one. 
 My crime seems worst to human view. 
 But God must judge between us too!" 
 
 He ceased — and stood with folded arms, 
 On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
 And not an ear but felt as woimded. 
 Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd, 
 When those dull chains in meeting claJik'd: 
 Till Parisina's fatal charms 
 Again attracted every eye — 
 Would she thus hear him doom'd to die ! 
 She stood, I said, all pale and still, 
 The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
 Her eyes unmoved, but full and vside, 
 Not once had turn'd to either side — 
 Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 
 Or shade the glance o'er which they rose. 
 But round their orbs of deepest blue 
 The circling white dilated grew — 
 And there with glassy gaze she stood 
 As ice were in her curdled blood ; 
 But every now and then a tear 
 So large and slowly gather'd slid 
 From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
 It was a thing to see, not hear ! 
 And those who saw, it did surprise. 
 Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
 To speak she thought — the imperfect note 
 Was choked within her swelling throat, 
 Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
 Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
 It ceased — again she thought to speak. 
 Then burst her voice in one long shriek. 
 And to the earth she fell like stone 
 Or statue from its base o'erthrown. 
 More Uke a thing that ne'er had life — 
 A monument of Azo's wife, — 
 Than her, that living guilty tiling, 
 Whose every passion was a sting, 
 Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 
 That guilt's detection and despair. 
 
PARISINA. 
 
 143 
 
 But yet she lived — and all too soon 
 
 Recovered from that death-like swoon — 
 
 But scarce to reason — every sense 
 
 Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense ; 
 
 And each frail fibre of her brain 
 
 (As bowstrings, when relax'd by rain, 
 
 The erring arrow lanch aside) 
 
 Sent forth her thoughts all wild and vdde— 
 
 The past a blank, the future black, 
 
 With glimpses of a dreary track, 
 
 Like lightning on the desert path. 
 
 When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 
 
 She fear'd — she felt that something lU 
 
 Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 
 
 That there was sin and shame she knew ; 
 
 That some one was to die — but who? 
 
 She had forgotten : — did she breathe ? 
 
 Could this be still the earth beneath, 
 
 The sky above, and men around ; 
 
 Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 
 
 On one, before whose eyes each eye 
 
 Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 
 
 All was confused and undefined 
 
 To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind 5 
 
 A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 
 
 And now in laughter, now in tears, 
 
 But madly stiU in each extreme, 
 
 She strove with that convulsive dream ; 
 
 For so it seem'd on her to break: 
 
 Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Convent bells are ringing, 
 
 But mournfiilly and slow ; 
 In the gray square turret svmging. 
 
 With a deep sound, to and fro. 
 
 Heavily to the heart they go ! 
 Hark ! the hymn is singing — 
 
 The song for the dead below, 
 
 Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 
 For a departing being's soul 
 The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoU : 
 He is near his mortal goal ; 
 Kneeling at the Friar's knee ; 
 Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 
 Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 
 With the block before and the guards around — 
 And the headman with his bare arm ready, 
 That the blow may be both swift and steady. 
 Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
 Since he set its edge anew : 
 While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
 To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 It is a lovely hour as yet 
 
 Before the summer sun shall set, 
 
 Which rose upon that heavy day. 
 
 And mock'd it with his steadiest ray ; 
 
 And his evening beams are shed 
 
 Full on Hugo's fated head. 
 
 As his last confession pouring 
 
 To the monk, his doom deploring 
 
 In penitential holiness, 
 
 He bends to hear his accents bless 
 
 With absolution such as may 
 
 Wipe our mortal stains away. 
 
 That high sun on his head did glisten 
 
 As he there did bow and hsten — 
 And the rings of chestnut hair 
 Curl'd half down his neck so bare ; 
 But brighter still the beam was throvm 
 Upon the axe which near him shone 
 
 With a clear and ghastly glitter 
 
 Oh! that parting hour was bitter! 
 
 Even the stem stood chiU'd with awe : 
 Dark the crime, and just the law — 
 Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The parting prayers are said and over 
 
 Of that false son — and daring lover ! 
 
 His beads and sins are all recounted, 
 
 His hours to their last minute mounted — 
 
 His mantUng cloak before was stripp'd, 
 
 His bright bro^vn locks must now be clipp'd; 
 
 'T is done — all closely are they shorn — 
 
 The vest which till this moment worn — 
 
 The scarf which Parisina gave — 
 
 Must not adorn him to the gi-ave. 
 
 Even that must now be thrown aside, 
 
 And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 
 
 But no — that last indignity 
 
 Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 
 
 All feelings seemingly subdued. 
 
 In deep disdain were half renew'd, 
 
 When headman's hands prepared to bind 
 
 Those eyes which would not brook such blind: 
 
 As if they dared not look on death. 
 
 " No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 
 
 These hands are chain'd — but let me die 
 
 At least with an unshackled eye — 
 
 Strike :" — and as the word he said, 
 
 Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 
 
 These the last accents Hugo spoke 
 
 "Strike" — and flashing fell the stroke — 
 
 RoU'd the head — and, gushing, sunk 
 
 Back the stain'd and heaving trunk 
 
 In the dust, which each deep vein 
 
 Slaked wth its ensanguined rain ; 
 
 His eyes and lips a moment quiver. 
 
 Convulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 
 
 He died as erring man should die. 
 
 Without display, without parade ; 
 
 Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd, 
 
 As not disdaining priestly aid. 
 Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
 And while before the Prior kneeling, 
 His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling; 
 His wratliful sire — his paramour — • 
 What were they in such an hour ? 
 No more reproach — no more despair; 
 No thought but heaven — no word but prayer- 
 Save the few which from him broke. 
 When, bared to meet the headman's stroke, 
 He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, 
 His sole adieu to those around. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Still as the lips that closed in death, 
 
 Each gazer's bosom held his breath 
 
 But yet, afar, from man to man, 
 
 A cold electric shiver ran. 
 
 As down the deadly blow descended 
 
 On him whose hfe and love thus ended ; 
 
 And with a hushing sound comprest, 
 
 A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 
 
 But no more thrilling noise rose there. 
 Beyond the blow that to the block 
 Pierced through with forced and sullen shock^ 
 
 Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 
 
 So madly shrill, so passing wld ? 
 
 That, as a mother's o'er her child, 
 
 Done to death by sudden blow. 
 
 To the sky these accents go, 
 
 Like a soul's in endless wo. 
 
 Through Azo's palace-lattice driven. 
 
 That horrid voice ascends to heaven. 
 
 And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 
 
 But sound and sight alike are gone I 
 
144 
 
 PARISINA. 
 
 It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 
 In madlier accents rose despair ; 
 And those who heard it, as it past, 
 In mercy wish'd it were the last. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Hugo is fallen ; and, from that hour, 
 
 No more in palace, hall, or bower. 
 
 Was Parisina heard or seen : 
 
 Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 
 
 Was banish'd from each lip and ear, 
 
 Like words of wantonness or fear ; 
 
 And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 
 
 Was mention heard of wife or son ; 
 
 No tomb — no memory had they ; 
 
 Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 
 
 At least the knight's who died that day, 
 
 But Parisina's fate hes hid 
 
 Like dust beneath the coffin lid : 
 
 Whether in convent she abode, 
 
 And won to heaven her dreary road, 
 
 By blighted and remorseful years 
 
 Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 
 
 Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 
 
 For that dark love she dared to feel ; 
 
 Or if] upon the moment smote. 
 
 She died by tortures less remote ; 
 
 Like him she saw upon the block, 
 
 With heart that shared the headman's shock. 
 
 In quicken'd brokenness that came, 
 
 In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame, 
 
 None knew — and none can ever know : 
 
 But whatsoe'er its end below, 
 
 Her life began and closed in wo ! ' 
 
 XX. 
 
 And Azo found another bride. 
 
 And goodly sons grew by his side ; 
 
 But none so lovely and so brave 
 
 As him who wither'd in the grave ; 
 
 Or if they were — on his cold eye 
 
 Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 
 
 Or noticed v^alh a smother'd sigh. 
 
 But never tear his cheek descended. 
 
 And never smile his brow unbended 
 
 And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 
 
 The intersected lines of thought ; 
 
 Those furrows which the burning share 
 
 Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 
 
 Scars of the lacerating mind 
 
 Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 
 
 He was past all mirth or wo: 
 
 Nothing more remam'd below 
 
 But sleepless nights and heavy days, 
 
 A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 
 
 A heart which shunn'd itself— and yet 
 
 That would not yield — nor could forget, 
 
 Which when it least appear'd to melt. 
 
 Intensely thought — intensely felt: 
 
 The deepest ice which ever froze 
 
 Can only o'er the surface close — 
 
 The living stream hes quick below. 
 
 And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 
 
 Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted 
 
 By thoughts which Nature hath implanted; 
 
 Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 
 
 Howe'er our stifled tears we banish 5 
 
 When, struggling as they rise to start. 
 
 We check those waters of the heart. 
 
 They are not dried — those tears imshed 
 
 But flow back to the fountain head. 
 
 And resting in their spring more pure, 
 
 For ever in its depth endure, 
 
 Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd. 
 
 And cherish'd most where least reveal'd. 
 
 With inward starts of feehng left. 
 
 To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 
 
 Without the power to fill again 
 
 The desert gap which made his pain; 
 
 Without the hope to meet them where 
 
 United souls shall gladness share, 
 
 With all the consciousness that he 
 
 Had only pass'd a just decree ; 
 
 That they had wrought their doom of ill , 
 
 Yet Azo's age was wretched still,^ 
 
 The tainted branches of the tree. 
 
 If lopp'd with care a strength may give. 
 By which the rest shall bloom and live 
 All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
 But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
 The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
 The massy trunk the ruin feels. 
 And never more a leaf reveals. 
 
 NOTES TO PARISINA. 
 
 Note 1, page 140, Une 14. 
 As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 
 
 The lines contained in Section I. were printed as set 
 to music some time since ; but belonged to the poem 
 where they now appear, the greater part of which was 
 composed prior to " Lara," and other compositions since 
 published. 
 
 Note 2, page 142, Une 55. 
 7%at should have won as haught a crest. 
 Haught — haughty — "Away, haught man, thou art 
 insulting me." Shakspeare, Richard II. 
 
 Note 3, page 144, line 32. 
 Her life began and closed in wo. 
 " This turned out a calamitous year for the people of 
 Ferrara, for there occurred a very tragical event in the 
 court of their sovereign. Our annals, both printed and 
 in manuscript, with the exception of the unpolished and 
 negligent work of Sardi, and one other, have given the 
 following relation of it, from which, however, are rejected 
 many details, and especially the narrative of Bandelli, 
 
 who wrote a century afterwards, and who does not ac- 
 cord with the contemporary historians. 
 
 " By the above-mentioned Stella dell' Assassino, the 
 Marquis, in the year 1405, had a son called Ugo, a beau- 
 tiful and ingenious youth. Parisina Malatesta, second 
 wife of Niccolo, like the generahty of step-mothers, 
 treated him with little kindness, to the infinite regret of 
 the Marquis, who regarded him with fond partiality. 
 One day she asked leave of her husband to undertake a 
 certain journey, to which he consented, but upon condi- 
 tion that Ugo should bear her company ; for he hoped 
 by these means to induce her, in the end, to lay aside 
 the obstinate aversion which she had conceived against 
 him. And indeed his intent was accomplished but too 
 well, sini^e, during the journey, she not only divested her- 
 self of all her hatred, but fell into the opposite extreme. 
 After their return, the Marquis had no longer any occa- 
 sion to renew his former reproofs. It happened one day 
 that a servant of the Marquis, named Zoese, or, as 
 soifie call him, Giorgio, passing before the apartments 
 of Parisina, saw going out from them one of her chamber- 
 maids, all terrified and in tears. Asking the reason, 
 she told him that her mistress, for some slight offence, 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 145 
 
 hf.d been beating her; and, giving vent to her rage, she 
 added, that she could easily be revenged, if she chose to 
 make known the criminal familiarity which subsisted 
 between Parisina and her step-son. The servant took 
 note of the words, and related them to his master. He 
 was astounded thereat, but scarcely believing his ears, 
 he assured himself of the fact, alas ! too clearly, on the 
 18th of May, by looking through a hole made in the 
 ceiling of his wife's chamber. Instantly he broke into 
 a furious rage, and arrested both of them, together with 
 Aldobrandino Rangoni, of Modena, her gentleman, and 
 also, as some say, two of the women of her chamber, 
 as abettors of this sinful act. He ordered them to be 
 broughttoahasty trial, desiring the judges to pronounce 
 sentence, in the accustomed forms, upon the culprits. 
 This sentence was death. Some there were that be- 
 stirred themselves in favour of the delinquents, and, 
 among others, UgoccionContrario, who was all-power- 
 ful with Niccolo, and also his aged and much deserving 
 minister Alberto dal Sale. Both of these, their tears 
 flowing down their cheeks, and upon their knees, im- 
 plored him for mercy : adducing whatever reasons they 
 could suggest for sparing the offenders, besides those mo- 
 tives of honour and decency which might persuade him 
 to conceal from the pubhc so scandalous a deed. But his 
 rage made him inflexible, and, on the instant, he com- 
 manded that the sentence should be put in execution. 
 
 " It was, then, in the prisons of the castle, and exactly 
 in those frightful dungeons which are seen at this day 
 beneath the chamber called the Aurora, at the foot of 
 the Lion's tower, at the top of the street Giovecca, that 
 on the night of the twenty-first of May were beheaded, 
 first, Ugo, and afterwards Parisina. Zoese, he that 
 accused her, conducted the latter under his arm to the 
 place of punishment. She, all along, fancied that she 
 was to be thrown into a pit, and asked at every step, 
 whether she was yet come to the spot ? She was told 
 that her punishment was the axe. She inquired what 
 was become of Ugo, and received for answer, that he 
 was already dead ; at the which, sighing grievously, she 
 exclaimed, 'Now, then, I wish not myself to live ;' and, 
 being come to the block, she stripped herself with her 
 own hands of all her ornaments, and wrapping a cloth 
 
 around her head, submitted to the fatal stroke, which 
 terminated the cruel scene. The same was done with 
 Rangoni, who, together with the others, according to 
 two • calendars in the library of St. Francesco, was 
 buried in the cemetery of that convent. Nothing else 
 is known respecting the women. 
 
 " The Marquis kept watch the whole of that dread- 
 ful night, and, as he was walking backwards and for- 
 wards, inquired of the captain of the castle if Ugo was 
 dead yet? who answered him, Yes. He then gave him- 
 self up to the most desperate lamentations, exclaiming, 
 ' Oh ! that I too were dead, since I have been hurried 
 on to resolve thus against my own Ugo !' And then, 
 gnawing with his teeth a cane which he had in his hand, 
 he passed the rest of the night in sighs and in tears, call- 
 ing frequently, upon his own dear Ugo. On the follow- 
 ing day, calling to mind that it would be necessary to 
 make public his justification, seeing that the transaction 
 could not be kept secret, he ordered the narrative to be 
 drawn out upon paper, and sent it to all the courts of 
 Italy. 
 
 "On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, Fran- 
 cesco Foscari, gave orders, but without publishing his 
 reasons, that stop should be put to the preparations for 
 a tournament, which, under the auspices of the Mar- 
 quis, and at the expense of the city of Padua, was about 
 to take place, in the square of St. Mark, in order to 
 celebrate his advancement to the dUcal chair. 
 
 " The Marquis, in addition to what he had already 
 done, from some unaccountable burst of vengeance, com- 
 manded that as many of the married women as were 
 well known to him to be faithless, like his Parisina, 
 should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst others, Bar- 
 berina, or, as some call her, Laodamia Romei, wife of 
 the court judge, underwent this sentence, at the usual 
 place of execution, that is to say, in the quarter of St. 
 Giacomo, opposite the present fortress, beyond St. Paul's. 
 It cannot be told how strange appeared this proceeding 
 in a prince, who, considering his own disposition, should, 
 as it seemed, have been in such cases most indulgent. 
 Some, however, there were, who did not fail to com- 
 mend him."* 
 
 * Frizzi — History of Ferrara. 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 SONNET ON CHILLON. 
 
 Eterbtal spirit of the chainless mind! 
 Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 
 For there thy habitation is the heart — 
 The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
 Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
 
 Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, 
 
 And thy sad floor an altar — for 't was trod, 
 Until his very steps have left a trace 
 
 "Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
 
 By Bonnivard !' — May none those marks efface ! 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
 My hair is gray, but not with years, 
 
 Nor grew it white 
 
 In a single night,^ 
 As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
 T 
 
 My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 
 
 But rusted with a vile repose. 
 For they have been a dungeon's spoilj 
 
 And mine has been the fate of those 
 To whom the goodly earth and air 
 Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
 But this was for my father's faith 
 I sufler'd chains and courted death ; 
 That father perish'd at the stake 
 For tenets he would not forsake ; 
 And for the same his lineal race 
 In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
 We were seven — who now are one, 
 
 Six in youth and one in age, 
 Finish'd as they had begun, 
 
 Proud of Persecution's rage ; 
 One in fire, and two in field. 
 Their belief with blood have seal'd ; 
 Dying as their father died. 
 For the God their foes denied ; 
 Three were in a dungeon cast. 
 Of whom this wreck is left the last. 
 
146 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 There are seven pillars of gothic mold, 
 In ChlUon's dungeons deep and old. 
 There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
 Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
 A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
 And through the crevice and the cleft 
 Of the thick wall is fallen and lefl ; 
 Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
 Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
 And in each pillar there is a ring, 
 
 And in each ring there is a chain ; 
 That iron is a cankering thing, 
 
 For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
 With marks that will not wear away. 
 Till I have done with this new day. 
 Which now is painful to these eyes. 
 Which have not seen the sun so rise 
 For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
 I lost their long and heavy score 
 When my last brother droop'd and died. 
 And I lay living by his side. 
 
 III. 
 They chain'd us each to a column stone. 
 And we were three — yet, each alone : 
 We could not move a single pace. 
 We could not see each other's face, 
 But with that pale and livid light 
 That made us strangers in our sight 
 And thus together — yet apart, 
 Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart; 
 'T was still some solace, in the dearth 
 Of the pure elements of earth, 
 To hearken to each other's speech. 
 And each turn comforter to each 
 With some new hope, or legend old, 
 Or song heroically bold ; 
 But even these at length grew cold. 
 Our voices took a dreary tone, 
 An echo of the dungeon-stone, 
 
 A grating sound — not full and free 
 
 As they of yore were wont to be ; 
 
 It might be fancy — but to me 
 They never sounded like our own. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I was the eldest of the three, 
 
 And to uphold and cheer the rest 
 I ought to do — and did my best — 
 And each did well in his degree. 
 
 The youngest, whom my father loved, 
 Because our mother's brow was given 
 To him — ^with eyes as blue as heaven, 
 For him my soul was sorely moved ; 
 And truly might it be distrest 
 To see such bird in such a nest ; 
 For he was beautiful as day — 
 (When day was beautiful to me 
 As to young eagles, being free) — 
 A polar day, which will not see 
 A sunset till its summer 's gone, 
 
 Its sleepless summer of long hght. 
 The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 
 
 And thus he was as pure and bright, 
 And in his natural spirit gay. 
 With tears for nought but others' ills. 
 And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
 Unless he could assuage the wo 
 Which he abhorr'd to view below. 
 
 V. 
 
 The other was as pure of mind, 
 But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
 Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
 Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
 
 And perish'd in the foremost rank 
 
 With joy : — but not in chains to pine: 
 
 His spirit wither'd witli their clank, 
 I saw it silently decline — 
 And so perchance in sooth did mine ; 
 
 But yet I forced it on to cheer 
 
 Those reUcs of a home so dear. 
 
 He was a hunter of the hills, 
 
 Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 
 To him this dungeon was a gul^ 
 
 And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
 A thousand feet in depth below 
 Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
 Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
 From Chillon's snow-white battlement,' 
 
 Which round about the wave enthrals : 
 A double dungeon wall and wave 
 Have made — and hke a living grave. 
 Below the surface of the lake 
 The dark vault lies wherein we lay. 
 We heard it ripple night and day ; 
 
 Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
 And I have felt the winter's spray 
 Wash through the bars when winds were hi^ 
 And wanton in the happy sky ; 
 
 And then the very rock hath rock'd, 
 
 And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
 Because I could have smiled to see 
 The death that would have set me free. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I said my nearer brother pined, 
 I said his mighty heart declined. 
 He loathed and put away his food ; 
 It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
 For we were used to hunter's fare. 
 And for the like had little care : 
 The milk drawn from the mountain goat, 
 Was changed for water from the moat, 
 Our bread was such as captive's tears 
 Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
 Since man first pent his fellow men 
 Like brutes within an iron den : 
 But what were these to us or him 1 
 These wasted not his heart or limb, 
 My brother's soul was of that mold 
 Which in a palace had grown cold. 
 Had his free breathing been denied 
 The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
 But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
 I saw, and could not hold his head, 
 Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead. 
 Though hard I strove, but strove in vain. 
 To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
 He died — and they unlock'd his chain. 
 And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
 Even from the cold earth of our cave, 
 I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
 His corse in dust whereon the day 
 Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
 But then within my brain it viTought, 
 That even in death his freebom breast 
 In such a dungeon could not rest. 
 I might have spared my idle prayer — 
 They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there : 
 The flat and turfless earth above 
 The being we so much did love ; 
 His empty chain above it leant, 
 Such murder's fitting monument ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But he, the favourite and the flower, 
 Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 147 
 
 His mother's image in fair face, 
 The infant love of all his race, 
 His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 
 My latest care, for whom I sought 
 To hoard my life, that his might be 
 Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
 He, too, who yet had held untired 
 A spirit natural or inspired — 
 He, too, was struck, and day by day 
 Was wither'd on the stalk away. 
 Oh God ! it is a fearful thing 
 To see the human soul take wing 
 In any shape, in any mood : — 
 I 've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
 I 've seen it on the breaking ocean 
 Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
 I 've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 Of Sin delirious with its dread : 
 But these were horrors — this was wo 
 Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow : 
 He faded, and so calm and meek. 
 So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 
 So tearless, yet so tender — kind. 
 And grieved for those he left behind ; 
 With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
 Was as a mockery of the tomb. 
 Whose tints as gently sunk away 
 As a departing rainbow's ray — 
 An eye of most transparent light. 
 That almost made the dungeon bright, 
 And not a word of murmur — not 
 A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 
 A little talk of better days, 
 A httle hope my own to raise, 
 For I was sunk in silence — lost 
 In this last loss, of all the most ; 
 And then the sighs he would suppress 
 Of fainting nature's feebleness. 
 More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 
 I listen'd, but I could not hear — 
 I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 
 I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread 
 Would not be thus admonished ; 
 1 call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 
 I burst my chain with one strong bound. 
 And rush'd to himf — I found him not, 
 / only stirr'd in this black spot, 
 I only lived — I only drew 
 The accursed breath of dungeon-dew 5 
 The last — the sole — the dearest hnk 
 Between me and the eternal brink. 
 Which bound me to my failing race. 
 Was broken in this fatal place. 
 One on the earth, and one beneath — 
 My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 
 I took that hand which lay so still, 
 Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 
 I had not strength to stir, or strive, 
 But felt that I was still alive — 
 A frantic feeling, when we know 
 That what we love shall ne'er be so. 
 I know not why 
 I could not die, 
 I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
 And that forbade a selfish death. 
 
 IX. 
 
 What next befell me then and there 
 
 I know not well — I never knew — 
 
 First came the loss of light, and air, 
 
 And then of darkness too : 
 I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
 Among the stones I stood a stone. 
 And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
 As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
 For all was blank, and bleak, and gray, 
 It was not night — it was not day. 
 
 It was not even the dungeon-light, 
 So hateful to my heavy sight, 
 But vacancy absorbing space. 
 And fixedness — without a place ; 
 There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
 No check — no change — no good— no crime- 
 But silence, and a stirless breath 
 Which neither was of life nor death ; 
 A sea of stagnant idleness, 
 Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 
 
 X. 
 
 A light broke in upon my brain, — 
 
 It was the carol of a bird ; 
 It ceased, and then it came again. 
 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 Ran over with the glad surprise. 
 And they that moment could not see 
 I was the mate of misery ; 
 But then by dull degrees came back 
 My senses to their wonted track, 
 I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
 Close slowly round me as before, 
 I saw the glimmer of the sun 
 Creeping as it before had done. 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame. 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree ; 
 A lovely bird, with azure wings. 
 And song that said a thousand things, 
 And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
 I never saw its hke before, 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
 It seem'd like mc to want a mate. 
 But was not half so desolate. 
 And it was come to love me when 
 None lived to love me so again. 
 And cheering from my dungeon's brink. 
 Had brought me back to feel and think. 
 I know not if it late were free, 
 
 Or broke its cage to perch on mine. 
 But knowing well captivity. 
 
 Sweet bird I I could not wish for thine 
 Or if it were, in winged guise, 
 A visitant from Paradise ; 
 For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
 Which made me both to weep and smile ; 
 I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
 My brother's soul come down to me ; 
 But then at last away it flew. 
 And then 't was mortal — well I knew. 
 For he would never thus have flown,^ 
 And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
 Lone — as the corse within its shroud. 
 Lone — as a solitary cloud, 
 
 A single cloud on a sunny day, 
 While aU the rest of heaven is clear, 
 A frovm upon the atmosphere, 
 That hath no business to appear 
 
 When skies are blue, and' earth is gay 
 
 XI. 
 
 A kind of change came in my fate, 
 My keepers grew compassionate, 
 I know not what had made them so, 
 They were inured to sights of vyo, 
 But so it was : — my broken chain 
 With links unfasten'd did remain. 
 And it was liberty to stride 
 Along my cell from side to side, 
 And up and down, and then athwart, 
 And tread it over every part ; 
 And round the pillars one by one. 
 Returning where my walk begun, 
 Avoiding only, as I trod, 
 ' My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
 
148 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 For if I thought with heedless tread 
 My step profaned their lowly bed, 
 My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
 And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 
 
 XII. 
 
 I made a footing in the wall, 
 
 It was not therefrom to escape, 
 For I had buried one and all, 
 
 Who loved me in a human shape ; 
 And the whole earth would henceforth be 
 A wider prison unto me : 
 No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
 No partner in my misery ; 
 I thought of this, and I was glad, 
 For thought of them had made me mad ; 
 But I was cunous to ascend 
 To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
 Once more, upon the mountains high, 
 The quiet of a loving eye. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I saw them — and they were the same. 
 They were not changed like me in frame ; 
 I saw their thousand years of snow 
 On high — their wide long lake below, 
 And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
 I heard the torrents leap and gush 
 O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 
 I saw the white-wall'd distant town, 
 And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
 And then there was a little isle,* 
 "Which in my very face did smile, 
 
 The only one in view ; 
 A small green isle, it seem'd no more, . 
 Scarce broader than ray dungeon floor, 
 But in it there were three tall trees, 
 And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. 
 And by it there were waters flowing, 
 And on it there were young flowers growing 
 
 Of gentle breath and hue. 
 The fish swam by the castle wall, 
 And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
 
 The eagle rode the rising blast, 
 Methought he never flew so fast 
 As then to me he seem'd to fly, 
 And then new tears came in my eye, 
 And I felt troubled — and would fain 
 I had not left my recent chain ; 
 And when 1 did descend again, 
 The darkness of my dim abode 
 Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
 It was as is a new-dug grave, 
 Closing o'er one we sought to save, 
 And yet my glance, too much opprest, 
 Had almost need of such a rest. 
 
 It might be months, or years, or days, 
 
 I kept no count — I took no note, 
 I had no hope my eyes to raise, 
 
 And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
 At last men came to set me free, 
 
 I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where, 
 It was at length the same to me, 
 Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 
 
 I learn'd to love despair. 
 And thus when they appear'd at last, 
 And all my bonds aside were cast. 
 These heavy walls to me had grown 
 A hermitage — and all my own ! 
 And half I felt as they were come 
 To tear me from a second home : 
 With spiders I had friendship made, 
 And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
 Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
 And why should I feel less than they ? 
 We were all inmates of one place, 
 And I, the monarch of each race. 
 Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
 In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
 My very chains and I grew friends. 
 So much a long communion tends 
 To make us what we are : — even I 
 Regain'd my freedom vdth a sigh. 
 
 NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 Note 1, page 145, line 13. 
 By Bonnivard I — may none those marks efface ! 
 
 Francois de Bonnivard, fils de Louis de Bonnivard, 
 originaire de Seyssel et Seigneur de Lunes, naquit en 
 1496 ; il fit ses etudes a Turin : en 1510 Jean Aime de 
 Bonnivard, son oncle, lui resigna le Prieure de St. Vic- 
 tor, qui aboutissoit aux murs de Geneve, et qui formoit 
 un benefice considerable. 
 
 Ce grand homme (Bonnivard merite ce titre par la 
 force de son ame, la droiture de son coBur, la noblesse 
 de ses intentions, la sagesse de ses conseils, le courage 
 de ses demarches, I'etendue de ses connalssances et la 
 vivacite de son esprit,) ce grand homme, qui excitera 
 I'admiration de tons ceux qu'une vertu hero'ique pent 
 encore emouvoir, inspirera encore la plus vive recon- 
 naissance dans les cceurs des Genevois qui aiment Ge- 
 neve. Bonnivard en fut toujours un des plus fermes 
 appuis : pour assurer la liberie de notre Republique, il 
 ne craignit pas de perdre souvent la sienne ; il oublia 
 son repos ; il meprisa ses richesses ; il ne negligea rien 
 pour affermir le bonheur d'une patrie qu'il honora de son 
 choix: dfes ce moment il la cherit comme le plus zele 
 de ses citoyens ; il la servit avec I'intrepidite d'un heros, 
 et il ecrivii son Histoire avec la naivete d'un philosophe 
 et la chaleur d'un patriote. 
 
 II dit dans le commencement de son histoire de Ge- 
 neve que, dls qu'il cut commence de lire Vhistoire des na- 
 
 tions, il se sentit enirainepar son gout pour les Rdpub' 
 liques, dont il tpousa toujours les interits : c'est ce golit 
 pour la liberte que lui fit sans doute adopter Gen6ve pour 
 sa patrie. 
 
 Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annonfa hautement comme 
 le defenseur de Geneve contre le Due de Savoye et 
 TEvfique. 
 
 En 1519, Bonnivard devient le martyr de sa patrie : 
 Le Due de Savoye etant entre dans Genfeve avec cinq 
 cent liommes, Bonnivard craint le ressentiment du Due ; 
 il voulut se retirer a Fribourg pour en eviter les suites ; 
 mais il fut trahi par deux hommes qui I'accompagnoient, 
 et conduit par ordre du Prince a Grolee ou il resta 
 prisonnier pendant deux ans. Bonnivard etoit malheu- 
 reux dans ses voyages : comme ses malheurs n'avoient 
 point ralenti son zele pour Geneve, il etoit toujours un 
 ennemi redoutable pour ceux qui la mena9oienl, et par 
 consequent il devoit etre expose a leurs coups. II fut 
 rencontre en 1530 sur le Jura par des voleurs, qui le 
 depouillferent, et qui le mirent encore entre les mains 
 du Due de Savoye : ce Prince le fit enfermer dans le 
 Chateau de Chillon, oil il resta sans etre interroge jus- 
 ques en 1536 ; il fiit alors delivre par les Bernois, qui 
 s'empar&rent du Pays de Vaud. 
 
 Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivite, eut le plaisir de 
 trouver Geneve libre et reformee ; la Republique s'em- 
 pressa de lui temoigner sa reconnaissance et de le de- 
 dommager des maux qu'il avoit soufierts ; elle le recut 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 149 
 
 Bourgeois de la ville au mois de Juin 1536 ; elle lui donna 
 la maison habitee autrefois par le Vicaire-General, et 
 elle lui assigna une pension de 200 ecus d'or tant qu'il 
 sejourneroil a Geneve. II fut admis dans le Conseil 
 de Deux-Cent en 1537. 
 
 Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile : appres avoir tra- 
 vaille a rendre Geneve libre, il reussit a la rendre to 
 lerante. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil a accorder aux 
 Ecclesiastiques et aux paysans un tems suffisant pour 
 examiner les propositions qu'on leur faisoit ; il reussit 
 par sa douceur: on preche toujours le Christianisme 
 avec succ^s quand on le preche avec charite. 
 
 Bonnivard fut savant ; ses manuscrits, qui sont dans 
 la Bibliotheque publique, prouvent qu'il avoit bien lu les 
 auteurs classiques latins, et qu'il avoit approfondi la 
 theologie et I'histoire. Ce grand homrae aimoit les 
 sciences, et il croyoit qu'elles pouvoient faire la gloire 
 de Geneve ; aussi il ne negligea rien pour les fixer 
 dans cette ville naissante ; en 1551 il donna sa biblio- 
 theque au public ; elle fut le commencement de notre 
 bibliotheque publique ; et ces livres sont en partie les 
 rares et belles editions du quinzieme si^cle qu'on voit 
 dans notre collection, Enfin, pendant la meme annee, 
 ce bon patriote institua la Republique son heritiere, a 
 condition qu'elle employeroit ses biens a enlretenir le 
 college dont on projettoit la fondation. 
 
 II paroit que Bonnivard mourut en 1570 ; mais on 
 ne pent I'assurer, parce qu'il y a ime lacune dans le Ne- 
 crologe depuis le mois de Juillet 1570 jusques en 1571. 
 
 Note 2, page 145, line 17. 
 In a single night. 
 Ludovico Sforza, and others. — The same is asserted 
 of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis XVI. though 
 not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have the 
 same effect : to such, and not to fear, this change in liers 
 was to be attributed. 
 
 Note 3, page 146, line 85. 
 
 From ChiUon^s srimv-white battlement. 
 
 The Chateau de €hillon is situated between Clarens 
 
 and Villeneuve, which last is at one extremity of the 
 Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the 
 Rhone, and opposite are the heights of Meillerie and 
 the range of Alps above Boveret and St. Gingo. 
 
 Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent ; below it, wash- 
 ing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to the depth 
 of 800 feet, (French measure ;) within it are a range of 
 dungeons, in which the early reformers, and subsequent- 
 ly prisoners of state, were confined. Across one of the 
 vaults is a beam black with age, on which we were in- 
 formed that the condemned were formerly executed. 
 In the cells are seven pillars, or, rather, eight, one being 
 half merged in the wall ; in some of these are rings for 
 the fetters and the fettered : in the pavement the steps 
 of Bonnivard have left their traces — he was confined 
 here several years. 
 
 It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catas- 
 trophe of his Heloise, in the rescue of one of her chil- 
 dren by Julie from the water ; the shock of which, and 
 the illness produced by the immersion, is the cause of 
 her death. 
 
 The chateau is large, and seen along the lake for a 
 great distance. The walls are white. 
 
 Note 4, page 148, line 28. 
 And then there was a little isle 
 
 Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, 
 not far from Chillon, is a very small island; the only 
 one I could perceive, in my voyage round and over the 
 lake, within its circumference. Il contains a few trees, 
 (I think not above three,) and from its singleness and 
 diminutive size has a peculiar effect upon the view. 
 
 When the foregoing poem was composed I was not 
 sufficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should 
 have endeavoured to dignify the subject by an attempt 
 to celebrate his courage and his virtues. Some account 
 of his life will be found in a note appended to the " Son- 
 net on Chillon," with which I have been furnished by 
 the kindness of a citizen of that Republic, which is still 
 proud of the memory of a man worthy of the best age 
 of ancient freedom. 
 
 BEPPO, 
 
 A VENETIAN STORY. 
 
 Rosalind, rarewell, Monsieur Trayeller : Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits : disable all the benefits of your own 
 country ; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are ; or I will 
 »earc« think that you have swam in a Gondola. 
 
 As You Like It, Act IV. Sc, I. 
 
 Annotation of the Commentaton. 
 That is, been at Venice, which was much visited by the young English gentlemen of those times, and was theu what 
 Part* is note— the seat of all dissoluteness.— S. A. 
 
 'T IS knovm, at least it should be, that throughout 
 
 All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 
 Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about. 
 
 The people take their fill of recreation, 
 And buy repentance, ere they grow devout. 
 
 However high their rank, or low their station. 
 With fiddling, feastbg, dancing, drinking, masquing, 
 And other things which may be had for asking. 
 
 II. 
 The moment night with dusky mantle covers 
 
 The skies, (and the more duskily the better,) 
 The time less liked by husbands than by lovers 
 
 Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter ; 
 And gayety on restless tiptoe hovers, 
 
 Giggling with all the gallants who beset her ; 
 And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, 
 Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. 
 
 And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical. 
 
 Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 
 And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, 
 
 Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos ; 
 All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical. 
 
 All people, as their fancies hit, may choose, 
 But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy. 
 Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers ! I charge ye, 
 
 ir. 
 You 'd better walk about begirt with briers. 
 
 Instead of coat and small-clothes, than put on 
 A single stitch reflecting upon friars. 
 
 Although you swore it only was in fun ; 
 They 'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires 
 
 Of Phlegethon with every mother's son, 
 Nor say one mass to cool the caldron's bubble 
 That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double. 
 
150 
 
 BEPPO. 
 
 But saving this, you may put on whate'er 
 You lik-e by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, 
 
 Such as in JMonmoutli-street, or in Rag Fair, 
 Would rig you out in seriousness or joke ; 
 
 And even in Italy such places are, 
 
 Witli prettier name in softer accents spoke, 
 
 For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on 
 
 No place that 's call'd " Piazza" in Great Britain. 
 
 VI. 
 
 This feast is named the Carnival, which being 
 Interpreted, implies " farewell to flesh :" 
 
 So caird, because the name and thmg agreeing, 
 Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresh. 
 
 But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, 
 Is more than I can tell, although I guess 
 
 'T is as we take a glass mth friends at parting. 
 
 In the stagecoach or packet just at starting. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes. 
 And solid meats, and liighly spiced ragouts, 
 
 To live for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes, 
 Because they have no sauses to their stews, 
 
 A thing which causes many " poohs" and " pishes," 
 And several oaths (which would not suit the Muse) 
 
 From travellers accustom'd from a boy 
 
 To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy ; 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And therefore humbly I would recommend 
 " The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross 
 
 The sea, to bid tlieir cook, or wife, or friend. 
 Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross, 
 
 (Or if set out beforehand, these may send 
 By any means least liable to loss,) 
 
 Ketchup, Soy, Chili-\dnegar, and Harvey, 
 
 Or, by tlie Lord ! a Lent will well nigh starve ye ; 
 
 IX. 
 
 That is to say, if your religion 's Roman, 
 And you at Rome would do as Romans do, 
 
 According to the proverb, — although no man, 
 If foreign, is obliged to fast ; and you, 
 
 If protestant, or sickly, or a woman. 
 
 Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 
 
 Dine and be d — d ! I do n't mean to be coarse, 
 
 But that 's the penalty, to say no worse. 
 
 X, 
 
 Of all the places where the Carnival 
 Was most facetious in the days of yore, 
 
 For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball, 
 And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more 
 
 Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
 Venice the bell from every city bore. 
 
 And at tlie moment when I fix my story 
 
 That seaborn city was in all her glory. 
 
 XI. 
 
 They 've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 
 
 Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still ; 
 
 Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 
 In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill; 
 
 And like so many Venuses of Titian's, 
 
 (The best's at Florence — see it, if ye will,) 
 
 They look when leaning over the balcony. 
 
 Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione, 
 
 XII. 
 
 Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best ; 
 
 And when you to ManJErini's palace go, 
 That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 
 
 Is loveliest to my mind of all the show 5 
 It may perhaps be also to your zest. 
 
 And that 's the cause I rhyme upon it so ; 
 'T is but the portrait of his son, and wife, 
 And self; but such a woman ! love in life. 
 
 Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 
 
 No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, 
 But something better still, so very real, 
 
 That the sweet model must have been the same ; 
 A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 
 
 Wer 't not impossible, besides a shame : 
 The face recalls some face, as 't were wth pain, 
 You once have seen but ne'er will see again ; 
 
 XIV. 
 
 One of those forms which flit by us, when we 
 Are young, and flx our eyes on every face 
 
 And, Oh I the loveliness at times we see 
 In momentary gliding, the soft grace, 
 
 The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree, 
 In many a nameless being we retrace, 
 
 Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know. 
 
 Like the lost Pleiad^ seen no more below. 
 
 XV. 
 
 I said that like a picture by Giorgione 
 Venetian women were, and so they are^ 
 
 Particularly seen fi-om a balcony, 
 
 (For beauty 's sometimes best set off" afar,) 
 
 And there, just hke a heroine of Goldoni, 
 
 They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar ; 
 
 And truth to say, they 're mostly very pretty, 
 
 And rather like to show it, more 's the pity ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs. 
 
 Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, 
 
 Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries, 
 Who do such things because they know no better ; 
 
 And then, God knows, what mischief may arise, 
 When love links two young people in one fetter, 
 
 VUe assignations, and adulterous beds. 
 
 Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 
 
 As very fair, but yet suspect in fame, 
 And to this day from Venice to Verona 
 
 Such matters may be probably the same. 
 Except that since those times was never known a 
 
 Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 
 To suffocate a mfe no more than twenty, 
 Because she had a " cavalier servente." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 
 
 Is of a fair complexion altogether, 
 Not like that sooty devil of Othello's 
 
 Which smothers women in a bed of feather, 
 But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, 
 
 When weary of the matrimonial tether 
 His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 
 But takes at once another, or another's. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Didst ever see a gondola? For fear 
 
 You should not, I '11 describe it yoa exactly : 
 
 'T is a long cover'd boat that 's common here, 
 Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly, 
 
 Row'd by two rowers, each call'd " Gondolier," 
 It gUdes along the water looking blackly, 
 
 Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, 
 
 Where none can make out what you say or do. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And up and down the long canals they go. 
 
 And under the Rialto shoot along, 
 By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, 
 
 And roimd the theatres, a sable throng. 
 They wait in their dusk livery of wo, 
 
 But not to them do woful things belong, 
 For sometimes they contain a deal of fun. 
 Like mourning coaches when the flineral 's done. 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 151 
 
 But to my story. — 'T was some years ago, 
 It may be thirty, forty, more or less. 
 
 The carnival was at its height, and so 
 Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress ; 
 
 A certain lady went to see the show, 
 Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 
 
 And so we '11 call her Laura, if you please, 
 
 Because it slips into my verse vr(h ease. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 
 Which certain people call a "certain age" 
 
 Which yet the most uncertain age appears, 
 Because I never heard, nor could engage 
 
 A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears. 
 To name, define by speech, or write on page. 
 
 The period meant precisely by that word, — 
 
 Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
 Of time, and time return'd the compliment. 
 
 And treated her genteelly, so that, drest. 
 
 She look'd extremely well where'er she went : 
 
 A pretty woman is a welcome guest. 
 
 And Laura's brc-y a frovra had rarely bent, 
 
 Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter 
 
 Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 She was a married woman ; 't is convenient. 
 Because in Christain countries 'tis a rule 
 
 To view their little slips with eyes more lenient,' 
 Whereas, if single ladies play the fool, 
 
 (Unless within the period intervenient 
 A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool) 
 
 I do n't know how they ever can get over it, 
 
 Except they manage never to discover it. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 
 
 And made some voyages, too, in other seas, 
 
 And when he lay in quarantine for pratique, 
 (A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease,) 
 
 His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 
 For thence she could discern the ship with ease; 
 
 He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, 
 
 His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo.^ 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
 Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure ; 
 
 Though colour'd, as it were, within a tanyard. 
 He was a person both of sense and vigour— 
 
 A better seaman never yet did man yard: 
 
 And she, although her manners show'd no" rigour. 
 
 Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle. 
 
 So much as to be thought almost invincible. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 But several years elapsed since they had met ; 
 
 Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
 That he had somehow blunder'd into debt. 
 
 And did not like the thought of steering home ; 
 And there were several offer'd any bet. 
 
 Or that he would, or that he would not come. 
 For most men (till by losing render'd sager) 
 Win back their own opinions with a wager. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 'T is said that their last parting was pathetic, 
 As partings often are, or ought to be. 
 
 And their presentiment was quite prophetic 
 That they should never more each other see, 
 
 (A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic. 
 Which I have known occur in two or three) 
 
 When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee. 
 
 He left this Adriatic Ariadne. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And Laura waited long, and wept a little. 
 
 And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might ; 
 
 She almost lost all appetite for victual. 
 And could not sleep ^vith ease alone at night ; 
 
 She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle 
 Against a daring housebreaker or sprite. 
 
 And so she thought it prudent to connect her 
 
 With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect her. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 She chose, (and what is there they vdll not choose. 
 If only you vwll but oppose their choice ?) 
 
 Till Beppo should return from his long cruise, 
 And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 
 
 ^ man some women like, and yet abuse — 
 A coxcomb was he by the public voice ; 
 
 A count of Avealth, they said, as well as quality. 
 
 And in his pleasures of great hberality. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And then he was a count, and then he knew 
 Music, and dancing, fiddling, French and Tuscan ; 
 
 The last not easy, be it known to you. 
 For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 
 
 He was a critic upon operas, too. 
 And Itnew all niceties of the sock and buskin ; 
 
 And no Venetian audience could endure a 
 
 Song, scene, or air, when he cried " seccatura." 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 His " bravo" was decisive, for that sound 
 Hush'd "academie" sigh'd in silent awe; 
 
 The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around, 
 For fear of some false note's detected flaw. 
 
 The "prima donna's" tuneful heart would bound. 
 Dreading the deep damnation of his " bah 1" 
 
 Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 
 
 Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 He patronized the Improvisatori, 
 
 Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas, 
 Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story. 
 
 Sold pictures, and was skilfiil in the dance as 
 Italians can be, though in this their glory 
 
 Must surely yield the palm to that which France has 
 In short, he was a perfect cavaliero. 
 And to his very valet seem'd a hero. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Then he was faithful, too, as well as amorous ; 
 
 So that no sort of female could complain, 
 Although they 're now and then a little clamorous, 
 
 He never put the pretty souls in pain ; 
 His heart was one of those which most enamour us, 
 
 Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 
 He was a lover of the good old school. 
 Who still become more constant as they cool. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 No wonder such accomplishments should turn 
 A female head, however sage and steady — 
 
 With scarce a hope that Beppo could return. 
 In law he was almost as good as dead, he 
 
 Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern, 
 And she had waited several years already ; 
 
 And really if a man won't let us know 
 
 That he 's alive, he 's dead, or should be so. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Besides, vnthin the Alps, to every woman, 
 (Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,) 
 
 'T is, I may say, permitted to have two men ; 
 I can't tell who first brought the custom in. 
 
 But "Cavalier Serventes" are quite common, 
 And no one notices, nor cares a pin ; 
 
 And we may call this (not to say the worst) 
 
 A second marriage which corrupts the ^rst. 
 
162 
 
 BEPPO. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The word was formerly a "Cicisbeo," 
 
 But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 
 
 The Spaniards call the person a " Cortejo,^'^ 
 
 For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent ; 
 
 In short it reaches from the Po to Teio, 
 
 And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent. 
 
 But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses ! 
 
 Or what becomes of damage and divorces ? 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 However, I still think, with all due deference 
 
 To the fair single part of the Creation, 
 That married ladies should preserve the preference 
 
 In tete-a-tete or general conversation — 
 And this I say wthout peculiar reference 
 
 To England, France, or any other nation — 
 Because they laiow the world, and are at ease, 
 And being natural, naturally please. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 'Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming, 
 But shy and awkward at first coming out, 
 
 So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming, 
 
 All Giggle, Blush ; half Pertness, and half Pout ; 
 
 And glancing at Mamma^ for fear there 's harm in 
 "What you, she, it, or they, may be about, 
 
 The Nursery still Usps out in all they utter — 
 
 Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 
 
 XL. 
 
 But " Cavalier Servente" is the phrase 
 
 Used in poUtest circles to express 
 This supernumerary slave, %vho stays 
 
 Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
 Her word the only haw which he obeys. 
 
 His is no sinecure, as you may guess ; 
 Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, 
 And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 With all its sinful doings, I must say, 
 
 That Italy 's a pleasant place to me, 
 Who love to see the Sun shine every day. 
 
 And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree 
 Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play, 
 
 Or melodrame, which people flock to see. 
 When the first act is ended by a dance 
 In vineyards copied from the south of France. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 t hke on Autumn evenings to ride out, 
 
 Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 
 
 My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about, 
 Because the skies are not the most secure ; 
 
 I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route, 
 Where the green alleys windingly allure, 
 
 Reeling with grapes red waggons choke the way, — 
 
 In England 't would be dung, dust, or a dray. 
 
 XLIII, 
 
 I also like to dine on becaiicas. 
 
 To see the Sun set, sure he '11 rise to-morrow. 
 Not through a misty morning twinkJing weak as 
 
 A drunken man's dead eye in maudhn sorrow, 
 But with all Heaven t' himself; that day will break a: 
 
 Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
 That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers 
 Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
 Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, 
 
 Aad sounds as if it should be writ on satin. 
 
 With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, 
 
 And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in. 
 That not a single accent seems uncouth. 
 
 Like our harsh northern whisthng, grunting guttural. 
 
 Which we're obUged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. 
 
 I like the women too, (forgive my folly,) 
 
 From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, 
 
 And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 
 Of rays that say a thousand things at once, 
 
 To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, 
 But clear, and with a wild and hquid glance. 
 
 Heart on her Ups, and soul within her eyes, 
 
 Soft as her chme, and sunny as her skies. 
 
 XL,VI. 
 
 Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 
 
 Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire 
 Raphael,'* who died in thy embrace, and vies 
 
 With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, 
 In what he hath bequeath'd us? — in what guise. 
 
 Though flashing from the fervour of the l)Te, 
 Would words describe thy past and present glow, 
 While yet Canova can create below ?* 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 "England! with all thy faults I love thee still," 
 I said at Calais, and have not forgot it; 
 
 I like to speak and lucubrate my fill ; 
 
 I like the government, (but that is not it ;) ■ 
 
 I hke the freedom of the press and quill ; 
 
 I hke the Habeas Corpus, (when we Ve got it;) 
 
 I like a parliamentary debate. 
 
 Particularly when 't is not too late ; 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 I like the taxes, when they 're not too many ; 
 
 I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear ; 
 I like a beef- steak, too, as well as any ; 
 
 Have no objection to a pot of beer ; 
 I like the weather, when it is not rainy, 
 
 That is, I like two months of every year. 
 And so God save the Regent, Church, and King ! 
 Which means that I like all and every thing. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, 
 Poor's rate. Reform, my own, the nation's debt, 
 
 Our little riots just to show we are free men, 
 Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 
 
 Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women. 
 All these I can forgive, and those forget. 
 
 And greatly venerate our recent glories, 
 
 And wish they were not owing to the Tories. 
 
 L. 
 
 But to my tale of Laura, — for I find 
 Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
 
 Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind. 
 
 And, therefore, may the reader too displease — 
 
 The gentle reader, who may wax unkind. 
 And caring little for the author's ease. 
 
 Insist on knowing what he means, a hajd 
 
 And hapless situation for a bard. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Oh that I had the art of easy writing 
 
 What should be easy reading ! could I scale 
 
 Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 
 Those pretty poems never Imown to fail. 
 
 How quickly would I print (the world dehghting) 
 A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale ; 
 
 And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism. 
 
 Some samples of the finest OrientaUsm. 
 
 (In talking thus, the writer, more especially 
 Of women, would be understood to say. 
 
 He speaks as a spectator, not officially. 
 And always, reader, in a modest way ; 
 
 Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he 
 Appear to have offended in this lay, 
 
 Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets 
 
 Would seem unfinish'd like their untrimm'd bonnets. 
 (Signed) Printer's Devil, 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 163 
 
 But I am but a nameless sort of person, 
 (A broken Dandy lately on ray travels) 
 
 And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, 
 The first that Walker's liexicon unravels, 
 
 And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 
 Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ; 
 
 I 've half a mind to tumble down to prose. 
 
 But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, 
 Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do. 
 
 For half a dozen years without estrangement ; 
 They had their Uttle differences, too ; 
 
 Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant : 
 In such affairs there probably are few 
 
 Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, 
 
 From sinners of high station to the rabble. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 But on the whole, they were a happy pair. 
 As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 
 
 The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, [them : 
 
 Their chains so sUght, 't was not worth while to break 
 
 The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 
 The pious only wish'd "the devil take them!" 
 
 He took them not ; he very often v/aits, 
 
 And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits. 
 
 LV. 
 
 But they were young : Oh ! what without our youth 
 Would love be ! What would youth be without love ! 
 
 Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth. 
 Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above ; 
 
 But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 
 One of few things experience do n't improve, 
 
 Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows 
 
 Are always so preposterously jealous. 
 
 I. VI, 
 
 It was the Carnival, as I have said 
 
 Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so 
 
 Laura the usual preparations made, 
 
 Which you do when your mind 's made up to go 
 
 To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, 
 Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 
 
 .The only difference known between the cases 
 
 Is — here, we have six weeks of " varnish'd faces." 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Laura, when drest, was (as I sang before) 
 
 A pretty woman as was ever seen. 
 Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, 
 
 Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 
 With all the fashions which the last month wore, 
 
 Colour'd, and silver paper leaved between 
 That and the title-page, for fear the press 
 Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 They went to the Ridotto ; — 't is a hall 
 
 Where people dance, and sup, and dance again ; 
 
 Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball, 
 But that 's of no importance to my strain ; 
 
 T is (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 
 Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 
 
 The company is "mix'd," (the phrsise I quote is 
 
 As much as saving, they 're below your notice ;) 
 
 LIX. 
 
 For a " mlx'd company" implies that, save 
 
 Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, 
 
 Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 
 The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 
 
 Of pubUc places, where they basely brave 
 The fashionable stare of twenty score 
 
 Of well-bred persons, call'd " the World f but I, 
 
 Although I know them, really don't know why. 
 
 LX. 
 
 This is the case in England; at least was 
 
 During the dynasty of Dandies, now 
 Perchance succeeded by some other class 
 
 Or imitated imitators: — how 
 Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 
 
 The demagogues of fashion : all below 
 Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 
 By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
 Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer, 
 
 Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or 
 A blundering novice in his new French grammar; 
 
 Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war. 
 And as for Fortune — but I dare not d — n her. 
 
 Because, were I to ponder to infinity. 
 
 The more I should believe in her divinity. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, 
 She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage ; 
 
 I cannot say that she 's done much for me yet ; 
 Not that I mean her bounties to disparage. 
 
 We 've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet 
 How much she'll make amends for past miscarriage, 
 
 Meantime the goddess I '11 no more importune. 
 
 Unless to thank her when she 's made my fortune. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 To turn, — and to return ; — the devil take it ! 
 
 This story slips for ever through my fingers, 
 Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, 
 
 It needs must be — and so it rather lingers ; 
 This form of verse began, I can't well break it, 
 
 But must keep time and tune like public singers ; 
 But if I once get through my present measure, 
 I '11 fake another when I 'm next at leisure. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 They went to the Ridotto, ('t is a place 
 To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, 
 
 Just to divert my thoughts a little space. 
 
 Because I 'm rather hippish, and may borrow 
 
 Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 
 May lurk beneath eacli mask, and as my sorrow 
 
 Slackens its pace sometimes, I '11 make, or find, 
 
 Somethmg shall leave it half an hour behind.) 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
 Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips ; 
 
 To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 
 To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, 
 
 Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd, 
 Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 
 
 She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 
 
 Her dearest friends for being drest so ill. 
 
 I.XVI. 
 
 One has false curls, another too much paint, 
 
 A third — -where did she buy that frightful turban? 
 
 A fourth 's so pale she fears she 's going to faint, 
 A fifth 's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, 
 
 A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 
 
 A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane, 
 
 And lo ! an eighth appears, — " I '11 see no more !" 
 
 For fear, lilie Banquo's kings, they reach a score. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 
 Others were levelling their looks at her ; 
 
 She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising, 
 And, till 't was done, determined not to stir ; 
 
 The women only thought it quite amazing 
 That at her time of life so many were 
 
 Admirers still, — but men are so debased, 
 
 Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 
 
154 
 
 BEPPa 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 
 Why naughty women — ^but I won't discuss 
 
 A thing which is a scandal to the land, 
 I only do n't see why it should be thus ; 
 
 And if I were but in a gown and bandj 
 Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 
 
 I 'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly 
 
 Should quote in their next speeches from my homily. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling, 
 Talking, she knew not why and cared not what, 
 
 So that her female friends, with envy broiling, 
 Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 
 
 And well drest males still kept before her filing, 
 And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat ; 
 
 More than the rest one person seem'd to stare 
 
 With pertinacity tliat's rather rare. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany ; 
 
 And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
 Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, 
 
 Although their usage of their wives is sad ; 
 'T is said they use no better than a dog any 
 
 Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad : 
 They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em, 
 Four wives by law, and concubines " ad libitum." 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, 
 They scarcely can behold their male relations, 
 
 So that their moments do not pass so gaily 
 As is supposed the case with northern nations ; 
 
 Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely : 
 And as the Turks abhor long conversations. 
 
 Their days are either past in doing nothing. 
 
 Or bathing, nursing, makmg love and clothing. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 They cannot read, and so do n't lisp in criticism ; 
 
 Nor write, and so they do n't affect the muse ; 
 Were never caught in epigram or witticism, 
 
 Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, — 
 In harams earning soon would make a pretty schism ! 
 
 But luckily these beauties are no " blues," 
 No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
 " That charming passage in the last new poem." 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme 
 Who having angled all his life for fame. 
 
 And getting but a nibble at a time, 
 Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 
 
 Small " Triton of the minnows," the sublime 
 Of mediocrity, the furious tame, 
 
 The echo's echo, usher of the school 
 
 Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool ! 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 A stalking oracle of awful phrase. 
 
 The approving " Crood .'" (by no means good in law) 
 Humming like flies around the newest blaze, 
 
 The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, 
 Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, 
 
 Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, 
 Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, 
 And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 One hates an author that 's all author, fellows 
 In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink, 
 
 So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, 
 
 One do n't know what to say to them, or think, 
 
 Unless to puff" them with a pair of bellows ; 
 Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink 
 
 Are preferable to these shreds of paper, 
 
 These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Of these same we see several, and of others. 
 Men of the world, who know the world like men, 
 
 Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers, 
 Who think of something else besides the pen ; 
 
 But for the children of the " mighty mother's," 
 The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, 
 
 I leave them to their daily " tea is ready," 
 
 Smug coterie, and literary lady. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention 
 Have none of these instructive pleasant people, 
 
 And one would seem to them a new invention, 
 Unknown as bells v^ithin a Turkish steeple ; 
 
 I think 't would almost be worth while to pension 
 (Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) 
 
 A missionary author, just to preach 
 
 Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 No chemistry for them unfolds her gasses, 
 No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, 
 
 No circulating library amasses 
 Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 
 
 Upon the living manners, as they pass us ; 
 No exhibition glares vsdth annual pictures ; 
 
 They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 
 
 Nor deal (thank God for that !) in mathematics. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 
 
 I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, 
 And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, 
 
 I '11 keep them for my Ufe (to come) in prose ; 
 I fear I have a little turn for satire, 
 
 And yet me thinks the older that one grows 
 Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter 
 Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. 
 
 rxxx. 
 Oh, Mirth and Innocence ! Oh, Milk and Water ! 
 
 Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
 In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 
 
 Abominable Man no more allays 
 His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, 
 
 I love you both, and both shall have my praise : 
 Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy ! — 
 Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, 
 Less in the mussulman than Christian way, 
 
 Which seems to say, " Madam, I do you honour, 
 And while I please to stare, you '11 please to stay :" 
 
 Could staring wdn a woman, this had won her, 
 But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 
 
 She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle 
 
 Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 The morning now was on the point of breaking, 
 A turn of time at which I would advise 
 
 Ladies who have been dancing, or partsddng 
 In any other kind of exercise. 
 
 To make their preparations for forsaking 
 The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise, 
 
 Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 
 
 His blushes make them look a httle pale. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 I 've seen some balls and revels in my time, 
 And stayed them over for some silly reason, 
 
 And then I look'd, (I hope it was no crime,) 
 To see what lady best stood out the season ; 
 
 And though I 've seen some thousands in their prime, 
 Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, 
 
 I never saw but one, (the stars withdravra,) 
 
 Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 155 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 The name of this Aurora 1 11 not mention, 
 Although I might, for she was naught to me 
 
 More thein that patent work of God's invention, 
 A charming woman, whom we hke to see ; 
 
 But writing names would merit reprehension, 
 Yet if you like to find out this fair she^ 
 
 A.t the next London or Parisian hall 
 
 Fou still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Laura, who knew it would not do at all 
 
 To meet the dayUght after seven hours' sitting 
 
 Among three thousand people at a ball, 
 
 To make her curtsey thought it right and fitting ; 
 
 The Count was at her elbow with her shawl. 
 And they the room were on the point of quittting, 
 
 When lo ! those cursed gondoliers had got 
 
 Just in the very place where they should not. 
 
 LXXXTI. 
 
 In this they 're like our coachmen, and the cause 
 Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, hauling, 
 
 With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, 
 They make a never intermitting bawling. 
 
 At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, 
 And here a sentry stands %vithin your calling ; 
 
 But for all that, there is a deal of swearing, 
 
 And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 The Count and Laura found their boat at last, 
 And homeward floated o'er the silent tide, 
 
 Discussing all the dances gone and past ; 
 The dancers and their dresseS; too, beside ; 
 
 Some little scandals eke : but all aghast 
 (As to their palace stairs the rowers ghde) 
 
 Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, 
 
 When lo ! the Mussuhnan was there before her. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 "Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, 
 " Your unexpected presence here will make 
 
 It necessary for myself to crave 
 
 Its import ? But perhaps 't is a mistake ; 
 
 I hope it is so ; and at once to wave 
 All compliment, I hope so for your sake ; 
 
 You understand my meaning, or you shall.'' 
 
 * Sir," (quoth the Turk,) " 't is no mistake at all. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 " That lady is my wife ."' Much wonder paints 
 The lady's changing cheek, as well it might ; 
 
 But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 
 Italian females do n't do so outright ; 
 
 They only call a Uttle on their saints. 
 
 And then come to themselves, almost or quite ; 
 
 Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces, 
 
 And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 
 
 xc. 
 She said, — what could she say ? Why not a word : 
 
 But the Count courteously invited in 
 The stranger, much appeased by what he heard : 
 
 * Such things, perhaps, we 'd best discuss within," 
 Said he ; "do n't let us make ourselves absurd 
 
 In public, by a scene, nor raise a din, 
 For then the chief and only satisfaction 
 Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction." 
 
 xci. 
 They enter'd, and for coffee call'd— it came, 
 
 A beverage for Turks and Christians both, 
 Although the way they make it 's not«the same. 
 
 Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth 
 To speak, cries " Beppo 1 what 's your pagan name ? 
 
 Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 
 And how came you to keep away so long? 
 Are you not sensible 't was very wTong ? 
 
 " And are you really, truly, now a Turk ? 
 With any other women did you wive ? 
 Is 't true they use their fingers for a fork? 
 
 Well, that 's the prettiest shawl — as I 'm alive ! 
 You '11 give it me ? They say you eat no pork. 
 
 And how so many years did you contrive 
 To — Bless me ! did I ever ? No, I never 
 Saw a man grown so yellow ! How 's your liver ? 
 
 xcni. 
 "Beppo! that beard of your's becomes you not; 
 It shall be shaved before you 're a day older : 
 "Why do you wear it ? Oh ! I bad forgot — 
 
 Pray do n't you think the weather here is colder ? 
 How do I look ? You sha'n't stir from this spot 
 
 In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder 
 Should find you out, and make the story known. 
 How short your hair is ! Lord ! how gray it 's grown '" 
 
 xciv. 
 What answer Beppo made to these demands 
 Is more than I know. He was cast away 
 About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands ; 
 
 Became a slave of course, and for his pay 
 Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 
 Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay, 
 He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became 
 A renegado of indifferent fame. 
 
 xcv. 
 But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 
 
 Keen the desire to see his home again. 
 He thought himself in duty bound to do so. 
 And not be always thienng on the main ; 
 Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, 
 
 And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 
 Bound for Corfu : she was a fine polaccEi, 
 Mann'd \vith twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 
 
 xcvi. 
 Himself, and much (heaven knows how gotten) cash, 
 
 He then embark'd with risk of hfe and hmb. 
 And got clear off, although the attempt was rash ; 
 
 He said that Providence protected him — 
 For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash 
 
 In our opinions : — well, the ship was trim, 
 Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, 
 Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 
 
 xcvii. 
 They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading, 
 
 And self and live-stock, to another bottom, 
 And pass'd for a true Turkey merchant, trading 
 
 With goods of various names, but I 've forgot 'em. 
 However, he got off by this evading, 
 
 Or else the people would perhaps have shot him; 
 And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 
 His wife, reUgion, house, and Christian name. 
 
 xcviii. 
 His wife received, the patriarch rebaptized hira, 
 
 (He made the church a present by the way ;) 
 He then threw off the garments which disguised liim, 
 
 And borrow'd the Count's small-clothes for a day: 
 His friends the more for his long absence prized him, 
 
 Finding he 'd wherewithal to make them gay. 
 With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them, 
 For stories— but / don't believe the half of them. 
 
 Whate'er his youth had suffer'd, his old age 
 
 With wealth and talking made him some amends ; 
 
 Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 
 I 've heard the Count and he were always friends. 
 
 My pen is at the bottom of a page. 
 
 Which being finish'd, here the story ends ; 
 
 'T is to be wish'd it had been sooner done, 
 
 But stories somehow lengthen when begim. 
 
NOTES TO BEPPO. 
 
 Note 1, page 150, line 80. 
 
 Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below. 
 
 " Quae septem dici sex tamen esse sclent." Ovic. 
 
 Note 2, page 151, line 40. 
 
 His name Giuseppe, called more briefly ^ Beppo. 
 
 Beppo is the Joe of the Italian Joseph.. 
 
 Note 3, page 152, line 3. 
 
 The Spaniards call the person a " CortejoP 
 
 •* Cortejo" is pronounced " CorteAo," with an aspi- 
 
 rate, according to the Arabesque guttural. It means 
 what there is as yet no precise name for in England, 
 though the practice is as common as in any tramontane 
 country whatever. 
 
 Note 4, page 152, line 75. 
 Raphael, loJio died in thy embrace. 
 
 For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael's 
 deatli, see his Lives. 
 
 M A Z E P P A. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 "Celui qui remphssait alors cette place etait un gen- 
 tilhonune Polonais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans le palatinat 
 de PadoUe ; il avait ete eleve page de Jean Casimir, et 
 avait pris a sa cour quelque teinture des belles-lettres. 
 Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse avec la femme 
 d'un gentilhomme Polonais, ayant ete decouverte, le 
 mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, et le 
 laissa aller en cet etat. Le cheval, qui etait du pays de 
 rUkraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de 
 fatigue et de faim. Ctuelques paysans le secoururent : 
 il resta longtems panni eux, et se signala dans plusieurs 
 courses centre les Tartares. La superiorite de ses lu- 
 mieres lui donna une grande consideration parmi les 
 Cosaques : sa reputation s'augmentant de jour en jour, 
 obligea le Czar a le faire Prince de I'Ukraine." — Vol- 
 taire, Hist, de Charles XII. p. 196. 
 
 "Le roi fuyant et poursuivi eut son cheval tue sous 
 lui ; le Colonel Gieta, blesse, et perdant tout son sang, 
 lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois a cheval, 
 dans la fuite, ce conquerant qui n'avait pu y monter pen- 
 dant la bataille." — Voltaire, Hist, de Charles XII. 
 p. 216. 
 
 ^ Le roi alia par im autre chemin avec quelques ca- 
 valiers. Le carrosse, ou il etait, rompit dans la marche ; 
 on le remit a cheval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s'e- 
 gara pendant la nuit dans un bois ; la, son courage ne 
 pouvant plus suppleer a ses forces epuisees,les douleurs 
 de sa blessure devenues plus insupportables par la fa- 
 tigue, son cheval etant tombe de lassitude, il se coucha 
 quelques heures au pied d'un arbre, en danger d'etre 
 surpris a tout moment par les vainqueurs qui le cher- 
 chaient de tons cotes." — Voltaire, Histoire de Charles 
 XII. p. 218. 
 
 'T WAS after dread Pultowa's day, 
 
 When fortune left the royal Swede, 
 Around a slaughter'd army lay. 
 
 No more to combat and to bleed. 
 The power and glory of the war, 
 
 Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
 Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 
 
 And Moscow's walls were safe again, 
 Until a day more dark and drear, 
 And a more memorable year, 
 Should give to slaughter and to shame 
 A mightier host and haughtier name ; 
 
 A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
 
 A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 
 
 Such was the hazard of the die; 
 
 The wounded Charles was taught to fly 
 
 By day and night through field and flood, 
 
 Stain'd with his own ajid subjects' blood; 
 
 For thousands fell that flight to aid : 
 
 And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 
 
 Ambition in his humbled hour. 
 
 When truth had naught to dread from power. 
 
 His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 
 
 His own — and died the Russians' slave. 
 
 This too sinks after many a league 
 
 Of well sustained, but vain fatigue ; 
 
 And in the depth of forests, darkling 
 
 The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 
 
 The beacons of surrounding foes — 
 A king must lay his limbs at length. 
 
 Are these the laurels and repose 
 For which the nations strain their strength ? 
 They laid him by a savage tree. 
 In outworn nature's agony ; 
 His wounds were stiff— his Umbs were stark — 
 The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 
 The fever in his blood forbade 
 A transient slumber's fitful aid, 
 And thus it was ; but yet through all, 
 Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 
 And made, in this extreme of ill. 
 His pangs the vassals of his will : 
 All silent and subdued were they. 
 As once the nations round him lay. 
 
 III. 
 
 A band of chiefs ! — alas ! how few, 
 
 Since but the fleeting of a day 
 Had thinn'd it ; but this wreck was true 
 
 And chivalrous : upon the clay 
 Each sate him down, all sad and mute, 
 
 Beside his monarch and his steed, 
 For danger levels man and brute. 
 
 And all are fellows in their need. 
 Among the rest, Mcizeppa made 
 His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
 Himself as rough, and scarce less old. 
 The Ukraine's hetman, cahn and bold ; 
 But first, outspent with this long course, 
 The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 157 
 
 And made for him a leafy bed, 
 And smooth'd liis fetlocks and his mane, 
 And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, 
 And joy'd to see how well he fed ; 
 For until now he had the dread 
 His wearied courser might refuse 
 To browse beneath the midnight dews: 
 But he was hardy as his lord, 
 And Uttle cared for bed and board ; 
 But spirited and docile too; 
 Whate'er was to be done, would do. 
 Shaggy and swift, and strong of Urab, 
 All Tartar-lilie he carried him ; 
 Obey'd his voice, and came to call, 
 And knew him in the midst of all : 
 Though thousands were around, — and Night, 
 Without a star, pursued her flight, — 
 That steed from sunset until, dawn 
 His chief would follow like a fav\-n. 
 
 This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 
 And laid his lance beneath his oak, 
 Felt if his arms in order good 
 The long day's march had well withstood — 
 If still the powder fill'd the pan. 
 
 And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
 His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt. 
 And whether they had chafed his belt — 
 And next the venerable man. 
 From out his havresack and can. 
 
 Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 
 And to the monarch and his men 
 The whole or portion ofler'd then 
 With far less of inquietude 
 Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
 And Charles of this his slender share 
 With smiles partook a moment there. 
 To force of cheer a greater show. 
 And seem above both wounds and wo; — 
 And then he said — " Of all our band. 
 Though firm of heart and strong of heuid, 
 In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
 Can less have said or more have done 
 Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 
 So fit a pair had never birth, 
 Since Alexander's days till now, 
 As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
 All Scylhia's fame to thine should yield 
 For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
 Mazeppa answer'd — "111 betide 
 The school wherein I learn'd to ride!" 
 Q.uoth Charles — " Old Hetman, wherefore s 
 Since thou hast learn'd the art so well ?" 
 Mazeppa said — " 'T were long to tell ; 
 And we have many a league to go, 
 With every now and then a blow. 
 And ten to one at least the foe. 
 Before our steeds may graze at ease 
 Beyond the swift Borysthenes : 
 And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, 
 And I will be the sentinel 
 Of this your troop." — " But I request," 
 Said Sweden's monarch, " thou wilt tell 
 This tale of thine, and I may reap. 
 Perchance, from this the boon of sleep, 
 For at this moment from my eyes 
 The hope of present slumber flies." 
 
 "Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track 
 My seventy years of memory back : 
 I think 't was in my twentieth spring, — 
 Ay, 'twas, — when Casimir was king — 
 John Casimir, — I was his page 
 Six summers, in my earlier age ; 
 
 A learned monarch, faith ! was he, 
 
 And most unlike your majesty : 
 , He made no wars, and did not gain 
 New realms to lose them back again ; 
 And (save debates in Warsav.-'s diet) 
 He reigned in most unseemly quiet ; . 
 Not that he had no cares to vex, 
 He loved the muses and the sex; 
 And sometimes these so froward are, 
 They made him wish himself at war; 
 But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 
 Another mistress, or new book : 
 And then he gave prodigious fetes — 
 All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 
 To gaze upon his splendid court. 
 And dames, and chiefs, of princely port : 
 He was the Polish Solomon, 
 So sung his poets, all but one, 
 Who, being unpensioned, made a satire, 
 And boasted that he could not flatter. 
 It was a court of jousts and mimes, 
 Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 
 Even I for once produced some verses, 
 And sign'd my odes Despairing Thirsis. 
 There was a certain Palatine, 
 
 A count of far and liigh descent, 
 Rich as a salt or silver mine;* 
 And he was proud ye may divine, 
 
 As if from heaven he had been sent, 
 He had such wealth in blood and ore 
 
 As few could- match beneath the throne , 
 And he would gaze upon his store. 
 And o'er his pedigree would pore, 
 Until by some confusion led, 
 Which almost look'd like want of head, 
 
 He thought their merits were his own. 
 His wife was not of his opinion — 
 
 His junior she by thirty years — 
 Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 
 
 And, after wishes, hopes, and fears. 
 
 To virtue a few farewell tears, 
 A restless dream or two, some glances 
 At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and deinces, 
 Awaited but the usual chances. 
 Those happy accidents which render 
 The coldest dames so very tender. 
 To deck her Count with titles given, 
 'T is said, as passports into heaven ; 
 But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
 Of these who have deserved them most. 
 
 I was a goodly stripling then ; 
 
 At seventy years I so may say, 
 That there were few, or boys or men, 
 
 Who, in my dav.-ning time of day, 
 Of vassal or of knight's degree. 
 Could vie in vanities with me ; 
 For I had strength, youth, gayety, 
 A port, not like to this ye see, 
 But smooth, as all is rugged now ; 
 
 For time, and care, and war, have plough'd 
 My very soul from out my brow ; 
 
 And thus I should be disavdw'd 
 By all my kind and kin, could they 
 Compare my day and yesterday ; 
 This change was wi'ought, too, long ere age 
 Had ta'en my features for his page : 
 With years ye know, have not declined 
 My strength, my courage, or my mind, 
 
 ♦This comparison of a " salt mine" may perhaps be permitted to a 
 Pole, as the wealth of the couutry consists greatly iu the salt mines. 
 
158 
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 Or at this hour I should not be 
 Telling old tales beneath a tree, 
 With starless skies my canopy. 
 But let me on: Theresa's form — 
 IVIethinks it glides before me now, 
 Between me and yon chestnut's bough, 
 The memory is so quick and warm ; 
 And yet I find no words to tell 
 The shape of her I loved so well 
 She had the Asiatic eye, 
 
 Such as our Turkish neighbourhood 
 
 Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 
 Dark as above us is the sky ; 
 But through it stole a tender Hght, 
 Like the first moonrise of midnight ; 
 Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 
 Which seem'd to melt to its own beam ; 
 All love, half languor, and half fire, 
 Like saints that at the stake expire, 
 And lift their raptured looks on high, 
 As though it were a joy to die. 
 A brow like a midsummer lake, 
 
 Transparent %vith the sun therein. 
 When waves no murmur dare to make, 
 
 And heaven beholds her face within. 
 A cheek and lip — but why proceed ? 
 
 I loved her then — I love her still 
 And such as I am, love indeed 
 
 In fierce extremes — in good and ill. 
 But still we love even in our rage, 
 And haunted to our very age 
 With the vain shadow of the past, 
 As is Mazeppa to the last. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " We met — we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, 
 She did not speak, and yet replied ; 
 There are ten thousand tones and signs 
 We hear and see, but none defines — 
 Involuntary sparks of thought, 
 Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought, 
 And form a strange intelligence, 
 Alike mysterious and intense. 
 Which link the burning chain that binds, 
 Without their will, yoimg hearts and minds; 
 Conveying, as the electric wire. 
 We know not how, the absorbing fice. — 
 I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept, 
 And still reluctant distance kept. 
 Until I was made Imown to her. 
 And we might then and there confer 
 Without suspicion — then, even then, 
 
 I long'd, and was resolved to spejik; 
 But on my Hps they died again. 
 
 The accents tremulous and weak. 
 Until one hour. — There is a game, 
 A frivolous and foolish play. 
 Wherewith we while away the day; 
 It is — I have forgot the name — 
 And we to this, it seems, were set, 
 By some strange chance, which I forget; 
 I reck'd not if I won or lost, 
 It was enough for me to be 
 So near to hear, and oh ! to see 
 The being whom I loved the most. — 
 I watch'd her as a sentinel, 
 (May ours this dark night watch as well !) 
 Until I saw, and thus it was, 
 That she was pensive, nor perceived 
 Her occupation, nor was grieved 
 Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
 Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
 Yet bound her to the place, though not 
 That hers might be the wiiming lot. 
 Then through my brain the thought did pass 
 
 Even as a flash of lightning there, 
 That there was something in her air 
 Which would not doom me to despair ; 
 And on the thought my words broke forth, 
 
 All incoherent as they were — 
 Then- eloquence was little worth, 
 But yet she listened — 't is enough — 
 
 Who hstens once will listen twice 
 Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 
 And one refusal no rebuff. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " I loved, and was beloved again — 
 
 They tell me, Sire, you never knew 
 
 Those gentle frailties ; if 't is true, 
 I shorten all my joy or pain ; 
 To you 't would seem absurd as vain ; 
 But all men are not born to reign. 
 Or o'er their passions, or as you 
 Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
 I am — or rather was — a prince, 
 
 A chief of thousands, and could lead 
 
 Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 
 But could not o'er myself evince 
 The like control — But to resume: 
 
 I loved, and was beloved again ; 
 In sooth, it is a happy doom, 
 
 But yet where happiest ends in pain. — 
 We met in secret, and the hour 
 Which led me to that lady's bower 
 Was fiery Expectation's dower. 
 My days and nights were nothing — all 
 Except that hour, which doth recall 
 In the long lapse from youth to age 
 
 No other Uke itself — I 'd give 
 
 The Ukraine back again to Uve 
 It o'er once more — and be a page. 
 The happy page, who was the lord 
 Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 
 And had no other gem nor wealth 
 Save nature's gift of youth and health.— 
 We met in secret — doubly sweet. 
 Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
 I know not that — I would have given 
 
 My life but to have call'd her mine 
 In the full view of earth and heaven; 
 
 For I did oft and long repine 
 That we could only meet by stealth, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 "For lovers there are many eyes, 
 
 And such there were on us ; — the devil 
 
 On such occasions should be civil — 
 The devil ! — I 'm loath to do him wrong. 
 
 It might be some untoward saint. 
 Who would not be at rest too long. 
 
 But to his pious bile gave vent — 
 But one fair night, some lurking spies 
 Surprised and seized us both. 
 The Count was something more than wroth — 
 I was unarm'd ; but if in steel, 
 All cap-a-pie from head to heel, 
 What 'gainst their numbers could I do?^ 
 'T was near his castle, far away 
 
 From city or from succour near, 
 And almost on the break of day ; 
 I did not think to see another, 
 
 My moments seem'd reduced to few; 
 And with one prayer to Mary Mother, - 
 
 And, it may be, a saint or two. 
 As I resign'd me to my fate. 
 They led me to the castle gate : 
 
 Theresa's doom I never knew, 
 Our lot was henceforth separate.— 
 An angry man, ye may opine, 
 Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 159 
 
 And he had reason good to be, 
 
 But he was most enraged lest such 
 An accident should chance to touch 
 
 Upon his future pedigree ; 
 
 Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
 
 His noble 'scutcheon should have got, 
 
 While he was highest of his line ; 
 Because unto himself he seem'd 
 The first of men, nor less he deem'd 
 
 In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
 
 'S death ! with a page — perchance a king 
 
 Had reconciled him to the thing ; 
 
 But with a stripling of a page — 
 
 I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " ' Bring forth the horse !' — the horse was brought ; 
 
 In truth, he was a noble steed, 
 
 A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
 Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
 Were in his hmbs ; but he was wild, 
 
 Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
 With spur and bridle undefiled — 
 
 'T was but a day he had been caught ; 
 And snorting, with erected mane, 
 And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
 In the full foam of wrath and dread 
 To me the desert-born was led: 
 They bound me on, that menial throng, 
 Upon his back with many a thong ; 
 Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
 Away ! — away ! — and on we dash !— 
 Torrents less rapid and less rash. 
 
 " Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone— 
 I saw not where he hurried on : 
 'T was scarcely yet the break of day, 
 And on he foam'd — away ! — away !— 
 The last of human sounds which rose, 
 As I was darted from my foes. 
 Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 
 Which on the wind came roaring after 
 A moment from that rabble rout : 
 With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, 
 
 And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 
 
 Had bound my neck in heu of rein, 
 And, writhing half my form about, 
 Howl'd back my curse ; but 'midst the tread, 
 The thunder of my courser's speed. 
 Perchance they did not hear nor heed: 
 It vexes me — for I would fain 
 Have paid their insult back again. 
 I paid it well in after days : 
 There is not of that castle gate, 
 Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, 
 Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 
 Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 
 
 Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 
 
 Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 
 And many a time ye there might pass, 
 Nor dream that e'er that fortress was: 
 I saw its turrets in a blaze, 
 Their crackling battlements all cleft, 
 
 And the hot lead pour down like rain 
 From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, 
 Whose thickness was not vengeemce-proof. 
 
 They Uttle thought that day of pain. 
 When launch'd, as on the hghtning's flash, 
 They bade me to destruction dash. 
 
 That one day I should come again, 
 With twice five thousand horse, to thank 
 
 The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
 They play'd me then a bitter prank. 
 
 When, with the wild horse for ray guide, 
 
 They bound me to his foammg flank : 
 At length I play'd them one as frank— 
 For lime at last sets all things even— 
 And if we do but watch the hour, 
 There never yet was human power 
 Which could evade, if unforgiven, 
 The patient search and vigil long 
 Of him who treasures up a wrong. 
 
 "Away, away, my steed and I, 
 Upon the pinions of the wind, 
 All human dwelUngs left behind ; 
 We sped like meteors through the sky, 
 When with its crackling sound the night 
 Is chequer'd with the northern light : 
 Town — village — none were on our track, 
 
 But a wild plain of far extent, 
 And bounded by a forest black ; 
 
 And, save the scarce seen battlement 
 On distant heights of some strong hold, 
 Against the Tartars built of old, 
 No trace of man. The year before 
 A Turkish army had march'd o'er ; 
 And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, 
 The verdure flies the bloody sod: — 
 The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 
 And a low breeze crept moaning by— • 
 I could have answerd with a sigh — 
 But fast we fled, away, away — 
 And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
 And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
 Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 
 But, snorting stUl with rage and fear, 
 He flew upon his far career : 
 At times I almost thought, indeed, 
 He must have slacken'd in his speed ; 
 But no — my bound and slender frame 
 
 Was nothing to his angry might, 
 And merely hke a spur became: 
 Each motion which I made to free 
 My swohi hmbs from their agony 
 Increased his fury and affright: 
 I tried my voice, — 'twas faint and low, 
 But yet he swerved as fi-om a blow ; 
 And, starting to each accent, sprang 
 As from a sudden trumpet's clang: 
 Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 
 WTiich, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er 
 And in my tongue the thirst became 
 A something fierier far than flame. 
 
 " We near'd the wdld wood — 't was so wide, 
 I saw no bounds on either side ; 
 'T was studded with old sturdy trees, 
 That bent not to the roughest breeze 
 Which howls down from Siberia's waste, 
 And strips the forest in its haste, — 
 But these were few, and far between, 
 Set thick with shrubs more young and green, 
 Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 
 Ere strown by those autumnal eves 
 That nip the forest's foliage dead, 
 Discolour'd with a lifeless red. 
 Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore 
 Upon the slain when battle 's o'er. 
 And some long winter's night hath shed 
 Its frost o'er every tombless head, 
 So cold and stark the raven's beak 
 May peck unpierced each fi-ozen cheek : 
 'T was a wild waste of underwood, 
 And here and there a chestnut stood, 
 
160 
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 
 
 But far apart — and well it were, 
 Or else a different lot were mine — 
 
 The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
 My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 
 My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
 My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
 We rustled through the leaves like vsrind, 
 Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 
 By night I heard them on the track, 
 Their troop came hard upon our back, 
 With their long gallop, which can tire 
 The hounds deep hate, and hunter's fire : 
 Where'er we flew they follow'd on, 
 Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
 Behind I saw them, scarce a rood. 
 At day-break winding through the wood, 
 And through the night had heard their feet 
 Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
 Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword, 
 At least to die amidst the horde, 
 And perish — if it must be so — 
 At bay, destroying many a foe. 
 When first my courser's race begun, 
 I wish'd the goal already won ; 
 But now I doubted strength and speed. 
 Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
 Had nerved him like tlie mountain-roe ; 
 Nor faster falls the bUnding snow 
 Which whelms the peasant near the door 
 Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
 Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast. 
 Than through the forest-paths he past— 
 Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
 All furious as a favour'd child 
 Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
 A woman piqued — who has her will. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 "The wood was past ; 'twas more than noon. 
 But chill the air, although m June ^ 
 Or it might be my veins ran cold — 
 Prolong'd endurance tames the bold; 
 And I was then not what I seem. 
 But headlong as a A^dntry stream. 
 And wore my feelings out before 
 I well could count their causes o'er : 
 And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 
 The tortures which beset my path. 
 Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 
 Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; 
 Sprung from a race whose rising blood 
 When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood. 
 And trodden hard upon, is like 
 The rattlesnake's, in act to strike. 
 What marvel if this worn-out trunk 
 Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 
 The earth gave way, the skies roU'd round, 
 I seem'd to sink upon the ground ; 
 But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 
 My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, 
 And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more: 
 The skies spun hke a mighty wheel; 
 I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 
 And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. 
 Which saw no farther : he who dies 
 Can die no more than then I died, 
 O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 
 I felt the blackness come and go, 
 
 And strove to wake ; but could not make 
 My senses climb up from below : 
 I felt as on a plank at sea, 
 When aU the waves that dash o'er thee, 
 At the same time upheave and whelm. 
 And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
 
 My undulating life was as 
 The fancied hghts that flitting pass 
 Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
 Fever begins ujjon the brain ; 
 But soon it pass'd, with httle pain, 
 But a confusion worse than such : 
 I own that I should deem it much, 
 D\dng, to feel the same again ; 
 And yet I do suppose we must 
 Feel far more ere we turn to dust: 
 No matter ; I have bared my brow 
 Full in death's face — before — and novsr. 
 
 " My thoughts came back ; where was I ? Cold, 
 And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 
 
 Life reassumed its lingering hold, 
 
 And throb by throb : till grown a pang 
 Which for a moment would convulse, 
 My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill ; 
 
 My ear with uncouth noises rang. 
 My heart began once more to thrill ; 
 
 My sight return'd, though dim ; alas ! 
 
 And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. 
 
 Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 
 
 There was a gleam too of the sky, 
 
 Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 
 
 The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! 
 
 The bright broad river's gushing tide 
 
 Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
 
 And we are half-way, struggling o'er 
 
 To yon unknown and silent shore. 
 
 The waters broke my hollow trance. 
 
 And with a temporary strength 
 
 My stifFen'd limbs were rebaptized. 
 
 My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 
 
 And dashes off the ascending waves. 
 
 And onward we advance ! 
 
 We reach the slippery shore at length, 
 A haven I but httle prized. 
 
 For all behind was dark and drear. 
 
 And all before was night and fear. 
 
 How many hours of night or day 
 
 In those suspended pangs I lay, 
 
 I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 
 
 If this were human breath I drew. 
 
 " With glossy skin, and dripping mane. 
 
 And reeling limbs, and reeking flank. 
 The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 
 
 Up the repeDing bank. 
 We gain the top : a boundless plain 
 Spreads through the shadow of the night, 
 
 And onward, onward, onward, seems, 
 
 Like precipices in our dreams, 
 To stretch beyond the sight ; 
 And here and there a speck of white. 
 
 Or scatter'd spot of dusky green, 
 In masses broke into the hght, 
 As rose the moon upon my right. 
 
 But naught distinctly seen 
 In the dim waste would indicate 
 The omen of a cottage gate ; 
 No t^vinkling taper from afar 
 Stood like a hospitable star ; 
 Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
 To make him merry with my woes : 
 
 That very cheat had cheer'd me then! 
 Although detected, welcome still. 
 Reminding me, through every ill, 
 Of the abodes of men. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 « Onward we went — but slack and slow ; 
 His savage force at length o'erspenU 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 161 
 
 The drooping courser, faint and low, 
 
 All feebly foaming went. 
 A sickly infant had had power 
 To guide him forward in that hour ; 
 
 But useless all to me. 
 His new-born tameness naught avail'd, 
 My limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd, 
 
 Perchance, had they been free. 
 With feeble effort still I tried 
 To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 
 
 But still it was in vain ; 
 My limbs were only wrung the more, 
 And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 
 
 Which but prolong'd their pain : 
 The dizzy race seenVd almost done, 
 Although no goal was nearly won : 
 Some streaks announced the coming sun — 
 
 How slow, alas ! he came ! 
 Methought that mist of dawning gray 
 Would never dapple into day ; 
 How heavily it roU'd away 
 
 Before the eastern flame 
 Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 
 And call'd the radiance from their cars, 
 And fiU'd the earth, from his deep throne, 
 With lonely lustre, all his own. 
 
 " Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 
 Back from the solitary world 
 Which lay around — ^behind — before ; 
 What booted it to traverse o^er 
 Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute, 
 Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 
 Lay in tlie v/M luxuriant soil ; 
 No sign of travel — none of toil ; 
 The very air was mute ; 
 And not an insect's shrill small horn, 
 Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 
 From herb nor thicket. Many a werst^ 
 Panting as if his heart would burst, 
 The weary brute still stagger'd on ; 
 And still we were — or seera'd — alone: 
 At length, while reeling on our way, 
 Methought I heard a courser neigh, 
 From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
 Is it the wmd those branches stirs? 
 No, no ! from out the forest prance 
 
 A tramphng troop ; I see them come ! 
 In one vast squadron they advance ! 
 
 I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
 The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
 But where are they the reins to guide ? 
 A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 
 With flowing tail, and flying mane, 
 Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain, 
 Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein. 
 And feet that iron never shod. 
 And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
 A thousand horse, the wild, the free. 
 Like waves that follow o'er tlie sea, 
 
 Came thickly thundering on. 
 As if our faint approach to meet ; 
 The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
 A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
 A moment, with a faint low neigh. 
 
 He answer'd, and then fell; 
 With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 
 
 And reeking limbs immoveable, 
 His first and last career is done ! 
 On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 
 
 They saw me strangely bound along 
 
 His back with many a bloody thong 
 V 
 
 They stop — they start — they snuff" the air. 
 Gallop a moment here and there, 
 . Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 
 Then plunging back with sudden bound, 
 Headed by one black mighty steed. 
 Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed- 
 
 Without a single speck or hair 
 Of white upon his shaggy hide ; 
 They snort — they foam — neigh— -swerve aside, 
 And backward to the forest fly. 
 By instinct, from a human eye. — ■ 
 
 They left me there, to my despair, 
 Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
 Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch. 
 Relieved from that unwonted weight. 
 From whence I could not extricate 
 Nor him nor me — and there we lay 
 
 The dying on the dead ' 
 I little deem'd another day 
 
 Would see my houseless, helpless head 
 
 '* And there from mom till twilight bound, 
 I felt the heavy hours toil round. 
 With just enough of life to see 
 My last of suns go down on me. 
 In hopeless certainty of mind, 
 That makes us feel at length resign'd 
 To that wliich our foreboding years 
 Presents the worst and last of fears 
 Inevitable — even a boon. 
 Nor more unkind for coming soon ; 
 Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, 
 As if it only were a snare 
 
 That prudence might escape ; 
 At times both wish'd for and implored, 
 At times sought with self-pointed sword, 
 Yet still a dark and hideous close 
 To even intolerable woes. 
 
 And welcome in no shape. 
 And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure. 
 They who have revell'd beyond measure 
 In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure. 
 Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 
 Whose heritage was misery: 
 For he who hath in turn run tlirough 
 All that was beautiful and new. 
 
 Hath naught to hope, and naught to leave ; 
 And, save the futitre, (which is view'd 
 Not quite as men are base or good. 
 But as their nerves may be endued,) 
 
 With naught perhaps to grieve : — 
 The wretch still hopes his woes must end, 
 And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
 Appears, to his distempef'd eyes. 
 Arrived to rob liim of his prize. 
 The tree of his new Paradise. 
 To-morrow would have given him all,, 
 Repaid his pangs, repair'd his fall j 
 To-morrow would have been the first 
 Of days no more deplored or curst, 
 But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 
 Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, 
 Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 
 To-morrow would have given him power 
 To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
 And must it davra upon his grave? 
 
 « The sun was sinking— still I lay . 
 
 Chain'd to the cliill and stiffening steed, 
 I thought to mingle there our clay ; 
 And my dim eyes of death had need, 
 No hope arose of being freed : 
 
162 
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 I cast my last looks up the sky, 
 
 And there between me and the sun 
 I saw the expecting raven fly, 
 Who scarce would wait till both should die, 
 
 Ere his repast begun ; 
 He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
 And each time nearer than before ; 
 I saw his wing through twilight flit. 
 And once so near me he alit 
 
 I could have smote, but lack'd the strength ; 
 But the shght motion of my hand, 
 And feeble scratching of the sand, 
 The exerted tliroat's faint struggling noise. 
 Which scarcely could be called a voice. 
 
 Together scared him off" at length. — 
 I know no more — my latest dream 
 
 Is something of a lovely star 
 
 WTiich fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 
 And went and came wdth wandering beam. 
 And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
 Sensation of recurring sense, 
 And then subsiding back to death, 
 And then again a Uttle breath, 
 A little thi-ill, a short suspense. 
 
 An icy sickness curdling o'er 
 My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain — 
 A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
 
 A sigh, and nothing more. 
 
 XIX, 
 
 " I woke — Where was I ? — Do I see 
 A human face look down on m.e ? 
 And doth a roof above me close ? 
 Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 
 Is this a chamber where I lie 7 
 And is it mortal yon bright eye, 
 That watches me with gentle glance? 
 
 I closed my ovm again once more, 
 As doubtful that the former trance 
 
 Could not as yet be o'er. 
 A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall. 
 Sate watching by the cottage wall ; 
 The sparlde of her eye I caught, 
 Even with my first return of thought 
 For ever and anon she threw 
 
 A prying, pitying glance on me 
 
 With her black eyes so ^vild and free : 
 I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 
 
 No vision it could be, — 
 But that I lived, and was released 
 From adding to the vulture's feast : 
 And when the Cossack maid beheld 
 My heavy eyes at length unseal'd, 
 
 She smiled — and I essay'd to speak. 
 But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 
 With Up and finger signs that said, 
 
 I must not strive as yet to break 
 
 The silence, till my strength should be 
 
 Enough to leave my accents free ; 
 
 And then her hand on mine she laid, 
 
 And smooth'd the pillow for my head, 
 
 And stole along on tiptoe tread. 
 And gently oped the door, and spake 
 
 In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet ! 
 
 Even music follow'd her light feet ; — 
 But those she call'd were not awake. 
 
 And she went forth ; but, ere she pass'd, 
 
 Another look on me she cast. 
 Another sign she made, to say. 
 
 That I had naught to fear, that all 
 
 Were near, at my command or call, 
 And she would not delay 
 
 Her due return: — wliile she was gone, 
 
 Methought I felt too much alone. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " She came with mother and with sire — 
 What need of more ? — I will not tire 
 With long recital of the rest, 
 Since I became the Cossack's guest : 
 They found me senseless on the plain — 
 
 They bore me to the nearest hut — 
 They brought me into life again — 
 Me — one day o'er their realm to reign ! 
 
 Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
 His rage, refining on my pain. 
 
 Sent me forth to the wilderness. 
 Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone. 
 To pass the desert to a throne, — 
 
 What mortal his ovm doom may guess ?— 
 
 Let none despond, let none despair ! 
 To-morrow the Borysthenes 
 May see our coursers graze at ease 
 Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
 Had I such welcome for a river 
 
 As I shall yield when safely there. 
 Comrades, good night !" — The Hetman threw 
 
 His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 
 
 With leafy couch already made, 
 A bed nor comfortless nor new 
 To him, who took his rest whene'er 
 The hour arrived, no matter where : 
 
 His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
 And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
 To thank his tale, he wondered not, — 
 
 The king had been an hour asleep. 
 
MANFRED, 
 
 A DRAMATIC POEM. 
 
 ' There are more things ia heaven and earth, Horatio, 
 Than are dreamt of in your philosophy," 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 
 MAIfrRED. 
 
 Chamois Hunter, 
 Abbot of St. Maurice. 
 Manuel. 
 Herman. 
 
 Witch of the Alps. 
 Arimanes. 
 
 Nemesis. 
 
 The Destinies. 
 
 Spirits. &c. 
 
 The Scene of the Drama is among the Higher Alps — 
 partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in tlie 
 jyiountaijis. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Manfred alone — Scene^ a Gothic Gallery — 
 
 Time, Midnight. 
 Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 
 It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
 My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 
 But a continuance of enduring thought, 
 Which then I can resist not : in my heart 
 There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
 To look within ; and yet I live, and bear 
 The aspect and the form of breathing men. 
 But grief should be the instructer of the wise ; 
 Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most, 
 Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth. 
 The Tree of Knowledge is not that of life. 
 Philosophy and science, and the springs 
 Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
 I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
 A power to make these subject to itself— 
 But they avail not : 1 have done men good. 
 And I have met with good even among men — 
 But this avail'd not : I have had my foes. 
 And none have baffled, many fallen before me — 
 But this avail'd not: — Good, or evil, life, 
 Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, 
 Have been to me as rain unto the sands 
 Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 
 And feel the curse to have no natural fear. 
 Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes, 
 Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 
 Now to my task. — 
 
 Mysterious Agency ! 
 Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe ! 
 Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 
 Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
 In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
 Of mountains inaccessible are haunts. 
 And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things— 
 I call upon ye by the written charm 
 
 Which gives me power upon you Rise ! appear ! 
 
 [A pause. 
 They come not yet. — Now by the voice of him 
 Who is the first among you — ^by this sign. 
 Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 
 
 Who is undying, — Rise ! appear ! Appear ! 
 
 [A pause. 
 
 If it be so, — Spirits of earth and air, 
 Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power, 
 Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell. 
 Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd, 
 The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
 A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
 By the strong curse which is upon my soul, 
 The thought which is within me and around rne, 
 I do compel ye to my vidll. — Appear ! 
 
 [A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery ; it is 
 stationary ; and a voice is heard singing. 
 
 First Spirit. 
 Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd. 
 From my mansion in the cloud, 
 Which the breath of twihght builds, 
 And the summer's sunset gilds 
 With the azure and vermihon, 
 Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; 
 Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
 On a star-beam I have ridden ; 
 To thine adjuration bow'd. 
 Mortal — be thy wish avow'd. 
 
 Voice of the Second Spirit. 
 Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains ; 
 
 They crovvTi'd him long ago 
 On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 
 
 With a diadem of snow. 
 Around his waist are forests braced, 
 
 The Avalanche in his hand ; 
 But ere it fall, that thundering ball 
 
 Must pause for my command. 
 The Glacier's cold and restless mass 
 
 Moves onward day by day ; 
 But I am he who bids it pass, 
 
 Or with its ice delay. 
 I am the spirit of the place, 
 
 Could make the mountain bow 
 And quiver to his cavern'd base — 
 
 And what with me wouldst Thou ? 
 
 Voice of the Third Spirit. 
 In the blue depth of the waters, 
 
 Where the wave hath no strife, 
 Where the wind is a stranger. 
 
 And the sea-snake hath Ufe, 
 Where the mermaid is decking 
 
 Her green hair with shells ; 
 Like the storm on the surface 
 
 Came the sound of thy spells; 
 O'er my calm Hall of Coral 
 
 The deep echo roll'd — 
 To the Spirit of Ocean 
 
 Thy wishes unfold! 
 
 Fourth Spirit. 
 
 Where the slumbering earthquake 
 
 Lies pillow'd on fire, 
 And the lakes of bitumen 
 
 Rise boilingly higher ; 
 
164 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Act r. 
 
 Where the roots of the Andes 
 
 Strike deep in the earth, 
 As their summits to heaven 
 
 Shoot soarinaly forth; 
 I have quitted my birthplace, 
 
 Thy bidding to bide — 
 Thy spell hath subdued me. 
 
 Thy ^v^ll be my guide I 
 
 Fifth Spirit, 
 I am the Rider of the wind, 
 
 The Stirrer of the storm ; 
 The hurricane I left behind 
 
 Is yet wth hghtning warm ; 
 To speed to tliee, o'er shore and sea 
 
 I swept upon the blast : 
 The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 
 
 'T will sink ere night be past. 
 
 Sixth Spirit. 
 My dwelling is the shadow of the night, 
 Why doth tliy magic torture me with light ? 
 
 Sevexth Spirit. 
 The star which rules thy destiny 
 Was ruled, ere earth began, by me ; 
 It was a world as fresh and fair 
 As e'er revolved round sun in air , 
 Its course was free and regular. 
 Space bosom'd not a loveher star. 
 The hour arrived — and it became 
 A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
 A pathless comet, and a curse. 
 The menace of the universe ; 
 Still rolhng on with innate force. 
 Without a sphere, without a course ! 
 A bright deformity on liigh, 
 The monster of the upper sky ! 
 And thou I beneath its influence bom — 
 Thou worm ! whom I obey and scorn — 
 Forced by a power, (which is not thine 
 And lent thee but to make tliee mine,) 
 For this brief moment to descend. 
 Where these weak spirits roimd thee bend 
 And parley with a thing like thee — 
 What woiildst thou. Child of Clay ! with me ? 
 
 The Setex Spirits. 
 Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star, 
 
 Are at thy beck and bidding. Child of Clay ! 
 Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — 
 
 What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals — say ? 
 
 Mem. Forgetfldness 
 
 First Spirit. Of what — of whom — and why ? 
 
 Man. Of that which is viithin me ; read it there — 
 Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 
 
 Spirit. We can but give thee that which we possess : 
 Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
 O'er eartli, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
 Which shall control the elements, whereof 
 We are the dominators, each and all, 
 These shall be thine. 
 
 Man. Obhvion, self-obhvion — 
 
 Can ye not wring from out the hidden reahns 
 Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 
 
 Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 
 But — thou mayst die. 
 
 Man. Win death bestow it on me ? 
 
 Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget ; 
 We are eternal; and to us the past 
 Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? 
 
 Man. Ye mock me — but the power which brought 
 ye here 
 Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my \vill! 
 
 The mind, the Spirit, the Promethean spark, 
 The lightning of my being, is as bright, 
 Pervading, and far-dartmg as your own. 
 And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay ' 
 Answer, or I will teach ye what I am. 
 
 Spirit. We answer jls we answer'd ; our reply 
 Is even in thine own words. 
 
 Man. Why say ye so ? 
 
 Spirit. Ifj as thou say'st. thine essence be as ours, 
 We have replied in telling tliee, tlie thing 
 Mortals call death hath naught to do with us. 
 
 Man. 1 then have caU'd ye from your realms in vain 
 Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 
 
 Spirit. Say ; 
 Wliat we possess we offer ; it is thine : 
 Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — 
 Kjngdora, and swav, and strength, and length of days 
 
 3Ian. Accursed! what have I to do wi\h days? 
 They are too long already. — ^Hence — ^begone I 
 
 Spirit. Yet pause : being here, our will would do thee 
 service ; 
 Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
 Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes ? 
 
 Man. No, none : yet stay— one moment, ere we part — 
 I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
 Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
 As music on the waters ; and I see 
 The steady aspect of a clear large star ; 
 But nothing more. Approach me as ye are. 
 Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 
 
 Spirit. We have no forms beyond the elements 
 Of which we are the mind and principle : 
 But choose a form — in that we vsill appear. 
 
 3Ian. I have no choice ; there is no form on earth 
 Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him. 
 Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
 As unto liim may seem most fitting — Come ! 
 
 Seventh Spirit. {Appearing in the shape of a beautiful 
 female figure.) Behold I 
 
 3Ian. Oh God ! if it be Uius, and thou 
 Art not a madness and a mockerv', 
 I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee, 
 
 And we again vsill be [The figure vanishes. 
 
 My heart is crush'd ! 
 
 [Maxfred falls senseless. 
 
 {A voice is heard in the Incantation which follrnvs.) 
 When the moon is on the wave. 
 
 And the glow-worm in the grass. 
 And the meteor on the grave, 
 
 And the vrisp on the morass ; 
 When the falling stars are shooting. 
 And the answer'd owls are hooting, 
 And the silent leaves are still 
 In the shadow of the hilL 
 Shall my soul be upon thine, 
 With a power and with a sign. 
 
 Though thy slumber may be deep, 
 
 Yet tliy spirit shall not sleep ; 
 
 There are shades which will not vanish, 
 
 There are thoughts thou canst not banish ; 
 
 By a power to thee unknown. 
 
 Thou canst never be alone ; 
 
 Thou art wrapt as with a shroud. 
 
 Thou art gather'd in a cloud ; 
 
 And for ever shalt thou dwell 
 
 In the spirit of this spell. 
 
 Though thou seest me not pass by, 
 Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 
 As a thing that, though luiseen. 
 Must be near thee, and hath been ; 
 And when in that secret dread 
 Thou hast turn'd around thv head, 
 
Act I. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 165 
 
 Thou shall marvel I am not 
 
 As thy shadow on the spot, 
 
 And the power which thou dost feel 
 
 Shall be what thou must conceal. 
 
 And a magic voice and verse 
 
 Hath baptized thee with a curse 
 
 And a spirit of the air 
 
 Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 
 
 In the wind there is a voice 
 
 Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 
 
 And to thee shall Night deny 
 
 All the quiet of her sky; 
 
 And the day shall have a sun, 
 
 Which shall make thee wish it done. 
 
 From thy false tears I did distil 
 
 An essence which hath strength to kill i 
 
 From thy own heart I then did wring 
 
 The black blood in its blackest spring ; 
 
 From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake, 
 
 For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 
 
 From thy own lip I drew the charm 
 
 Which gave all these their chiefest harm ; 
 
 In proving every poison known, 
 
 I found the strongest was thine own. 
 
 By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 
 
 By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, 
 
 By that most seeming virtuous eye, 
 
 By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 
 
 By the perfection of thine art 
 
 Which pass'd for human tliine own heart ; 
 
 By thy delight in other's pain, 
 
 And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 
 
 I call upon thee ! and compel 
 
 Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 
 
 And on thy head I pour the vial 
 
 Which doth devote thee to this trial ; 
 
 Nor to slumber, nor to die. 
 
 Shall be in thy destiny ; 
 
 Though thy death shall still seem near 
 
 To thy wish, but as a fear ; 
 
 Lo ! the spell now works around thee, 
 
 And the clanldess chain hath bound thee ; 
 
 O'er thy heart and brain together 
 
 Hath the word been pass'd — now wither! 
 
 Scene II. — The Mountain of the Jungfrau. — Time. 
 Morning. — Manfred alone upon the Cliffs. 
 
 Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me — 
 The spells which I have studied baffle me — 
 The remedy I reck'd of tortured me ; 
 I lean no more on super-human aid. 
 It hath no power upon the past, and for 
 The future, till the past be gulfd in darkness, 
 It is not of my search. — My mother Earth! 
 And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, 
 Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
 And thou, the bright eye of the universe, 
 That openest over all, and unto all 
 Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
 And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 
 I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
 Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
 In dizziness of distance 5 when a leap, 
 A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
 My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
 To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause ? 
 I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 
 I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
 And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 
 There is a power upon me which withholds, 
 And makes it my fatality to live ; 
 If it be life to wear withan myself 
 
 This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
 
 My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
 
 To justify my deeds unto myself — 
 
 The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
 
 Thou winged and eloud-cleaving minister, 
 
 [An eagle passes. 
 
 Whose happy flight is highest into heaven. 
 
 Well raay'st thou swoop so near me — I should be 
 
 Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
 
 Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but tliine 
 
 Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, 
 
 With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
 
 How beautiful is all this visible world! 
 
 How glorious in its action and itself! 
 
 But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 
 
 Half dust, half deity, alike vinfit 
 
 To sink or soar, with our mlx'd essence make 
 A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
 
 The breath of degradation and of pride. 
 
 Contending with low wants and lofty will, 
 
 Till our mortality predominates, 
 
 And men are — what they name not to themselves, 
 
 And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, 
 
 [The Shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard. 
 The natural music of the mountain reed — 
 For here the patriarchal days are not 
 A pastoral fable — pipes in the Uberal air, 
 Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd 
 My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that I were 
 The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
 A hving voice, a breathing harmony, 
 A bodiless enjoyment — bom and dying 
 With the blest tone which made me ! 
 
 Enter from below a Chamois Hunter. 
 Chamois Hujiter. Even so 
 
 This way the chamois leapt: her nimble feet 
 Have baffled me; my gains to-day will scarce 
 Repay my breakneck travail. — What is here ? 
 Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach 'd 
 A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
 Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb 
 Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
 Proud as a freeborn peasant's, at this distance — 
 I wiU approach him nearer. 
 
 Man. {not perceiving the other.) To be thus — 
 Gray-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, 
 Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, 
 A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, 
 "Which but supplies a feeling to decay — 
 And to be thus, eternally but thus, 
 Having been otherwise ! Now furrow'd o'er 
 With wrinkles, plough 'd by moments, not by years 
 And hours — all tortured into ages — ^hours 
 Which I outlive ! — ye toppling crags of ice ! 
 Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
 In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me ! 
 I hear ye momently above, beneath. 
 Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass, 
 And only fall on things that still would live ; 
 On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
 And hamlet of the harmless villager. 
 
 C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley; 
 I '11 warn him to descend, or he may chance 
 To lose at once his way and life together. 
 
 Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds 
 Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, 
 Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, 
 Whose every wave breaks on a Hving shore, 
 Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy. 
 
 C. Hun. 1 must approach him cautiously ; if near, 
 A sudden step will startle him, and he 
 Seems tottering already. 
 
 Man. Mountains have fallen, 
 
 Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
 
166 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Rocking their Alpine bretliren ; filling up 
 The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters ; 
 Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, 
 Wliich crush'd the waters into mist, and made 
 Their fountains find another channel — thus, 
 Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg — 
 Why stood I not beneath it ? 
 
 C. Hun. Friend ! have a care, 
 
 Your next step may be fatal! — for the love 
 Of EQm who made you, stand not on that brink ! 
 
 Man. {riot hearing him.) Such would have been for 
 me a fitting tomb ; 
 My bones had then been quiet in tlieir depth ; 
 They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
 For the wmd's pastime — as thus — thus they shall be — 
 In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens! 
 Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
 Ye were not meant for me — Earth! take these atoms! 
 [As Manfred is in act to spring from ike diff", 
 tJie Chamois Hunter seizes and retains 
 him with a sudden grasp. 
 
 C. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though aweary of thy life, 
 Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood — 
 Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 
 
 Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me not— 
 I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 
 
 Spimiing around me 1 gi-ow blind What art 
 
 thou? 
 
 C. Hun. 1 11 answer that anon. — Away with me 
 
 The clouds grow thicker there — now lean on me — 
 
 Place your foot here — here, take this staif, and clmg 
 A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand. 
 And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 
 The Chalet will be gained withm an hour — 
 Come on, we '11 quickly find a surer footing, 
 And something like a pathway, which the torrent 
 Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely done — 
 You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 
 [As they descend the rocks with difficvMy^ tlie scene 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — A Cottage among the Bernese Alps. 
 Manfred and the Chamois Hunter. 
 
 C. Hun. No, no — ^yet pause — thou must not yet go 
 forth: 
 Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
 To trust each other, for some hours, at least ; 
 When thou art better, I will be thy guide — 
 But whither ? 
 
 Man. It imports not: I do know 
 
 My route full well, and need no further guidance. 
 
 C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high 
 lineage — 
 One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
 Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
 May call thee lord ? I only know their portals ; 
 My way of life leads me but rarely down 
 To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, 
 Carousing with the vassals; but the paths, 
 WTiich step from out our mountains to their doors, 
 1 know from childhood — which of these is thine ? 
 
 Man. No matter. 
 
 C. Hun. W^ell, sir, pardon me the question, 
 
 And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine; 
 'T is of an ancient vintage : many a day 
 'T has thawed my veins among our glaciers, now 
 Let it do thus for thine — Come, pledge me fairly. 
 
 Man. Away, away ! there 's blood upon the brim ! 
 Will it then never — never sink in the earth? 
 
 C. Hun. WTiat dost thou mean ? thy senses wander 
 from thee. 
 
 Man. I say 't is blood— my blood ! the pure warm 
 stream 
 
 Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
 When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
 And loved each other as we should not love, 
 And this was shed : but still it rises up, 
 Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, 
 Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 
 
 C. Hun. Maji of strange words, and some half-mad- 
 dening sin. 
 Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
 Thy dread and sufferance be, there 's comfort yet — 
 The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience 
 
 Man. Patience and patience ! Hence — that word 
 was made 
 For brutes of burden, not for birds of prey; 
 Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,— 
 I am not of tlime order. 
 
 C. Hun. Thanks to heaven ! 
 
 I would not be of thine for the free fame 
 Of William Tell; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 
 It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 
 
 Man. Do I not bear it? — Look on me — I hve. 
 
 C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthfiil life. 
 
 3Ian. I tell thee, man ! I have lived many years, 
 IVIany long years, but they are nothing now 
 To those which I must number : ages — ages — 
 Space and eternity — and consciousness, 
 W^ith the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked ! 
 
 C Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
 Hath scarce been set ; I am thine elder far. 
 
 Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time ? 
 It dolh ; but actions are oiu* epochs : mine 
 Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
 Endless, and aU alike, as sands on the shore, 
 Innimierable atoms; and one desert. 
 Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, 
 But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, 
 Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 
 
 C Hun. Alas ! he 's mad — but yet I must not leave 
 him. 
 
 Man. I would I were — for then the things I see 
 Would be but a distemper'd dream. 
 
 C. Hun. What is it 
 
 That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon ? 
 
 Man. Myselfj and thee — a peasant of the Alps — 
 Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, 
 And spirit patient, pious, proud and free ; 
 Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; 
 Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils. 
 By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
 Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, 
 With cross and garland over its green turf, 
 And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ; 
 This do I see — and then I look within — 
 It matters not — my soul was scorch 'd already! 
 
 C. Hun. And would'st thou then exchange thy lot 
 for mine ? 
 
 Man. No, fi-iend! I would not wrong thee nor 
 exchange 
 My lot with Uving being : I can bear — 
 However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear — 
 In life what others could not brook to dream. 
 But perish in their slumber. 
 
 C. Hun. And with this — 
 
 This cautious feeling for another's pain. 
 Canst thou be black with evil? — say not so. 
 Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge 
 Upon his enemies ? 
 
 Man. Oh ! no, no, no ! 
 
 My injuries came down on those who loved me — 
 On those whom I best loved : I never quell'd 
 An enemy, save in my just defence — 
 But my embrace was fatal. 
 
 C. Hun. Heaven give theo rest! 
 
 And penitence restore thee to thyself; 
 My prayers shall be for thee. 
 
Act II. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 167 
 
 Man. I need them not, 
 
 But can endure thy pity. I depart — 
 'T is time — farewell ! — Here 's gold and thanlis for thee- 
 No words — it is thy due. — FoOow me not — 
 I know my path — the mountain peril 's past : 
 And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! 
 
 [Eadt Manfred 
 Scene II.— ^ lower Valley in the Alps. A Cataract. 
 
 Enter Manfred. 
 It is not noon — the sunbow's rays^ still arch 
 The torrent with the many hues of heaven. 
 And roll the sheeted silver's waving column ■ 
 O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular. 
 And fhng its lines of foaming light along, 
 And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, 
 The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
 As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 
 But mine now drink this sight of loveliness \ 
 I should be sole in this sweet solitude. 
 And with the Spirit of the place divide 
 The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 
 
 [Manfred takes some of the water into the palm 
 of his hand, and flings it in the air, muttering 
 the adjuration. After a pause, the Witch, of 
 THE Alps rises beneath the arch of the .'ninbeum 
 of the torrent. 
 Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light. 
 And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 
 The charms of earth's least-mortal daughters grow 
 To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
 Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth, — 
 Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
 Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart. 
 Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 
 Upon the lofty glazier's virgin snow, 
 The blush of earth embracing with her heaven, — 
 Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
 The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 
 Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow. 
 Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul, 
 Which of itself shows iirmiortality, 
 I read that thou wdlt pardon to a Son 
 Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
 At times to commune with them — if that he 
 Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus, 
 And gaze on thee a moment. 
 
 Witch. Son of Earth! 
 
 I know thee, and the powers which give thee power ; 
 I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
 And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, 
 Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
 I have expected this — what would'st thou with me ? 
 Man. To look upon thy beauty — nothing further. 
 The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I 
 Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
 To the abodes of those who govern her — 
 But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
 From them what they could not bestow, and now 
 I search no further. 
 
 Witch. What could be the quest 
 Which is not in the power of the most powerful, 
 The rulers of the invisible? 
 
 Man. A boon ; 
 
 But why should I repeat it? 'twere in vain. 
 Witch. I know not that ; let thy Ups utter it. 
 Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the same; 
 My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards 
 My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men. 
 Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes ; 
 The thirst of their ambition was not mine, 
 The aim of their existence was not mine ; 
 ^y joysj my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 
 Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form. 
 I had no sympathy with breathing flesh. 
 Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me 
 
 Was there but one who but of her anon. 
 
 I said with men, and with the thoughts of men, 
 
 I held but slight communion ; but instead. 
 
 My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe 
 
 The difficult air of the iced mountain's top. 
 
 Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 
 
 Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
 
 Into the torrent, and to roll along 
 
 On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 
 
 Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
 
 In these my early strength exulted ; or 
 
 To folk)w through the night the moving moon, 
 
 The stars and their development ; or catch 
 
 The dazzling lightnings till m}' eyes grew dim ; 
 
 Or to look, Ust'ning, on the scatter'd leaves. 
 
 While Autumn winds were at their evening song. 
 
 These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 
 
 For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 
 
 Hating to be so, — cross'd me in my path. 
 
 I felt myself degraded back to them, 
 
 And was all clay again. And then I dived, 
 
 In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death. 
 
 Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 
 
 From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd up dust. 
 
 Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 
 
 The nights of years in sciences imtaught, 
 
 Save in the old time ; and with time and toil. 
 
 And terrible ordeal, and such penance 
 
 As in itself hath power upon the air, 
 
 And spuits that do compass air and earth. 
 
 Space, and the people infinite, I made 
 
 Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 
 
 Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 
 
 He who from out their fountain dwellings raised 
 
 Eros and Anteros,^ at Gadara, 
 
 As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge grew 
 
 The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 
 
 Of this most bright intelligence, until 
 
 Witch. Proceed. 
 
 Man. Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my words 
 
 Boasting these idle attributes, because 
 As I approach the core of my heart's grief- — 
 But to my task. I have not named to thee 
 Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being, 
 With whom I wore the chain of human ties ; 
 If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
 
 Yet there was one 
 
 Witch. Spare not thyself— proceed. 
 
 Man. She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, 
 Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
 Even of her voice, they said were like to mine; 
 But soften'd aO, and temper'd into beauty ; 
 She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 
 The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
 To comprehend the universe : nor these 
 Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, 
 Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; 
 And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
 Humility — and that I never had. 
 Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own — 
 I loved her, and destroy'd her ! 
 
 Witch. With thy hand? 
 
 Man. Not with my hand, but heart— which broke her 
 heart — 
 It gazed on mine, and widier'd. I have shed 
 Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed — 
 I saw — and could not stanch it. 
 
 Witch. And for this — 
 
 A being of the race thou dost despise. 
 The order which thine own would rise above. 
 Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
 The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st back 
 
 To recreant mortality Away ! 
 
 Man. Daughter of Air I I tell thee, since that hour — 
 But words are breath — ^look on me in my sleep 
 
168 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Or watch my watchings — Come and sit by me ! 
 
 My solitude is solitude no more, 
 
 But peopled with the Furies ; — I have gnash'd 
 
 My teeth in darkness till returning morn, 
 
 Then cursed myself till sunset ; — I have pray'd 
 
 For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied me. 
 
 I have affronted death — but in the war 
 
 Of elements the waters shrunk from me, 
 
 And fatal things pass'd harmless — the cold hand 
 
 Of an all-pililess demon held me back. 
 
 Back by a single hair, which would not break. 
 
 In phantasy, imagination, all 
 
 The affluence of my soul — wliich one day was 
 
 A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep, 
 
 But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 
 
 Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought. 
 
 I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfubess 
 
 I sought in all, save w^here 'tis to be found, 
 
 And that I have to learn — my sciences, 
 
 My long pursued and super-human art, 
 
 Is mortal here — I dwell in my despair — 
 
 And live — and live for ever. 
 
 Witch. It may be 
 
 That I can aid thee. 
 
 Man. To do this thy power 
 
 Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
 Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
 With any torture — so it be the last. 
 
 Witch. That is not m my province ; but if thou 
 Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
 My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 
 
 Man. 1 will not swear — Obey ! and whom ? the spirits 
 Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
 Of those who served me — Never ! 
 
 Witch. Is this all ? 
 
 Hast thou no gentler answer ? — Yet bethink thee, 
 And pause ere thou rejectest. 
 
 Man. I have said it. 
 
 Witch. Enough !— I may retire then— say ! 
 
 Mm. Retire! 
 
 [The Witch disappears. 
 
 Man. {alone.) We are the fools of time and terror : 
 Days 
 Steal on us and steal from us ; yet we live, 
 Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
 In all the days of this detested yoke — 
 This \'ital weight upon the struggling heart, 
 Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, 
 Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
 In all the days of past and future, for 
 In life there is no present, we can number 
 How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
 Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
 As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
 Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
 Still in my science— I can call the dead, 
 And ask them what it is we dread to be : 
 The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
 
 And that is nothing — if tliey answer not 
 
 The buried Prophet answer'd to the Hag 
 Of Endor ; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
 From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
 An answer and his destiny — he slew 
 That which he loved, unknowing what he slew, 
 And died unpardon'd— though he call'd in aid 
 Th« Phyxian Jove, and m PhigaUa roused 
 The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
 The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
 Or fix her term of vengeance— she replied 
 In words of dubious import, but fulfilled.' 
 If 1 had never Uved, that which I love 
 Had still been Uving ; had I never loved. 
 That which I love would still be bcautifij— 
 Happy and giving happiness. What is she? 
 What 13 she now ?— a sufferer for my sins— 
 
 A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
 Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
 Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare : 
 Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
 On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble. 
 And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart, 
 But I can act even what I most abhor, 
 And champion human fears. — The night approaches. 
 
 {Eait. 
 
 Scene III. — The Summit of the Jungfrau Mountain. 
 Enter First Destiny. 
 The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright ; 
 And here on snows, where never human foot 
 Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, 
 And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea, 
 The glassy ocean of the mountain ice, 
 We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 
 The aspect of a tumbhng tempest's foam. 
 Frozen in a moment — a dead whirlpool's image ; 
 And this most steep fantastic pinnacle. 
 The fretwork of some earthquake — where the clouds 
 Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 
 Is sacred to our revels, or our \igils ; 
 Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 
 To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 
 Is our great festival — 'tis strange they come not. 
 
 .4 Voice without, singing. 
 The Captive Usurper, 
 
 Hurl'd down from the throne, 
 Lay buried in torpor. 
 
 Forgotten and lone ; 
 I broke through his slumbers, 
 
 I shiver'd his chain, 
 I leagued him with numbers — 
 He 's Tyrant again ! 
 With the blood of a million he '11 answer my care, 
 With a nation's destruction — his flight and despair. 
 
 Second Voice, without. 
 The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast, 
 But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast ; 
 There is not a plank of the hull or the deck. 
 And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck ; 
 Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair, 
 And he was a subject well worthy my care ; 
 A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
 But I saved him to wreak furdier havoc for me ! 
 
 First Destiny, answering. 
 The city lies sleeping ; 
 
 The morn, to deplore it, 
 May dawn on it weeping: 
 
 Sullenly, slowly. 
 The black plague flew o'er it — 
 
 Thousands lie lowly; 
 Tens of thousands shaU perish — 
 
 The living shall fly from 
 The sick they should cherish ; 
 
 But nothing can vanquish 
 The touch that they die from. 
 
 Sorrow and anguish, 
 And evil and dread. 
 
 Envelope a nation — 
 The blest are the dead, 
 Who see not the sight 
 
 Of their own desolation — 
 This work of a night — 
 This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing — 
 For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing ! 
 Enter the Second and Third Destinies. 
 The Three. 
 Our hands contain the hearts of men, 
 
 Our footsteps are their graves; 
 We only give to take again 
 The spirits of our slaves ! 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
Act II. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 169 
 
 First Des. Welcome I — Where 's Nemesis ? 
 
 Second Des. At some great work ; 
 
 But what I know not, for my hands were full. 
 
 Third Des. Behold she cometh. 
 
 E?Uer Nemesis. 
 
 JFirst Des. Say, where hast thou been ? 
 
 My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 
 
 JVem. I was detain'd repairing shatter'd thrones, 
 Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
 Avenging men upon their enemies, 
 And making them repent their own revenge ; 
 Goading the wise to madness ; from the dull 
 Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
 Afresh, for they were waxing out of date, 
 And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, 
 To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
 Of freedom, the forl)idden fruit. — ^Away ! 
 We have outstayed the hour — mount we our clouds I 
 
 [JExeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. — The Hall of Arimanes — Arimanes 07i Ids 
 l^hrone, a Globe of Fire, surrounded by the Spiiiis. 
 
 Hymn of the Spirits. 
 Hail to our Master! — ^Prince of Earth and Air ! 
 
 Who walks the clouds and waters — ^in his haiid 
 The sceptre of the elements, which tear 
 
 Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 
 He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea ; 
 
 He speaketh — and the clouds reply hi thunder ; 
 He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee ; 
 
 He moveth — earthquakes rend the world asunder. 
 Beneath his footsteps the volcanos rise ; 
 - His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path 
 The comets herald through the crackling skies ; 
 
 And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
 To him War offers daily sacrifice; 
 
 To him Death pays his tribute ; Life is his, 
 With all its mfinite of agonies — 
 
 And his the spirit of whatever is ! 
 
 Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. 
 
 First Des. Glory to Arimanes! on the ear.h 
 His power increaseth — both my sisters did 
 His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 
 
 Second Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 
 The necks of men, bow down before his throne ! 
 
 Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we awdt 
 His nod ! 
 
 JVem. Sovereign of Sovereigns ! we are thine, 
 And all that hveth, more or less, is ours, 
 And most things wholly so ; still to increase 
 Our power, increasing thine, demands our care. 
 And we are vigilant — Thy late commands 
 Have been fulfill'd to the utmost. 
 
 E7Uer Manfred. 
 A Spirit. What is here ? 
 
 A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
 Bow down and worship ! 
 
 Second Spirit. I do know the man — 
 
 A Magian of great power and fearful skill ! 
 
 Third Spirit. Bow do^vn and worship, slave ! — 
 What, know'st thou not 
 Thine and our Sovereign ? — Tremble, and obey ! 
 All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy con- 
 demned claVj 
 Child of the Earth! or dread the worst. 
 
 Man. I know it ; 
 
 And yet ye see I kneel not. 
 FouHh Spirit. 'T will be taught thee. 
 
 Man. 'Tis taught already; — many a night on the 
 eartli, 
 On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face. 
 And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have known 
 
 w 
 
 The fulness of humiliation, for 
 
 I sunk before my vain despair and knelt 
 
 To my own desolation. 
 
 F]fth Spirit. Dost thou dare 
 
 Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
 What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
 The terror of his Glory — Crouch ! 1 say. 
 
 Man. Bid him bow down to that which is above him, 
 The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
 Who made him not for worship — let him kneel, 
 And we will kneel together. 
 
 The Spirits. Crush the worm 
 
 Tear him in pieces ! — 
 
 First Des. Hence ! Avaunt ! — he 's tnhie. 
 
 Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
 Is of no common order, as his port 
 And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
 Have been of an immortal nature, like 
 Our own ; his knowledge and his powers and will, 
 As far as is compatible with clay. 
 Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 
 As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspirations 
 Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, 
 And they have only taught him what we know — 
 That knowledge is not happiness, and science 
 But an exchange of ignorance for that 
 Which is another kind of ignorance. 
 This is not all — the passions, attributes 
 Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being, 
 Nor breath from the v.'orm upwards is exempt. 
 Have pierced his heart ; and in their consequence 
 Made him a thing, wliich I, who pity not. 
 Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine,. 
 And thine, it may be — be it so, or not^ 
 No other Spirit in this region hath 
 A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 
 
 JVem. What doth he here then? 
 
 First Des. Let him answer that. 
 
 Man. Ye know what I have known ; and without 
 povv'er 
 I could not be anwng ye : but there are 
 Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
 Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 
 
 Nem. What would'st thou ? 
 
 Man. Thou canst not reply to me. 
 
 Call up the dead — my question is for them. 
 
 Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
 The wishes of this mortal ? 
 
 Ari. Yea. 
 
 Nem. Whom would'st thou 
 
 Uncharnel ? 
 
 Man. One without a tomb — call up 
 Astarte. 
 
 Nemesis.- 
 Shadow ! or Spirit ! 
 
 Whatever thou art, 
 
 Which still doth inherit 
 
 The whole or a part 
 
 Of the form of thy birth. 
 
 Of the mould of thy clay, 
 Which return'd to the earth, 
 
 Reappear to the day ! 
 Bear what thou borest, 
 
 The heart and the form. 
 And the aspect thou worest 
 Redeem from the worm. 
 Appear ! — Appear 1 — Appear; 
 Who sent tliee there requires thee here ! 
 
 [The Phantom o/ Astarte rises and stands 
 in the midst. 
 Man. Can this be death? there's bloom upon her 
 cheek ; 
 But now I see it is no livmg hue. 
 But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
 
170 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Wlucii Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
 Il is the same ! Oh, G od ! that I should dread 
 To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
 I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
 Forgive me or condemn me. 
 
 Nemesis. 
 
 By the power which hath broken 
 The grave which enthrall'd thee, 
 
 Speak to him who hath spoken, 
 Or those who have call'd thee ! 
 
 Man. She is silent, 
 
 And in that silence I am more than answer'd. 
 
 Nem. My power extends no further. Prince of air ! 
 It rests with thee alone — command her voice. 
 ,4n. Spirit — obey this sceptre ! 
 
 Nem. Silent still ! 
 
 She is not of our order, but belongs 
 To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain 
 And we are baffled also. 
 
 Man. Hear me, hear me — 
 
 Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
 I have so much endured — so much endure — 
 Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more 
 Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
 Too much, as I loved thee : we were not made 
 To torture thus each other, though it were 
 The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
 Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
 This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 
 One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
 For liitherto aU hateful things conspire 
 To bind me in existence — in a life 
 Which makes me shrink from unmortality — 
 A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
 I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : 
 1 feel but what thou art — and what I am ; 
 And I would hear yet once before I perish 
 The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! 
 For I have call'd on thee in the still night. 
 Startled the slumbering birds from tlie hush'd boughs. 
 And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves 
 Acquainted yn\h thy vainly echoed name, 
 Which answer'd me — many things answer'd me — 
 Spirits and men — but tliou wert silent all. 
 Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stai's, 
 And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
 Speak to me ! I have wandei-'d o'er the earth, 
 And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 
 Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 
 I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
 Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — but say — 
 I reck not what — but let me hear thee once — 
 This once — once more ! 
 
 Phantom of Astarte. Manfred ! 
 
 Man. Say on, say on — 
 
 I Uve but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 
 
 Phan. Manfred! To-morrow ends thine earthly ills. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Man. Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 
 
 Phan. Farewell! 
 
 Man. Say, shall we meet again? 
 
 Phan. Farewell! 
 
 Man. One word for mercy ! Say, thou lovest me. 
 
 Phan. Manfred! 
 
 yrhe Spirit of Astarte disappears. 
 
 Nem. She 's gone, and will not be recall'd ; 
 
 Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 
 
 A Spirit. He is convulsed — This is to be a mortal, 
 And seek the things beyond mortality. 
 
 Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth hinxsel^ and 
 makes 
 His torture tributary to his will. 
 
 Had he been one of us, he would have made 
 An awful spirit. 
 
 Nem. Hast thou furtlier question 
 
 Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 
 
 Man. None. 
 
 Nem. Then for a time farewell. 
 
 3Ian. We meet then ! Where ? On the earth ?— 
 Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
 I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well! 
 
 [Font Manfred. 
 {Scene closes.) 
 
 ACT m. 
 
 ScExNE I.— A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 
 Manfred and Herman. 
 
 Man. What is the hour? 
 
 Her. It wants but one till sunset, 
 
 And promises a lovely twilight. 
 
 Man. Say, 
 
 Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
 As I directed ? 
 
 Her. All, my lord, are ready ; 
 
 Here is the key and casket. 
 
 Man. It is well : 
 
 Thou may'st retire. [Eocit Herman. 
 
 Man. (alone.) There is a calm upon me — 
 
 Inexphcable stillness ! which till now 
 Did not belong to what I laiew of life. 
 If that I did not know philosophy 
 To be of all oiu- vanities the motUest, 
 The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
 From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
 The golden secret, the sought " Kalon" fovmd, 
 And seated m my soul. It will not last. 
 But it is well to have known it, though but once: 
 It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense. 
 And I within my tablets v.ould note down 
 That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 
 
 Re-enter Herman. 
 
 Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves 
 To greet your presence. 
 
 JSnter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 
 
 Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred! 
 
 Blan. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these walls ; 
 Thy presence honom-s them, and blesseth those 
 Who dwell within them. 
 
 Abbot. Would it were so. Count ! — 
 
 But I would fain confer with thee alone. 
 
 3Ian. Herman, retire. What would my reverend 
 guest? 
 
 Abbot. Thus, without prelude: — Age and zeal, my 
 office. 
 And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
 Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood. 
 May also be my herald. Rumours strange. 
 And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
 And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
 For centuries ; may he who bears it now 
 Transmit it unimpair'd ! 
 
 Man. Proceed, — I listen. 
 
 Abbot. 'T is said thou boldest converse with the things 
 Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
 That wth the dwellers of the dark abodes. 
 The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
 Which walk the valley of the shade of death, 
 Thou communest. I know that wdth mankind, 
 Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
 Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy soUtude 
 Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 
 
 3Ian. And what are they who do avouch these things ? 
 
 Abbot. My pious brethren — the scared peasantry — 
 
 < 
 
Act in. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 171 
 
 Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
 With most unquiet eyes. Thy life 's in peril. 
 Man. Take it. 
 
 Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — 
 
 I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
 But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
 For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
 With the true church, and through the church to heaven 
 
 Man. I hear thee. This is my reply ; whate'er 
 I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
 Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a mortal 
 To be my mediator. Have I smn'd 
 Against your ordinances ? prove and punish ! 
 
 Abbot. My son ! I did not speak of punishment, 
 But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 
 The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
 Our institutions and our strong beUef 
 Have given me power to smooth the path from sin 
 To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 
 I leave to heaven — "Vengeance is mine alone" 
 So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
 His servant echoes back the awful word. 
 
 Man. Old man ! there is no power in holy men. 
 Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
 Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — 
 Nor agony — nor, greater than all these. 
 The innate tortures of that deep despair. 
 Which is remorse without the fear of hell. 
 But all in all sufficient to itself 
 Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 
 From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 
 Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 
 Upon itself; there is no future pang 
 Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd 
 He deals on his own soul. 
 
 Abbot. All this is well ; 
 
 For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
 By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
 With calm assurance to that blessed place 
 Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
 Their earthly errors, so they be atoned: 
 And the commencement of atonement is 
 The sense of its necessity. — Say on — 
 And all our church can teach thee shall be taught ; 
 And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd. 
 
 Man. When Rome's sixth emperor was near his last. 
 The victim of a self-inflicted wound, 
 To shun the torments of a public death 
 From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, 
 With show of loyal pity, would have stanch'd 
 The gusliing throat with his officious robe ; 
 The dying Roman thrust him back and said — 
 Some empire still in his expiring glance, 
 " It is too late — is this fidelity ?'' 
 
 Abbot. And what of this? 
 
 Man. I answer vvdth the Roman — 
 
 "It is too late!" 
 
 Abbot. It never can be so, 
 
 To reconcile thyself with thy own. soul, 
 And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope ? 
 'T is strange — even those who do despair above, 
 Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth. 
 To which frail twig they cling like drowTiing men. 
 
 Man. Ay — father! I have had those earthly visions 
 And noble aspirations in my youth, 
 To make my own the mind of other men, 
 The enhghtener of nations ; and to rise 
 I knew not whither — it might be to fall ; 
 But fall, even as the mountain-cataract, 
 Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, 
 Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, 
 (Which casts up misty columns that become 
 Clouds raining from the re-ascended skies,) 
 Lies low but mighty still. But this is past, 
 My thoughts mistook themselves. 
 
 Abbot. And wherefore so? 
 
 Man. I could not tame my nature down ; for he 
 Must serve who fain would sway — and sooth — and 
 
 sue — 
 And watch all time — and pry into all place — 
 And be a living lie — who would become 
 A mighty thing among the mean, and such 
 The mass are ; I disdain'd to mingle with 
 A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
 The lion is alone, and so am I. 
 Abbot. And why not five and act with other men? 
 Man. Because my nature was averse from life ; 
 And yet not cruel ; for I would not make. 
 But find a desolation : — like the wind, 
 The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom, 
 Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er 
 The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast. 
 And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, 
 And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, 
 But being met is deadly ; such hath been 
 The coui-se of my existence ; but there came 
 Things in my path which are no more. 
 
 Abbot. Alas ! 
 
 I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
 From me and fi-om my calling ; yet so young, 
 
 I still would 
 
 Man. Look on me ! there is an order 
 
 Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
 Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, 
 Without the violence of warlike death ; 
 Some perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
 Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness — 
 Some of disease — and some insanity — 
 And some of v.dthcr'd, or of broken hearts ; 
 For this last is a malady which slays 
 More than are nuniber'd in the lists of Fate, 
 Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
 Look upon me ! for even of all these things 
 Have I partaken ; and of all these things, 
 One were enough ; then wonder not that 1 
 Am what I am, but that I ever was. 
 Or having been, that I am still on earth. 
 
 Abbot. Yet, hear me still 
 
 Ma7i. Old man! I do respect 
 
 Thine order, and revere thy years ; I deem 
 Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
 Think me not churUsh ; I would spare thyself, 
 Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
 All further colloquy — and so — farewell. 
 
 [Emt Manfred. 
 Abbot. This should have been a noble creature : he 
 Hath all the energy which would have made 
 A goodly frame of glorious elements, 
 Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, 
 It is an awful chaos — light and darkness — 
 And mind and dust— and passions and pure thoughts, 
 Mix'd, and contending without end or order, 
 All dormant or destructive : he will perish. 
 And yet he must not ; I will try once more, 
 For such are worth redemption ; and ray duty 
 Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
 I '11 follow him— but cautiously, though surely 
 
 [Exit Abbot. 
 
 Scene II. — Another Chaivber. 
 Manfred and Herman. 
 Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset ^ 
 He sinks behind the mountain. 
 
 Man. Doth he so? 
 
 I will look on him. 
 
 [Manfred advances to the Window of the Hall. 
 Glorious Orb ! the idol 
 Of early nature, and the ■vigorous race 
 Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons * 
 Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
 
172 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 Act in. 
 
 More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
 
 The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 
 
 Most glorious orb ! that wert a worsliip, ere 
 
 The mystery of tliy making was reveal'd ! 
 
 Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
 
 Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 
 
 Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they poiir'd 
 
 Themselves in orisons ! Thou material God ! 
 
 And representative of the Unknown — 
 
 Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief star ! 
 
 Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
 
 Endurable, and temperest the hues 
 
 And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
 
 Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
 
 And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, 
 
 Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee. 
 
 Even as our outward aspects ;— thou dost rise, 
 
 And shine, and set m glory. Fare thee well ! 
 
 I ne'er shall see thee more. As my fu'st glance 
 
 Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
 
 My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
 
 To whom the gifts of life and wamith have been 
 
 Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
 
 I follow. [Exit Manfred. 
 
 Scene III. — The Mountains — The Castle of Manfred 
 at some distance — A Terrace before a Tower. — Time. 
 Twilight. 
 
 Herman, Manuel, and other Dependants of Manfred. 
 
 Her. 'T is strange enough ; night after night, for years, 
 He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 
 Without a witness. I have been within it,— 
 So have we all been ofttimes ; but from it, 
 Or its contents, it were impossible 
 To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
 His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
 One chamber where none enter: I would give 
 The fee of what I have to come these three years, 
 To pore upon its mysteries. 
 
 Manuel. 'T were dangerous ; 
 
 Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 
 
 Her. Ah ! Manuel I thou art elderly and wise. 
 And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt wthin the 
 
 castle — 
 How many years is 't ? 
 
 Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 
 
 I served his father^ whom he naught resembles. 
 
 Her. There be more sons in like predicament. 
 But wherein do they differ ? 
 
 Manuel. I speak not 
 
 Of features or of form, but mind and habits: 
 Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and free, — 
 A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
 With books and solitude, nor made the night 
 A gloomy \dgil, but a festal time, 
 Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks 
 And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
 From men and their delights. 
 
 Her. Beshrew the hour. 
 
 But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
 Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
 As if they had forgotten them. 
 
 Manuel. These walls 
 
 Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
 Some strange things in them, Herman. 
 
 Her. C ome, be friendly ; 
 
 Relate me some to while away our watch : 
 I 've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
 Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 
 
 Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do remember 
 'T was twilight, as it may be now, and such 
 Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which rests 
 On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
 
 So like that it might be the same ; the wind 
 Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
 Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
 Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
 How occupied, we Imew not, but with him 
 The sole companion of his wanderings 
 And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
 That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love, — 
 As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do. 
 
 The lady Astarte, his 
 
 Hush ! who conies here 
 Enter the Abbot. 
 
 Abbot. Where is your master ? 
 
 Her. Yonder in the tower 
 
 Abbot. I must speak with him. 
 
 Manual. 'T is impossible ; 
 
 He is most private, and must not be thus 
 Intruded on. 
 
 Abbot. Upon myself I take 
 
 The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
 But I must see him. 
 
 Her. Thou hast seen him once 
 
 This eve already. 
 
 Abbot. Herman ! I command thee, 
 
 Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach. 
 
 Her. We dare not. 
 
 Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 
 
 Of my own purpose. 
 
 Manuel. Reverend father, stop — 
 
 I pray you pause. 
 
 Abbot. Why so ? 
 
 Manuel. But step this way, 
 
 And I wiU tell you further. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. — Interior of the Tower. 
 Manfred alone. 
 
 Man. The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
 Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! 
 I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
 Hath been to me a more familiar face 
 Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
 Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
 I learn'd the language of another world. 
 I do remember me, that in my youth. 
 When I was wandering, — upon such a night 
 I stood within the Cohseunrs wall. 
 Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome.; 
 The trees which grew along the broken arches 
 Waved dark m the blue midnight, and the star 
 Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
 The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and 
 More near from out the Caesars' palace came 
 The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
 Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
 Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
 Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 
 Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
 Within a bowshot — Where the Caesars dwelt, 
 And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
 A grove which sprbgs through levell'd battlements, 
 And twines its roots wth the imperial hearths, 
 Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — 
 But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 
 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection I 
 While Caesars' chambers and the Augustan halls, 
 Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 
 And thou didst sliine, thou rolling moon, upon 
 All this, and cast a wide and tender hght, 
 Wliich soften'd down the hoar austerity 
 Of rugged desolation, and fiU'd up, 
 As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries , 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 
 And makmg that which was not, till the place 
 Became reUgion, and the heart ran o'er 
 
Act irr. 
 
 MANFRED. 
 
 173 
 
 With silent worship of the great of old! — 
 The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 
 Our spirits from their urns. — 
 
 'T was such a night ! 
 'T is strange that I recall it at this time ; 
 But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
 Even at the moment when they should array 
 Themselves in pensive order. 
 
 Enter the Abbot. 
 Ahhot. INIy good lord ! 
 
 I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
 But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
 By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
 Recoils on me ; its good in the effect 
 May light upon your head — could I say heart — 
 Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should 
 Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd ; 
 But is not yet ail lost. 
 
 Man. Thou know'st me not ; 
 
 My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded : 
 Retire, or 't will be dangerous — Away ! 
 Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me ? 
 Man. Not 1 ; 
 
 1 simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
 And would preserve thee. 
 
 uihbot. What dost thou mean? 
 
 Man. Look there ! 
 
 What dost thou see ? 
 Abbot. Nothing. 
 
 Man. Look there, I say, 
 
 And steadfastly ; — now tell me what thou seest ? 
 Abbot. That which should shake me, — ^but I fear it 
 not — 
 1 see a dusk and awful figure rise 
 Like an infernal god from out the earth ; 
 His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
 Robed as with angry clouds ; he stands between 
 Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 
 Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm thee — 
 but 
 His sight may shock thme old limbs into palsy. 
 I say to thee — Retire ! 
 
 Abbot. And I reply — 
 
 Never — till I have battled with this fiend — 
 What doth he here ? 
 
 Man. Why — ay — what doth he here ? — 
 
 I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. 
 
 Abbot. Alas ! lost mortal ! what with guests like these 
 Hast thou to do ? I tremble for thy sake ; 
 Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him ? 
 Ah I he unveils his aspect ; on his brow 
 The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
 Glares forth the immortaUty of hell — 
 
 Avaunt ! 
 
 Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission? 
 Spirit. Come ! 
 
 Abbot. What art thou, unknown being ? answer ! — 
 
 speak ! 
 Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Come ! 't is time. 
 Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny 
 The power which summons me. Who sent thee here? 
 Spirit. Thou 'It know anon — Come ! come ! 
 Man. I have commanded 
 
 Things of an essence greater far than thine. 
 And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence ! 
 Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour is come — Away 1 I say. 
 Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not 
 To render up my soul to such as thee : 
 Away ! I '11 die as I have hved — alone. 
 
 Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren. — Rise ! 
 [Other spirits rise up. 
 
 Abbot. Avaunt ! ye evil ones ! — Avaunt ! I say,— • 
 Ye have no power where piety hath power, 
 
 And I do charge ye in the name 
 
 Spirit. Old man ! 
 
 We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order ; 
 Waste not thy holy words on idle uses. 
 It were in vain ; tliis man is forfeited. 
 Once more I summon him — Away ! away ! 
 
 3Ian. I do defy ye,— though I feel my soul 
 Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; 
 Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
 To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
 To wrestle, though with sphits ; what ye take 
 Shall be. ta'en limb by hmb. 
 
 Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 
 
 Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
 The world invisible, and make himself 
 Almost our equal? — Can it be that thou 
 Art thus in love with life ? the very hfe 
 Which made thee wretched ! 
 
 Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest ! 
 
 My life is in its last hour, — that I know, 
 Nor would redeem a moment of that hour ; 
 I do not combat against death, but thee 
 And thy surrounding angels ; my past power 
 Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, 
 But by superior science — penance — daring — 
 And length of watcliing — strength of mind — and skill 
 In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 
 Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 
 And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
 Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
 Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 
 
 Spirit. But thy many crimes 
 
 Have made thee 
 
 Man. Vv hat are they to such as thee ? 
 
 Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, 
 And greater criminals ? — Back to thy hell ! 
 Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 
 Thou never shalt possess me, that I know : 
 What I have done is done ; I bear within 
 A torture which could nothing gain from thine : 
 The mind which is immortal makes itself 
 Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
 Is its own origin of ill and end — 
 And its own place and time — its innate sense, 
 When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
 No colour from the fleeting things without ; 
 But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, 
 Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 
 Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt 
 
 me; 
 I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 
 But was my owm destroyer, and will be 
 My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends! 
 The hand of death is on me — ^but not yours ! 
 
 [The Demons disappear. 
 Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art — thy lips are w-hite — 
 And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat 
 The accents rattle — Give thy prayers to heaven — 
 Pray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus. 
 
 Man. 'T is over — my dull eyes can fix thee not ; 
 But all things swim around me, and the earth 
 Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well — 
 Give me thy hand. 
 
 Abbot. Cold — cold — even to the heart — ' 
 
 But yet one prayer — alas ! how fares it with thee ? — 
 Man. Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die. 
 
 [Manfred expires. 
 Abbot. He 's gone — his soul hath ta'en its earthless 
 flight- 
 Whither? I dread to think — ^but ho is gone. 
 
NOTES TO MANFRED. 
 
 Note 1, page 167, lines 7 and 8. 
 the sunbow^s rays still arch 
 
 The torrent with the many hues of heaven. 
 This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the 
 lower part of the Alpine torrents : it is exactly like a 
 rainbow, come down to pay a visit, and so close that 
 you may walk into it: — this effect lasts till noon. 
 Note 2, page 167, lines 103 and 104. 
 He who from out their fountain dwellings raised 
 Eros and Anteros, at Gadara. 
 The philosopher lamblicus. The story of the raising 
 of Eros and Anteros may be found in his life by Euna- 
 pius. It is well told. 
 
 Note 3, page 168, lines 67 and 68. 
 
 she replied 
 
 In words of dubious import^ butfulfiWd. 
 The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta, (who com- 
 
 manded the Greeks at the battle of Platea, and after- 
 wards perished for an attempt to betray the Lacede- 
 monians,) and Cleonice, is told in Plutarch's life ot 
 Cimon ; and in the Laconics of Pausanias the So- 
 phist, in his description of Greece. 
 
 Note 4, page 171, lines 142 and 143. 
 
 the giant sons 
 
 Of the embrace of angels. 
 
 " That the Sons of God saw the daughters of men 
 that they were fair," &c. 
 
 "There were giants in the earth in those days ; and 
 also after that, when the Sons of God came in unto the 
 daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the 
 same became miglity men which were of old, men of 
 renown." Genesis, ch. vi. verses 2 and 4. 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The subsequent poems were written at the request of 
 my friend, the Hon. D. Kinnaird, for a selection of 
 Hebrew Melodies, and have been published, with th- 
 music, arranged, by Mr. Bkaham and Mr. Nathan. 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 
 1. 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 
 Of cloudless cliiKes and starry skies •, 
 And all that 's best of dark and bright 
 
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
 Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 2. 
 One shade the more, one ray the less. 
 
 Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
 Which waves in every raven tress. 
 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
 
 How pure, how dear their dweUing-place. 
 3. 
 And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart whose love Is innocent ! 
 
 THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL 
 SWEPT. 
 1. 
 The harp the monarch minstrel swept, 
 
 The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 
 Which music hallow'd while she wept 
 O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, 
 Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven! 
 
 It soften'd men of iron mould, 
 
 It gave them virtues not their own; 
 
 No ear so dull, no soul so cold. 
 That felt not, fired not to the tone, 
 Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne ! 
 
 It told the triumplis of our King, 
 
 It wafted gloiy to our God ; 
 It made our gladden'd valleys ring. 
 
 The cedars bow, the montains nod ; 
 
 Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode ! 
 Since then, though heard on earth no more. 
 
 Devotion and her daughter Love 
 Still bid the bursting spirit soar 
 
 To sounds that seem as from above. 
 
 In dreams that day's broad Ught can not remove. 
 
 IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 
 
 1. 
 
 If that high world, which lies beyond 
 
 Our own, surviving Love endears ; 
 If there the cherish'd heart be fond. 
 
 The eye the same, except in tears — 
 How welcome those untrodden spheres! 
 
 How sweet this very hour to die ! 
 To soar from earth and find all fears 
 
 Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 
 
 2 
 It must be so : 't is not for self 
 
 That we so tremble on the brink ; 
 And striving to o'erleap the gulfj 
 
 Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
 Oh! in that future let us tliink 
 
 To hold each heart the heart that shares, 
 With them the immortal waters drink. 
 
 And soul in soul grow deatUess theirs! 
 
HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 175 
 
 THE WILD GAZELLE. 
 L 
 
 The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 
 
 Exulting yet may bound, 
 And drink from all the living rills 
 
 That gush on holy ground ; 
 Its airy step and glorious eye 
 
 May glance in tameless transport by: — 
 2. 
 A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 
 
 Hath Judah witness'd there ; 
 And o'er her scenes of lost delight 
 
 Inhabitants more fair. 
 The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
 But Judah's statelier maids are gone 
 
 3. 
 
 More blest each palm that shades those plains 
 
 Than Israel's scatter'd race ; 
 For, taking root, it there remains 
 
 In solitary grace: 
 It cannot quit its place of bu-th, 
 It vnR not live in other earth. 
 
 4. 
 But we must wander witheringly, 
 
 In other lands to die ; 
 And where our fathers' ashes be, 
 
 Our own may never lie : 
 Our temple hath not left a stone. 
 And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 
 
 OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. 
 1. 
 
 Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, 
 Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream ; 
 Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell ; 
 Mourn — ^where their God hath dwelt the Godless dwell ! 
 
 2. 
 And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? 
 And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet ? 
 And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
 The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice ? 
 
 Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
 How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! 
 The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
 Mankind their country — Israel but the grave ! 
 
 ON JORDAN'S BANKS. 
 1. 
 
 On Jordan s banks the Arabs' camels stray, 
 
 On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray, 
 
 The Baal-adorer bows on Smai's steep — 
 
 Yet there— even there— Oh God ! thy thunders sleep 
 
 - 2. 
 There — where thy finger scorched the tablet stone ! 
 There — where thy shadow to thy people shone ! 
 Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire : 
 Thyself— none living see and not expire ! 
 
 3. 
 Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appear ! 
 Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear : 
 How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! 
 How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God ! 
 
 JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 1. 
 
 Since our Country, our God — Oh, my Sire t 
 Demand that thy Daughter expire ; 
 
 Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
 Strike the bosom that 's bared for thee now ! 
 
 And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
 And the mountains behold me no more : 
 If the hand that I love lay me low. 
 There cannot be pain in the blow ! 
 
 3. 
 And of this, oh, my Father ! be sure — 
 That the blood of thy child is as pure 
 As the blessing I beg ere it flow. 
 And the last thought that soothes me below. 
 
 4. 
 Though the virgins of Salem lament. 
 Be the judge and the hero unbent! 
 I have won the great battle for thee. 
 And my Father and Country are free ! 
 
 5. 
 When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, 
 When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
 Let my memory still be thy pride. 
 And forget not I smiled as I died ! 
 
 OH! 
 
 SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 
 BLOOM. 
 
 Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, 
 On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
 
 But on thy turf shall roses rear 
 
 Their leaves, the earhest of the year ; 
 And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: 
 
 2. 
 And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
 
 Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 
 And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
 
 And lingering pause and hghtly tread ; 
 
 Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead ' 
 3. 
 Away ! we know that tears are vain, 
 
 That death nor heeds nor hears distress : 
 Will this unteach us to complain ? 
 
 Or make one mourner weep the less ? 
 And thou — who tell'st me to forget, 
 Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 
 
 MY SOUL IS DARK. 
 
 My soul is dark — Oh ! quickly string 
 
 The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 
 And let thy gentle fingers fling 
 
 Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
 If in this heart a hope be dear, 
 
 That sound shall charm it forth again 
 If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 
 
 'T will flow, and cease to burn my brain. 
 2. 
 But bid the strain be wild and deep, 
 
 Nor let thy notes of joy be first : 
 I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 
 
 Or else this heavy heart will burst; 
 For it hath been by sorrow nurst. 
 
 And ached in sleepless silence long ; 
 And now 't is doom'd to know the worst, 
 
 And break at once — or yield to song. 
 
 I SAW THEE WEEP. 
 1. 
 
 I saw thee weep — the big bright tear 
 Came o'er that eye of blue ; 
 
176 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 And then methought it did appear 
 
 A violet dropping dew : 
 I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaze 
 
 Beside thee ceased to shine ; 
 It could not match the living rays 
 
 That fiU'd that glance of thine. 
 2. 
 As clouds from yonder sun receive 
 
 A deep and mellow die, 
 "Which scarce the shade of coming eve 
 
 Can banish from the sky, 
 Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 
 
 Their own pure joy impart ; 
 Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 
 
 That lightens o'er the heart. 
 
 THY DAYS ARE DONE. 
 
 Thy days are done, thy fame begun ; 
 
 Thy country's strains record 
 The triumphs of her chosen Son, 
 
 The slaughters of his sword! 
 The deeds he did, the fields he won, 
 
 The freedom he restored ! 
 2. 
 Though thou art fall'n, while we are free 
 
 Thou shall not taste of death ! 
 The generous blood that flow'd from thee 
 
 Disdain'd to sink beneath : 
 Within our veins its currents be, 
 
 Thy spirit on our breath 1 
 3. 
 Thy name, our charging hosts along, 
 
 Shall be the battle-word! 
 Thy fall, the theme of choral song 
 
 From virgin voices pour'd ! 
 To weep would do thy glory wrong ! 
 Thou shalt not be deplored. 
 
 Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, 
 At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 
 
 2. 
 ■' Why is my sleep disquieted ? 
 Who is he that calls the dead ? 
 Is it thou, O king? Behold, 
 Bloodless are these limbs, and cold: 
 Such are mine ; and such shall be 
 Thine to-morrow, when with me : 
 Ere the coming day is done, 
 Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
 Fare thee well, but for a day ; 
 Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
 Thou, thy race, he pale and low, 
 Pierced by shafts of many a bow ; 
 And the falchion by thy side 
 To thy heart thy hand shall guide : 
 Crownless, breathless, headless fall. 
 Son and sire, the house of Saul !" 
 
 SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST 
 
 BATTLE. 
 
 1. 
 
 Warriors and Chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 
 Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
 Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path: 
 Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 
 
 2. 
 Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow. 
 Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe. 
 Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! 
 Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 
 
 3. 
 Farewell to others, but never we part, 
 Heir to my royalty, son of ray heart ! 
 Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway. 
 Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day ! 
 
 SAUL. 
 1. 
 
 Thou whose spell can raise the dead, 
 Bid the prophet's form appear. 
 
 " Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
 King, behold the phantom seer !'' 
 Earth yawn'd ; he stood the centre of a cloud : 
 Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. 
 Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
 His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry ; 
 His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there. 
 Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare ; 
 From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame. 
 Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came. 
 
 ALL IS VANITY, SAITHTHE PREACHER.'' 
 1. 
 
 Fame, wisdom, love, and power were 
 
 And healtli and youth possess'd me ; 
 My goblets blush'd from every vine. 
 
 And lovely forms caress'd me ; 
 I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, 
 
 And felt my soul grow tender ; 
 All earth can give, or mortal prize, 
 
 Was mine of regal splendour. 
 
 2. 
 I strive to number o'er what days 
 
 Remembrance can discover, 
 Which all that hfe or earth displays 
 
 Would lure me to live over. 
 
 There rose no day, there roll'd no hour 
 
 Of pleasure unimbitter'd ; 
 And not a trapping deck'd my power 
 
 That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 
 3. 
 The serpent of the field, by art 
 
 And spells, is won from harming ; 
 But that which coils around the heart, 
 
 Oh ! who hath power of charming ? 
 It will not list to wisdom's lore, 
 
 Nor music's voice can lure it ; 
 But there it stings for evermore 
 
 The soul that must endiyre it. 
 
 WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFER 
 ING CLAY. 
 
 1. 
 
 When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 
 
 Ah, whither strays the immortal mind? 
 It cannot die, it cannot stay. 
 
 But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 
 Then, unembodied, doth it trace 
 
 By steps each planet's heavenly way? 
 Or fill at once the realms of space, 
 
 A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 
 2. 
 Eternal, boundless, undeca^d, 
 
 A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
 All, all in earth, or skies displa^d, 
 
 Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
 Each fainter trace that memory holds 
 
 So darkly of departed years. 
 In one broad glance the soul beholds, 
 
 And £dl, that was, at once appears. 
 
HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 177 
 
 Before Creation peopled earth, 
 
 Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
 And where the furthest heaven had birth, 
 
 The spirit trace its rising track. 
 And where the future mars or makes, 
 
 Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
 While sun is quench'd or system breaks, 
 
 Fk'd in its own eternity. 
 
 4. 
 Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 
 
 It lives all passionless and pure : 
 An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 
 
 Its years as moments shall endure. 
 Away, away, without a wing, 
 
 O'er all, through ail, its thought shall fly . 
 A nameless and eternal thing, 
 
 Forgetting what it was to die. 
 
 VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 
 1. 
 
 The King was on his throne, 
 
 The Satraps throng'd the hall ; 
 A thousand bright lamps shone 
 
 O'er that high festival. 
 A thousand cups of gold. 
 
 In Judah deem'd divine- 
 Jehovah's vessels hold 
 
 The godless Heathen's wine ! 
 
 2. 
 In that same hour and hall, 
 
 The fingers of a hand 
 Came forth against the wall, 
 
 And wrote as if on sand ; 
 The fingers of a man ; — 
 
 A solitary hand 
 Along the letters ran. 
 
 And traced them like a wand. 
 3. 
 The monarch saw, and shook, 
 
 And bade no more rejoice; 
 All bloodless wax'd his look, 
 
 And tremulous his voice. 
 " Let the men of lore appear. 
 
 The wisest of the earth. 
 And expound the words of fear, 
 
 Which mar our royal mirth." 
 4. 
 Chaldea's seers are good. 
 
 But here they have no skill ; 
 And the unknown letters stood 
 
 Untold and awful still. 
 And Babel's men of age 
 
 Are wise and deep in lore 
 But now they were not sage, 
 
 They saw — ^but knew no more. 
 
 5. 
 
 A captive in the land, 
 
 A stranger and a youth. 
 He heard the king's command, 
 
 He saw that writing's truth. 
 The lamps around were bright, 
 
 The prophecy in view ; 
 He read it on that night, — 
 
 The morrow proved it true. 
 6. 
 " Belshazzar's grave is made, 
 
 His kingdom pass'd away. 
 He, in the balance weigh'd, 
 
 Is light and worthless clay. 
 X 
 
 The shroud, his robe of state, 
 
 His canopy the stone ; 
 The Mede is at his gate ! 
 The Persian on his throne. 
 
 SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS ! 
 Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star! 
 Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far. 
 That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel. 
 How like art thou to joy remember'd well ! 
 So gleams the past, the light of other days, 
 Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays ; 
 A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold. 
 Distinct, but distant — clear — but, oh how cold ! 
 
 WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
 DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 
 
 I. 
 Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, 
 I need not have wander'd from far Galilee ; 
 It was but abjuring my creed to efface 
 The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race. 
 
 2. 
 If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee 
 If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free ! 
 If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high. 
 Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 
 
 3. 
 I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow, 
 As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know ; 
 In his hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine 
 The land and the life which for him I resij'n. 
 
 HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. 
 
 Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 
 
 The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding 
 Revenge is lost in agony, 
 
 And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
 Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou ? 
 
 Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading : 
 Ah, could st thou — thou would st pardon now, 
 
 Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 
 2. 
 And is she dead ? — and did they dare 
 
 Obey my phrensy's jealous raving? 
 My wrath but doom'd my own despair: 
 
 The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving. — 
 But thou art cold, my murder'd love ! 
 
 And this dark heart is vainly craving 
 For her who soars alone above, 
 
 And leaves my soul imworthy saving. 
 3. 
 She 's gone, who shared my diadem ; 
 
 She sunk, with her my joys entombing ; 
 I swept that flower from Judah's stem 
 
 Whose leaves for me alone were blooming ; 
 And mine 's the guilt and mine the hell. 
 
 This bosom's desolation dooming ; 
 And I have earn'd those tortures well. 
 
 Which unconsumed are still consuming I 
 
 ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OP 
 JERUSALEM BY TITUS. 
 1. 
 From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome 
 f beheld thee. Oh Sion ! when render'd to Rome : 
 'T was the last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall 
 Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to tliy wall. 
 
178 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 
 
 I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, 
 
 And forgot for a moment my bondage to come 5 
 
 I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, 
 
 And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain. 
 
 3. 
 
 On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
 Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
 While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline 
 Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine, 
 
 4. 
 
 And now on tliat mountain I stood on that day, 
 But I mark'd not the twihght beam melting away ; 
 Oh ! would that the hghtning had glared in its stead. 
 And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head ! 
 
 5. 
 
 But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
 The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign ; 
 And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be. 
 Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee. 
 
 BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT 
 DOWN AND WEPT. 
 
 We sat down and wept by the waters 
 Of Babel, and thought of the day 
 
 When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters. 
 Made Salem's high places his prey ; 
 
 And ye, oh her desolate daughters ! 
 Were scatter'd all weeping away. 
 
 2. 
 While sadly we gazed on the river 
 
 Which roll'd on in freedom below, 
 They demanded the song ; but, oh never 
 
 That triumph the stranger shall know ! 
 May this right hand be wither'd for ever, 
 
 Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 
 
 3. 
 
 On the willow that harp is suspended, 
 Oh Salem ! its sound should be free ; 
 
 And the hour when thy glories were ended 
 But left me that token of thee : 
 
 And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
 With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep GaUlee. 
 
 2. 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green. 
 That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
 That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 
 
 3. 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
 And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
 And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still ! 
 
 4. 
 And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
 But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride : 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 
 
 5. 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
 With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
 
 6. 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword. 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 
 
 FROM JOB. 
 1. 
 
 A spirit pass'd before me : I beheld 
 The face of Immortality unveil'd — 
 Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine — ^ 
 And there it stood, — all formless — but divine : 
 Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake ; 
 And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake : 
 2. 
 "Is man more just than God? Is man more pure # 
 Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure ? 
 Creatures of clay — vahi dwellers in the dust ! 
 The moth survives you, and are ye more just? 
 Things of a day ! you wither ere the night, 
 Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted hght l* 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 
 
 Expende Annibalem ;— quot libras in duce 6uramo. 
 luvenies ? — ' ' 
 
 Juvenal, Sat. X. 
 
 " The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Se- 
 nate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul ; 
 his moral virtues, and military talents, were loudly cele- 
 brated ; and those who derived any private benefit from 
 his government announced in prophetic strains the re- 
 storation of public felicity. 
 
 ******** 
 
 ******** 
 
 By this shameful abdication he protracted his life a few 
 
 years, in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor 
 
 and an exile, till » 
 
 Gibbon's Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220. 
 
 L 
 
 'T IS done — but yesterday a King ! 
 
 And arra'd with Kings to strive — 
 And now thou art a nameless thing: 
 
 So abject — yet alive ! 
 Is this the man of thousand thrones. 
 Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones. 
 
 And can he thus survive ? 
 Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
 Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 
 
 2. 
 Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 
 
 Who bow'd so low the knee ? 
 
ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 
 
 179 
 
 By gazing on thyself grown blind, 
 Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
 With might unquestion'd, — power to save 
 Thine only gift hath been the grave 
 
 To those that worshipp'd thee ; 
 Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
 Ambition's less than littleness ! 
 
 3. 
 Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 
 
 To after-warriors more 
 Than high Philosophy can preach, 
 
 And vainly preach'd before. 
 That spell upon the minds of men 
 Breaks never to unite again, 
 
 That led them to adore 
 Those Pagod things of sabre-sway, 
 With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 
 
 4. 
 The triumph, and the vanity, 
 
 The rapture of the strife — ' 
 The earthquake voice of Victory, 
 
 To thee the breath of life ; 
 The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
 Which man seem'd made but to obey, 
 
 Wherewith renown was rife — 
 All quell'd ! — Dark Spirit ! what must be 
 The madness of thy memory ! 
 
 5. 
 
 The Desolator desolate ! 
 
 The Victor overthrown ! 
 The Arbiter of others' fate 
 
 A Suppliant for his own ! 
 Is it some yet imperial hope 
 That with such change can calmly cope ? 
 
 Or dread of death alone ? 
 To die a prince — or live a slave — 
 Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 
 
 He 2 who of old would rend the oak, 
 
 Dream'd not of the rebound ; 
 Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke — 
 
 Alone — how look'd he round? 
 Thou in the sternness of thy strength 
 An equal deed has done at length. 
 
 And darker fate has found : 
 He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey ; 
 But thou must eat thy heart away ! 
 
 7. 
 The Roman, 3 when his burning heart 
 
 Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
 Threw down the dagger — dared depart, 
 
 In savage grandeur, home. — 
 He dared depart in utter scorn 
 Of men that such a yoke had borne. 
 
 Yet left him such a doom ! 
 His only glory was that hour 
 Of self-upheld abandon'd oower. 
 
 8. 
 The Spaniard,"^ when the lust of sway 
 
 Had lost its quickening spell, 
 Cast crowns for rosaries away, 
 
 An empire for a cell ; 
 A strict accountant of his beads, 
 A subtle disputant on creeds, 
 
 His dotage trifled well: 
 Yet better had he neither known 
 A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 
 
 9. 
 But thou — from thy reluctant hand 
 
 The thunderbolt is wrung — ? 
 Too late thou leav'st the high command 
 
 To which thy weakness clung; 
 
 All Evil Spirit as thou art, 
 
 It is enough to grieve the heart. 
 
 To see thine own unstrung ; 
 To think that God's fair world hath been 
 The footstool of a thing so mean ; 
 
 10. 
 And Earth hath spilt her blood for him. 
 
 Who thus can hoard his own ! 
 And Monarchs bow'd the trembling Hmb, 
 
 And thank'd him for a throne ! 
 Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear, 
 When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 
 
 In humblest guise have shown. 
 Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
 A brighter name to lure mankind ! 
 
 11. 
 Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 
 
 Nor written thus in vain — 
 Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 
 
 Or deepen every stain — 
 If thou hadst died as honour dies, 
 Some new Napoleon might arise, 
 
 To shame the world again — 
 But who v/ould soar the solar height, 
 To set in such a starless night ? 
 
 12. 
 Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 
 
 Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
 Thy scales. Mortality ! are just 
 
 To all that pass away ; 
 But yet methought the living great 
 Some higher sparks should animate, 
 
 To dazzle and dismay ; 
 Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 
 Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 
 
 13. 
 And she, proud Austria's mournful flower. 
 
 Thy still imperial bride ; 
 How bears her breast the torturing hour ? 
 
 Still clings she to thy side ? 
 Must she too bend, must she too share 
 Thy late repentance, long despair, 
 
 Thou throneless Homicide? 
 If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 
 'T is worth thy vanish'd diadem ! 
 
 14. 
 Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 
 
 And gaze upon the sea; 
 That element may meet thy smile, 
 
 It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
 Or trace with thine all idle hand 
 In loitering mood upon the sand 
 
 That earth is now as free ! 
 That Corinth's pedagogue hath now 
 Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 
 
 15. 
 Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage * 
 What thoughts will there be thine, 
 While brooding in thy prison'd rage? 
 But one — " The world was mine !" 
 Unless, like he of Babylon, 
 All sense is with thy sceptre gone, 
 
 Life will not long confine 
 That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 
 So long obey'd — so little worth ! 
 
 16. 
 Or like the thief of fire from heaven, ^ 
 
 Wilt thou wth stand the shock ? 
 And share with him, the unforgiven, 
 
 His vulture and his rock ! 
 Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst. 
 And that last act, though not thy worst, 
 
 The very Fiend's arch mock ; ' 
 He in his fall preserved his pride. 
 And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 
 
NOTES TO THE ODE. 
 
 Note 1, page 179, line 18. 
 The rapture of the strife. 
 Certaminis gaudia, the expression of Attila in his 
 harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Cha- 
 lons, given in Cassiodorus. 
 
 Note 2, page 179, line 35. 
 He who of old would rend the oak. 
 
 Milo. 
 
 Sylla. 
 
 Note 3, page 179, line 44. 
 The Roman, when his burning heart. 
 
 Note 4, page 179, line 53. 
 The Spaniard, when the lust of sway. 
 Charles V. 
 
 Note 5, page 179, line 116. 
 
 Thmi Timour ! in his captivis cage. 
 
 The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. 
 
 Note 6, page 179, line 125. 
 
 O like the thief of fire from heaven. 
 
 Prometheus. 
 
 Note 7, page 179, line 131. 
 The very fiends arch mock. 
 
 " The fiend's arch mock — 
 To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste." — 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 MONODY 
 
 ON THE 
 
 DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN. 
 
 SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE. 
 
 When the last sunshine of expiring day 
 
 In summer's tmlight weeps itself away, 
 
 Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 
 
 Sinlc on the heart, as dew along the flower ? 
 
 With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 
 
 While Nature makes that melancholy pause, 
 
 Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time 
 
 Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime. 
 
 Who hath not shared tliat calm so still and deep, 
 
 The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep, 
 
 A holy concord — and a bright regret^ 
 
 A glorious sympathy with suns that set ? 
 
 'T is not harsh sorrow — but a tenderer wo. 
 
 Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, 
 
 Felt without bitterness — but full and clear, 
 
 A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 
 
 Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, 
 
 Shed without shame — and secret without pain. 
 
 Even as the tenderness that hour instils 
 
 When Summer's day declines along the hills, 
 
 So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes 
 
 IVhen all of Genius which can perish dies. 
 
 A mighty Spirit is eclips'd — a Power 
 
 Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whose hour 
 
 Of light no likeness is bequeath'd — no name, 
 
 Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ! 
 
 The flash of Wit — the bright Intelligence, 
 
 The beam of Song — the blaze of Eloquence, 
 
 Set with their Sun — but still have left behind 
 
 The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 
 
 Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
 
 A deathless part of him who died too soon. 
 
 But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 
 
 These sparkhng segments of that circling soul, 
 
 Wliich all embraced — and lighten'd over all, 
 
 To cheer — to pierce— to please — or to appal. 
 
 From the charm'd council to the festive board. 
 
 Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 
 
 In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, [pride. 
 
 The praised— the proud— who made his praise their 
 
 When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan* 
 
 Arose to heaven in her appeal from man, 
 
 His was the thunder — his the avenging rod, 
 
 The wrath — the delegated voice of God ! 
 
 Which shook the nations through his Hps — and blazed 
 
 Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. 
 
 And here, oh! here, where yet all young and warm 
 
 The gay creations of liis spirit charm, 
 
 The matchless dialogue — the deathless wit, 
 
 Wliich knew not what it was to intermit ; 
 
 The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that biing 
 
 Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring ; 
 
 These v/ondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought 
 
 To fulness by the fiat of his thought, 
 
 Here in their first abode you still may meet. 
 
 Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat ; 
 
 A halo of the light of other days, 
 
 Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. 
 
 But should there be to whom the fatal blight 
 Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight. 
 Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 
 Jar in the music which was born their owti, 
 Still let them pause — Ah ! little do they know 
 That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Wo. 
 Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
 Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise ; 
 Repose denies her requiem to his name, 
 And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
 The secret enemy wiiose sleepless eye 
 Stands sentinel — accuser — -judge — and spy. 
 The foe — the fool — the jealous — and the vain, 
 The envious who but breathe m. others' pain, 
 Behold the host! delighting to deprave, 
 Who track the steps of Glory to the grave. 
 
 * See Fox, Burke, and Rtt's eulogy on Mr. Sheridan's speech on the 
 charges exhibited against Mr. Hastings in the House of Commons. Mr. 
 Pitt entreated the House to adjourn, to give time for a calmer conside- 
 ration of the question than could then occur after the immediate effect 
 of that oration. 
 
LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 
 181 
 
 Watch every fault that daring Genius owes 
 
 Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, 
 
 Distort the trutlT, accumulate the lie, 
 
 And pile the Pyramid of Calumny! 
 
 These are his portion — but if join'd to these 
 
 Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, 
 
 If the high Spu-it must forget to soar, 
 
 And stoop to strive with Misery at the door, 
 
 To sooth Indignity — and face to face 
 
 Meet sordid Rage — and wrestle with Disgrace, 
 
 To find in Hope but the renew'd caress, 
 
 The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness, — 
 
 If such may be the Ills which men assail, 
 
 What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? 
 
 Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given 
 
 Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from Heaven, 
 
 Black with the rude collision, inly torn. 
 
 By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, 
 
 Driven o'er the lowerbg atmosphere that nurst [burst. 
 
 Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder — scorch — and 
 
 But far from us and from our mimic scene 
 
 Such thmgs should be — if such have ever been ; 
 
 Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, 
 
 To give the tribute Glory need not ask, 
 
 To mourn the vanish'd beam- — and add our mite 
 Of praise in pajonent of a long delight. 
 Ye Orators ! whom yet our councils yield, 
 Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field ! 
 I The worthy rival of the wondrous Three !* 
 Whose words were sparks of Immortality ! 
 Ye Bards ! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear, 
 He was your Mcister — emulate him here ! 
 Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 
 He was your brother — bear his ashes hence ! 
 While Powers of mind, almost of boundless range, 
 Complete in kind — as various in their change, 
 While Eloquence— Wit — Poesy — and Mirth, 
 That humble Harmonist of care on Earth, 
 Survive within our souls — while hves our sense 
 Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence. 
 Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain, 
 And turn to all of him v/hich may remain. 
 Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man, 
 And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan ! 
 
 Fox— Pitt— Burke. 
 
 THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 
 At Ferrara (in the library) are preserved the original 
 MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of Guarini's Pastor 
 Fido, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto ; 
 and the inkstand and chair, tlie tomb and the house of the 
 latter. But as misfortune has a greater interest for pos- 
 terity, and little or none for the contemporary, the cell 
 where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna at- 
 tracts a more fLKcd altemion than the residence or the 
 monument of Ariosto — at least it had this effect on me. 
 There are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the 
 second over the cell itself^ inviting, unnecessarily, tlie 
 wonder and the indignation of the spectator, Ferrara is 
 much decayed, and depopulated ; the castle still exists en- 
 tire ; and I saw the court where ParisLna and Hugo were 
 beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon. 
 
 Long years! — It tries the thrilhng frame to bear 
 And eagle-spirit of a Child of Song — 
 Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong ; 
 Imputed madness, prison'd sohtude, 
 And the mind's canker in its savage mood, 
 When tlie impatient thirst of light and air 
 Parches the heart ; and the abhorred grate, 
 Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade. 
 Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain 
 With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 
 And bare, at once. Captivity display'd 
 Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate, 
 Which nothing through its bars admits, save day 
 And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 
 Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 
 And I can banquet like a beast of prey, 
 Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 
 Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave. 
 All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear. 
 But must be borne. 1 stoop not to despair; 
 For I have battled with mine agony, 
 And made me wings wherewith to overfly 
 The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 
 And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall 5 
 
 And revell'd am.ong men and things divine, 
 
 And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 
 
 In honour of the sacred war for him, 
 
 The God who was on earth and is in heaven, 
 
 For he hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb. 
 
 That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 
 
 I have employed my penance to record 
 
 How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored. 
 
 But this is o'er — my pleasant task is done: — 
 
 My long-sustaining friend of many years ! 
 
 If I do blot thy final page with tears, 
 
 Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none. 
 
 But thou, my young creation ! my soul's child ! 
 
 Which ever plaj'ing round me came and smiled, 
 
 And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight, 
 
 Thou too art gone — and so is my deUght : 
 
 And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 
 
 With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 
 
 Thou too art ended — what is lefc me now ? 
 
 For I have anguish yet to bear — and how ? 
 
 I know not that — but in the innate force 
 
 Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 
 
 I have not sunk, for I had no remorse. 
 
 Nor cause for such : they caJl'd me mad — and why ? 
 
 Oh Leonora ! wilt not thou reply ? 
 
 I was indeed delirious in my heart 
 
 To Uft my love so lofty as thou art ; 
 
 But still my phrensy was not of the mind ; 
 
 I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 
 
 Not less because I suffer it unbent. 
 
 That thou wert beautiful, and I not bhnd. 
 
 Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind ; 
 
 But let them go, or torture as they will, 
 
 My heart can multiply thine image still ; 
 
 Successful love may sate itself away. 
 
 The wretched are the faithful ; 't is their fate 
 
 To have all feeling save the one decay 
 
 And every passion into one dilate, 
 
 As rapid rivers into ocean pour; 
 
 But ours is fathomless, and hath no shoi-e. 
 
182 
 
 LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 
 Above me, hark ! tlie long and maniac cry 
 
 Of minds and bodies in captivity. 
 
 And hark ! the lash and the increasing howl, 
 
 And tlie half-inarticulate blasphemy ! 
 
 There be some here with worse than phrensy foul, 
 
 Some who do still goad on the o'er-labour'd mind. 
 
 And dim the little Ught that 's left behind 
 
 With needless torture, as their tyrants will 
 
 Is wound up to the lust of doing ill : 
 
 With these and with their victims ain I class'd, 
 
 'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pass'd 
 
 'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close : 
 
 So let it be — for then I shall repose. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I have been patient, let me be so yet ; 
 
 I had forgotten half I would forget, 
 
 But it revives — oh ! would it were my lot 
 
 To be forgetful as I am forgot ! — 
 
 Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 
 
 In this vast lazar-house of many woes ? 
 
 Where laiighter is not mirthj nor thought the mind, 
 
 Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind ; 
 
 Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, 
 
 And each is tortured in his separate hell — 
 
 For we are crowded in our solitudes — 
 
 Many, but each divided by the wall. 
 
 Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods ; — 
 
 While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's call — 
 
 None ! save that One, the veriest wretch of all. 
 
 Who was not made to be the mate of these, 
 
 Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. 
 
 Feel I not wi-oth with those who placed me here ? 
 
 Who have debased nie in the minds of men, 
 
 Debarrmg me the usage of my own, 
 
 BHghting my life in best of its career, 
 
 Brandmg my thoughts as things to shun and fear? 
 
 Would I not pay them back these pangs again. 
 
 And teach them inward sorrov^^s stifled groan ? 
 
 The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, 
 
 Which undermines our Stoical success ? 
 
 No ! — still too proud to be Aandictive — I 
 
 Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die. 
 
 Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake 
 
 I weed all bitterness from out my breast, 
 
 [t hath no business where thou art a guest 5 
 
 Thy brother hates — but I can not detest ; 
 
 Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 
 
 V. 
 
 Look on a love which Imows not to despair, 
 But aU unquench'd is still my better part. 
 Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart 
 As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
 Encompass'd with its dark and roUmg shroud. 
 Till struck, — forth flies the all-ethereal dart ! 
 And thus at the collision of thy name 
 The vivid thought still flashes through my fram_e, 
 And for a moment all things as they were 
 Flit by me ; — they are gone — I am the same. 
 And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
 I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
 A princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 
 I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
 Suflicient to itself, its own reward ; 
 And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas ! 
 Were punish'd by the silentness of thine, 
 And yet I did not venture to repine. 
 Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
 Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
 Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground ; 
 Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love 
 Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
 Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd — 
 Oh ! not dismay'd — but awed, Uke One above ; 
 
 And in that sweet severity there was 
 A something which all softness did surpass — 
 I know not how — thy genius master'd mine — 
 My star stood still before thee : — if it were 
 Presumptuous tlnus to love without design, 
 That sad fatality hath cost me dear ; 
 But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
 Fit for this cell, which wrongs me, but for thee. 
 The very love which Ipck'd me to my chain 
 Hath lighten'd half its weight ; and for the rest, 
 Though heavy, lent me \'igour to sustain, 
 And look to thee with undivided breast 
 And foil the ingenuity of Pain. 
 
 YI. 
 
 It is no marvel — from my very birth 
 
 My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade 
 
 And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth ; 
 
 Of objects all inanimate I made 
 
 Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, 
 
 And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise. 
 
 Where I did lay me down within the shade 
 
 Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours, 
 
 Though I was chid for wandering ; and the wise 
 
 Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 
 
 Of such materials wretched men were made, 
 
 And such a truant boy would end in wo, 
 
 And that the only lesson was a blow ; 
 
 And then they smote me, and I did not weep, 
 
 But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 
 
 Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again 
 
 The visions which arise without a sleep. 
 
 And with my years my soul began to pant 
 
 With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain ; 
 
 And the whole heart exlialed into One Want, 
 
 But undefined and wandering, till the day 
 
 I found the thing I sought, and that was thee ; 
 
 And then I lost my being all to be 
 
 Absorb'd in thine— the world was past away — 
 
 Thou didst annihilate the earth to me ! 
 
 T loved all solitude— but little thought 
 To spend I know not what of life, remote 
 From all communion with existence, save 
 The maniac and his tyrant ; had I been 
 Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
 My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave. 
 But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave ? 
 Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
 Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore ; 
 The world is all before hun — mine is here, 
 Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. 
 What though he perish, he may lift his eye 
 And with a dying glance upbraid the sky — 
 I will not raise my own in such reproof, 
 Although 't is clouded by my dungeon roof. 
 
 Yet do I feel at times my mind decline, 
 But with a sense of its decay : — I see 
 Unwonted lights along my prison shine, 
 And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
 With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 
 The feeling of the healthful and the free ; 
 But much to One, who long hath suffer'd so, 
 Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place. 
 And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
 I thought mine enemies had been but man, 
 But spirits may be leagued with them — all Earth 
 Abandons — Heaven forgets me ; — in the dearth 
 Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, 
 It may be, tempt me further, and prevail 
 Against the outworn creature they assail. 
 WTiy in this furnace is my spirit proved 
 Like steel in tempering fire ? because I loved ? 
 
 
POEMS. 
 
 183 
 
 Because 1 loved what not to love, £ind see, 
 Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 
 
 I once was quick in feeling — that is o'er ; — 
 
 My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd 
 
 My brain against these bars as the sun flash'd 
 
 In mockery through them ; — if I bear and bore 
 
 The much I have recounted, and the more 
 
 Which hath no words, 'tis that I would not die 
 
 And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie 
 
 Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame 
 
 Stamp madness deep into my memory, 
 
 And woo compassion to a blighted name. 
 
 Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 
 
 No — it shall be immortal ! — and I make 
 
 A future temple of my present cell. 
 
 Which nations yet shall visit for my sake. 
 
 While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dwell 
 
 The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down, 
 
 And crumbling piecemeal view thy heartless halls, 
 
 A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown. 
 
 A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, 
 
 While strangers wonder o'er thy impeopled walls ! 
 
 And thou, Leonora ! thou — who wert ashamed 
 
 That such as I could love — who blush'd to hear 
 
 To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, 
 
 Go ! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed 
 
 By griefj years, weariness — and it may be 
 
 A taint of that he would impute to me — 
 
 From long infection of a den like this, 
 
 Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss. 
 
 Adores thee still ; — and add — that when the towers 
 
 And battlements which guard his joyous houi's 
 
 Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot, 
 
 Or left untended in a dull repose. 
 
 This — this shall be a consecrated spot ! 
 
 But Thou— when all that Birth and Beauty throws 
 
 Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 
 
 One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 
 
 No power in death can tear our names apart, 
 
 As none in life could rend thee from my heart. 
 
 Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate 
 
 To be entwined for ever — but too late ! 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 1. 
 
 As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 
 
 Some name arrests the passer-by ; 
 Thus, when thou view'st tliis page alone, 
 
 May mine attract thy pensive eye ! 
 2. 
 And when by thee that name is read, 
 
 Perchance in some succeeding year, 
 Reflect on me as on the dead. 
 
 And think my heart is buried here. 
 
 September 14<A, 
 
 TO *** 
 
 Oh Lady ! when I left the shore, 
 
 The distant shore, which gave me birth, ^ 
 I hardly thought to grieve once more. 
 
 To quit another spot on earth : 
 Yet here, amidst this barren isle, 
 
 Where panting Nature droops the head, 
 Where only thou art seen to smile, 
 
 I view my parting hour with dread. 
 Though far from Albin's craggy shore, 
 
 Divided by the dark-blue main ; 
 A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er, 
 
 Perchance I view her cliffs again : 
 But wheresoe'er I now may roam. 
 
 Through scorching clime, and varied sea, 
 Though Time restore me to my home, 
 
 I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 
 On thee, in whom at once conspire 
 
 All charms which heedless hearts can move, 
 Whom but to see is to admire, 
 
 And, oh! forgive the word — to love. 
 Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 
 
 With such a word can more offend; 
 And since thy heart I camaot share, 
 
 Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 
 And who so cold as look on thee. 
 
 Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less ? 
 
 Nor be, what man should ever be. 
 
 The friend of Beauty in distress? 
 Ah ! who would think that form had past 
 
 Tb'ough Danger's most destructive patli. 
 Hath braved the Death-wing'd tempest's blast, 
 
 And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath? 
 Lady ! when I shall view the walls 
 
 Where fiee Byzantium once arose ; 
 And Stamboul's Oriental halls 
 
 The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 
 Thou mightiest in the Usts of fame. 
 
 That glorious city still shall be ; 
 On me 't will hold a dearer claim, 
 
 As spot of thy nativity : 
 And though I bid thee now farewell. 
 
 When I behold that wond'rous scene. 
 Since where thou art I may not dwell, 
 
 'T will sooth to be, where thou hast been. 
 
 September^ 1809. 
 
 STANZAS 
 WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN 
 
 GULF. 
 
 NOVEMBER 14, 1809. 
 1. 
 
 Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen. 
 Full beams the moon on Actium's coast : 
 
 And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, 
 The ancient world was won and lost. 
 
 And now upon the scene I look. 
 The a2xire grave of many a Roman ; 
 
 Where stern Ambition once forsook 
 His wavering crown to follow woman. 
 
 3. 
 
 Florence ! whom I will love as well 
 As ever yet was said or sung, 
 
 (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell) 
 Whilst thou art fair and I am young ; 
 
184 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant times, 
 When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes : 
 
 Had bards as many realms as rhymes, 
 Thy charms might raise new Anthonies. 
 
 5. 
 Though Fate forbids such things to be, 
 
 Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd ! 
 I cannot lose a world for thee, 
 
 But would not lose thee for a world. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 COMPOSED OCTOBER llTH, 1809, DURING THE NIGHT, IN 
 A THUNDER-STORM, WHEN THE GUIDES HAD LOST THE 
 ROAD TO ZITZA, NEAR THE RANGE OF MOUNTAINS FOR- 
 MERLY CALLED PINDUS, IN ALBANIA. 
 
 1 
 
 Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, 
 
 Where Pindus' mountains rise, 
 And angry clouds are pouring fast 
 
 The vengeance of the skies. 
 
 Our guides are gone, our hope is lost. 
 
 And lightnings, as they play. 
 But show where rocks our path have crost, 
 
 Or gild the torrent's spray. 
 
 3. 
 
 Is yon a cot I saw, though low? 
 
 When lightning broke the gloom — 
 How welcome were its shade! — ah, no! 
 
 'Tis but a Turkish tomb. 
 
 Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 
 
 I hear a voice exclaim — 
 My way-worn countr}Tnan, who calls 
 
 On distant England's name. 
 
 5. 
 
 A shot is fired — by foe or friend? 
 
 Another — 'tis to tell 
 The mountain-peasants to descend, 
 
 And lead us where they dwell. 
 
 Oh ! who in such a night vail dare 
 
 To tempt the wilderness ? 
 And who 'mid thunder peals can hear 
 
 Our signal of distress? 
 
 And who that heard our shouts would rise 
 
 To try the dubious road? 
 Nor rather deem from nightly cries 
 
 That outlaws were abroad. 
 
 Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour ! 
 
 More fiercely pours the storm ! 
 Yet here one thought has still the power 
 
 To keep my bosom warm. 
 
 9. 
 While wand'ring through each broken path, 
 
 O'er brake and craggy brow ; 
 While elements exhaust their wrath, 
 
 Sweet Florence, where art thou ? 
 
 10. 
 
 Not on the sea, not on the sea, 
 Thy bark hath long been gone : 
 
 Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 
 Bow down my head alone ! 
 
 11. 
 
 Full swiftly blew tlie swift Siroc, 
 When last I press 'd thy lip ; 
 
 And long ere now. with foaming shock, 
 Impell'd thy gallant ship. 
 
 12. 
 
 Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now 
 Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 
 
 'T were hard if aught so fair as thou 
 Should Imger on the main. 
 
 13. 
 
 And since I now remember thee 
 
 In darkness and in dread. 
 As in those hours of revelry 
 
 Which mirth and music sped ; 
 14. 
 Do thou amidst the fair white walls, 
 
 If Cadiz yet be free. 
 At times fi-om out her latticed halls 
 
 Look o'er the dark-blue sea ; 
 15. 
 Then think upon Calypso's isles, 
 
 Endear'd by days gone by ; 
 To others give a thousand smiles. 
 
 To me a single sigh. 
 
 16. 
 
 And when the admiring circle mark 
 
 The paleness of thy face, 
 A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 
 
 Of melancholy grace, 
 
 17 
 
 Again thou 'It smile, and blushing shun 
 
 Some coxcomb's raillery ; 
 Nor own for once thou thought'st of one, 
 
 Who ever thinks on thee. 
 
 18. 
 Though smile and sigh alike are vain, 
 
 When sever'd hearts repine, 
 My spirit flies o'er mount and main. 
 
 And mourns in search of thine. 
 
 WRITTEN AT ATHENS, 
 
 JANUARY 16, 1810. 
 
 The spell is broke, the charm is Qovm ! 
 
 Thus is it with life's fitful fever : 
 We madly smile when we should groan 5 
 
 Delirium is our best deceiver. 
 Each lucid interval of thought 
 
 Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, 
 And he that acts as wise men ought, 
 
 But Uves, as saints have died, a martyr. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM 
 
 SESTOS TO ABYDOS,^ 
 
 MAY 9, 1810. 
 
 1. 
 
 If, in the month of dark December, 
 
 Leander, who was nightly wont 
 (What maid wall not the tale remember ?) 
 To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 
 
 2. 
 If, when the vdntry tempest roar'd, 
 
 He sped to Hero, nothing loth. 
 And thus of old thy current pour'd, 
 
 Fair Venas ! how I pity both ! 
 
POEMS. 
 
 185 
 
 For me, degenerate modern \Mretch, 
 Though in the genial month of May, 
 
 My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, 
 And think I 've done a feat to-day. 
 
 4. 
 But since he cross'd the rapid tide, 
 
 According to the doubtflil story, 
 To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside, 
 
 And swam for Love, as I for Glory ; 
 
 5. 
 'T were hard to say who fared the best; 
 
 Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you I 
 He lost his labour, I my jest: 
 
 For he was drown 'd, and I 've the ague. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Zdr/ jxov, ads ayairia.^ 
 
 ATHENS, 1810. 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part. 
 Give, oh, give me back my heart ! 
 Or, since that has left my breast, 
 Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
 Hear my vow before I go, 
 Z(jjt] fjiov, ffds dyaTTw. 
 
 2. 
 By those tresses unconfined, 
 Woo'd by each ^gean wind; 
 By those lids whose jetty fringe 
 Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
 By those wild eyes like the roe, 
 Zwt] jxov, ads dyaTTW. 
 
 3. 
 By that lip I long to taste ; 
 By that zone-encircled waist ; 
 By all the token-flowers ' that tell 
 What worfs can never speak so well ; 
 By Love's alternate joy and wo, 
 Zdri novf ads ayai:(o» 
 
 4. 
 Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
 Thmk of me, sweet ! when alone. 
 Though I fly to Istambol,* 
 Athens holds my heart and soul : 
 Can I cease to love thee ? No I 
 Zw»7 nou, ads ayania. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK 
 WAR SONG, 
 
 A£6rf TTaUes riiv 'KW/jvoify 
 
 WKITTBN BY BIGA, WHO PERISHED IN THE ATTEMPT TO 
 REVOLUTIONIZE GREECE. THE FOLLOWING TRANSLATION 
 IS AS LITERAL AS THE AUTHOR COULD MAKE IT IN VERSE: 
 IT IS OP THE SAME MEASURE AS THAT OF THE ORIGINAL. 
 SEE PAGE 52. 
 
 1. 
 
 Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 
 
 The glorious hour's gone forth, 
 And, worthy of such ties. 
 
 Display who gave us birth. 
 
 CHORXTS. 
 
 Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
 In arms against the foe, 
 Till their hated blood shall flow 
 In a river past our feet. 
 
 2. 
 
 Then manfully despising 
 
 The Turkish tyrant's yoke. 
 Let your country see you rising, 
 
 And all her chains are broke, 
 Y 
 
 Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 
 
 Behold the coming strife I 
 Hellenes of past ages. 
 
 Oh start again to life ! 
 At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 
 
 Your sleep, oh, join with me ! 
 And the seven-hiird ^ city seeking. 
 
 Fight, conquer, till we 're free. 
 
 Sons of Greeks, &c. 
 
 3. 
 
 Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 
 
 Lethargic dost thou lie ? 
 Awake, and join thy numbers 
 
 With Athens, old ally ! 
 Leonidas recalling, 
 
 That chief of ancient song, 
 Who saved ye once from falling. 
 
 The terrible ! the strong ! 
 Who made that bold diversion 
 
 In old Thermopylaj, 
 And warring with the Persian 
 
 To keep his country free ; 
 With his three hundred waging 
 
 The battle, long he stood, 
 And like a lion raging, 
 
 Expired ui seas of blood. 
 
 Sons of Greeks, &.c. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG, 
 
 " Mnevu) jies Vcr' irepipo'Xi 
 '^paioTarri Xdr/d}}" &c. 
 
 THE SONG FROM WHICH THIS IS TAKEN IS A GREAT FA- 
 VOURITE WITH THE YOUNG GIRLS OF ATHENS, OF ALI 
 CLASSES. THEIR MANNER OF SlNGIxVC, IT IS BY VERSES 
 IN ROTATION, THE WHOLE NUMBER PRESENT JOINING IN 
 THE CHORUS. I HAVE HEARD IT FREQUENTLY AT OUR 
 " ;t«*P<"" I^ THE WINTER OF 1310-11. THE AIR IS PLAIN- 
 TIVE AND PRETTY. 
 
 I. 
 
 I enter thy garden of roses, 
 
 Beloved and fair Haidee, 
 Each morning where Flora reposes, 
 
 For surely I see her in thee. 
 Oh, Lovely ! thus low I implore thee. 
 
 Receive this fond truth from my tongue, 
 Which utters its song to adore thee, 
 
 Yet trembles for what it has sung ; 
 As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, 
 
 Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree. 
 Through her eyes, through her every feature. 
 
 Shines the soul of the young Haidee. 
 
 2. 
 But the loveliest garden grows hateful 
 
 When Love has abandon 'd the bowers ; 
 Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful. 
 
 That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
 The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, 
 
 Will deeply imbitter the bowl ; 
 But when drunk to escape from thy malice, 
 
 The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 
 Too cruel ! in vain I unpiore thee 
 
 My heart from these horrors to save : 
 Will naught to my bosom restore thee ? 
 
 Then open the gates of the grave, 
 
 3, 
 
 As the cliief who to combat advances 
 
 Secure of his conquest before. 
 Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 
 
 Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
 Ah, tell me, my soul '. must I perish 
 
 By pangs which a smile would dispel .' 
 Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish, 
 
 For torture repay me too well ? 
 
186 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Now sad is the garden of roses, 
 
 Beloved but false Haidee ! 
 There Flora all wither'd reposes, 
 
 And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 
 
 WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 
 
 Dear object of defeated care! 
 
 Though not of Love and thee bereft, 
 To reconcile me with despair 
 
 Thine image and my tears are left. 
 2. 
 'T is said with Sorrow Time can cope 5 
 
 But this I feel can ne'er be true : 
 For by the death-blow of my Hope 
 
 My Memory immortcil grew. 
 
 ON PARTING. 
 
 The kiss, deai- maid ! thy lip has left, 
 
 Shall never part from mine, 
 Till happier hours restore the gift 
 
 Untainted back to thine. 
 2. 
 Thy partmg glance, which fondly beams. 
 
 An equal love may see : 
 The tear that from thine eyelid streams 
 
 Can weep no change in me. 
 3. 
 I ask no pledge to make me blest 
 
 In gazing when alone ; 
 Nor one memorial for a breast, 
 
 Whose thoughts are all thine own. 
 4. 
 Nor need I write— to tell the tale 
 
 My pen were doubly weak : 
 Oh ! what can idle words avail. 
 
 Unless the heart could speak? 
 5. 
 By day or night, m weal or wo. 
 
 That heart, no longer free, 
 Must bear the love it caimot show 
 
 And silent ache for thee. 
 
 TO THYRZA. 
 Without a stone to mark the spot, 
 
 And say, what truth might well have said, 
 By all, save one, perchance forgot. 
 
 Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid ? 
 By many a shore and many a sea 
 
 Divided, yet beloved in vain ; 
 The past, the future fled to thee 
 
 To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! 
 Could this have been — a word, a look 
 
 That softly said, "We part in peace," 
 Had taught my bosom how to brook. 
 
 With fainter si^s, thy soul's release. 
 And didst thou not, since Death for thee 
 
 Prepared a light and pangless dart, 
 Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see. 
 
 Who held, and holds thee in his heart ? 
 Oh ! who like him had watch'd thee here ? 
 
 Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye. 
 In that dread hour ere death appear. 
 
 When silent sorrow fears to sigh, 
 TiU all was past? But when no more 
 
 'T was thine to reck of human wo, 
 
 Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, 
 
 Had flovv'd as fast — as now they flow. 
 Shall they not flow, when many a day 
 
 In these, to me, deserted towers, 
 Ere call'd but for a time away, 
 
 Afl'ection's mingling tears were ours? 
 Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 
 
 The smile none else might understand ; 
 The whisper'd thought of hearts allied. 
 
 The pressure of the thrilling hand ; 
 The kiss, so guiltless and refined 
 
 That Love each warmer wish forbore ; 
 Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, 
 
 Even passion blush'd to plead for more. 
 The tone, that taught me to rejoice. 
 
 When prone, unlike thee to repine ; 
 The song, celestial from thy voice. 
 
 But sweet to me from none but thine; 
 The pledge we wore — I wear it still. 
 
 But where is thme? — ah, where art thou? 
 Oft have I borne the weight of ill. 
 
 But never bent beneath till now ! 
 Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 
 
 The cup of wo for me to dram. 
 If rest alone be in the tomb, 
 
 I would not wish thee here again ; ' 
 But if in worlds more blest than this 
 
 Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere. 
 Impart some portion of thy bliss. 
 
 To ween me from mine anguish here. 
 Teach me — too early taught by thee! 
 
 To bear, forgiving and forgiven 
 On eai-th thy love was such to me ; 
 
 It fain would form my hope in heaven ! 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 1. 
 
 Away, away, ye notes of wo . 
 
 Be silent, thou once soothing strain, 
 Or I must flee from hence, for, oh ! 
 
 I dare not trust those sounds again. 
 To me they speak of brighter days — 
 
 But lull the chords, for now, alas ! 
 I must not think, I may not gaze 
 
 On what I am — on what I was. 
 2. 
 The voice tliat made those soimds more sweet 
 
 Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled ; 
 And now their softest notes repeat 
 
 A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! 
 Yes, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee, 
 
 Beloved dust ! since dust thou art ; 
 And all that once was harmony 
 
 Is worse than discord to my heart! 
 
 3. 
 
 'T is silent all ! — but on my ear 
 
 The well-remember'd echoes thrill ; 
 I hear a voice I would not hear, 
 
 A voice that now might well be still : 
 Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake ; 
 
 Even slumber o^vns its gentie tone. 
 Till consciousness will vainly wake 
 
 To listen, though the dream be flown. 
 
 4. 
 Sweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep. 
 
 Thou art but now a lovely drea'm ; 
 A star that trembled o'er the deep, 
 
 Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. 
 But he, who through life's dreary way 
 
 Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wratn. 
 Will long lament the vanish'd ray 
 
 That scattered gladness o'er his path. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 187 
 
 TO THYRZA. 
 1. 
 
 One struggle more, and I am free 
 
 From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; 
 One last long sigh to love and thee 
 
 Then back to busy life again. 
 It suits me well to mingle now 
 
 With things that never pleased before : 
 Though every joy is fled below, 
 
 Wliat future grief can touch me more ? 
 
 9. 
 
 Then bring me vnne, the banquet bring 
 
 Man was not form'd to live alone : 
 I '11 be that light unmeaning thing 
 
 That smiles with all, and weeps \vith none. 
 It was not thus in days more dear. 
 
 It never would have been, but thou 
 Hast fled, and left me lonely here ; 
 
 Thou'rt nothing, all are nothing now. 
 3. 
 In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 
 
 The smile that sorrow fain would wear 
 But mocks the wo that lurks beneath. 
 
 Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
 Though gay companions o'er the bowl 
 
 Dispel awhile the sense of ill; 
 Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 
 
 The heart — the heart is lonely still ! 
 4. 
 On many a lone and lovely night 
 
 It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky ; 
 For then I deem'd the heavenly light 
 
 Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : 
 And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 
 
 When sailing o'er the ^gean wave, 
 " Now Thyrza gazes on tliat moon — ' 
 
 Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave ! 
 
 5. 
 
 When stretch d on fever's sleepless bed. 
 
 And sicltness shrunk my ttirobbing veins, 
 " 'T is comfort still," I faintly said, 
 
 " That Thyrza cannot know my pains :" 
 Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 
 
 A boon 'tis idle then to give, 
 Relenting Nature vainly gave. 
 
 My hfe, when Thyrza ceased to live ! 
 6. 
 My Thyrza's pledge in better days, 
 
 When love and life alike were new ! 
 How different now tliou meet'st my gaze ! 
 
 How tinged by time with sorrow's hue ! 
 The heart tliat gave itself with thee 
 
 Is silent — ah, were mine as still ! 
 Though cold as e'en the dead can be, 
 
 It feels, it sickens with the chill. 
 7. 
 Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! 
 
 Though painful, welcome to ray breast ! 
 Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, 
 
 Or break the heart to which thou 'rt prest ! 
 Time tempers love, but not removes. 
 
 More hallow'd when its hope is fled : 
 Oh ! what are thousand living loves 
 
 To that which cannot quit the dead ? 
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
 The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead. 
 
 Oblivion ! may thy languid wdng 
 Wave gently o'er my dying bed! 
 
 2. 
 No band of friends or heirs be there. 
 
 To weep, or wish, the coming blow : 
 No maiden, with dishevell'd haii*, 
 
 To feel, or feign, decorous wo. 
 
 3. 
 
 But silent let me sink to Earth, 
 With no officious mourners near : 
 
 I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
 Nor startle friendship with a fear, 
 
 4, 
 Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 
 
 Could nobly check its useless sighs, 
 Might then exert its latest power 
 
 In her who lives and him who dies. 
 
 'T were sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 
 
 Thy features still serene to see : 
 Forgetful of its struggles past, 
 
 E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 
 
 But vain the wish — for Beauty still 
 
 Will shrmk, as shrinks the ebbing breath ; 
 
 And woman's tears, produced at will, 
 Deceive in life, unman in death. 
 
 Then lonely be my latest hour, 
 Without regret, without a groan ! 
 
 For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, 
 And pain been transient or unknown. 
 
 8. 
 " Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 
 
 Where all have gone, and all must go! 
 To be the nothing that I was 
 
 Ere born to life and living wo ! 
 
 9. 
 Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
 
 Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 
 And know, whatever thou hast been 
 
 'T is something better not to be. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 HEU aUANTO MINUS EST CUM RELiaUIS VERSA RI «,UAM 
 
 TUI MEMINISSE." 
 
 1. 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair 
 
 As aught of mortal birth ; 
 And form so soft, and charms so rare. 
 
 Too soon return'd to Earth ! 
 Though Earth received them in her bed, 
 And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 
 
 In carelessness or mirth. 
 There is an eye which could not brook 
 A moment on that grave to look. 
 
 I will not ask where thou Uest low 
 
 Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
 There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 
 
 So I behold them not : 
 It is enough for me to prove 
 That what I loved and long must love 
 
 Like common earth can rot ; 
 To me there needs no stone to tell, 
 'T is Nothing that I loved so well. 
 
188 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Yet did I love thee to the last 
 
 As fervently as thou, 
 Who didst not change through all the past, 
 
 And canst not alter now. 
 The love where Death has set his seal, 
 Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 
 
 Nor falsehood disavow : 
 And, what were worse, thou canst not see, 
 Or wrong, or change, or fault in me, 
 
 4. 
 The better days of hfe were ours ; 
 
 The worst can be but mine : 
 The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 
 
 Shall never more be thine. 
 The silence of that dreamless sleep 
 I envy now too much to weep, 
 
 Nor need I to repine 
 That all those charms have pass'd away ; 
 I might have watch'd through long decay. 
 
 5. 
 The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 
 
 Must fall the earliest prey ; 
 Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 
 
 The leaves must drop away: 
 And yet it were a greater grief 
 To watch it withering, leaf by lea^ 
 
 Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
 Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
 To trace the change to foul from fair. 
 
 6. 
 I know not if I could have borne 
 
 To see thy beauties fade ; 
 The night that foUow'd such a mom 
 
 Had worn a deeper shade : 
 Thy day without a cloud hath past, 
 And thou wert lovely to the last ; 
 
 Extinguish'd, not decay'd ; 
 As stars that shoot along the sky 
 Shine brightest as they fall from high. 
 
 7. 
 As once I wept^ if I could weep, 
 
 My tears might well be shed, 
 To think I was not near to keep 
 
 One vigU o'er thy bed ; 
 To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
 To fold thee in a faint embrace, 
 
 Uphold thy drooping head j 
 And show that love, however vain, 
 Nor thou nor I can feel again. 
 
 8. 
 Yet how much less it were to gain, 
 
 Though thou hast left me free, 
 The loveliest things that still remain, 
 
 Than thus remember thee ! 
 The all of thine that cannot die 
 Through dark and dread Eternity, 
 
 Returns again to me. 
 And more thy buried love endears 
 Than aught^ except its living years. 
 
 STANZAS, 
 1, 
 If sometimes in the haunts of men 
 
 Thine image from my breast may fade, 
 The lonely hour presents again 
 
 The semblance of thy gentle shade : 
 And now that sad and silent hour 
 
 Thus much of thee can still restore, 
 And sorrow unobserved may pour 
 
 The plaint she dare not speak before. 
 
 2. 
 
 Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile, 
 
 I waste one thought I owe to thee, 
 And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile, 
 
 Unfaithful to thy Memory ! 
 Nor deem that memory less dear. 
 
 That then I seem not to repine ; 
 I would not fools should overhear 
 
 One sigh that should be wholly tJdne. 
 3. 
 If not the goblet pass unquaff'd. 
 
 It is not drain'd to banish care ; 
 The cup must hold a deadher draught, 
 
 That brings a Lethe for despair. 
 And could Oblmon set my soul 
 
 From aU her troubled visions free, 
 I 'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 
 
 That drown'd a single thought of thee. 
 4. 
 For wert thou vanish'd from my mind, 
 
 Where could my vacant bosom turn ? 
 And who would then remain behind. 
 
 To honour thine abandon'd Urn? 
 No, no — it is my sorrow's pride 
 
 That last dear duty to fulfil ; 
 Though all the world forget beside, 
 
 'T is meet that I remember still. 
 5. 
 For well I know, that such had been 
 
 Thy gentle care for him, who now 
 Unmoum'd shall quit this mortal scene. 
 
 Where none regarded him, but thou ; 
 And, Oh ! I feel in that was given 
 
 A blessing never meant for me ; 
 Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven, 
 
 For eartlily love to merit thee. 
 
 Mar6h 14th, I8I2. 
 
 ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS 
 
 BROKEN. 
 
 1. 
 
 Ill-fated Heart : and can it be 
 
 That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ? 
 Have years of care for thine and thee 
 
 Alike been all eniploy'd in vain ? 
 2. 
 Yet precious seems each shatter'd part. 
 
 And every fragment dearer grown, 
 Since he who w^ears thee, feels thou art 
 
 A fitter emblem of his own. 
 
 • TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 
 1. 
 
 Few years have pass'd since thou and I 
 Were firmest friends, at least in name, 
 And childhood's gay sincerity 
 
 Preserved our feelings long the same. 
 2. 
 But now:, like me, too well thou know'st 
 
 What trifles oft the heart recall ; 
 And those who once have lov'd the most, 
 Too soon forget they loved at all. 
 3. 
 And such the change the heart displays. 
 
 So frail is early friendship's reign, 
 A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, 
 Will view thy mind estranged again. 
 4. 
 If so, it never shall be mine 
 
 To mourn the loss of such a heart; 
 
 The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, 
 
 Which made thee fickle as thou art. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 189 
 
 As rolls the ocean's changing tide, 
 
 So human feelings ebb and flow ; 
 And who would in a breast confide 
 
 Where stormy passions ever glow ? 
 6. 
 It boots not, that together bred. 
 
 Our childish days were days of joy: 
 My spring of life lias quickly fled ; 
 
 Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. 
 7. 
 And when we bid adieu to youth, 
 
 Slaves to the specious world's control, 
 We sigh a long farewell to truth ; 
 
 That world corrupts the noblest soul. 
 
 8. 
 Ah, joyous season ! when the mind 
 
 Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 
 When thought ere spoke is unconfined, 
 
 And sparkles in the placid eye. 
 
 9. 
 
 Not so in Man s maturer years. 
 When man himself is but a tool ; 
 
 When interest sways our hopes and fears, 
 And aU must love and hate by rule. 
 
 10. 
 
 With fools in kindred vice the same. 
 
 We learn at length our faults to blend ; 
 And those, and those alone, may claim 
 
 The prostituted name of friend. 
 II. 
 Such is tlie common lot of man : 
 
 Can we then 'scape from folly free? 
 Can we reverse the general plan, 
 
 Nor be what all in turn must be ? 
 12. 
 No, for myself, so dark ray fate 
 
 Through every turn of life hath been ; 
 Man and the world I so much hate, 
 
 I care not when I quit the scene. 
 
 13. 
 
 But thou, with spirit frail and light, 
 Wilt shine awhile and pass away ; 
 
 As glow-worms sparkle through the night, 
 But dare not stand the test of day. 
 
 14. 
 
 Alas ! whenever folly calls 
 
 Where parasites and princes meet, 
 
 (For cherish'd first in royal halls, 
 The welcome vices kindly greet,) 
 
 15. 
 Ev'n now thou 'rt nightly seen to add 
 
 One insect to the fluttering crowd ; 
 And still thy trifling heart is glad 
 
 To join the vain, and court the proud. 
 
 16. 
 
 There dost thou gUde from fair to fair, 
 
 Still simpering on with eager haste. 
 As flies along the gay parterre, 
 ■ That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. 
 
 17. 
 But say, what nymph wiU prize the flame 
 
 Which seems, as marshy vapours move. 
 To flit along from dame to dame, 
 
 An ignis-fatuus gleam of love ? 
 18. 
 What friend for thee, howe'er inclined, 
 
 Will deign to own a kindred care 1 
 Who will debase his manly mind. 
 
 For friendship every fool may share ? 
 
 19. 
 In time forbear ; amidst the throng. 
 
 No more so base a thing be seen; 
 No more so idly pass along : 
 
 Be something, any thing, but — mean. 
 
 •pO ****** 
 
 1. 
 
 Well ! thou art happy, and I feel 
 
 That I should thus be happy too ; 
 For still my heart regards thy weal 
 
 Warmly, as it was wont to do. 
 2. 
 Thy husband 's blest — and 't will impart 
 
 Some pangs to view his happier lot: 
 But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 
 
 Would hate him, if he loved thee not ! 
 3. 
 When late I saw thy favourite child, 
 
 I thought my jealous heart would break; 
 But when th' unconscious infant smiled, 
 
 I Idss'd it for its mother's sake. 
 
 4. 
 I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs. 
 
 Its father in its face to see ; 
 But then it had its mother's eyes. 
 
 And they were aU to love and me. 
 5. 
 Mary, adieu! I must away: 
 
 While thou art blest I '11 not repine , 
 But near thee I can never stay ; 
 
 My heart would soon again be thine. 
 
 6. 
 
 I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 
 Had quench'd at length my boyish flame . 
 
 Nor knew, till seated by thy side. 
 
 My heart in all, save hope, the same. 
 
 7. 
 Yet was I calm : I knew the time 
 
 My breast would thrill before thy look, 
 But now to tremble were a crime — 
 
 We met, and not a nerve was shook. 
 8. 
 I saw thee gaze upon my face. 
 
 Yet meet with no confusion there : 
 One only feeling could'st thou trace ; 
 
 The sullen calmness of despair 
 
 9. 
 
 Away ! away ! my early dream. 
 Remembrance never must awake : 
 
 Oh! where is liCthe's fabled stream? 
 My foolish heart be still, or break. 
 
 FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 In moments to delight devoted, 
 
 " My life !" with tend'rest tone, you cry ; 
 Dear words ! on which my heart had doted, 
 
 If youth could neither fade nor die. 
 To death even hours like these must roll, 
 
 Ah ! then repeat those accents never ; 
 Or change "my life!" into "my soul!" 
 
 Which, like mv love, exists for ever. 
 
 IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. 
 
 When from the heart where Sorrow sits, 
 Her dusky shadow mounts too high, 
 
 And o'er the changing aspect flits. 
 And clouds the brow or fills the eye. 
 
190 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink : 
 My thoughts their dungeon know too well : 
 
 Back to my breast the wanderers shrink, 
 And droop within their silent cell. 
 
 ADDRESS, 
 
 SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, 
 SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1S12. 
 
 In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
 Bow'd to tlie dust, the Drama's tower of pride ; 
 In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
 Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 
 
 Ye who beheld, (oh ! sight admired and mourn'd 
 Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd !) 
 Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven, 
 Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven ; 
 Saw the long column of revolving flames 
 Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 
 While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome, 
 Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home, 
 As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 
 The skies, with lightnings awful as then- oun. 
 Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
 Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall ; 
 Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
 Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle. 
 Know the same favour which the former knew, 
 A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy hhn and you ? 
 
 Yes — ^it shall be — the magic of that name 
 Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; 
 On the same spot still consecrates the scene, 
 And bids the Drama be where she hath been. 
 This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 
 Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well ! 
 
 As soars this fane to emulate the last, 
 Oh ! might we draw our omens from the past. 
 Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast 
 Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
 On Drury first your Siddons' thrilUng art 
 O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. 
 On Drury, G arrick's latest laurels grew ; 
 Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew 
 Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu: 
 But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom 
 That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. 
 Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor you refuse 
 One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; 
 With garlands deck your owii Menander's head ! 
 Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead ! 
 
 Dear are the days which made our annals bright, 
 Ere Garrick fled, or Brmsley ceased to write. 
 Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs. 
 Vain of our ancestry, as they of theira; 
 While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass 
 To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass. 
 And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 
 Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line. 
 Pause — ere their feebler offspring you condemn, 
 Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 
 
 Friends of the stage ! to whom both Players and Plays 
 Must sue alike for pardon, or for praise, 
 Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 
 The boundless power to cherish or reject; 
 If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 
 And made us blush that you forbore to blame ; 
 If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 
 To sooth the sicklv taste it dare not mend. 
 
 All past reproach may present scenes refute, 
 And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! 
 Oh 1 since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 
 Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause ; 
 So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, 
 And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! 
 
 This greetuig o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, 
 The Drama's homage by her herald paid. 
 Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
 Springs from our hearts, and fain woidd win your ovra 
 The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 
 Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old ! 
 Britons our judges, Nature for our guide. 
 Still may we please — long, long may you preside ! 
 
 TO TIME. 
 Time ! on whose arbitrary wing 
 
 The varying liours must flag or fly, 
 Whose tardy wnter, fleeting spring, 
 
 But drag or drive us on to die — 
 Hail thou ! who on my mirth bestow'd 
 
 Those boons to all that know thee known ; 
 Yet better I susta,in thy load. 
 
 For now I bear the weight alone. 
 I would not one fond heart should share 
 
 The bitter moments thou hast given; 
 And pardon thee, since thou could'st spare 
 
 All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 
 To them be joj' or rest, on me 
 
 Thy future ills shall press in vain ; 
 I nothing owe but years to thee, 
 
 A debt already paid in pain. 
 Yet even that pain was some relief; 
 
 It felt, but still forgot thy power : 
 The active agony of grief 
 
 Retards, but never counts the hour. 
 In joy I 've sigh'd to think thy flight 
 
 Would soon subside from swift to slow ; 
 Thy cloud could overcast the light. 
 
 But could not add a night to wo 
 For then, however drear and dark, 
 
 My soul was suited to thy sky ; 
 One star alone shot forth a spark 
 
 To prove thee — not Eternity. 
 That beam hath sunk, and now thou art 
 
 A blank ; a thing to count and curse 
 Through each dull tedious trifling part, 
 
 Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 
 One scene even thou canst not deform ; 
 
 The limit of thy sloth or speed 
 When fixture wanderers bear the storm 
 
 Which we shall sleep too sound to heed : 
 And I can smile to think how weak 
 
 Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, 
 When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 
 
 Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG. 
 1. 
 
 Ah ! Love was never yet without 
 
 The pang, the agony, the doubt. 
 
 Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, 
 
 While day and night roll darkUng by. 
 
 2. 
 Without one friend to hear my wo, 
 I faint, I die beneath the blow. 
 That Love had arrows, well I knew ; 
 Alas ! I find them poison'd too. 
 
 3. 
 Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net. 
 Which Love around your haunts hath set ; 
 
POEMS. 
 
 191 
 
 Or circled by his fatal fire, 
 
 Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expii'e. 
 
 4. 
 A bird of free and careless wing 
 Was I, through many a smiling spring ; 
 But caught within the subtle snare, 
 I burn, and feebly flutter there. 
 
 5. 
 
 Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, 
 Can neither feel nor pity pain, 
 The cold repulse, the look askance, 
 The Ughtning of Love's angry glance. 
 
 6. 
 In flattering dreams 1 deem'd thee mine ; 
 Now hope, and he who hoped, decline ; 
 Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
 I feel my passion, and thy power. 
 
 7. 
 My light of life ! ah, tell me why 
 That pouting lip, and alter'd eye ? 
 My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 
 And art thou changed, and canst thou hate ? 
 
 8. 
 Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow; 
 What wretch with me would barter wo ? 
 My bird ! relent : one note could give 
 A charm, to bid thy lover hve. 
 
 9. 
 My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, 
 In silent anguish I sustain; 
 And still thy heart, without partaking 
 One pang, exults — while mine is breaking. 
 
 10. 
 Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 
 Thou canst not murder more than now ; 
 I 've lived to curse my natal day. 
 And love, that thus can lingering slay. 
 
 11. 
 My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, 
 Can patience preach thee into rest? 
 Alas ! too late, I dearly know, 
 That joy is harbinger of wo. 
 
 A SONG. 
 1. 
 Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, 
 
 To those thyself so fondly sought ; 
 The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 
 
 Are doubly bitter from that thought : 
 'T is this which breaks the heart thou grievest. 
 Too well thou lov'st — too soon thou leavest. 
 
 2. 
 The wholly false the heart despises. 
 
 And spurns deceiver and deceit ; 
 But she who not a thought disguises. 
 
 Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 
 When she can change who loved so truly, 
 It feels what mine has felt so newly. 
 
 3. 
 To dream of joy and wake to sorrow, 
 
 Is doom'd to all who love or live ; 
 And i^ when conscious on the morrow, 
 
 We scarce our fancy can forgive. 
 That cheated us in slumber only. 
 To leave the waking soul more lonely, 
 
 4. 
 What must they feel whom no false vision, 
 
 But truest, tenderest passion warm'd ? 
 Sincere, but swift in sad transition. 
 
 As if a dream alone had charm'd ? 
 
 Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming. 
 And all thy change can be but dreaming 1 
 
 ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS 
 "ORIGIN OF LOVE?" 
 The " Origin of Love !"— Ah, why 
 
 That cruel question ask of me. 
 When thou may'st read in many an eye 
 
 He starts to life on seeing thee ? 
 And should'st thou seek his end to know ; 
 
 My heart forebodes, my fears foresee. 
 He '11 linger long in silent wo ; 
 
 But live — until I cease to be. 
 
 THE 
 
 REMEMBER HIM, &c. 
 1. 
 
 Remember him, whom passion's power 
 
 Severely, deeply, vainly proved : 
 Remember thou that dangerous hour 
 
 When neither fell, though both were loved. 
 2. 
 That yielding breast, that melting eye, 
 
 Too much invited to be blest : 
 That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 
 The wilder wish reproved, represt. 
 3. 
 Oh ! let me feel that all I lost 
 
 But saved thee all that conscience fears: 
 And blush for every pang it cost 
 
 To spare the vain remorse of vears. 
 4. 
 Yet think of this when many a tongue, 
 Whose busy accents whisper blame, 
 Would do the heart that loved thee wrong. 
 And brand a nearly blighted name. 
 
 5. 
 
 Think that, whate'er to others, thou 
 
 Hast seen each selfish thought subdued : 
 I bless thy purer soul even now, 
 
 Even now, in midnight solitude. 
 6. 
 Oh, God! that we had met in tune. 
 
 Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free ; 
 When thou hadst loved without a crime, 
 
 And I been less unworthy thee ! 
 
 7. 
 Far may thy days, as heretofore, 
 
 From this our gaudy world be past ! 
 And, that too bitter moment o'er. 
 
 Oh ! may such trial be thy last ! 
 8. 
 This heart, alas ! perverted long. 
 
 Itself destroy'd might there destroy ; 
 To meet thee in the glittering throng, 
 
 Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 
 9. 
 Then to the things whose bliss or wo, 
 
 Like mine is wild and worthless all, 
 That world resign — such scenes forego, 
 
 Where those who feel must surely fall. 
 10. 
 Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 
 
 Thy soul fi-om long seclusion pure ; 
 From what even here hath past, may guess 
 
 What there thy bosom must endure. 
 11. 
 Oh ! pardon that imploring tear. 
 
 Since not by Virtue shed in vain. 
 My phrensy drew from eyes so dear ; 
 
 For me they shall not weep again. 
 
192 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 12. 
 
 Though long and mournful must it be, 
 The thought that we no more may meet ; 
 
 Yet I deserve the stern decree, 
 Arwi almost deem the sentence sweet. 
 
 13. 
 
 Slill, had I loved thee less, my heart 
 Had tlien less sacrificed to thine ; 
 
 It felt not half so much to part, 
 As if its guilt had made thee mine. 
 
 LINES 
 
 INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. 
 1. 
 
 Start not — nor deem my spirit fled ; 
 
 In me beliold the only skull. 
 From which, unlike a hving head, 
 
 Whatever flows is never dull. 
 2. 
 I Uved, I loved, I quaff''d, like thee ; 
 
 I died ; let earth my bones resign : 
 Fill up — thou canst not injure me ; 
 
 The worm hath fouler hps than thine. 
 3. 
 Better to hold the sparkling grape, 
 
 Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood ; 
 And circle in the goblet's shape 
 
 The drmk of Gods, than reptile's food. 
 4. 
 Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, 
 
 In aid of others' let me shine ; 
 And when, alas! our brains are gone. 
 
 What nobler substitute than wine ? 
 5. 
 duaff while thou canst — another race, 
 
 When thou and thine Uke me are sped, 
 May rescue thee from earth's embrace. 
 
 And rhyme and revel with the dead. 
 6. 
 Why not ? since through Hfe's little day 
 
 Our heads such sad effects produce ; 
 Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, 
 
 This chance is theirs, to be of use. 
 Newstead Abbey, 1808. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, 
 BART. 
 
 1. 
 
 There is a tear for all that die, 
 
 A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 
 But nations swell the funeral cry, 
 
 And Triumph weeps above the brave. 
 2. 
 For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 
 
 O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent : 
 In vain their bones imburied he, 
 
 All earth becomes their monument ! 
 
 3. 
 
 A tomb is theirs on every page, 
 
 An epitaph on every tongue : 
 The present hours, the future age, 
 
 For them bewail, to them belong. 
 
 For them the voice of festal mirth 
 
 Grows hush'd, their narne the only sound ; 
 
 While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
 The goblet's tributary round. 
 
 A theme to crowds that knew them not, 
 
 Lamented by admiring foes. 
 Who would not share their glorious lot ? 
 
 Who would not die the death they chose ? 
 6. 
 And, gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 
 
 Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shaU be ; 
 And early valour, glowing, find 
 
 A model in thy memory. 
 7. 
 But there are breasts that bleed with thee 
 
 In wo, that glory cannot quell 
 And shuddering hear of victory, 
 
 Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 
 
 8. 
 Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ? 
 
 When cease to hear thy cherish'd name ? 
 Time cannot teach forgetfulness, 
 
 While Griefs full heart is fed by Fame. 
 9. 
 Alas ! for them, though not for thee. 
 
 They cannot choose but weep the more ; 
 Deep for the dead the grief must be. 
 
 Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 
 
 TO A LADY WEEPING. 
 1. 
 
 Weep, daughter of a royal line, 
 
 A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ; 
 Ah, happy ! if each tear of thine 
 
 Could wash a father's fault away ! 
 2. 
 Weep — for thy tears are Virtue's tears — 
 
 Auspicious to these suffering isles ; 
 And be each drop in future years 
 
 Repaid thee by thy people's smiles ! 
 
 March, 1812. 
 
 FROM THE TURKISH. 
 
 The chain I gave was fair to view, 
 The lute I added sweet in sound ; 
 
 The heart that offer'd both was true, 
 And ill deserved the fate it found. 
 
 These gifts were charm'd by secret spell 
 
 Thy truth in absence to divine ; 
 And they have done their duty well, 
 
 Alas ! they could not teach thee thine. 
 3. 
 That chain was firm in every link, 
 
 But not to bear a stranger's touch 
 That lute was sweet — till thou could'st think, 
 
 In other hands its notes were such. 
 4. 
 Let him, who from thy neck unbound 
 
 The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, 
 Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
 
 Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 
 5. 
 When thou wert changed, they alter'd too ; 
 
 The chain is broke, the music mute. 
 'T is past — to them and thee adieu — 
 
 False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 193 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO GENEVRA. 
 
 Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, 
 And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
 From contemplation — where serenely wrought, 
 
 Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair — 
 
 Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, 
 That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
 With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought — 
 
 I should have deem'd thee doom'd to eartlily care. 
 
 With such an aspect, by his colours blent, 
 When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, 
 
 (Except that thou hast nothing to repent,) 
 The Magdalen of Guido saw the mom — 
 
 Such seem'st thou — but how much more excellent ! 
 With naught Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO GENEVRA. 
 
 Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo, 
 And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush 
 Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 
 
 My heart would wish away that ruder glow : 
 
 And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but oh ! 
 While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 
 And into mine my mother's weakness rush, 
 
 Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 
 
 For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, 
 The soul of melancholy Gentleness 
 
 Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, 
 Above all pain, yet pitying aU distress; 
 
 At once such majesty wth sweetness blending, 
 I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 ON THE MOITUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. 
 
 "near this spot 
 
 ark deposited the remains of cnb 
 
 who possessed beauty without vanity, 
 
 strength without insolence, 
 
 courage without ferocity, 
 
 and all the virtues of man without his vices. 
 
 this praise, which would be unmeaning flattery 
 
 if inscribed over human ashes, 
 
 is but a just tribute to the memory of 
 
 boatswain, a dog, 
 
 who was born at newfoundland, may 1803, 
 
 and died at newstead abbey, nov. 18, 1808." 
 
 When some proud son of man returns to earth, 
 
 Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, 
 
 The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo, 
 
 And storied urns record who rests below ; 
 
 When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 
 
 Not what he was, but what he should have been : 
 
 But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend. 
 
 The first to welcome, foremost to defend. 
 
 Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 
 
 Who labours, fights, Uves, breathes for him alone, 
 
 Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 
 
 Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 
 
 While man, vain msect ! hopes to be forgiven, 
 
 And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 
 
 Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour. 
 
 Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, 
 
 Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, 
 
 Degraded mass of animated dust ! 
 
 Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 
 
 Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 
 
 By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 
 
 Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 
 
 Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, 
 
 Pasa on— it honours none you wish to moam : 
 
 To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; 
 I never new but one, and here he lies. 
 
 Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 Farew^ell ! if ever fondest prayer 
 
 For other's weal avail'd on high, 
 Mine will not all be lost in air. 
 
 But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
 'T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh ; 
 
 Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
 When wrung from guilt's expiring eye. 
 
 Are in that word — Farewell ! — ^Farewell '. 
 
 These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; 
 
 But in my breast, and in my brain, 
 Awake the pangs that pass not by, 
 
 The tliought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
 My soul nor deigns nor dares complain. 
 
 Though grief and passion there rebel ; 
 I only know we loved in vain — 
 
 I only feel — Farewell! — Faro-well I 
 
 L 
 
 Bright be the place of thy soul I 
 
 No lovelier spirit than thine 
 E'er burst from its mortal control. 
 
 In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
 On earth thou wert all but divine. 
 
 As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
 And our sorrow may cease to repine, 
 
 When we know that thy God is with thee. 
 
 2. 
 Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 
 
 May its verdure hke emeralds be : 
 There should not be the shadow of gloom, 
 
 In aught that reminds us of thee. 
 Young floNvers and an evergreen tree 
 
 May spring fi-om the spot of thy rest : 
 But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 
 
 For why should we mourn for the blest? 
 
 1. 
 
 When we two parted 
 
 In silence and tears, 
 Half broken-hearted 
 
 To sever for years, 
 Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 
 
 Colder thy kiss ; 
 Truly that hour foretold 
 
 Sorrow to this. 
 
 2. 
 The dew of the morning 
 
 Simk chill on my brow- 
 It feh like the warning 
 
 Of what I feel now. 
 Thy vows are all broken, 
 
 And Ught is thy fame ; 
 I hear thy name spoken, 
 
 And share in its shame. 
 
 They name thee before me, 
 
 A knell to mine ear ; 
 A shudder comes o'er me— 
 
 Why wert thou so dear? 
 They know not I knew thee, 
 
 Who knew thee too well: — 
 Long, long shall I rue thee^ 
 
 Too deeply to tell. 
 
194 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 In secret we met — 
 
 In silence I grieve, 
 That thy heart could forget, 
 
 Thy spirit deceive. 
 If I should meet thee 
 
 After long years, 
 How should I greet thee ?— 
 
 With silence and tears. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC* 
 
 " O Lachryraarum fons, teiiero sacrog 
 Diicentium onus ex animo : quater 
 Felix ! ill imo qui scatentein 
 Peciore te, pia Nyrapba, seusit." 
 
 Grai/« Poemata. 
 
 I. 
 
 There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes 
 
 away, 
 ■\VTien the glow of early thought declines in feeling's 
 
 dull decay ; 
 'T is not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which 
 
 fades so fast, 
 But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself 
 
 be past. 
 
 2. 
 Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of 
 
 happiness 
 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : 
 The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in 
 
 vain 
 The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch 
 
 again. 
 
 S. 
 
 Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself 
 
 comes down ; 
 It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its ovra ; 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 
 
 tears, 
 And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the ice 
 
 appears. 
 
 4. 
 
 Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis- 
 tract the breast, 
 
 Through midnight hours that yield no more their former 
 hope of rest ; 
 
 T is but as ivy leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, 
 
 All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray 
 beneath. 
 
 5. 
 Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have been, 
 Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a 
 
 vanish'd scene : 
 As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 
 
 though they be, 
 So midst the wither'd waste of Ufe, those tears would 
 
 flow to me. 
 
 1815. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 There be none of Beauty's daughters 
 
 With a magic like thee ; 
 And like music on the waters 
 
 Is thy sweet voice to me : 
 When, as if its sound were causing 
 The charmed ocean's pausing, 
 The waves lie still and gleaming. 
 And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. 
 
 , t^b^h^d'ZZ^'^T^'' ^1^°^^ Byron to Mr. Power, Strand, who 
 > publuhKl them, with very beautiful music by Sir Jolia Stevenaou. 
 
 And the midnight moon is weaving 
 Her bright chain o'er the deep ; 
 
 Whose breast is gently heaving, 
 As an infant's asleep : 
 
 So the spirit bows before thee, 
 
 To listen and adore thee ; 
 
 With a full but soft emotion, 
 
 Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 
 
 FARE THEE WELL. 
 
 " Alas ! they had been friends in Youth ; 
 But whisjiering tongues can poison truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above : 
 And Life is thorny ; and youth isvaiul 
 And to be wroth with one we love, 
 Doth work like madness in the brain ; 
 
 But never either found another 
 
 To free the hoUuw heart from paiuiDg— 
 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
 
 Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder ; 
 
 A dreary sea now flows between. 
 
 But neither heat, nor frost, uor thunder 
 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween. 
 
 The marks of thai which once hath been." 
 
 Coleridge't Chrutahel. 
 
 Fare thee well ! and if for ever. 
 
 Still for ever, fare ihee well : 
 Even though unforgiving, never 
 
 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
 Would that breast were bared before thee 
 
 Where thy head so soft hath lain, 
 While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
 
 Which thou ne'er canst know again : 
 Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
 
 Every inmost thought could show ! 
 Then thou would'st at last discover 
 
 'T was not well to spurn it so. 
 Though the world for this commend thee— 
 
 Though it smile upon the blow. 
 Even its praises must offend thee. 
 
 Founded on another's wo — 
 Though my many faults defaced me. 
 
 Could no other arm be found 
 Than the one which once embraced me, 
 
 To inflict a cureless wound? 
 Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ; 
 
 Love may sink by slow decay, 
 But by sudden wrench, believe not 
 
 Hearts can thus be torn away : 
 Still thine own its life retaineth — 
 
 Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 
 And the undying thought which paineth 
 
 Is — that w^e no more may meet. 
 These are words of deeper sorrow 
 
 Than the wail above the dead ; 
 Both shall live, but every morrow 
 
 Wake us from a widow'd bed. 
 And when thou would'st solace gather, 
 
 When our child's first accents flow, 
 Wilt thou teach her to say " Father !" 
 
 Though his care she must forego? 
 When her little hands shall press thee, 
 
 When her Up to thine is prest, ' 
 Think of him whose praj er shall bless thee, 
 
 Think of him thy love had bless'd I 
 Should her lineaments lesemble 
 
 Those thou never more may'st see. 
 Then thy heart will softly tremble 
 
 With a pulse yet true to me. 
 All my faults perchai<ce thou knowest. 
 
 All my madness none can know ; 
 All my hopes, where'er thou goest,- 
 
 Wither, yet with f^e they go. 
 Every feehng hath been shaken ; 
 
 Pride, which not a world could bow. 
 Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, 
 
 Even my soul forsakes me now : 
 
POEMS. 
 
 195 
 
 But 'tis done — all words are idle — 
 Words from me are vainer still ; 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 
 Force their way without the will. — 
 Fare theo well ! — thus disunited, 
 
 Tom from every nearer tie, 
 Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted 
 
 More than this I scarce can die. 
 
 A SKETCH.* 
 
 -Honest lago ! 
 If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thie."—Skaks. 
 
 Bom in the garret, in the kitchen bred. 
 
 Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head ; 
 
 Next — for some gracious service unexprest, 
 
 And from its wages only to be guess'd — 
 
 Raised from the toilet to the table, — where 
 
 Her wandering betters wait behind her chair. 
 
 With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd. 
 
 She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. 
 
 duick with the tale, and ready with the lie — 
 
 The genial confidante, and general spy — 
 
 AVho could, ye gods ! her next employment guess — 
 
 An only infant's earliest governess ! 
 
 She taught the child to read, and taught so well, 
 
 That she herse'fj by teaching, learn'd to spell. 
 
 An adept next in penmanship she grows, 
 
 As many a nameless slander deftly shows: 
 
 What she had made the pupil of her art, 
 
 None know — but that high Soul secured the heart, 
 
 And panted for the truth it could not hear. 
 
 With longing breast and undeluded ear. 
 
 Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind. 
 
 Which Flattery fool'd not — Baseness could not blind, 
 
 Deceit infect not — near Contagion soil — 
 
 Indulgence weaken — nor Example spoil — 
 
 Nor mastered Science tempt her to look down 
 
 On humbler talents with a pitying frowTi — 
 
 Nor Genius swell — nor Beauty render vain — 
 
 Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain — 
 
 Nor Fortune change — Pride raise — nor Passion bow 
 
 Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now. 
 
 Serenely purest of her sex that live, 
 
 But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive. 
 
 Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, 
 
 She deems that all could be like her below : 
 
 Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, 
 
 For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 
 
 But to the theme : — now laid aside too long 
 
 The baleful burden of this honest song — 
 
 Though all her former functions are no more, 
 
 She rules the circle which she served before. 
 
 If mothers — none know why — before her (juake ; 
 
 If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake; 
 
 If early habits — those false links, which bind 
 
 At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — 
 
 Have given her power too deeply to instil 
 
 The angry essence of her deadly will ; 
 
 If like a snake she steal within your walls, 
 
 Till the black slime betray her as she crawls ; 
 
 If like a viper to the heart she wind, 
 
 And leave the venom there she did not find ; 
 
 What marvel that this hag of hatred works 
 
 Eternal evil latent as she lurks, 
 
 To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, 
 
 And reign the Hecate of domestic hells ? 
 
 Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 
 
 With all the kind mendacity of hints 
 
 While mingling truth with falsehood — sneers with 
 
 smiles — 
 A thread of candour with a web of wiles ; 
 
 ' Mrs. Cliarlmont. 
 
 j A plain blunt show of briefly spoken seeming, 
 To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming , 
 A lip of lies — a face forra'd to conceal ; 
 And, without feeling, mock at all who feel : 
 With a vile maslc the Gorgon would disown; 
 A cheek of parchment — and an eye of stone. 
 Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood 
 Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, 
 Cased like the centipede in satfron mail. 
 Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale — 
 (For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 
 Congenial colours in that soul or face) — 
 Look on her features ! and behold her mind 
 As in a mirror of itself defined : 
 Look on the picture ! deem it not d'ercharged — 
 There is no trait which might not be enlarged : 
 Yet true to "Nature's journeymen," who made 
 This monster when their mistress left off trade, 
 This female dogstar of her little sky. 
 Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 
 
 Oh ! wretch without a tear — without a thought. 
 
 Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 
 
 The time shall come, nor long i-emote, when thou 
 
 Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now ; 
 
 Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, 
 
 And turn thee howling in unpiiied pain. 
 
 May the strong curse of cruslvd affections light 
 
 Back on thy bosom with reflected blight! 
 
 And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 
 
 As loathsome to thyself as to mankind ! 
 
 Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, 
 
 Black — as thy will for others would create; 
 
 Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, 
 
 And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 
 
 Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, — 
 
 The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread ! 
 
 Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with 
 
 prayer. 
 Look on thine earthly victims — and despair! 
 Down to the dust ! — and, as thou rott'st away, 
 Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.. 
 But for the love I bore, and still must bear. 
 To her thy malice from all ties would tear — 
 Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
 The climax of all scorn should hang on high, 
 Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers— 
 And festering in the infamy of years. 
 
 TO 
 
 When all around grew drear and dark, 
 
 And reason half withheld her ray — 
 And hope but shed a dying spark 
 
 Wliich more misled my lonely way; 
 2. 
 In that deep midnight of the mind, 
 
 And that internal strife of heart, 
 When dreading to be deem'd too kind, 
 
 The weak despair — ttie cold depart; 
 3. 
 When fortune changed — and love fled fa? 
 
 And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, 
 Thou wert the solitary star 
 
 Which rose and set not to the last. 
 
 4. 
 
 Oh ! blest be thine unbroken light ! 
 
 That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, 
 And stood between me and the night, 
 
 For ever shining sweetly nigh. 
 
 Xiii isisiei', Mrt. I.MgU. 
 
196 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 And when the cloud upon us came, 
 
 Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray — 
 Then purer spread its gentle flame, 
 
 And dash'd the darkness all away. 
 6. 
 Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, 
 
 And teach it what to brave or brook — 
 There 's more in one soft word of thine 
 
 Than in the world's defied rebuke, 
 
 7. 
 Thou stood'stj as stands a lovely tree, 
 
 That still unbroke, though gently bent, 
 Still waves with fond fidelity 
 Its boughs above a monument. 
 8. 
 The winds might rend — the skies might pour, 
 
 But there thou wert — and still would'st be 
 Devoted in the stormiest hour 
 
 To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 
 9. 
 But thou and thine shall know no blight, 
 
 Whatever fate on me may fall ; 
 For heaven in sunshine will requite 
 The kind — and thee the most of all. 
 10. 
 Then let the ties of baffled love 
 
 Be broken — thine will never break ; 
 Thy heart can feel — but will not move ; 
 Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 
 II. 
 And these, when all was lost beside, 
 
 Were found and still are fix'd in thee — 
 And bearing still a breast so tried. 
 Earth is no desert — ev'n to me- 
 
 DDE. 
 
 £PKOM THE FRENCH.] 
 I. 
 
 We do Hot curse thee, Waterloo ! 
 Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew; 
 There 't was shed, but is not sunk- 
 Rising from each gory trunk. 
 Like the Water-spout from ocean, 
 With a strong and growing motion^ 
 It soars, and mingles in the air, 
 With that of lost Labedoyere — 
 With that of him whose honour'd grave 
 Contains the "bravest of the brave." 
 A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 
 But shall return to whence it rose ; 
 When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder — 
 Never yet was heard such thunder 
 As then shall shake the world ^vith wonder- 
 Never yet was seen such lightning 
 As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! 
 Like the Wormwood Star foretold 
 By the sainted Seer of old, 
 Show'ring down a fiery flood, 
 Turning rivers into blood.^ 
 
 II. 
 
 The Chief has fallen, but not by you, 
 Vanquishers of Waterloo! 
 When the soldier citizen 
 Sway'd not o'er his fellow men- 
 Save in deeds that led them on 
 
 Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son 
 
 Who, of all the despot's banded. 
 
 With that youthful chief competed? 
 
 Who could boast o'er France defeated, 
 Till lone Tyranny commanded? 
 
 Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 
 The Hero sunk into the King? 
 Then he fell :— So perish all. 
 Who would men by man entliral. 
 
 And thou too of the snow-white plume ! 
 Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb ;' 
 Better hadst thou still been leading 
 France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, 
 Than sold thyself to death and shame 
 For a meanly royal name ; 
 Such as he of Naples wears, 
 Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
 I-ittle didst thou deem, when dashing 
 On thy war-horse through the ranks. 
 Like a stream which burst its banks, 
 While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing 
 Shone and shiver'd fast around thee — 
 Of the fate at last which found thee : 
 Was that haughty plume laid low 
 By a slave's dishonest blow ? 
 Once — as the Moon sways o'er the tide, 
 It roU'd in air, the warrior's guide ; 
 Through the smoke-created night 
 Of the black and sulphurous fight, 
 The soldier raised his seeking eye 
 To catch that crest's ascendancy, — 
 And, as it onward rolling rose. 
 So moved his heart upon our foes, 
 There, where death's brief pang was quickest, 
 And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 
 Stre\Vd beneath the advancing banner 
 
 Of the eagle's burning crest — 
 (There with thunder-clouds to fan her, 
 JVTio could then her wing arrest — 
 Victory beaming from her breast?) 
 While the broken line enlarging 
 
 Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
 There be sure was Murat charging ! 
 There he ne'er shall charge again ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 O'er glories gone the invaders march. 
 Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch- 
 But let Freedom rejoice, 
 With her heart in her voice,* 
 But, her hand on her sword. 
 Doubly shall she be adored ; 
 France has twice too well been taught 
 The "moral lesson" dearly bought — 
 Her safety sits not on a throne, 
 With Capet or Napoleow! 
 But in equal rights and laws, 
 Hearts and hands in one great cause- 
 Freedom, such as God hath ^ven 
 Unto all beneath his heaven, 
 With their breath, and from their birth, 
 Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth; 
 With a fierce and lavish hand 
 Scattering nations' weahh like sand ; 
 Pouring nations' blood like water, 
 la imperial seas of slaughter ! 
 
 But the heart and the mind, 
 
 And the voice of mankind, 
 
 Shall arise in communion — 
 
 And who shall resist that proud union ? 
 
 The time is past when swords subdued-* 
 
 Man may die— the soul 's renew'd : 
 
 Even in this low world of care 
 
 Freedom ne'er shall want an heir ; 
 
 Milhons breathe but to inherit 
 
 Her for ever bound&ig spirit— 
 
POEMS. 
 
 197 
 
 When once more her hosts assemble, 
 Tj-rants shall believe and tremble — 
 Smile they at this idle threat? 
 Crimson tears \vill follow yet. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 " ALL WEPT, BUT PARTICULARLY SAVARY, AND A POLISH 
 OFFICER WHO HAD BEEN EXALTED FROM THE RANKS BY 
 BUONAPARTE. HE CLUNG TO HIS MASTER'S KNEES ; 
 WROTE A LETTER TO LORD KEITH, ENTREATING PER- 
 MISSION TO ACCOMPANY HIM, EVEN IN THE MOST 
 MENIAL CAPACITY, WHICH COULD NOT BE ADMITTED." 
 
 1. 
 
 Must thou go, my glorious Chief, 
 
 Sever'd from thy faithful few ? 
 Who can tell thy warrior's grief, 
 
 Maddening o'er that long adieu ? 
 Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, 
 
 Dear as both have been to me — 
 What are they to all I feel, 
 
 With a soldier's faith for thee ? 
 
 2. 
 Idol of the soldier's soul ! 
 
 First in fight, but mightiest now: 
 Many could a world control ; 
 
 Thee alone no doom can bow. 
 By thy side for years I dared 
 
 Death ; and envied those Vv'ho fell, 
 When their dying shout was heard, 
 
 Blessing him they served so well.^ 
 3. 
 Would that I were cold with those, 
 
 Since this hour I live to see ; 
 When the doubts of coward foes 
 
 Scarce dare trust a man with thee, 
 Dreading each should set thee free! 
 
 Oh ! although in dungeons pent. 
 All their chains were Ught to me, 
 
 Gazing on thy soul unbent. 
 
 4. 
 Would the sycophants of him 
 
 Now so deaf to duty's prayer, 
 Were his borrow'd glories dim, 
 
 Fn his native darkness share ? 
 Were that world this hour his own, 
 
 All thou calmly dost resign. 
 Could he purchase with that throne 
 
 Hearts lilie those which still are thine ? 
 5. 
 My chief, my king, my friend, adieu ! 
 
 Never did I droop before ; 
 Never to my sovereign sue, 
 
 As his foes I now implore : 
 All I ask is to divide 
 
 Every peril he must brare ; 
 Sharing by the hero's side 
 
 His fall, his exile, and his grave. 
 
 ON THE STAR OF « THE LEGION OF 
 HONOUR." 
 
 [from the FRENCH.] 
 1. 
 
 Star of the brave ! — whose beam hatli shed 
 Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 
 Thou radiant and adored deceit ! 
 Which milhons rush'd in arms to greet, — 
 Wild meteor of inunortal birth ! 
 Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth ? 
 
 2. 
 Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays ; 
 Eternity flash'd through thy blaze ; 
 
 The music of thy martial sphere 
 Was fame on high and honour here 
 And thy light broke on human eyes, 
 Like a Volcano of the skies. 
 
 3. 
 Like lava roil'd thy stream of blood, 
 And swept down empires with its flood ; 
 Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base. 
 As thou didst lighten through all space , 
 And the shorn Sun grew dim in air. 
 And set while thou wert dwelhng there. 
 
 Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 
 
 A rainbow of the loveliest hue 
 
 Of three bright colours,^ each divine, 
 
 And fit for that celestial sign ; 
 
 For Freedom's hand had blended them, 
 
 Like tints in an immortal gem. 
 
 6. 
 
 One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 
 One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes ; 
 One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
 Had robed in radiance of its light : 
 The three so mingled did beseem 
 The texture of a heavenly dream. 
 
 6. 
 Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale, 
 And darkness must again prevail ! 
 But, oh thou Rainbow of the free ! 
 Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 
 When thy bright promise fades away, 
 Our life is but a load of clay. 
 
 7. 
 And Freedom hallows with her tread 
 The silent cities of the dead ; 
 For beautiful in death are they 
 Who proudly fall in her array ; 
 And soon, oh Goddess ! may we be 
 For evermore v^dth them or thee ! 
 
 NAPOLEON'S FARE^VELL. 
 
 [from THE FRENCH.] 
 1. 
 
 Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my Glory 
 Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name — 
 She abandons me now— but the page of her story, 
 The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame. 
 I have warr'd with a world which vanquished me 
 When the meteor of conquest aDured me too far ; 
 I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely, 
 The last single Captive to milUons in war. 
 
 2. 
 Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem crown'd me, 
 I made thee the gem and tlie wonder of earth, — 
 But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, 
 Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 
 Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 
 In strife with the storm, when their battles were won— . 
 Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, 
 Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun ! 
 
 3. 
 Farewell to thee, France ! — but when Liberty rallies 
 Once more in thy regions, remember me then — 
 The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys ; 
 Though wither'd, thy tears will unfold it agam — 
 Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 
 And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice — 
 There are links which must break in the chain that 
 
 has bound us. 
 Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice ! 
 
198 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF "THE 
 PLEASURES OF MEMORY." 
 
 Absent or present, still to thee. 
 
 My frienJ., what magic spells belong ! 
 As all can tell, v.ho share, like me. 
 
 In turn thy converse, and thy song. 
 But when the dreaded hour shall come 
 
 By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh, 
 And "Memory" o'er her Druid's tomb 
 
 Shall weep that aught of thee can die, 
 How fondly will she then repay 
 
 Thy homage offei'd at her shrine, 
 And blend, while ages roll away, 
 
 Her name immorialiy with thine I 
 
 April 19, 1812. 
 
 SONNET. 
 Rousseau — Voltaire — our Gibbon — and de Stacl — 
 
 'oLeman! these names are worthy of thy shore, 
 
 Thy shore of names like these ! wert thou no more, 
 Their memory thy remembrance would recall ; 
 To tliem thy banks were lovely as to all. 
 
 But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 
 
 Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 
 Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 
 
 Where dwelt the wise and wond'rous ; but by thee 
 How much more, Lake of Beauty ! do we feel, 
 
 In sweetly gliding o'er thy chrystal sea. 
 The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, 
 
 W^hich of the heirs of immortahty 
 Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 
 
 STANZAS TO .* 
 
 1. 
 
 Though the day of my destiny 's over. 
 
 And the star of my fate hath declined, 
 Thy soft heart refused to discover 
 
 The faults which so many could find ; 
 Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, 
 
 It shrunk not to share it with me, 
 And the love which my spirit hath painted 
 
 It never hath found but in i/iee. 
 2. 
 Then when nature around me is smiling, 
 
 The last smile which answers to mine, 
 I do not beheve it beguiUng, 
 
 Because it reminds me of thine ; 
 And when wmds are at war with the ocean, 
 
 As the breasts I believed in with me, 
 If their billows excite an emotion, 
 
 It is that they bear me from thee. 
 3. 
 Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd. 
 
 And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
 Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 
 
 To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
 There is many a pang to pursue me : 
 
 They may crush, but they shall not contemn — 
 They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 
 
 'T is of thee that I think — not of them. 
 4. 
 Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 
 
 Though woman, thou didst not forsake, 
 Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me. 
 
 Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake,— 
 Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, 
 
 Though parted, it was not to fly, 
 Though watchful, 't was not to defame me, 
 
 Nor, mute, that the world mieht belie. 
 
 Hit elster, Mr«. Leigh. 
 
 Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 
 
 Nor the war of die many wuth one — 
 If my sotil was not fitted to prize it, 
 
 'Twas folly not sooner to shun: 
 And if dearly that error hath cost me, 
 
 And more than I once could foresee, 
 I have found that, whatever it lost me. 
 
 It could not deprive me of thee. 
 6. 
 From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd. 
 
 Thus much I at least may recall, 
 It hath tau.ght me that what I most cherish'd 
 
 Deserved to be dearest of all : 
 In the desert a fountain is springing. 
 
 In the w-ide waste there still is a tree, 
 And a bird in the soUtude singing, 
 
 Wliich speaks to my spirit of thee. 
 
 DARKNESS. 
 I had a dream, which was not all a dream. 
 The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 
 Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
 Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
 Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 
 Mom came, and went — and came, and brought no da^ 
 And men forgot their passions in the dread 
 Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 
 Were chill'd into a seUish prayer for hght : 
 And they did live by watchfires — and the thronea, 
 The palaces of crowned kings — the huts. 
 The habitations of all things which dwell. 
 Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 
 And men were gather'd round their blazing homes, 
 To look once more into each other's face •, 
 Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 
 Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch : 
 A fearful hope was all the world contam'd ; 
 Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 
 They fell and faded — and the crackling tnmks 
 Extinguish'd vrith a crash — and all was black. 
 The brows of men by the despairing light 
 Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
 The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 
 And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 
 Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled j 
 And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
 Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 
 With mad disquietude on the dull sky. 
 The pall of a past w^orld ; and then again 
 With curses cast them down upon the dust, 
 And gnash'd their teeth and howled ; the wild birds 
 
 shriek'd. 
 And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
 And flap their useless wings ; the wildest brutes 
 Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawl'd 
 And twined themselves among the multitude. 
 Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food : 
 And War, which for a moment was no more, 
 Did glut himself again ; — a meal was bought 
 With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
 Gorging himself in gloom ; no love was left ; 
 All earth was but one thought — and that was death, 
 Immediate and inglorious; and the pang 
 Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
 Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; 
 The meagre by the meagre were devour'd. 
 Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 
 And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
 The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, 
 Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
 Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food, 
 But with a piteous and perj)etual moan, 
 
POEMS. 
 
 199 
 
 And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
 
 Which answer'd not with a caress — he died. 
 
 The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two 
 
 Of an enormous city did survive, 
 
 And they were enemies ; they met beside 
 
 The dying embers of an altar-place 
 
 Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 
 
 For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 
 
 And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands 
 
 The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
 
 Blew for a little life, and made a flame 
 
 Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 
 
 Their eyes as it grew hghter, and beheld 
 
 Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died— 
 
 Even of their mutual hideousness they died. 
 
 Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 
 
 Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, 
 
 The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
 
 Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— 
 
 A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 
 
 The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, 
 
 And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths ; 
 
 Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 
 
 And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropp'd 
 
 They slept on the abyss without a surge — 
 
 The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave, 
 
 The moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 
 
 The wmds were wither'd m the stagnant air, 
 
 And the clouds perish'd ; Darkness had no need 
 
 Of aid from them — She was the universe. 
 
 CHURCHILL'S GRAVE. 
 
 A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. 
 
 I stood beside the grave of him who blazed 
 
 The comet of a season, and I saw 
 
 The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 
 
 With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
 
 On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 
 
 With name no clearer than the names unknown. 
 
 Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 
 
 The Gardener of that ground, why it might be 
 
 That for this plant strangers his memory task'd 
 
 Through the thick deaths of half a century ; 
 
 And thus he answer'd — " Well, I do not know 
 
 Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so ; 
 
 He died before my day of Sextonship, 
 
 And I had not the digging of this grave." 
 
 And is this all ? I thought, — and do we rip 
 
 The veil of Immortality ? and crave 
 
 I know not what of honour and of light 
 
 Through unborn ages, to endure this blight ? 
 
 So soon and so successless ? As I said, 
 
 The Architect of all on which we tread, 
 
 For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 
 
 To extricate remembrajice from the clay, 
 
 Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought 
 
 Were it not that all life must end in one, 
 
 Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught 
 
 As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, 
 
 Thus spoke he, — "I believe tlfc man of whom 
 
 You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, 
 
 Was a most famous WTiter in liis day, 
 
 And therefore travellers step from out their way 
 
 To pay him honour, — and myself whate'er 
 
 Your honour pleases," — then most pleased I shook 
 
 From out my pocket's avaricious nook 
 
 Some certain coins of silver, which as 't were 
 
 Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 
 
 So much but inconveniently ; — Ye smile, 
 
 I see ye, ye profane ones 1 all the while, 
 
 Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
 
 You are the fools, not I— for I did dwell 
 
 With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye, 
 On that Old Sexton's natural homily. 
 In which there was Obscurity and Fame, 
 The Glory and the Nothing of a Name. 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 Our life is twofold ; Sleep hath its o\\-n world, 
 A boundary between the things misnamed 
 Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, 
 And a wide realm of wild reality, 
 And dreams in their developement have breath, 
 And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
 They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
 They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
 They do divide our being ; they become 
 A portion of ourselves as of our time. 
 And look like heralds of eternity ; 
 They pass lil<e spirits of the past, — they speak 
 Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 
 The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
 They make us what we were not — what they will. 
 And shake us with the vision that's gone by. 
 The dread of vaiiish'd shadows — Are they so? 
 Is not the past all shadow ? What are they ? 
 Creations of the mind ? — The mmd can make 
 Substance, and people planets of its own 
 With beings brighter than have been, and give 
 A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
 I would recall a vision which I dream'd 
 Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
 A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
 And curdles a long iife into one hour. 
 
 II. 
 I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
 Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill. 
 Green and of mild declivity, the last 
 As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, 
 Save that there was no sea to lave its base. 
 But a most hving landscape, and the wave 
 Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
 Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
 Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
 Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
 Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 
 Not by the sport of nature, but of man ; 
 These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
 Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 
 Fair as herself— but the boy gazed on her ; 
 And both were young, and one was beautifiil : 
 And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 
 As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge 
 The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
 The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
 Had far outgrown liis years, and to his eye 
 There was but one beloved face on earth, 
 And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 
 Upon it till it could not pass away ; 
 He had no breath, nor being, but in hers ; 
 She was his voice ; he did not speak to her. 
 But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 
 For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers, 
 Which colour'd all his objects : — he had ceased 
 To Uve within himself; she was his life. 
 The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
 Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
 A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 
 And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 
 Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
 But she in these fond feelings had no share : 
 Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
 Even as a brother — but no more -, 't was much 
 For brotherless she was, save in the name 
 
200 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; 
 
 Herself the solitary scion left 
 
 Of a time-honour'd race, — It was a name 
 
 Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and why ? 
 
 Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 
 
 Another ; even now she loved another, 
 
 And on the summit of that hill she stood 
 
 Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
 
 Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 
 
 III. 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 There was an ancient mansion, and before 
 Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : 
 Within an antique Oratory stood 
 The Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, 
 And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 
 He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
 Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd 
 His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
 With a convulsion — then arose again. 
 And vnth his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
 What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
 And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
 Into a kind of quiet : as he paused, 
 The Lady of his love re-enter'd there ; 
 She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
 She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew, 
 For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
 Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 
 That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
 He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
 He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
 A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 
 He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 
 Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 
 For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 
 From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 
 And mounting on his steed he went his way ; 
 And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
 Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
 And his Soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt 
 With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
 Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
 And on the shore he was a wanderer; 
 There was a mass of many images 
 Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
 A part of all : and m the last he lay 
 Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
 Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
 Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
 Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side 
 Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
 Were fasten'd near a fountam ; and a man 
 Clad in a flovnng garb did watch the while. 
 While many of his tribe slumber'd around ; 
 And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
 So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful. 
 That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 
 
 T. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 
 The Lady of his love was wed wth One 
 
 Who did not love her better : — in her home, 
 
 A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 
 
 She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 
 
 Daughters and sons of Beauty,— but behold! 
 
 Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
 
 The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
 
 And an unquiet drooping of the eye 
 
 As if its Ud were charged with unshed tears. 
 
 What could her griefbe?— she had aU she loved, 
 
 And he who had so loved her was not there 
 To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
 Or ill-repress 'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
 What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not. 
 Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 
 Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
 Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 
 The Wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand 
 
 Before an Altar — with a gentle bride ; 
 
 Her face was fa.ir, but was not that which made 
 
 The Starlight of his Boyhood ; — as he stood 
 
 Even at tlie altar, o'er his brow there came 
 
 The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 
 
 That in the antique Oratory shook 
 
 His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
 
 As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
 
 The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 
 Was traced, — and then it faded as it came, 
 
 And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
 
 The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 
 
 And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 
 
 Not that which was, nor that which should have been— 
 
 But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall. 
 
 And the remember'd chambers, and the place, 
 
 The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 
 
 All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
 
 And her who was his destiny, came back 
 
 And thrust themselves between him and the light: 
 
 What business had they there at such a time ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The lady of his love ; — Oh I she was changed 
 As by tlie sickness of the soul ; her mind 
 Had wander'd from its dw^elling, and her eyes 
 They had not their own lustre, but the look 
 Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
 The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
 Were combinations of disjointed things; 
 And forms impalpable and unperceived 
 Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 
 And this the world calls phrensy ; but the wise 
 Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
 Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
 What is it but the telescope of truth? 
 Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
 And brings life near in utter nakedness. 
 Making the cold reaUty too real ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A change came o'er the spuit of my dream. 
 
 The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, 
 
 The beings which surrounded him were gone, 
 
 Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
 
 For blight and desolation, compass'd round 
 
 With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was nux'd 
 
 In all which was served up to him, until, 
 
 Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,'' 
 
 He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 
 
 But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 
 
 Through that which had been death to many men, 
 
 And made him friends o%nountains : with the stars 
 
 And the quick Spirit of the Universe 
 
 He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 
 
 To him the magic of their mysteries ; 
 
 To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 
 
 And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 
 
 A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 
 
 IX. 
 
 My dream was past ; it had no further change. 
 
 It was of a strange order, that the doom 
 
 Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 
 
 Almost like a reality — the one 
 
 To end in madness — both in misery. 
 
POEMS. 201 
 
 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 The fate thou didst so well foresee, 
 
 
 But would not to a|ipease him tell ; 
 
 I. 
 
 And in thy Silence was his Sunience, 
 
 Titian ! to whose imuiorlal eyes 
 
 And in his Soul a vain repentance, 
 
 The sufFermgs of mortaHty, 
 
 And evil dread so ill dis;scmh!ed 
 
 Seen in their sad reality. 
 
 That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 
 
 Were not as things that gods despise ; 
 
 
 What was thy pity's recompense ? 
 A silent suffering, and intense ; 
 
 III- 
 Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, 
 
 1'he rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
 
 To renuer with thy precepts less 
 
 All that the proud can feel of pain. 
 I'he agony they do not show, 
 The suffocating sense of wo, 
 
 The sum of human wretchedness. 
 And strengthen Man with his own mind \ 
 But baffled as thou wert from high. 
 
 Which speaks but in its loneUness, 
 
 Slill in thy patient energ}'. 
 
 And then is jealous lest the sky 
 
 In the endurance, and repulse 
 
 Sliould have a Ustener, nor will sigh 
 
 Of thine unpenetrable Spirit, 
 
 Until its voice is echoless. 
 
 Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, 
 
 
 A mighty lesson we inlierit : 
 
 n. 
 
 Thou art a symbol and a sign 
 
 Titian ! to thee the strife was given 
 
 To Mortals of their fate and force ; 
 
 Between the suffering and the will. 
 
 Like thee, Man is in part divine, 
 
 Which torture where they cannot kill ; 
 
 A troubled stream froiu a pure source ; 
 
 And the inexorable Heaven, 
 
 And Man in portions can foresee 
 
 And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 
 
 His own funereal destiny ; 
 
 The ruhng principle of Hate, 
 Which for its pleasure doth create 
 
 His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
 
 And his sad unallied existence : 
 
 The things it may annihilate, 
 
 To wluch his Spirit may oppose 
 
 Refused thee even the boon to die : 
 
 Itself— an equal to all w^oes. 
 
 The wretched gift eternity 
 
 And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
 
 Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
 
 Which even in torture can descry 
 
 •All that the Thunderer wrung from thce,^ 
 
 Its own concenter'd recompense, 
 
 Was but the menace which flung back 
 
 Triumphant where it dares defy,. 
 
 On him the torments of thy rack ; 
 
 And making Death a Victory. 
 
 ROMANCE MUY DOLOROSO 
 
 A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD 
 
 
 ON THK 
 
 DEL 
 
 SIEGE AND CONaUEST OF ALIIAMA. 
 
 SITtO Y TOAU DE. ALIIAMA. 
 
 WMch, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport. 
 
 
 [The effect of the crisi.ial ballad (vvhi.th existort both irv S|iai.ish and 
 
 El qual dezia en Ai avigo assL 
 
 Arabic) was such that it was IbrbkUleii Lo bu Bung by the Mooro, oa 
 
 I. 
 
 Passeavase el Rey Moro- 
 
 t'aiii of death, within Grenada.] 
 
 The Moorish King rides up and iown 
 
 Por la ciudad de Granada 
 
 Through Granada's royal town ; 
 
 Desde las pnertas de Elvira 
 
 From Elvira's gates lo those 
 
 Hasta las de Bivarambla. 
 
 Of Blvarambla on he goes. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama! 
 
 Wa is me, Alhama ! 
 
 2; 
 Letters to the monarch tell: 
 
 2. 
 Cartas le faeron venidas 
 
 due Alhama era ganada. 
 
 How Alhama's city fell ; 
 
 Las cartas echb en el fuego, 
 
 In the fire the scroll he threw,. 
 
 Y al mensagero matava. 
 
 And the messenger he slew. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama! 
 
 Wo is me, Albania I 
 3. 
 He quits his mule^ and mounts his horse. 
 
 3. 
 
 Descavalga de una mula, 
 
 Y en un cavallo cavalga. 
 
 And through the street directs his course; 
 
 Por el Zacatin arnba 
 
 Through tlic street of Zacalin 
 
 Subido se avia al Alhambra. 
 
 Tathe Alliambra s[)urring in. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama \ 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama! 
 4 
 When the Alhambra walls lie gain'd, 
 
 4. 
 Oomo en el Alhambra estuvo. 
 
 Al mismo punto mandava 
 
 On the moment lie ordain'd 
 
 due se toquen las trompeta* 
 
 That the trumpet straight should sound 
 
 Con anafiles de plata. 
 
 Ay de mi, AUiama ! 
 
 With the silver clarion roiuid. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama! 
 
 6. 
 
 Y que atambores de guerra 
 Apriessa toquen alarma ; 
 
 5> 
 
 And when the hollow drums of war 
 
 Beat the loud alarm afar, 
 
 Por que lo oygan sus Moros, 
 
 That tlie Moors of town and plain 
 
 Log de la Vega y Granada. 
 
 Might ajisw:er to the martial strain, 
 
 Ay de mi, AUiama I 
 
 Wo is Bie, AUiama ! 
 
 2 A 
 
202 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 6. 
 liOS Moros que el son oyeron, 
 due al sangriento Marte llama, 
 Uno a uno, y dos a dos, 
 Un gran esquadron fonnavan. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama! 
 
 6. 
 
 Then the Moors by this aware 
 That bloody Mars recall'd them there, 
 One by one, and two by two. 
 To a mighty squadron grew. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama I 
 
 7. 
 AUi hablb un Moro viejo ; 
 Desta manera hablava: — 
 Para que nos llamas, Rey ? 
 Para que es este Uamada? 
 
 Ay de mi, Alliama ! 
 
 7. 
 Out then spake an aged Moor 
 In these words the king before, 
 "Wherefore call on us, oh Kmg? 
 What may mean this gathering ?" 
 
 Wo is me, Albania ! 
 
 8. 
 Aveys de saber, amigos, 
 Una nueva desdichada : 
 Glue Christianos, con braveza, 
 Ya nos ban tornado Alhama. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alliama ! 
 
 8. 
 " Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 
 Of a most disastrous blow. 
 That the Christians, stem and bold. 
 Have obtain'd Alhama's hold." 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 9. 
 
 Alii hablb mi viejo Alfaqui, 
 De barba crecida y cana : — 
 Bien se te emplea, buen Rey, 
 Buen Rey ; bien se te empleava. 
 Ay de mi, Alhama! 
 
 9. 
 
 Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
 With his beard so white to see, 
 " Good King ! thou art justly served. 
 Good King ! this thou hast deserved. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 10. 
 
 10. 
 
 Mataste los Bcncerrages, 
 Q,ue era la flor de Granada ; 
 Cogiste los tornadizos 
 De Cordova la nombrada. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alliama! 
 
 « By thee were slain, m evil hour, 
 The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; 
 And strangers were received by thee 
 Of Cordova the Cliivalry. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 11. 
 
 11. 
 
 Por esso mereces, Rey, 
 Una pene bien doblada ; 
 due te pierdas tu y el reyno, 
 Y que se pierda Granada. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alliama, ! 
 
 "And for this, oh I^g! is sent 
 On thee a double chastisement : 
 Thee and thine, thy crown and realm. 
 One last wreck shall overwhelm. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 12. 
 
 12. 
 
 Si no se respetan leyes, 
 Es ley que todo se pierda ; 
 
 Y que se pierda Granada, 
 
 Y que te pierdas en ella. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 " He who holds no laws m awe, 
 He must perish by the law ; 
 And Granada must be won. 
 And thyself with her undone." 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 13. 
 
 13. 
 
 Fuego por los ojos vierte. 
 El Rey que esto oyera. 
 Y como el otro de leyes 
 De leyes tambien hablava. 
 
 Ay de mi, AUiama ! 
 
 Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes. 
 The Monarch's wrath began to rise. 
 Because he answer'd, and because 
 He spake exceeding well of laws. 
 
 Wo is me, Alliama ! 
 
 14. 
 
 14. 
 
 Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes 
 De darle a Reyes disgusto.— 
 Esso dize el Rey Moro 
 Relinchando de colera. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 « There is no law to say such things 
 As may disgust the ear of kings :"— 
 Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
 The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead. 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 15. 
 
 15. 
 
 Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, 
 El de la vellida barba. 
 El Rey te manda prender, 
 Por la perdida de Alhama. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama! 
 
 Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui! 
 Though thy beard so hoary be, 
 The King hath sent to have thee seized. 
 For Alhama's loss displeased. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 16. 
 
 16. 
 
 Y cortarte la cabeza, 
 
 Y ponerla en el Alhambra, 
 Por que a ti castigo sea, 
 
 Y otros tiemblen en miralla. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama! 
 
 And to fix thy head upon 
 High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; 
 That this for thee should be the law, 
 And others tremble when they saw. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
POEMS. 
 
 203 
 
 17. 
 
 Cavalleros, hombres buenos, 
 Dezid de mi parte al Rey, 
 Al Rey Moro de Granada, 
 Como no le devo nada. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama! 
 
 18. 
 
 De averse Alhama perdido 
 A mi me pesa en el alma. 
 Que si el Rey perdib su tierra, 
 Otro mucho mas perdiera. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama! 
 
 19. 
 
 Perdieran hijos padres, 
 
 Y casados las casadas 
 Las cosas que mas amara 
 Perdib 1' un y el otro fama. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 20. 
 Perdi una hija donzella 
 due era la fior d' esta tierra, 
 Cien doblas dava por ella, 
 No me las estimo en nada. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama! 
 
 21. 
 
 Diziendo assi alhacen Alfaqui, 
 Le cotaron la cabe^a, 
 
 Y la elevan al Alhambra, 
 Assi come el Rey lo manda. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 22. 
 Hombres, nifios y mugeres, 
 Lloran tan grande perdida. 
 Lloravan todas las damas 
 Quantas en Granada avia. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 23. 
 
 Por las calles y ventanas 
 Mucho luto parecia ; 
 Llora el Rey como fembra, 
 Q,u' es mucho io que perdia. 
 
 Ay de mi, Alhama ! 
 
 SONETTO DI VITTORELLI. 
 
 PER MONACA. 
 
 Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era raorta poco innanzi 
 una figlia appeiia maritata ; « rliretto al genitore della sacra sposa. 
 
 Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte 
 Lieti miseri padri il ciel ne feo, 
 II ciel, che degne di piu nobil sorte 
 L' una e I' altra veggendo, ambo chiedeo. 
 
 La mia fu tolta da veloce morte 
 A le fumanti tede d' imeneo : 
 La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte 
 Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo. 
 
 Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa 
 Irremeabil sogiia, ove s' asconde, 
 La sua tenera udir voce pietosa. 
 
 Io verso un fiume d' amarissim' onda, 
 
 Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa, 
 Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponda. 
 
 17. 
 
 " Cavalier, and man of worth ! 
 Let these words of mine go forth ; 
 Let the Moorish Monarch know, 
 That to him I nothing owe ; 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 18. 
 
 " But on my soul Alhama weighs, 
 And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
 And if the King his land hath lost, 
 Yet others may have lost the most. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 19. 
 "Sires have lost their children, wives 
 Their lords, and valiant men their Uves ; 
 One what best his love might claim 
 Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama! 
 
 " I lost a damsel in that hour, 
 Of all the land the loveliest flower; 
 Doubloons a hundred I would pay. 
 And think her ransom cheap that day." 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 21. 
 
 And as these things the old Moor said, 
 They sever'd from the trunk his head ; 
 And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 
 'T was carried, as the King decreed. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 22. 
 
 And men and infants therein weep 
 Their loss, so hea\7' and so deep ; 
 Granada's ladies, all she rears 
 Within her walls, burst into tears. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 23. 
 
 And from the windows o'er the walla 
 The sable web of mourning falls ; 
 The King weeps as a woman o'er 
 His loss, for it is much and sore. 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama ! 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLL 
 ON A mrN. 
 
 Sonnet composed in the name of a father wliose daughter had recently 
 died shortly after her marriage ; and addressed to the father of Jier wlia 
 had lately taken the veil. 
 
 Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired. 
 
 Heaven made us happy ; and now, wretched sires, 
 Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires, 
 And gazing upon citlier, both required. 
 
 Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired 
 Becomes extinguish'd, soon — too soon — expires • 
 But thine, within the closing grate retired. 
 Eternal captive, to her God aspires. 
 
 But thou at least from out the jealous door, 
 Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, 
 May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more : 
 
 I to the marble where mi/ daughter lies. 
 Rush, — the swoln flood of bitterness I pour 
 And knock, and knock, and knock — but none replies. 
 
204 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 ODE . 
 I. 
 
 Oh Venice ! Venice ! when ihy marble walls 
 
 Are level with th6 waters, there shall be 
 A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 
 
 A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
 If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
 What should thy sons do ? — any thing but weep ; 
 And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
 In contrast with their fathers— as the slime. 
 The dull green ooze of the receding deep. 
 Is with the dashing of tlie springtide foam 
 That drives the sailor shipless to his home, 
 Are they to those that were ; and thus they creep, 
 Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets. 
 Oh ! agony — that centuries should reap 
 No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundVed years 
 Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and teai-s ; 
 And every monument the stranger meets, 
 Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ; 
 And even the Lion all subdued appears. 
 And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, 
 With dull and dally dissonance, repeats 
 The echo of thy tyrant's voice along 
 The soft waves, once all musical to song. 
 That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng 
 Of gondolas— and to the busy hum 
 Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 
 Were but tlie overheating of the heart. 
 And flow of too much happiness, which needs 
 The aid of age to turn its course apart 
 From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
 Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. 
 But these are better than the gloomy errors, 
 The weeds of nations in their last decay, 
 When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors. 
 And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; 
 And Hope is nothing but a false delay, 
 The sick man's lightaiing half an hour ere death, 
 When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, 
 And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 
 Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, 
 Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away 
 Yet so relieving the o'er- tortured clay, 
 To him appears renewal of his breath, 
 And freedom the n>ere numbness of his chain ;— 
 And then he talks of life, and how again 
 He feels his spirits soaring — albeit weak, 
 And of the fresher air, which he would seek ; 
 And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, 
 That his thin finger feels not what it clasps. 
 And so the film comes o'er him— and the dizzy 
 Chamber swims round and round— and shadows busv. 
 At winch he vainly catches, flit and gleam, 
 TiU the last rattle "chokes the strangled stream, 
 And all is ice and blackness,— and tlie earth 
 That which it was the moment ere our birth. 
 
 JT. 
 
 There is no liope for nations '.—Search the page 
 
 Of many thousand years— the daily scene, 
 The flow and ebb of each recurring age, 
 The everlasting to be which hath been, 
 Hath taught us naught or little : still we lean 
 On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear 
 Our strength away in wrestling with the air ; 
 For 'tis our nature strikes us down: the beasts 
 Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts 
 Are of as high an order— they must go 
 Even where their dri«'er goads them, though to slaughter. 
 Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water, 
 What have they given your children in return? 
 A heritage of servitude and woes, 
 A bhndfold bondage, where your hire is blows. 
 
 What I do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn, 
 
 O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal. 
 
 And deem this proof of loyalty the real; 
 
 Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, 
 
 And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ? 
 
 All that your sires have lefl; you, all that Time 
 
 Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, 
 
 Spring from a different theme ! — Ye see and read, 
 
 Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed ! 
 
 Save the few spirits, who, despite of all, 
 
 And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd 
 
 By the down-thundering of the prison-wall. 
 
 And thii-st to swallow the sweet waters tender'd. 
 
 Gushing from Freedom's fountains — when the crowd, 
 
 Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud, 
 
 And trample on each other to obtain 
 
 The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 
 
 Heavy and sore, — in which long yoked they plough'd 
 
 The sand, — or if there sprung the yellow grain, 
 
 'T was not for them, their necks were too much bow'd, 
 
 And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain ; — 
 
 Yes ! the fev,' spirits — who^ despite of deeds 
 
 Which they abhor, confound not with the cause 
 
 Those momentary starts from Nature's laws. 
 
 Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite 
 
 But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth 
 
 With all her seasons to repair the bhght 
 
 With a few summers, and again put forth 
 
 Cities and generations — fair, wlien free — 
 
 For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for the© ! 
 
 Glory and Empire! once upon these towers 
 
 With Freedom — godlike Triad ! how ye sate ! 
 The league of mightiest nations, in those hours 
 When Venice was an envy, might abate, 
 But did not quench, her spirit — in her fate 
 All were enwrapped: the feasted monarchs knew 
 
 And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, 
 Although they humbled — with tlie kinaly few 
 The many felt, for from all days and climes 
 She was the voyager's worship ; — even her crimes 
 Were of tlie softer order — born of Love, 
 She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead, 
 But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread 
 For these restored the Cross, that from above 
 Hallow'd her sh-eltering banners, which incessant 
 Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, 
 Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank 
 The city it has clothed in chains, which clank 
 Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe 
 The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles ; 
 Yet she but shares with them a common wo, 
 And call'd the " kingdom" of a conquering foe, — 
 But knows what all— and, most of all, we know— 
 With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! 
 
 The name of Commonwealth is past and gone 
 
 O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe ; 
 Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own 
 
 A sceptre, and endures the purple robe \ 
 If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
 His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time, 
 For tyranny of late is curming grown. 
 And in its own good season tramples down 
 The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime. 
 Whose vigorous ofi^spring by dividincr ocean 
 Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
 Of Freedom, whicli their fathers fought for, and 
 Bequeath'd — a heritage of heart and hand, 
 And proud distinction from each other land, 
 Whose sons miist bow them at a monarch's motion, 
 As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 
 
POEMS. 
 
 205 
 
 Full of 'Jie magic of exploded science — 
 
 Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, 
 
 Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, 
 
 Above I he far Atlantic ! — She has taught 
 
 Her Esau-breihren that the haughty flag, 
 
 The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, 
 
 May strike to those whose red right liands have bought 
 
 Rights cheaply earn'd with blood.— Still, still, for ever 
 
 Better, though each man's life blood were a river, 
 
 That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
 
 Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
 Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, 
 And moving, as a sick man in his sleep. 
 Three paces, and th.cn faltering : — better be 
 Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, 
 In their proud charnel of Thermopylee, 
 Than stagnate in our rnarsh, — or o'er the deep 
 Fly, and one current to the ocean add, 
 One spirit to the souls our fathers had, 
 One freeman more, America, to thee ! 
 
 NOTES TO POExMS. 
 
 Note 1, page 184. 
 
 Written after swimming from Sestos to Ahydos. 
 
 On the 3d of May, ISIO, while the Salsette (Captain 
 Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant 
 Ekenhead of that frigate, and the writer of these 
 rhymes, swam from the European shore to the Asiatic 
 — by-the-by, from Abydos to Sestos would have been 
 more correct. The whole distance from the place 
 whence we started to our landing on the other side, 
 including the length we were carried by the current, 
 was computed by those on board the frigate at upwards 
 of four Enghsh miles ; though the actual breadth is 
 barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that 
 no boat can row directly across, and it may in some 
 jneasure be estimated from the circumstance of the 
 -whole distance being accomplished by one of the par- 
 ties in an hour and five, and by the other in an hour 
 and ten, minutes. The w^aterwas extremely cold from 
 the melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks 
 before, in April, we had made an attempt, but having 
 ridden all the way froin the Troad the same morning, 
 and the water being of an icy chilness, we found it 
 necessary to postpone the completion till the frigate 
 anchored below the castles, when we swam the straits, 
 as just stated ; entering a considerable way above the 
 European, and landing below the Asiatic, fort. Che- 
 valier says that a young Jew swam the same distance 
 for his mistress ; and Oliver mentions its having been 
 done by a Neapolitan ; but our consul, Tarragona, re- 
 membered neither of these circumstances, and tried 
 to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the 
 Salsctte's crow were known to have accomplished a 
 greater distance ; and the only thing that surprised me 
 was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the truth 
 of Leander's story, no traveller had ever endeavoured 
 to ascertain its practicability. 
 
 Note 2, page 185. 
 
 Z(t)T] fjiov, adi aycnrS). 
 
 Zee mou, SOS agapo, or Zwr] fxov, adg aya-nwy a Ro- 
 maic expression of tenderness : if I translate it, I shall 
 affront the gentlemen, as it may seem that I suppose 
 they could not ; and if I do not, I may affront the ladies. 
 For fear of any misconstruction on the part of the latter 
 I shall do so, begging pardon of the learned. It means, 
 " My life, I love you !" which sounds very prettily in all 
 languages, and is as much in fashion in Greece at this 
 day as, Juvenal tells us, the two first words were among 
 the Roman ladies, whose exotic expressions were all 
 Hellenized. 
 
 Note 3, page 185, line 27. 
 By all the token-fiov^ers that tell. 
 
 In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, 
 lest they should scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, 
 pebbles, &c. convey the sentiments of the parties by 
 that universal deputy of Mercury — an old woman. A 
 
 cinder says, " I burn for thee ;" a bunch of flowers tied 
 with hair, " Take me and fly ;" but a pebble deciarea — 
 what nothing else can. 
 
 Note 4, page 185, line 33. 
 Though I fly to Islambol. 
 Constantinople. 
 
 Note 5, page 185, line 55. 
 And the seven-hilVd city seeking. 
 Constantinople. " 'E:rTaXo0of." 
 
 Note 6, page 196, line 49. 
 Turning rivers into blood. 
 
 See Rev. chap. viii. verse 7, &c, "The first angel 
 sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with 
 blood," &c. 
 
 Verse 8. " And the second angel sounded, and as it 
 were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into 
 the sea ; and the third part of the sea became blood," 
 
 Verse 10. " And the third angel sounded, and there 
 fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp; 
 and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon 
 the fountains of v/aters." 
 
 Verse 11. "And the name of the star is called Worm- 
 wood : and the third part of the waters became worm- 
 wood ; and many men died of the waters, because they 
 were made bitter." 
 
 Note 7, page 196, line 65. 
 Whose realm refused thee even a tomb. 
 Murat's remains are said to have been tern from the 
 grave and burnt. 
 
 Note 8, page 197, line 20. 
 Blessing him they served so well. 
 
 " At .Waterloo one man was seen, whose left arm 
 was shattered by a cannon ball, to wrench it off with 
 the other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to 
 his comrades, 'Vive PEmpereur, jusqu'a la mort !' 
 There were many other instances of the like; this you 
 may, however, depend on as true." — A private Lettet 
 from Brussels. 
 
 Note 9, page 197, line 65. 
 Of three bright colours, each divine. 
 The tri-colour. 
 
 Note 10, page 198, line 14. 
 Lem,an ! these names are worthy of thy shore. 
 Geneva, Ferney, Coppet, Lausanne. 
 
 Note 11, page 200, line 126. 
 Like to the Pontic Monarch of old days. 
 Mithridatcs of Pontus, 
 
THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 'T is the sunset of life e;ives me mystical lore, 
 And corning events cast their shadows before." 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 Ladv! if for the cold and cloudy clime 
 
 Where was I born, but where I would not die, 
 
 Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy 
 I dare to build the imitative rhyme, 
 Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime, 
 
 Thou art the cause ; and howsoever I 
 
 Fall short of his immortal harmony, 
 Thy gentle heart will pardon rae the crime. 
 
 Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth, 
 
 Spak'st ; and for thee to speak and be obey'd 
 Are one ; but only in the sunny South 
 
 Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms display'd, 
 So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 
 
 Ah ! to what effort would it not persuade ? 
 Ravenna, June 21, 1819. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna m the 
 summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author that hav- 
 ing composed something on the subject of Tasso's con- 
 finement, he should do the same on Dante's exile — the 
 tomb of the poet forming one of the principal objects of in- 
 terest in tliat city, both to the native and to the stranger. 
 
 " On this hint I spake," and the result has been the 
 following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered to the 
 reader. If they are understood and approved, it is my 
 purpose to continue the poem in varous otlaer cantos to 
 its natural conclusion in the present age. The reader is 
 requested to suppose that Dante addresses him in the 
 interval between the conclusion of the Divina Commedia 
 and his death, and shortly before the latter event, foretell- 
 ing the fortunes of Italy in general in the ensuing centu- 
 ries. In adopting this plan I have had in my mind the 
 Cassandra of Lycophron, and the Prophecy of Nereus by 
 Horace, as well as die Prophecies of Holy Writ. The 
 measure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, winch I am 
 not aware to have seen hitherto tried m our language, ex- 
 cept it may be by Mr. Hayley, of whose translation I 
 never saw but one extract, quoted in the notes to Caliph 
 Vathek ; so that — if I do not err — this poem may be 
 considered as a metrical experiment. The cantos are 
 short, and about the same length of those of the poet, 
 _ whose name I have borrowed, and most probably taken 
 in vain. 
 
 Among the inconveniences of authors in the present 
 day, it is difficult for any who have a name, good or bad, 
 to escape translation. I have had the fortune to see the 
 fourth canto of Childe Harold translated into Italian versi 
 scioiti — that is, a poem v.ritten in the Spenserean stanza 
 into blank verse, without regard to the natural divisions of 
 the sianza, or of the sense. If the present poem, being on 
 a national topic should chance to undergo the same fate, 
 I would request the Italian reader to remember that 
 when I have failed in the imitation of his great "Padre 
 Alighier," I have failed in imitating that which all study 
 and few understand, since to this vei7 day it is not yet 
 seilled what was the meaning of the allegory in the first 
 canto of the Inferno, unless Count Marchetti's ingenious 
 
 and probable conjecture may be considered as having 
 decided the question. 
 
 He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am not 
 quite sure that he would be pleased with my success, 
 since the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, are par- 
 ticularly jealous of all that is left them as a nation — their 
 literature ; and in the present bitterness of the classic and 
 romantic war, are but ill disposed to permit a foreigner 
 even to approve or imitate them without finding some 
 fault with his ultramontane presumption. I can easily 
 enter into all this, knowing what would be thought in Eng- 
 land of an Italian imitator of JMilton, or if a translation of 
 Monti, or Pindemonte, or Arici, should be held up to the 
 rising generation as a model for their future poetical essays. 
 But I perceive that I am de\iating into an address to the 
 Italian reader, when my business is with the English one, 
 and be they few or many, I must take my leave of both. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 Once more in man's frail world ! which I had left 
 So long that 'twas forgotten; and I feel 
 The weight of clay again, — too soon berefl 
 
 Of the immortal vision which could heal 
 
 My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
 Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal, 
 
 Where late my ears rung with the damned cries 
 Of souls in hopeless bale ; and from that place 
 Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 
 
 Pure from the fire to join the angelic race ; 
 Midst whom my owti bright Beatrice bless'd' 
 My spirit with her light ; and to the base 
 
 Of the eternal Triad ! first, last, best, 
 
 Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God ! 
 Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 
 
 Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 
 
 From star to star to reach the ahnighty throne. 
 Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod 
 
 So long hath prest, and the cold marble stone, 
 Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love, 
 Love so ineffable, and so alone, 
 
 That naught on earth could more my bosom move, 
 And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
 That without which my soul, like the arkless dove, 
 
 Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet 
 Relieved her wing till found ; without thy light 
 My paradise had still been incomplete.^ 
 
 Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight 
 Thou wert my fife, the essence of my thought, 
 Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright 
 
 Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought 
 
 Widi the world's war, and years, and banishment^ 
 And tears for thee, by other woes untaught ; 
 
 For mine is not a nature to be bent 
 
 By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd ; 
 And though the long, long conflict hath been spent 
 
 In vain, and never more, save when the cloud 
 Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye 
 Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 
 
Canto II. 
 
 PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 207 
 
 Of me, can I return, though but to die, 
 Unto my native soil, they have not yet 
 Q,ueneh'd the old exile's spirit, stern and high. 
 But the sun, though not over-cast, must set, 
 And the night cometh ; I am old in days. 
 And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 
 Destruction face to face in all his ways. 
 
 The world hath left me, what it found me, pure, 
 And if I have not gaiher'd yet its praise, 
 I sought it not by any baser lure ; 
 Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name 
 May form a monument not all obscure. 
 Though such was not my ambition's end or aim. 
 To add to the vamglorious list of those 
 Who dabble in the pettiness of fame. 
 And make men's fickle breath the wmd that blows 
 Their saU, and deem it glory to be class'd 
 With conquerors, and virtue's other foes, 
 In bloody chronicles of ages past. 
 I would have had my Florence great and free : ^ 
 Oh Florence ! Florence ! unto me thou wast 
 Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 
 Wept over, " but thou would'st not ;" as the bird 
 Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee 
 Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
 My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, 
 Against the breast that cherish'd thee was stirr'd 
 Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce, 
 And doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
 Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse 
 To him who for that cotmtry would expire, 
 But did not merit to expire by her. 
 And loves her, loves her even in her ire. 
 The day may come v/hen she will cease to err. 
 The day may come she would be proud to have 
 The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer * 
 Of liim whom she denied a home, the grave. 
 But tliis shall not be granted; let my dust 
 Lie where it falls ; nor shall the soil which gave 
 Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
 Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
 My indignant bones, because her angry gust 
 Forsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom ; 
 No, — she denied me what was mine — my roof, 
 And shall not have what is not hers — my tomb. 
 Too long her armed wTath hath kept aloof 
 
 The breast which would have bled for her, the heart 
 That beat, the mind that was temptation proof. 
 The man who fought, toil'd, travell'd, and each part 
 Of a true citizen fulnll'd, and saw 
 For his reward the Guelf 's ascendant art 
 Pass his destruction even into a law. 
 
 These things are not made for forgetfulnesSj 
 Florence shall be forgotten first ; too raw 
 The wotmd, too deep the wrong, and the distress 
 Of such endurance too prolong'd to make 
 My pardon greater, her injustice less, 
 Though late repented ; yet — yet for her sake 
 I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine 
 My own Beatrice, I would hardly take 
 Vengeance upon the land which once was mine, 
 And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return. 
 Which would protect the murderess hke a shrine. 
 And save ten thousand foes by thy sole m*n. 
 Though, hke old Marius from JMinturnas's marsh 
 And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn 
 At times with evil feelings hot and harsh. 
 And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 
 Writhe in a dream before me, and o'er-arch 
 My brow ^^'ith hopes of triumph, — let them go ! 
 Such are the last infirmities of those 
 Who long have suffer'd more than mortal wo, 
 And yet being mortal still, have no repose 
 But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 
 Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows 
 
 Widi the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change, 
 When we shall mount again, and they that trod 
 Be trampled on, while Death and Ate range 
 
 O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks Great God! 
 
 Take these thoughts from me — to thy hands I yield 
 My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 
 Will fall on those who smote me, — be my sliield I 
 As thou hast been in peril, £md in pain, 
 In turbulent cities, and the tented field — 
 In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 
 For Florence. — I appeal from her to Thee! 
 Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, 
 Even in that glorious vision, which to see 
 And live was never granted until now. 
 And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 
 Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow 
 
 The sense of earth and earthly things come back, 
 Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low, 
 The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, 
 Long day, and dreary night ; the retrospect 
 Of half a century bloody and black. 
 And the frail few years I may yet expect 
 Hoary aad hopeless, but less hard to bear. 
 For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd 
 On the lone rock of Desolate Despair 
 To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 
 Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare 
 Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my wail ? 
 I am not of this people, nor this age, 
 And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 
 Which shall preserve these times when not a page 
 Of their perturbed annals could attract 
 An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, 
 Did not my verse embalm full many an act 
 
 Worthless as they who wTOught it : 't is the doom 
 Of spirits of my order to be rack'd 
 In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume 
 Their days in endless strife, and die alone ; 
 Then future thousands crowd around their tomb, 
 And pilgrims come from climes where they have luiown 
 The name of him — who now is but a name. 
 And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone, 
 Spread his — by him imheard, unheeded — fame ; 
 And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die 
 Is nothing ; but to wither thus — to tame 
 My mind douTi from its own infinity — 
 To live in narrow ways with little men, 
 A common sight to every common eye, 
 A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, 
 Ripp'd fi-om all kindred, from all home, all things 
 That make commmiiou sweet, and soften pain — 
 To feel me in the solitude of kings 
 Without the power that makes them bear a crown- 
 To envy every dove his nest and wings 
 Which waft him where the Apennine looks down 
 On Arno, till he perches, it may be, 
 Within my all inexorable town, 
 Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,* 
 
 Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought 
 Destruction for a dowry — this to see 
 And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 
 A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me fi-ee : 
 I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, 
 They made an Exile — not a slave of me. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 The Spirit of the fervent days of Old, 
 
 When words were things that came to pass, and 
 thought 
 
 Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold 
 Their children's children's doom aheady brought 
 
 Forth from the abyss of time which is to be, 
 
 The chaos of events, where he half-wrought 
 
208 
 
 PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 Ca-nto 111. 
 
 Shapes that iiuist undergo mortahty ; 
 
 What tlie great Seers of Israel wore within, 
 
 That spirit was on them, and is on me, 
 And if, Cassandra-Uke, amidst the din 
 
 Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed 
 
 This voice from out the Wilderness, the sin 
 Be iheij's, and my own feelings be my meed, 
 
 The only guerdon I have ever known. 
 
 Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still to bleed, 
 Italia ? Ah ! to me such things, foreshown 
 
 With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget 
 
 In thine irreparable wrongs my o«ti ; 
 We can have but one country, and even yet 
 
 Thou'rt mine — my bones shall be within thy breast, 
 
 My soul within thy language, which once set 
 With our old Roman sway in tlie wide West ; 
 
 But I will make another tongue arise 
 
 As lofty and more sweet, in which exprest 
 The hero's ardour, or the lover's sighs. 
 
 Shall find alike such sounds for every theme 
 
 That every word, as brilliant as thy skies, 
 Shall realize a poet's proudest dream. 
 
 And make thee Europe's nightingale of song; 
 
 So that all present speech to thine shall seem 
 The note of meaner birds, and every tongue 
 
 Confess its barbarism, when compared with thine. 
 
 Tiiis shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, 
 Thy Tuscan Bard, the banish'd Ghibeliine. 
 
 Wo ! wo ! the veil of coming centuries 
 
 Is rent, — a thousand years which yet supine 
 Lie nice the ocean waves ere winds arise, 
 
 Heaving in dark and sullen undulation, 
 
 Float from eternity into these eyes; 
 The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station, 
 
 The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, 
 
 The bloody chaos yet expects creation, 
 But all tilings are disposing for thy doom ; 
 
 The elements await but for the word, 
 
 " Let there be darlcness !" and thou grow'st a tomb I 
 Yes ! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword. 
 
 Thou, Italy ! so fair that Paradise, 
 
 Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored : 
 Ah I must the sons of Adam lose it twice ? 
 
 Thou, Italy! whose ever golden fields. 
 
 Ploughed by the sunbeams solely, would suffice 
 For the world's granary ; thou whose sky heaven gilds 
 
 With bi-ighter stars, and robes with deeper blue ; 
 
 Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds 
 Her palace, in whose cradled Empire grew, 
 
 And form'd the Eternal City's ornaments 
 
 From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew ; 
 Bh-thplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints, 
 
 Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made 
 
 Her liome ; thou, all which fondest fancy paints, 
 And finds her prior vision but portray'd 
 
 In feeble colours, when the eye— from the Alp 
 
 Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade 
 Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp 
 
 Nods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er thee, 
 
 And wistfully implores, as 't were, for help 
 To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 
 
 Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 
 
 The more approach'd, and dearest were they free. 
 Thou — Thou must v%ither to each tyrant's will: 
 
 The Goth hath been,— the German, Frank, and Hun 
 
 Are yet to come, — and on the hnperial iiill 
 Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 
 
 By the old barbarians, there awaits the new. 
 
 Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won 
 Rome at her feet lies bleedmg ; and the hue 
 
 Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter 
 
 Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, 
 And deepens into red the saffron water 
 
 Of Tiber, thick with dead ; the helpless priest, 
 
 .And still more helpless nor less holy daughter 
 
 V'ovv'd to llu'lr God, have shrieking fled, and ceased 
 Their ministry :'lhe nations lake their prej; 
 Iberian, Ahuain, Lombaid, and the beast 
 
 And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they 
 Are ; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore 
 Of the departed, and then go their way ; 
 
 But those, the human savages, explore 
 All paths of torture, and insatiate yet, 
 With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. 
 
 Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set f 
 The chiefless army of the dead, which late 
 Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met, 
 
 Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate ; 
 Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance 
 Tho hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate. 
 
 Oh ! Rome, the spoiler or the spoil of France, 
 From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never 
 Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance 
 
 But Tiber shall become a mournful river. 
 Oh ! when the strangers pass tlie Alps and Po, 
 Crush them, ye rocks ! floods whelm them, and foi 
 ever ! 
 
 Why sleep the idle avalanches so, 
 
 To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head ? 
 Why doth Eridanus but overflow 
 
 The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed ? 
 Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey 
 Over Cambyses' host the desert spread 
 
 Her sandy ocean, and the sea waves' sway 
 RoU'd over Pharaoh and liis thousands, — why 
 Mountains and waters, do ye not as they ? 
 
 And you, ye men ! Romans, who dare not die, 
 Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 
 Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie 
 
 The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew, 
 Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylae ? 
 Their passes more alluring to the view 
 
 Of an invader ? is it they, or ye, 
 
 That to each host the mountain-gate unbar. 
 And leave the march in peace, the passage free ? 
 
 WJiy, Nature's self detains the victor's car. 
 And makes your land impregnable, if earth 
 Could be so; but alone she will not wur, 
 
 Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth 
 
 In a soil where the mothers bring forth men : 
 Not so with those whose souls are little worth j 
 
 For them no fortress can avail, — the den 
 Of the poor reptile wiiich preserves its sting 
 Is more secure than walls of adamant, when 
 
 The hearts of those within are quivering. 
 Are ye not brave ? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil 
 Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to bring 
 
 Against Oppression ; but how vain the toil. 
 While still Division sows the seeds of wo 
 And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil. 
 
 Oh ! my own beauteous land ! so long laid low, 
 So long the grave of thy own children's hopes. 
 When there is but required a single blow 
 
 To break the chain, yet — yet the Avenger stops. 
 And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee, 
 And join their strength to that which with thee copes 
 
 What is there wanting then to set thee free 
 And show thy beauty in its fullest light? 
 To make the Alps impassable ; and we, 
 
 Her sons, may do this with one deed Unite. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 From out the mass of never-dying ill. 
 
 The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the Sword, 
 
 Vials of wrath but emptied to refill 
 And flow again, I cannot all record 
 
 That crowds on my prophetic eye : the earth 
 
 And ocean written o'er would not afford 
 Space for th© aimal, yet it shall go forth ; 
 
Canto III. 
 
 PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 209 
 
 Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, 
 
 There where the farthest suns and stars have birth, 
 Spread lilce a banner at the gate of heaven. 
 
 The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs 
 
 Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven 
 Athwart the sounds of archangelic songs, 
 
 And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore, 
 
 Will not in vain arise to where belongs 
 Omnipotence and mercy evermore : 
 
 Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind, 
 
 The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 
 The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 
 
 Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 
 
 Earth's dust by immortality refined 
 To sense and suffering, though the vain may scoffj 
 
 And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow 
 
 Before the storm because its breath is rough, 
 To thee, my country ! whom before, as now, 
 
 I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre 
 
 And melancholy gift high powers allow 
 To read the future ; and if now my fire 
 
 Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ! 
 
 I but foretell thy fortunes — then expire ; 
 Think not that I would look on them and live. 
 
 A spirit forces me to see and speak. 
 
 And for my guerdon grants not to survive ; 
 My heart shall be pour'd over thee and breali : 
 
 Yet for a moment, ere I must resume 
 
 Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take 
 Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom 
 
 A softer glimpse ; some stars shine through thy night. 
 
 And many meteors, and above thy tomb 
 Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot blight; 
 
 And from thuie ashes boundless spirits rise 
 
 To give thee honour, and the earth delight : 
 Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise, 
 
 The gay. the learn'd, the generous, and the brave, 
 
 Native to thee as summer to thy skies. 
 Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave,' 
 
 Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name ;^ 
 
 For thee alone they have no arm to save, 
 And all thy recompense is in their fame^ 
 
 A noble one to them, but not to thee — 
 
 Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same ? 
 Oh ! more than these illustrious far shall be 
 
 The being — and even yet he may be born — 
 
 The mortal saviour who shall set thee free, 
 And see thy diadem so changed and worn 
 
 By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced ; 
 
 And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn, 
 Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced 
 
 And noxious vapours from Avernus risen, 
 
 Such as all they must breathe who are debased 
 By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 
 
 Yet through this centuried eclipse of wo 
 
 Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen ; 
 Poets shall follow in the path I show, 
 
 And make it broader ; the same brilliant sky 
 
 Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them glow, 
 And raise their notes as natural and high ; 
 
 Tuneful shall be their numbers ; they shall sing 
 
 Many of love, and some of hberty, 
 But few shall soar upon that eagle's wing. 
 
 And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze 
 
 All free and fearless as the feather'd king, 
 But fly more near the earth ; how many a phrase 
 
 Sublime shall lavish'd be on some small prince 
 
 In all the prodigality of praise ! 
 And language, eloquently false, evince 
 
 The harlotry of genius, wliich, like beauty, 
 
 Too oft forgets its own self-reverence, 
 And looks on prostitution as a duty. 
 
 3 He who once enters m a tyrant's hall 
 
 As guest is slave, his thoughts become a booty, 
 And the first day which sees the chain enthral 
 2B 
 
 A captive, sees his half of manhood gone — '° 
 
 The soul's emasculation saddens all 
 His spirit ; thus the Bard too near the throne 
 
 Q, uails from his inspiration, bound to please, — 
 
 How servile is the task to please alone ! 
 To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's ease 
 
 And royal leisure, nor too much prolong 
 
 Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, 
 Or force, or forge fit argument of song ! 
 
 Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to Flattery's trebles, 
 
 He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong : 
 For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels, 
 
 Should rise up in high treason to his brain, 
 
 He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles 
 In 's mouth, lest truth should stammer through his strain. 
 
 But out of the long file of sonneteers 
 
 There shall be some who will not sing in vain, 
 And he, their prince, shall rank among my peers,"' 
 
 And love shall be his torment ; but Iris grief 
 
 Shall make an immortality of tears, 
 And Italy shall hail him as the Chief 
 
 Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song 
 
 Of Freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. 
 But in a farther age shall rise along 
 
 The banks of Po two greater still than he ; 
 
 The world which smiled on him shall do them wrong 
 Till they are ashes, and repose with me. 
 
 The first will make an epoch with his lyre. 
 
 And fill the earth with feats of chivalry : 
 His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire. 
 
 Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his thought 
 
 Bome onward vAxh a %\ing that cannot tire; 
 Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught, 
 
 Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme. 
 
 And Art itself seem into Nature wrought 
 By the transparency of his bright dream. — 
 
 The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood, 
 
 Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem ; 
 He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood 
 
 Shed where Christ bled for man ; and his high harp 
 
 Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood. 
 Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp 
 
 Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 
 
 And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 
 Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave 
 
 The red-cross banners where the first red Cross 
 
 Was crimson'd from his veins who died to save. 
 Shall be his sacred argument ; the loss 
 
 Of years, of favour, freedom, even of fame 
 
 Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss 
 Of courts would sUde o'er his forgotten name, 
 
 And call captivity a kindness, meant 
 
 To shield him from insanity or shame, 
 Such shall be his meet guerdon ! who was sent 
 
 To be Christ's Laureat— they reward him well! 
 
 Florence dooms me but death or banishment. 
 Ferrara him a pittance and a cell. 
 
 Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 
 
 Had stung the factions which I strove to quell ; 
 But this meek rhan, who with a lover's eye 
 
 Will look on earth and heaven, and who will deign 
 
 To embakn with his celestial flattery 
 As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign, 
 
 What will he do to merit such a doom ? 
 
 Perhaps he '11 Zoi;e,— and is not love in vain 
 Torture enough without a living tomb ? 
 
 Yet it wiU be so— he and his compeer, 
 
 The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume 
 [n penury and pain too many a year, 
 
 And, dying in despondency, bequeath 
 
 To the kind world, which scarce will yield a tear, 
 A heritage enriching all who breathe 
 
 With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul, 
 
 And to their country a redoubled wreath, 
 Unmatch'd by time ; not Hellas can unroU 
 
210 
 
 PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 Through her olympiads two such names, though one 
 Of hers be mighty ; — and is this the whole 
 
 Of such men's destiny beneath tlie sun? 
 
 Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense, 
 The electric blood with which their arteries run, 
 
 Their body's self turn'd soul with the intense 
 Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
 That which should be, to such a recompense 
 
 Conduct? shall their bright plumage on the rough 
 Storm be still scatter'd ? Yes, and it must be, 
 For, form'd of far too penetrable stuff, 
 
 These birds of Paradise but long to flee 
 Back to their native mansion, soon they find 
 Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree, 
 
 And die or are degraded, for the mind 
 Succumbs to long infection, and despair, 
 And vulture pasions flying close behind, 
 
 Await the moment to assail and tear ; 
 
 And when at length the winged wanderers stoop, 
 Then is the prey-bird's triumph, then they share 
 
 The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell swoop. 
 Yet some have been untouch'd who learn'd to bear, 
 Some whom no power could ever force to droop, 
 
 Who could resist themselves even, hardest care ! 
 And task most hopeless ; but some such have been. 
 And if my name among the number were, 
 
 That destiny austere, and yet serene. 
 Were prouder than more dazzling fame unblest ; 
 The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen 
 
 Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest, 
 
 Whose splendour from tlie black abyss is flung. 
 While the scorch'd mountain, fi-om whose burning 
 breast 
 
 A temporary torturing flame is wrung, 
 Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
 Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung, 
 
 The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 Many are poets who have never penn'd 
 Their inspiration, and perchance tlie best : 
 They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend 
 
 Theii- thoughts to meaner beings ; they compress'd 
 The god within them, and rejoin'd the stars 
 Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more blest 
 
 Than those who are degraded by the jars 
 Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame, 
 Conquerors of liigh renown, but full of scars. 
 
 Many are poets but without the name, 
 For what is poesy but to create 
 From overfeeling good or ill ; and aim 
 
 At an external life beyond our fate. 
 And be the new Prometheus of new men. 
 Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, 
 
 Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain, 
 And vultures to the heart of the bestower, 
 Who having lavish'd his high gift in vain. 
 
 Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the seashore ? 
 So be it : we can bear. — But thus all they 
 Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power 
 
 Which still recoils fi-om its incumbering clay 
 Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
 The form which tiieir creations may essay. 
 
 Are bards ; the kmdled marble's bust may wear 
 More poesy upon its speaking brow 
 Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear ; 
 
 One noble stroke with a whole fife may glow, 
 Or deify the canvass till it shine 
 Widi beauty so surpassing all below. 
 
 That they who kneel to idols so divine 
 
 Break no commandment, for high heaven is there 
 Transfused, transfigurated ; jind the line 
 
 Of poesy, which peoples but the air 
 
 With thought and beings of our thought reflected, 
 Can do no more: then let the artist share 
 
 The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected 
 Faints o'er the labour unapproved — Alas ! 
 Despair and Genius are too oft cormected 
 
 Witliin the ages which before me pass 
 
 Art shall resume and equal even the sway 
 Which with Apelles and old Phidias 
 
 She held m Hellas' unforgotten day. 
 Ye shall be taught by Ruin to revive 
 The Grecian forms at least from their decay. 
 
 And Roman souls at last again shall live 
 In Roman works wrought by Itahan hands, 
 And temples, loftier than the old temples, give 
 
 New wonders to the world ; and while still stands 
 The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 
 A dome, ^^ its image, while the base expands 
 
 Into a fame surpassing all before, 
 
 Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : ne'er 
 Such sight hath been unfolded by a door 
 
 As this, to which all nations shall repair. 
 
 And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven 
 And the bold Architect unto whose care 
 
 The daring charge to raise it shall be given. 
 Whom all arts shall acknow^ledge as tlieir lord, 
 Whether into the marble chaos driven 
 
 His chisel bid the Hebrew, ^^ at whose word 
 Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone, 
 Or hues of hell be by his pencil pour'd 
 
 Over the damn'd before the Judgment throne,'* 
 Such as I saw them, such as all shall see, 
 Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, 
 
 The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from nie '' 
 The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms 
 Which form the empire of eternity. 
 
 Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of helms, 
 The age which I anticipate, no less 
 Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelms 
 
 Calamity the nations with distress, 
 The genius of my country shall arise, 
 A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, 
 
 Lovely in all its branches to all eyes. 
 Fragrant as fair, and recognised afar, 
 Wafting its native incense through the skies. 
 
 Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war, 
 Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze 
 On canvass or on stone ; and they who mar 
 
 All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise, 
 
 Shall feel the power of that which they destroy. 
 And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 
 
 To tyrants, who but take her for a toy, 
 Emblems and monuments, and prostitute 
 Her charms to pontiffs proud, '^ who but employ 
 
 The man of genius as the meanest brute 
 To bear a burden, and to serve a need, 
 To sell his labours and his soul to boot. 
 
 Who toils for nations may be poor indeed. 
 
 But free ; who sweats for monarchs is no more 
 Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and fee'd 
 
 Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door. 
 Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest ! how 
 Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power 
 
 Is hkest thine in heaven in outward show, 
 Least like to thee in attributes divine. 
 Tread on the universal necks that bow. 
 
 And then assure us that their rights are thine ? 
 And how is it that they, the sons of fame. 
 Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 
 
 From high, they whom the nations oftest name, 
 Must pass their days in penury or pain, 
 Or step to grandeujr through the paths of shamej 
 
 And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain ? 
 Or if their destiny be bom aloof 
 From lowUness, or tempted thence in vain, 
 
 In their own souls sustain a harder proof, 
 
PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 211 
 
 The inner war of passions deep and fierce ? 
 
 Florence ! when thy harsh sentence razed my roofj 
 I loved thee ; but the vengeance of my verse, 
 
 The hate of injuries which every year 
 
 Makes greater, and accumulates my curse, 
 Shall live, outliving all thou holdest dear, 
 
 Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even ihatf 
 
 The most infernal of all evils here. 
 The sway of petty tyrants in a state ; 
 
 For such sway is not limited to kings 
 
 And demagogues yield to them but in date 
 As swept off sooner ; in all deadly things 
 
 Which make men hate themselves, and one another, 
 
 In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs 
 From Death the Sm-born's incest with his mother, 
 
 In rank oppression in its rudest shape, 
 
 The faction Chief is but the Sultan's brother. 
 And the worst despot's far less human ape : 
 
 Florence ! when this lone spirit, which so long 
 
 Yearn'd. as the captive toiling at escape, 
 To fly back to thee in despite of wrong. 
 
 An exile, saddest of all prisoners, 
 
 Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong, 
 
 Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars, 
 Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth 
 Where — whatso'er his fate — he still were hers, 
 
 His country's, and might die where he had birth — 
 Florence! when this lone spirit shall return 
 To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth 
 
 And seek to honour with an empty urn 
 The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain — Alas ! 
 " What have I done to thee, my people ?" '' Stem 
 
 Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 
 The limits of man's common malice, for 
 All that a citizen could be I was ; 
 
 Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war 
 And for this thou hast warr'd with me. — 'T is done: 
 I may not overleap the eternal bar 
 
 Built up between us, and will die alone, 
 Beholding with the dark eye of a seer 
 The evil days to gifted souls foreshown, 
 
 Fortelling them to those who will not hear 
 As in the old time, till the hour be come 
 When Truth shall strike their eyes through many 
 a tear, 
 
 And make them own the Prophet in his tomb. 
 
 NOTES TO PROPHECY OF DANTE. 
 
 Note 1, page 206, line 11. 
 Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless d. 
 The reader is requested to adopt the Italian prO' 
 nunciation of Beatrice, sounding all the syllables. 
 
 Note 2, page 206, line 27. 
 My paradise had still been incomplete. 
 " Che sol per le belle opre 
 Che fanno in Cieloil sole e 1' altre stelle 
 Dentro di lui' si crede il Paradiso, 
 Cosi se guardi fiso 
 
 Pensar ben d^i ch' ogni terren' piacere. 
 Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of Bea- 
 trice, Strophe third. 
 
 Note 3, page 207, line 20 
 
 / would have had my Florence great and free. 
 
 "L'Esilio che m' e dato onor mi tegno. 
 
 + * * + + 
 
 Cader tra' buoni h pur di lode degno." 
 
 Sonnet of Dante, 
 in which he represents Right, Generosity, and Tempe- 
 rance as banished from among men, and seeking refuge 
 from Love, who inhabits his bosom. 
 
 Note 4, page 207, Une 36. 
 The dust she dooms to scatter, 
 " Ut si quis predictorum ullo tempore in foitiam dicti 
 communis pervenerit, tallis perveniens igne comburatur, 
 sic quod moriatur.^' 
 
 Second sentence of Florence against Dante, and the 
 fourteen accused with him. — The Latin is worthy of 
 the sentence. 
 
 Note 5, page 207, line 133. 
 Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she. 
 This lady, v/hose name was Gemma, sprung from one 
 of the most powerful Guelf families, named Donati. 
 Corso Donati was the principal adversary of the Ghi- 
 bellines. She is described as being '^Admodum morosa, 
 ut de Xantip'po, Socratis philosophi conjuge scriptum esse 
 tegimus," according to Giannozzo Manetti. But Lio- 
 nardo Aretino is scandalized with Boccace, in his life of 
 Dante, for saying that literary men should not marry. 
 " Qui il Boccaccio non ha pazienza, e dice, le mogli 
 esser contrarie agli studj ; e non si ricorda che Socrate 
 ilp iu nobile filosofo che mai fosse, ebbe moglie e figli- 
 
 uoli e ufRci della Repubblica nella sua Citta ; e Aristo- 
 tele che, &c. &c. ebbe due mogli in varj tempi, ed ebbe 
 figliuoU, e ricchezze assai. — E Marco Tullio — e Ca- 
 tone — e Varrone — e Seneca — ebbero moglie," &c. &c. 
 It is odd that honest Lionardo's examples, with the ex- 
 ception of Seneca, and for any thing I know of Aris- 
 totle, are not the most felicitous. TuUy's Terentia, 
 and Socrates' Xantippe, by no means contributed to 
 their husbands' happiness, whatever they might do to 
 their philosophy — Cato gave away his wife — of Var- 
 ro's we know nothing — and of Seneca's, only that she 
 was disposed to die with him, but recovered, and lived 
 several years afterwards. But says Lionardo, " L'uo- 
 mo e animale civile, secondo place a tutti i filosofi." 
 And thence concludes that the greatest proof of the 
 animaVs civism is " la prima congiunzione, dalla quale 
 multiplicata nasce la Cittk." 
 
 Note 6, page 208, line 85 
 
 JVine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set. 
 
 See " Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to Guic- 
 
 ciardini. There is another written by a Jacopo 
 
 Buonaparte, Gentiluomo Samminiatese one vi si trov6 
 
 presents 
 
 Note 7, page 209, line 39. 
 Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave 
 Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene of 
 Savoy, Montecucco. 
 
 Note 8, page 209, line 40. 
 
 Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name. 
 
 Columbus, Americus Vespusius, Sebastian Cabot. 
 
 Note 9, page 209, hne 73. 
 
 He who once enters in a tyrant's hall, ^c. 
 
 A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which 
 
 Pompey took leave of Cornelia on entering the boat in 
 
 which he was slain. 
 
 Note 10, page 209, lines 75 and 76. 
 
 And the first day which sees the chain enthral, ^c. 
 
 The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer. 
 
 Note 11, page 209, line 93. 
 
 And the, their prince, shaU rank among my peers. 
 
 Petrarch. 
 
212 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Note 12, page 210, line 87, 
 A dome, its image. 
 The cupola of St. Peter's. 
 
 Note 13, page 210, line 97. 
 His chisel bid tlie Hebrew. 
 The statue of Mcses on the monument of Julius 11. 
 SONETTO 
 Di Giovanni Batdsta Zappi. 
 Chi b costui, che in dura pietra scolto, 
 Siede gigante ; e le piii illustre, e conte 
 Prove dell' arte avvanza, e ha vive, e pronte 
 Le labbia s"i, che le parole ascolto ? 
 Q,uest' e Mos^ ; ben .me '1 diceva il folto 
 Onor del mento, e '1 doppio raggio in fronte, 
 Q,uest' e Mose, qiiando scendea del monte, 
 E gran parte del Nume avea nel volto. 
 Tal era allor, che le sonanti, e vaste 
 Acque ei sospese a se d' intorno, e tale 
 duando il mar chiase, e ne f^ tomba altrui. 
 E voi sue turbe un rio vitello alzate ? 
 Alzata aveste imago a questa eguale! 
 Ch' era men fallo I adorar costui. 
 
 Note 14, page 210, line 100. 
 Over tlie damned before the Judgment throne. 
 The Last Judgment in the Sistine chapel 
 
 Note 15, page 210, line 103. 
 TVie stream of his great thouglds shall spring from me. 
 I have read somewhere (if I do not err, for I cannot 
 recollect where) that Dante was so great a favourite of 
 Michel Angiolo's, that he had designed the whole of 
 the Divina Commedia; but that the volume containing 
 these studies w^as lost by sea. 
 
 Note 16, page 210, Hne 123. 
 Her charms to pontiff's proud, who but employ , ^c. 
 See the treatment of Michel Angiolo by Julius 11. 
 and his neglect by Leo X. 
 
 Note 17, page 211, line 32. 
 " WTiat have I done to thee, my people ?" 
 "E scrisse piu volte non solamente a particolari 
 cittadini del regsimento, ma ancora al popolo, e intra 
 r altre una Epistola assai lunga che comincia: — 'Pa- 
 pule mi, quid feci tibi ?' " 
 
 Vita di Dante scritta da Lionardo Aretino, 
 
 CAIN; 
 
 A. MYSTERY. 
 
 'Now the Serpent was more subtile than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made."— Oen. iii 1. 
 
 TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 
 
 THIS "MYSTERY OF CAIN" IS INSCRIBED 
 BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND, AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The following scenes are entitled "a Mystery," in 
 conformity with the ancient title annexed to dramas upon 
 similar subjects, which were styled "Mysteries, or Mo- 
 ralities." The author has by no means taken the same 
 liberties with his subject which were common formerly, 
 as may be seen by any reader curious enough to refer 
 to those very profane productions, w^hether in English, 
 French, Italian, or Spanish. The author has endeavoured 
 to preserve the language adapted to his characters ; and 
 where it is (and this is but rarely) taken from actual 
 Scripture, he has made as little alteration, even of words, 
 as the rhythm would permit. The reader will recollect 
 that the book of Genesis does not state tliat Eve was 
 tempted by a demon, but by " the Serpent ;" and that only 
 because he was " the most subtile of all the beasts of the 
 field." Wliatever interpretation the Rabbins and the 
 Fathers may have put upon this, I must take tlie words 
 as I find them, and reply with Bishop Watson upon simi- 
 lar occasions, when the Fathers were quoted to him. as 
 Moderator in the schools of Cambridge, "Behold the 
 Book !'' — holding up the Scripture. It is to be recollected 
 that my present subject has nothing to do with the New 
 Testament, to which no reference can be here made with- 
 out anachronism. With the poems upon similar topics I 
 
 have not been recently familiar. Since I was twenty I 
 have never read Milton ; but I had read him so frequently 
 before, that thb may make httle difference. Gesner's 
 " Death of Abel" I have never read since I was eight 
 years of age. at Aberdeen. The general impression of 
 my recollection is delight ; but of the contents I remember 
 only that Cain's wife was called Mahala, and Abel's 
 Thirza : in the following pages I have called them " Adah" 
 and " Zilla," the earliest female names which occur in 
 Genesis ; they were those of Lamech's wives : tJiose of 
 Cain and Abel are not called by their names. Whether, 
 then, a coincidence of subject may have caused the same 
 in expression, I know nothing, and care as httle. 
 
 The reader w^ill please to bear in mind (what few 
 choose to recollect) that there is no allusion to a future 
 state in any of the books of Moses, nor indeed in the Old 
 Testament. For a reason for this extraordinary omission 
 he may consult " Warburton's Divine Legation ;" whether 
 satisfactory or not, no better has yet been assigned. I 
 have therefore supposed it new to Cain, without, I hope, 
 any per\'ersion of Holy Writ. 
 
 With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was diiEcult 
 for me to make him talk like a clergj'man upon the same 
 subjects : but I have done what I could to restrain him 
 within the boimds of spiritual politeness. 
 
 If he disclaims having tempted Eve in the shape of the 
 
Act I. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 213 
 
 Serpent, it is only because the book of Genesis has not 
 the most distant alhision to any thing of the kind, but 
 merely to the Serpent in his serpentine capacity. 
 
 Note. — The reader will perceive that the author has 
 partly adopted in this poem the notion of Cuvier, that the 
 world had been destroyed several times before the crea- 
 tion of man. This speculation, derived from the different 
 strata and the bones of enormous and unknown animals 
 found in them, is not contrary to the Mosaic account, but 
 rather confinfiS it ; as no human bones have yet been 
 discovered in those strata, although those of many known 
 animals are found near the remains of the unkno\vn. The 
 assertion of Lucifer, that the pre-adamite world was a.lso 
 peopled by rational beings much more intelligent than 
 man, and proportionably powerful to the mammoth, &c. 
 &c. is, of course, a poetical fiction to help him to make 
 out his case. 
 
 I ought to add, that there is a " Tramelogedie" of Al- 
 fieri, called " Abel." — I have never read that nor any other 
 of the posthumous works of the writer, except his Life. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 Adam. 
 Cain. 
 Abel. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 Eve. 
 Adah. 
 
 ZiLLAH. 
 
 SPIRITS. 
 Angel of the Lord. 
 Lucifer. 
 
 ACT L 
 
 Scene I. — The land without Paradise. — Time^ Sunrise. 
 
 Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zillah, offering a 
 Sacrifice. 
 
 Adam. God,, the Eternal! Infinite! AU-wise! — 
 Who out of darkness on the deep didst make 
 Light on the waters with a word — all hail ! 
 Jehovah, with returning light, all hail ! 
 
 Eve. God ! who didst name the day, ajid separate 
 Morning from night, till then divided never — 
 Who didst divide the wave from wave, and call 
 Part of thy work the firmament — all hail ! 
 
 Abel. God! who didst call the elements into 
 Earth — ocean — air — and fire, and with the day 
 And night, and worlds which these illuminate 
 Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them. 
 And love both them and thee — all hail ! all hail ! 
 
 Adah. God, the Eternal ! Parent of all things ! 
 Who didst create these best and beauteous beings, 
 To be beloved, more than ail, save thee — 
 Let me love thee and them: — All hail! all hail! 
 
 Zillah. Oh, God! who loving, making, blessing all, 
 Yet didst permit the serpent to creep in, 
 And drive my father forth from Paradise, 
 Keep us from further evil : — Hail ! all hail ! 
 
 Adam. Son Cain, my first-born, wherefore art thou 
 silent? 
 
 Cain. Why should I speak ? 
 
 Adam. To pray. 
 
 Cam. Have ye not pray'd ? 
 
 Adam. We have, most fervently, 
 
 Cain. And loudly: I 
 
 Have heard you. 
 
 Adam.. So will God, I trust. 
 
 Abel. Amen ! 
 
 Adam. But thou, my eldest-born, art silent still. 
 
 Cain. 'T is better I should be so. 
 
 Adam. Wherefore so ? 
 
 Cain. I have naught to ask. 
 
 Adam. Nor aught to thank for? 
 
 Cain. No. 
 
 Adam. Dost thou not live ? 
 
 Cain. Must I not die ? 
 
 Eve. Alas ! 
 
 The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
 To fall, 
 
 Adam. And we must gather it again. 
 Oh, God ! why didst thou plant the tree of knowledge ? 
 
 Cain. And wherefore plucked ye not the tree of life ? 
 Ye might have then defied him, 
 
 Adam. Oh! my son, 
 
 Blaspheme not: these are serpent's words. 
 
 Cain. Why not? 
 
 The snake spoke truth: it was the tree of knowledge ; 
 It was the tree of Ufe : knowledge is good. 
 And life is good ; and how can both be evil ? 
 
 Eve. My boy ! thou speakest as I spoke in sin, 
 Before thy birth : let me not see renew'd 
 My misery in thine, I have repented. 
 Let me not see my offspring fall into 
 The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
 Which e'en in Paradise destroy'd his parents. 
 Content thee with what is. Had we been so, 
 Thou now hadst been contented. — Oh, my son I 
 
 Adam. Our orisons completed, let us hence, 
 Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
 Needful : the earth is young, and yields us kindly 
 Her fruits with little labour. 
 
 Eve. Cain, my son, 
 
 Behold thy father cheerful and resigned. 
 And do as he doth, [Exeunt Adam and Eve. 
 
 Zillah. Wilt thou not, my brother ? 
 
 Abel. Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy brow 
 Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouse 
 The Eternal anger? 
 
 Adah. My beloved Cam, 
 
 Wilt thou frown even on me ? 
 
 Cain. No, Adah ! no ; 
 
 I fain would be alone a little while. 
 Abel, I'm sick at heart ; but it will pass : 
 Precede me, brother— I will follow shortly. 
 And you, too, sisters, tarry not behind 
 Your gentleness must not be harshly met : 
 I '11 follow you anon. 
 
 Adah. If not, I will 
 
 Return to seek you here, 
 
 Abel. The peace of God 
 
 Be on your spirit, brother ! 
 
 [Exeunt Abel, Zillah, and Adah. 
 
 Cain, {solus.) And this is 
 
 Life ! — Toil ! and wherefore should I toil ? — because 
 My father could not keep his place in Eden, 
 What had / done in this ? — I was unborn, 
 I sought not to be born ; nor love the state 
 To which that birth has brought m-e. Why did he 
 Yield to the serpent and the woman ? or, 
 Yielding, why suffer ? What was there in this ? 
 The tree was planted, and why not for him? 
 If not, why place him near it, where it grew 
 The fairest in the centre ? They have but 
 One answer to aU questions, "'twas his will, 
 And ^ is good." How know I that? Because 
 He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow? 
 I judge but by the fruits— and they are bitter— 
 Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 
 Whom have we here ?— A shape like to the angels, 
 Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect 
 Of spiritual essence : why do I quake ? 
 Why should I fear him more than other spirits, 
 Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords 
 Before the gates round which I linger oft, 
 In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 
 Gardens which are my just inheritance. 
 Ere the night closes o'er the inhibited walls 
 And the immortal trees which overtop 
 
214 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 The cherubim-defended battlements ? 
 
 If I shrink not from these, the fire-arm'd angels, 
 
 Why should I quail from him who now approaches ? 
 
 Yet" he seems mightier far than they, nor less 
 
 Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 
 
 As he hath been, and might be : sorrow seems 
 
 Half of his immortality. And is it 
 
 So ? and can aught grieve save humanity ? 
 
 He Cometh. 
 
 Eivter Lucifer. 
 
 Lutifer. Mortal! 
 
 Cain. Spirit, who art thou ? 
 
 Lucifer. Master of spirits. 
 
 Cain. And being so, canst thou 
 
 Leave them, and walk with d«st ? 
 
 Lucifer. I know the thoughts 
 
 Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. 
 
 Cain. How ! 
 
 You know my thoughts ? 
 
 Lucifer. They are tlie thoughts of all 
 
 Worthy of thought ; — 't is your immortal part 
 Which speaks within you. 
 
 Cain. What immortal part ? 
 
 This has not been reveal'd: the tree of life 
 Was withheld from us by my father's folly. 
 While that of knowledge, by my mother's haste. 
 Was pluck'd too soon ; and all the fruit is death! 
 
 Lucifer. They have deceived thee ; thou shalt live. 
 
 Cain. I live. 
 
 But Uve to die : and, li\'ing, see no thing 
 To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, 
 A loathsome and yet all invincible 
 Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 
 Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
 And so I hve. Would I had never hved ! 
 
 Lucifer. Thou livest, and must hve for ever : think not 
 The earth, which is thine outward cov'ring, is 
 Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be 
 No less than thou art now. 
 
 Caiyi. No less! and why 
 
 No more ? 
 
 Lucifer. It may be thou shalt be as we 
 
 Cain. And ye ? 
 
 Lucifer. Are everlasting. 
 
 Cain. Are ye happy ? 
 
 Lucifer. We are mighty. 
 
 Cain. Are ye happy ? 
 
 Lucifer. No : art thou ? 
 
 Cain. How should I be so? Look on me! 
 
 Lucifer. Poor clay ! 
 
 And thou pretendest to be Avretched ! Thou ! 
 
 Cain. I am: — and thou, with all thy might, what 
 art thou ? 
 
 Lucifer. One who aspired to be what made thee, and 
 Would not have made thee what thou art. 
 
 Cain. Ah ! 
 
 Thou look'st almost a god ; and 
 
 Lucifer. I am none : 
 
 And having fail'd to be one, would be naught 
 Save what I am. He conquer'd; let liim reign ! 
 
 Cain. Who? 
 
 Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 
 
 (^^n- And heaven's. 
 
 And all that in them is. So I have heard 
 His seraphs sing ; and so my father saith. 
 
 Lucifer. They say — what they must sing and say, 
 on pain 
 Of being that which I am— and thou art — 
 Of spirits and of men. 
 
 Cain. And what is that? 
 
 Lucifer. Souls who dare use their immortality — 
 Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant in 
 His everlasting face, and tell him, that 
 His evil is not good! If he has made, 
 As he saith— which I know not, nor believe — 
 
 But, if he made us — he cannot unmake : 
 
 We are immortal ! — nay, he 'd have us so 
 
 That he may torture : — let him ! He is great — 
 
 But, in his greatness, is no happier than 
 
 We in our conflict ! Goodness would not make 
 
 Evil; and what else hath he made? But let him 
 
 Sit on his vast and solitary throne. 
 
 Creating worlds, to make eternity 
 
 Less burdensome to his immense existence 
 
 And unparticipated solitude ! 
 
 Let him crowd orb on orb : he is alone 
 
 Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant ! 
 
 Could he but crush himself, 'twere the best boon 
 
 He ever granted : but let him reign on, 
 
 And multiply himself in misery ! 
 
 Spirits and men, at least we sympathise ; 
 
 And, sufferbg in concert, make our pangs, 
 
 Innumerable, more endurable. 
 
 By the unbounded s}Tnpathy of all — 
 
 With all ! But He ! so wretched in his height, 
 
 So restless in his wretchedness, must still 
 
 Create, and re-create 
 
 Cain. Thou speak'st to me of things which long have 
 swum 
 In visions through my thought : I never could 
 Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 
 My father and my mother talk to me 
 Of serpents, and of fruits and trees r I see 
 The gates of what they call their Paradise 
 Guarded by fiery-sworded cherubim. 
 Which shut them out, and me : I feel the weight 
 Of daily toil, and constant thought ; I look 
 Around a world where I seem nothing, with 
 Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 
 Could master all things : — but I thought alone 
 This misery was mine. — My father is 
 Tamed down ; my mother has forgot the mind 
 Which made her thirst for knowledge at the risk 
 Of an eternal curse ; my brother is 
 A watching shepherd boy, who offers up 
 The firstlings of the flock to him who bids 
 The earth yield nothing to us without sweat 
 My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
 Than the birds' matins ; and my Adah, my 
 Own and beloved, she too understands not 
 The mind which overwhelms me : never till 
 Now met I aught to sympathise with me. 
 'Tis well — I rather would consort with spirits. 
 
 Lucifer. And hadst thou not been fit by thine own 
 soul 
 For such companionship, I would not now 
 Have stood before thee as I am: a serpent 
 Had been enough to charm ye, as before. 
 
 Cam. Ah ! didst thou tempt my mother ? 
 
 Lucifer. T tempt non^ 
 
 Save with the truth : was not the tree, the tree 
 Of knowledge? and was not the tree of life 
 Still fruitful ? Did / bid her pluck them not? 
 Did / plcmt things prohibited within 
 The reach of beings innocent, and curious 
 By their own innocence ? I would have made ye 
 Gods ; and even He who thrust ye forth, so thrust ye 
 Because "ye should not eat the fruits of life. 
 And become gods, as we." Were those his words? 
 
 Cain. They were, as I have heard from those who 
 heard them. 
 In thunder. 
 
 Lucifer. Then who was the demon ? He 
 "Who would not let ye live, or he who would 
 Have made ye hve for ever in the joy 
 And power of knowledge? 
 
 Cain. Would they had snatch'd both 
 
 The fruits, or neither ! 
 
 Lucifer. One is yours already. 
 
 The other may be still. 
 
 I 
 
Act 1. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 215 
 
 Cain. How so? 
 
 Lucifer. By being 
 
 Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can 
 Gtuench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
 And centre of surrounding thmgs — 't is made 
 To sway. 
 
 Cain. But didst thou tempt my parents ? 
 Lucifer. I ? 
 
 Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, or how? 
 Cain. They say the serpent was a spirit. 
 Lucifer. Who 
 
 Saith that? It is not written so on high: 
 The proud One will not so fax falsify, 
 Though man's vast fears and httle vanity 
 Would make him cast upon the spiritual nature 
 His oven low failing. The snake was the snake — 
 No more ; and yet not less than those he tempted, 
 In nature being earth also — more in wisdom,^ 
 Since he could overcome them, and foreknew 
 The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
 Think'st thou I 'd take the shape of things that die ? 
 Cain. But the thing had a demon ? 
 Lucifer. He but woke one 
 
 In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
 I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
 Than a mere serpent: ask the cherubim 
 Who guard the tempting tree. When thousand ages 
 Have roll'd o'er your dead ashes, and your seed's, 
 The seed of the then world may thus array 
 Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
 To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 
 That bows to him, who made things but to bend 
 Before his sullen, sole eternity ; 
 But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 
 Fond parents listen'd to a creeping thing, 
 And fell. For what should spirits tempt them ? What 
 Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
 Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 
 
 Space but I speak to thee of what thou know'st not. 
 
 With all thy tree of knowledge. 
 
 Cain But thou canst not 
 
 Speak aught of knowledge which I would not know, 
 And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
 To know. 
 
 Lucifer. And heart to look on ? 
 Cain. Be it proved. 
 
 Lucifer. Dar'st thou to look on Death ? 
 Cain. He has not yet 
 
 Been seen. 
 Lucifer. But must be undergone. 
 Cain. My father 
 
 Says he is something dreadful, and my mother 
 Weeps when he 's named ; and Abel lifts his eyes 
 To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth, 
 And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me, 
 And speaks not. 
 
 Lucifer. And thou? 
 
 Cain. Thoughts unspeakable 
 
 Crowd in my breast to burning, when I hear 
 Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems. 
 Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him ? 
 I wrestled with the lion, when a boy, 
 In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 
 
 Lucifer. It has no shape ; but will absorb all things 
 That bear the form of earth-bom being. 
 
 Cain. Ah ! 
 
 I thought it was a being : who could do 
 Such evil things to beings save a being? 
 Ludfer. Ask the Destroyer. 
 Cain. Who? 
 
 Lucifer. The Maker — call him 
 
 Which name thou wilt : he makes but to destroy. 
 
 Cain. I knew not that, yet thought it, since I heard 
 Of death : although I know not what it is, 
 Yet it seems horrible. I have look'd out 
 
 In the vast desolate night in search of him ; 
 And when I saw gigantic shadows in 
 The umbrage of the walls of Eden, chequer'd 
 By the far-flashing of the cherub's swords, 
 I watch'd for what I thought his coming ; for 
 With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
 What 't was which shook us all — but nothing came. 
 And then I turn'd my weary eyes from off 
 Our native and forbidden Paradise, 
 Up to the lights above us, in the azure. 
 Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die ! 
 Lucifw. Perhaps — but long outlive both thine and 
 
 thee. 
 Cain. I 'm glad of that ; I would not have them die, 
 They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear 
 I feel, it is a dreadful thing ; but what, 
 I cannot compass: 'tis denounced against us, 
 Both them who sinn'd and sinn'd not, as an ill — 
 What ill? 
 Lucifer. To be resolved into the earth. 
 Cain. But shall I know it ? 
 
 Lucifer. As I know not death, 
 
 I cannot answer. 
 
 Cain. Were I quiet earth 
 
 That were no evil : would I ne'er had been 
 Aught else but dust ! 
 
 Zjudfer. That is a grov'ling wish, 
 
 Less than thy father's, for he wish'd to know. 
 
 Cain. But not to live, or wherefore pluck'd he not 
 The life-tree? 
 Lucifer. He was hinder'd. 
 
 Cain. Deadly error! 
 
 Not to snatch first that fruit : — but ere he pluck'd 
 The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
 Alas! I scarcely now know what it is, 
 And yet I fear it — fear I know not what ! 
 Lucifer. And I, who know all things, fear nothing; 
 see 
 What is true knowledge. 
 
 Cain. Wilt thou teach me all? 
 
 Lucifer. Ay, upon one condition. 
 Cain. Name it. 
 
 Lucifer. That 
 
 Thou dost fall down and worship me — ^thy Lord. 
 Cain. Thou art not the Lord my father worships. 
 Lucifer. No. 
 
 Cain. His equal? 
 
 Lucifer. No; — I have naught in common with him! 
 Nor would : I would be aught above — beneath — 
 Aught save a sharer or a servant of 
 His power. I dwell apart ; but I am great :— 
 Many there cu-e who worship me, and more 
 Who shall — be thou among the first. 
 
 Cain. I never 
 
 As yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
 Although my brother Abel oft implores 
 That I would join with him in sacrifice : — 
 Why should I bow to thee ? 
 
 Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er bow'd 
 
 To him? 
 
 Cain. Have I not said it? — ^need I say it? 
 Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee that ? 
 Lucifer. He who bows not to him has bow'd to me ! 
 Cain. But I will bend to neither. 
 Lucifer. Ne'er the less, 
 
 Thou art my worshipper : not worshipping 
 Him makes thee mine the same. 
 
 Cain. And what is that? 
 
 Lucifer, Thou 'It know here — and hereafter. 
 Cain. Let me but 
 
 Be taught the mystery of my being. 
 
 Lucifer. Follow 
 
 Where I will lead thee. 
 
 Cain. But I must retire 
 To till the earth — for I had promised 
 
216 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Act 1. 
 
 What? 
 
 Why' 
 
 To oflfer up 
 
 LiLcifer. 
 
 Cain. To cull some first-fruits 
 Lucifer. 
 Cain. 
 With Abel on an altar. 
 
 Lucifer, Seiidst thou not 
 
 Thou ne'er hadst bent to him who made thee ? 
 
 Cain. Yes — 
 
 But Abel's earnest prayer has wrought upon me ; 
 
 The offering is more his than mine — and Adah 
 
 Lucifer. Why dost thou hesitate. 
 Cain. She is my sister. 
 
 Born on the same day, of the same womb ; and 
 She wrung from me, with tears, this promise ; and 
 Rather than see her weep, I would, methinks, 
 Bear all — and worship aught. 
 
 Lucifer. Then follow me ! 
 
 Cain. I will. 
 
 Enter Adah. 
 Adah. My brother, I have come for thee ; 
 
 It is our hour of rest and joy — and we 
 Have less without thee. Thou hast labour'd not 
 This morn ; but I have done thy task : the fi-uita 
 Are ripe, and glowing as the Ught which ripens : 
 Come away. 
 
 Cain. See'st thou not ? 
 
 Adah. I see an angel ; 
 
 We have seen many : will he share our hour 
 Of rest? — he is welcome. 
 
 Cain. But he is not like 
 
 The angels we have seen. 
 
 Adah. Are there, then, others ? 
 
 But he is welcome, as they were : they deign'd 
 To be our guests — will he? 
 
 Cain, {to Lucifer.) Wilt thou ? 
 
 Lucifer. I ask 
 
 Thee to be mine. 
 
 Cain. I must away with him. 
 
 Adah. And leave us ? 
 Cain. Ay? 
 
 Adah. And me ? 
 
 Cain. Beloved Adah ! 
 
 Adxih. Let me go with thee ? 
 Lucifer. No, she must not. 
 
 Adah. Who 
 
 Art thou that steppest between heart and heart ? 
 Cain. He is a god. 
 
 Aduh. How know'st thou ? 
 
 Cain. He speaks like 
 
 A god. 
 Adah. So did the serpent, and it Ued. 
 Lucifer. Thou errest, Adah ! — was not the tree that 
 Of knowledge ? 
 
 Adah. Ay — to our eternal sorrow, 
 
 Lucifer. And yet that grief is knowledge — so he hed 
 not: 
 And if he did betray you. 't was with truth ; 
 And truth in its own essence cannot be 
 But good. 
 
 Adah. But all we know of it has gather'd 
 Evil on ill : expulsion from our home, 
 And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness ; 
 Remorse of that which was — and hope of that 
 Which Cometh not. Cain! walk not with this spirit. 
 Bear with what we have borne, and love me — I 
 Love thee. 
 
 Lucifer. More than thy mother, and thy sire ? 
 Adah. I do. Is that a sin, too ? 
 Lucifer. No, not yet 5 
 
 It one day will be in your children. 
 
 Adah. What ! 
 
 Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch? 
 Lucifer. Not as thou lovest Cain. 
 Adah. Oh, my God! 
 
 Shall they not love and bring forth things that love. 
 
 Out of their love ? have they not drawn their milk 
 Out of this bosom ? was not he, their father, 
 Born of the same sole womb, in the same hour 
 With me ? did we not love each other ? and 
 In multiplying our being multiply 
 Things which will love each other as we love 
 Them? — And as I love thee, ray Cain! go not 
 Forth with this spirit ; he is not of ours. 
 
 Lucifer. The sin I speak of is not of my making, 
 And cannot be a sin in you — whate'er 
 It seem in those who will replace ye in 
 MortaUty. 
 
 Adah. What is the sin which is not 
 Sin in itself? Can circumstance make sin 
 Or virtue ? — if it doth, we are the slaves 
 
 Of 
 
 Lucifer. Higher things than ye are slaves : and higher 
 Than they or ye would be so, did they not 
 Prefer an independency of torture 
 To the smooth agonies of adulation 
 In hymns and harpings, and sell-seeking prayers 
 To that which is omnipotent, because 
 It is omnipotent, and not from love, 
 But terror and self-hope. 
 
 Adah. Omnipotence 
 
 Must be all goodness. 
 
 Lucifer. Was it so m Eden? 
 
 Adah. Fiend ! tempt me not witli beauty ; thou art 
 fairer 
 Than was the serpent, and as false. 
 
 Lucifer. As true. 
 
 Ask Eve, your mother: bears she not the knowledge 
 Of good and evil ? 
 
 Adah. Oh, my mother ! thou 
 
 Hast pluck'd a fruit more fatal to thine offspring 
 Than to thyself; thou at the least hast past 
 Thy youth in Paradise, in mnocent 
 And happy intercourse with happy spirits ; 
 But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden. 
 Are girt about by demons, who assume 
 The words of God, and tempt us vdth our own 
 Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou 
 Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most flush'd 
 And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
 I cannot answer this immortal thing 
 Which stands before me ; I cannot abhor him ; 
 I look upon liim with a pleasing fear, 
 And yet I fly not from him : in his eye 
 There is a fastening attraction which 
 Fixes my fluttering eyes on his ; my heart 
 Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me near. 
 Nearer and nearer: — Cain — Cain — save me from him! 
 Cain. What dreads my Adah ? This is no ill spirit. 
 Adah. He is not God — nor God's : I have beheld 
 The cherubs and the seraphs ; he looks not 
 Like them. 
 
 Cain. But there are spirits loftier still — 
 
 The archangels. 
 
 Lucifer. And stiU loflier than the archangels. 
 
 Adah. Ay — but not blessed. 
 Lucifer. If the blessedness 
 
 Consists in slavery — no. 
 
 Adah. I have heard it said, 
 
 The seraphs love most — cherubim know most — 
 And this should be a cherub — since he loves not. 
 
 Lucifer. And if the higher knowledge quenches love, 
 What must he be you cannot love when known ? 
 Since the all-lcnowing cherubhn love least, 
 The seraphs' love can be but ignorance : 
 That they are not compatible, the doom 
 Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
 Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since there is 
 No other choice : your sire hath chosen already ; 
 His worship is but fear. 
 Adah. Oh, Cain ! choose love. 
 
Act I. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 217 
 
 Cain. For thee, my Adah, I choose not — it was 
 Born with me — but I love naught else. 
 
 Adah. Our parents ? 
 
 Cain. Did they love us when they snatch'd from the 
 tree 
 That which hath driven us all from Paradise ? 
 
 Adah. We were not born then— and if we had been. 
 Should we not love them and our children, Cain ? 
 
 Cain. My little Enoch ! and his lisping sister 
 Could I but deem them happy, I would half 
 
 Forget but it can never be forgotten 
 
 Through thrice a thousand generations ! never 
 Shall men love the remembrance of the man 
 Who sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 
 In the same hour ! They pluck'd the tree of science 
 And sin — and, not content with their ov/n sorrow, 
 Begot ine — thee — and ail the few that are, 
 And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 
 Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be, 
 To inherit agonies accumulated 
 By ages ! — and / must be sire of such things ! 
 Thy beauty and thy love — my love and joy. 
 The rapturous moment and the placid hour 
 All we love in our children and each other. 
 But lead them and ourselves through many years 
 Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, 
 Intercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure. 
 To Death — the unknown ! Methinks the tree of know- 
 ledge 
 Hath not fulfiU'd its promise : — if they sinn'd, 
 At least they ought to have laiown all things that are 
 Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 
 What do they know ? — that they are miserable. 
 What need of snakes and fruits to teach us that? 
 
 Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
 Wert happy 
 
 Cain. Be thou happy then alone — 
 
 [ will have naught to do with happiness. 
 Which hiunbles me and mine. 
 
 Adah. Alone I could not. 
 
 Nor would be happy : but with those around us, 
 I think I could be so, despite of death, 
 Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 
 It seems an awful shadow — if I may 
 Judge from what I have heard. 
 
 Lucifer. And thou couldst not 
 
 Alone, thou say'st, be happy ? 
 
 Adah. Alone! Oh, my God! 
 
 Who could be happy and alone, or good ? 
 To me my solitude seems sin ; unless 
 When I think how soon I shall see my brother, 
 His brother, and our children, and our parents. 
 
 Lucifer. Yet thy God is alone, and is he happy ? 
 Lonely and good? 
 
 Adah. He is not so ; he hath 
 
 The angels and the mortals to make happy, 
 And thus becomes so in diffusing joy : 
 What else can joy be but the spreading joy? 
 
 Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh from Eden ; 
 Or of his first-born son ; ask your own heart ; 
 It is not tranquil. 
 
 Adah. Alas ! no ! and you — 
 
 Are you of heaven ? 
 
 Lucife): If I am not, inquire 
 
 The cause of this all-spreading happiness 
 (Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 
 Maker of life and living things ; it is 
 His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear, 
 And some of us resist, and both in vain, 
 His seraphs say : but it is worth the trial, 
 Since better may not be without : there is 
 A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
 To right as in the dim blue air the eye 
 Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 
 The star which watches, welcoming the morn. 
 2C 
 
 Adah. It is a beautiful star ; I lovg^ it for 
 Its beauty. 
 Lucifei: And why not adore ? 
 Adah. Our father 
 
 Adores the Invisible only. 
 
 Lucifer. But the symbols 
 
 Of the Invisible are the lovehest 
 Of what is visible ; and yon bright star 
 Is leader of the host of heaven. 
 
 Adah. Our father 
 
 Saith that he has beheld the God himself 
 Who made him and our mother. 
 
 Lucifer. Hast thou seen him? 
 
 Adah. Yes — in his works. 
 
 Lucifer. But in his being ? 
 
 Adah. No- 
 
 Save in my father, who is God's own image ; 
 Or in his angels, wlio are like to thee — 
 And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
 In seeming : as the silent sunny noon. 
 All light they look upon us ; but thou seem'st 
 Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds 
 Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd star^ 
 Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 
 With things that look as if they would be suns ; 
 So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing. 
 Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them, 
 They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. 
 Thou seem'st unhappy : do not make us so, 
 And I will weep for thee. 
 
 Lucifer. Alas ! those tears ! 
 Couldst thou but know what oceans will be shed 
 
 Adah. By me ? 
 
 Lucifer. By all. 
 
 Adah. What all ? 
 
 Lucifer. The million millions — 
 
 The myriad myriads — the all-peopled earth — 
 The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peopled hell, 
 Of which thy bosom is the germ. 
 
 Adah. O Cain ! 
 
 This spirit curseth us. 
 
 Cain. Let him say on; 
 
 Him will I follow. 
 
 Adah. Whither ? 
 
 Lucifer. To a place 
 
 Whence he shall come back to thee in an hour; 
 But in that hour see things of many days. 
 
 Adah. How can that be ? 
 
 Lucifer. Did not your Maker make 
 
 Out of old worlds this new one in few days ? 
 And cannot I, who aided in this work. 
 Show in an hour what he liath made in many, 
 Or hath destroy'd in few ? 
 
 Cain. Lead on. 
 
 Adah. ■ _ Will he 
 
 In sooth return within an hour? 
 
 Lucifer. He shall. 
 
 With us acts are exempt from time, and we 
 Can crowd eternity into an hour, 
 Or stretch an hour into eternity : 
 We breathe not by a mortal measurement — 
 But that 's a mystery. Cain, come on with me. 
 
 Adah. Willheretui-n? 
 
 Lucifer. Ay, woman ! he alone 
 
 Of mortals from that place (the first and last 
 Who shall return, save One) — shall come back to thee 
 To make that silent and expectant world 
 As populous as this : at present there 
 Are few inhabitants. 
 
 Adah. Where dwellest thou? 
 
 Lucifer. Throughout all space. Where should I 
 dwell ? Where are 
 Thy God or Gods — there am I : all things are 
 Divided with me ; life and death — and time- 
 Eternity — and heaven and earth— and that 
 
218 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Which is not heaven nor earth, but peopled with 
 Those who once peopled or shall people both — 
 These are my realms ! So tliat I do divide 
 His, and possess a kingdom which is not 
 His. If I were not that which I have said, 
 Could I stand here ? His angels are within 
 Your vision. 
 
 Adah. So they were when the fair serpent 
 
 Spoke with our mother first. 
 
 Lucifer. Cain! thou hasi heard. 
 
 If thou dost long for knowledge, I can satiate 
 That thirst ; nor ask thee to partake of fi-uits 
 Which shall deprive thee of a smgle good 
 The conqueror has left thee. Follow me. 
 
 Cain. Spirit, I have said it. 
 
 [Exeu)it Lucifer and Cain. 
 
 Adah {follows, exclaiming) Cain! my brother! Cain ! 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — The Abyss of Space. 
 
 Cain. I tread on air, and sink not 5 yet I fear 
 To sink. 
 
 Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou shalt be 
 Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 
 
 Cain. Can I do so without impiety ? 
 
 Lucifer. Believe — and sink not ! doubt — and perish 
 thus 
 Would run the edict of the other God, 
 Who names me demon to liis angels ; they 
 Echo the sound to miserable things, 
 Which, knowing naught beyond their shallow senses, 
 Worship the word which strikes their ear, and deem 
 Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 
 In their abasement. I will have none such : 
 Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
 The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be 
 Amerced, for doubts beyond thy little life. 
 With torture of my dooming. There will come 
 An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops, 
 A man shall say to a maji, " Believe in me, 
 And walk the waters ;" cind the man shall walk 
 The billows and be safe. / will not say. 
 Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
 To save thee ; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
 Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
 What thou dar'st not deny, the history 
 Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 
 
 Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art, 
 Is yon our earth ? 
 
 Lmbdfer. Dost thou not recognise 
 
 The dust which form'd your father ? 
 
 Cain. Can it be? 
 
 Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether, 
 With an inferior circlet near it still. 
 Which looks like that which lit our earthly night ? 
 Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls, 
 And they who guard them? 
 
 Lucifer. Point me out the site 
 
 Of Paradise. 
 
 Cain. How should I ? As we move 
 
 Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smaller, 
 And as it waxes little, and then less, 
 Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
 Which shone the roundest of the stars when I 
 Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 
 Methinks they both, as we recede from them, 
 Appear to join the innumerable stars 
 Which are around us ; and, as we move on, 
 Increase their myriads. 
 
 Ludfer. And if there should be 
 
 Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
 By greater things, and they themselves far more 
 In number than the dust of tliy dull earth, 
 
 Though multiphed to animated atoms, 
 
 All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched, 
 
 What wouldst thou think? 
 
 Cain. I should be proud of thought 
 
 Which knew such things. 
 
 Ludfer. But if that high thought were 
 Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and, 
 Knowing such things, aspiring to such things. 
 And science still beyond them, were chjun'd down 
 To the most gross and petty paltry wants, 
 All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
 Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 
 A most enervating and filthy cheat 
 To lure thee on to the renewal of 
 Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoora'd to be 
 As frail, and few so happy 
 
 Cain. Spirit! I 
 
 Know naught of death, save as a dreadful thing 
 Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
 A hideous heritage I owe to them 
 No less than life ; a heritage not happy. 
 If I may judge till now. But, spirit ! if 
 It be as thou hast said, (and I within 
 Feel the prophetic torture of its truth,) 
 Here let me die: for to give birth to those 
 Who can but suffer many years, and die, 
 Methinks is merely propagating death. 
 And multiplying murder. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou canst not 
 
 AU die — there is what must survive. 
 
 Cain. The Other 
 
 Spake not of this unto my father, when 
 He shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
 Written upon his forehead. But at least 
 Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
 I may be in the rest as angels are. 
 
 Lucifer. I am angelic : wouldst thou be as I am ? 
 
 Cain. I know not what thou art: I see thy power, 
 And see thou show'st me things beyond my power, 
 Beyond all power of my born faculties, 
 Although inferior stiU to my desires 
 And my conceptions. 
 
 Lucifer. What are they, which dwell 
 
 So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
 With worms in clay ? 
 
 Cai7L. And what art thou who dwellest 
 
 So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
 Nature and immortality — and yet 
 Seem'st sorrowfiil ? 
 
 Lucifer. I seem that which I am ; 
 
 And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
 Wouldst be immortal ? 
 
 Cain. Thou hast said, I must be 
 
 Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
 This until lately — but since it must be, 
 Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
 To anticipate my immortality. 
 
 Ludfer. Thou didst before I came upon thee. 
 
 Cain. How ? 
 
 Ludfer. By suffering. 
 
 Cain. And must torture be immortal? 
 
 Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. But now, behold ! 
 Is it not glorious ? 
 
 Cain. Oh, thou beautiful 
 
 And unimaginable ether ! and 
 Ye multiplying msisses of increased 
 And still increasing lights ! what are ye ? what 
 Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
 Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
 The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden ? 
 Is your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
 Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 
 Through an aerial universe of endless 
 Expansion, at which my soul aches to think, 
 Intoxicated with eternity? 
 
Act II. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 219 
 
 Oh God ! Oh Gods ! or whatsoe'er ye are ! 
 How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 
 Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
 They may be ! Let me die, as atoms die, 
 (If that they die) or know ye in your might 
 And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this hour 
 Unworthy what I see, though my dust is ; 
 Spirit ! let me expire, or see them nearer. 
 
 Lucifer, Art thou not nearer ? look back to thine earth ! 
 Cain. Where is it ? I see nothing save a mass 
 Of most innumerable lights. 
 Lucifer. Look there! 
 
 Cain. I cannot see it. 
 Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 
 
 Cain. What, yonder ! 
 Lucifer. Yea. 
 
 Cain. And wilt thou tell me so ? 
 
 Why I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
 Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
 In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
 Which bears them. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou hast seen both worms and worlds. 
 Each bright and sparkling — what dost think of them? 
 Cain. That they are beautiful in their own sphere. 
 And that the night, which makes both beautiful. 
 The little shining fire-fly in its flight, 
 And the immortal star in its great course, 
 Must both be guided. 
 
 Lucifer. But by whom or what ? 
 
 Cain. Show me. 
 
 Ludfer. Dar'st thou behold ? 
 
 Cain. How know I what 
 
 I dare behold ? as yet, thou hast shovm naught 
 I dare not gaze on further. 
 
 Lucifer. On, then, with me. 
 
 Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal ? 
 Cain. Why, what are things ? 
 
 Ludfer. Both partly : but what doth 
 
 Sit next thy heart ? 
 
 Cain. The things I see. 
 
 Ludfer. But what 
 
 Sate nearest it ? 
 
 Cain. The things I have not seen, 
 
 Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. 
 
 Ludfer. What, if I show to thee things which have 
 died. 
 As I have sho^vn thee much which cannot die? 
 Cain. Do so. 
 
 Ludfer. Away, then ! on our mighty wngs. 
 
 Cain. Oh ! how we cleave tlie blue ! The stars fade 
 from us ! 
 The earth ! where is my earth ? let me look on it, 
 For I was made of it. 
 
 Ludfer. 'T is now beyond thee. 
 
 Less, in the universe, than thou in it: 
 Yet deem not that thou canst escape it ; thou 
 Shalt soon retm-n to earth, and all its dust ; 
 'T is part of thy eternity, and mine. 
 Cain. Where dost thou lead me ? 
 Ludfer. To what was before thee ! 
 
 The phantasm of the world ; of wliich thy world 
 Is but the wreck. 
 
 Cain What ! is it not then new ? 
 
 Ludfer. No more than life is ; and that was ere thou 
 Or / were, or the things which seem to us 
 Greater than either : many things will have 
 No end ; and some, which would pretend to have 
 Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
 As thou ; and mighter things have been extinct 
 To make way for much meaner than we can 
 Surmise ; for moments only and the space 
 Have been and must be all unchangeable. 
 But changes make not death, except to clay ; 
 But thou art clay — and canst but comprehend 
 That which was clay^ and such thou shalt behold. 
 
 Cain. Clay, spirit! What thou wilt, I can survey. 
 Lucifer. Away, then ! 
 
 Cain. But the lights fade from me fa.st. 
 
 And some till now grew larger as we approach'd, 
 And wore the look of worlds. 
 Ludfer. And such they are. 
 
 Cain. And Edens in them? 
 Lucifer. It may be. 
 
 Cain. And men? 
 
 Ludfer. Yea, or things higher. 
 
 Cain. Ay ? and serpents too ? 
 
 Ludfer. Wouldst thou have men without them ? must 
 no reptiles 
 Breathe, save the erect ones ? 
 
 Cain. How the Ughts recede ! 
 
 Where fly we? 
 
 Ludfer. To the world of phantoms, which 
 
 Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 
 
 Cain. But it grows dark, and dark — the stars ara 
 
 gone ! 
 Ludfer. And yet thou seest. 
 Cain. 'T is a fearful light! 
 
 No sun, no moon, no hghts innumerable. 
 The ver)'- blue of the empurpled night 
 Fades to a dreary t^vihght, yet I see 
 Huge dusky masses ; but unlike the worlds 
 We were approaching, which, begirt with light, 
 Seem'd full of hfe even when their atmosphere 
 Of light gave way, and show'd them taking shapes 
 Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains ; 
 And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
 Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
 With luminous belts, and floating moons, which took 
 Like them the features of fair earth : — instead. 
 All here seems dark and dreadful. 
 
 Ludfer. But distinct. 
 
 Thou seekest to behold death, and dead things ? 
 Cain. 1 seek it not; but as I know there are 
 Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me, 
 And all that we inherit, liable 
 To such, I would behold at once, what I 
 Must one day see perforce. 
 Lucifer. Behold ! 
 
 Cain. ' T is darkness. 
 
 Ludfer. And so it shall be ever ; but we will 
 Unfold its gates I 
 
 Cain. Enormous vapours roll 
 
 Apart — what 's this ? 
 
 Ludfer. Enter! 
 
 Cain. Can I return? 
 
 Ludfer. Return! be sure: how else should death ba 
 peopled ? 
 Its present realm is thin to what it will be, 
 Through thee and thine. 
 
 Cain. The clouds still open wide 
 
 And voider, and make widening circles round us. 
 Ludfer. Advance ! 
 Cain. And thou! 
 
 Ludfer. Fear not — without me thou 
 
 Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! on ! 
 
 YThey disappear through the douds. 
 
 Scene II. — Hades. 
 Enter Lucifer and Caix. 
 
 Cain. How silent and how vast are these dim worlds ! 
 For they seem more than one, and yet more peopled 
 Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swung 
 So thickly in the upper air, that I 
 Had deem'd them rather the bright populace 
 Of some all unimaginable heaven 
 Than things to be inhabited themselves, 
 But that on drawing near them I beheld 
 Their swelling into palpable immensity 
 Of matter, which seem'd made for life to dwell on, 
 
220 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Rather than life itself. But here, all is 
 So shadowy and so full of twilight, that 
 It speaks of a day past. 
 
 Lucifer. It is the realm 
 
 Of death. — Wouldst have it present ? 
 
 Cain. Till I know 
 
 That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
 But if it be as I have heard my father 
 Deal out in his long homilies, 't is a thing — 
 Oh God! I dare not think on't! Cursed be 
 He who invented life that leads to death ! 
 Or the dull mass of Ufe, tliat being life 
 Could not retain, but needs must forfeit it — 
 Even for the innocent ! 
 
 Lucifer. Dost thou curse thy father ? 
 
 Cain. Ci'.rsed he not me in giving me my birth? 
 Cursed he not me before my birtli, in daring 
 To pluck the fruit forbidden ? 
 
 Lucifer. Thou say'st well : 
 
 The curse is mutual 'twixt thy ske and thee — 
 But for thy sons and brother 1 
 
 Cain. Let them share it 
 
 With me, their sire and brother ! What else is 
 Bequeath'd to me ? I leave them my inheritance. 
 Oh ye interrmnable gloomy realms 
 Of swimming shadows and enormous shapes, 
 Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
 Mighty and melancholy — what are ye ? 
 Live ye, or have ye hved ? 
 
 Lucifer. Somewhat of both. 
 
 Cain. Then what is death? 
 
 Lucifer. What? hath not he who made ye 
 
 Said 't is another life ? 
 
 Cain. Till now he hath 
 
 Said nothing, save that all shall die. 
 
 Ludfer. Perhaps 
 
 He one day will unfold that further secret. 
 
 Cain. Happy the day ! 
 
 Lucifer. Yes, happy ! when unfolded 
 
 Through agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
 With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
 Yet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms, 
 All to be animated for this only ! 
 
 Cain. What are these might)' phantoms which I see 
 Floating around me ? — they wear not the form 
 Of the intelligences I have seen 
 Round our regretted and unenter'd Eden, 
 Nor wear the form of man as I have view'd it 
 In Adam's and in Abel's, and in mine. 
 Nor m my sister-bride's, nor in my children's : 
 And yet they have an aspect, which, though not 
 Of men nor angels, looks Uke something, which, 
 If not the last, rose higher than the first. 
 Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and full 
 Of seeming strength, but of inexplicable 
 Shape ; for I never saw such. They bear not 
 The wing of seraph, nor the face of man. 
 Nor form of mightiest brute, nor aught that is 
 Now breathing ; mighty yet and beautiful 
 As the most beautiful and mighty which 
 Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
 Can call them living. 
 
 Ludfer. Yet they lived. 
 
 Cain. Where ? 
 
 Ludfer. Where 
 
 Thou hvest. 
 
 Cain. When? 
 
 Ludfer. On what thou callest earth 
 
 They did inhabit, 
 
 Cain. Adam is the first. 
 
 Ludfer. Of thine, I grant thee — but too mean to be 
 The last of these. 
 
 Cain. And what are they ? 
 
 iMcifer. That which 
 
 Thou Shalt be. 
 
 Cain. But what were they ? 
 
 Ludfer. Living, high, 
 
 InteUigent, good, great, and glorious things, 
 As much superior unto all thy sire, 
 Adam, could ere have been in Eden, as 
 The sixty-thousandth generation shall be 
 In its dull damp degeneracy, to 
 Thee and thy son ; — and how weak they are, judge 
 By thy own flesh. 
 
 Cain. Ah me! and did they perish? 
 
 Ludfer. Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt fade from 
 thine. 
 
 Cain. But was mine theirs ? 
 
 Lucifer. It was. 
 
 Cain. But not as now. 
 
 It is too little and too lowly to 
 Sustain such creatures. 
 
 Ludfer. True, it was more glorious. 
 
 Cain. And wherefore did it fall ? 
 
 Ludfer. Ask him who fells. 
 
 Cain. But how ? 
 
 Ludfer. By a most crushing and inexorable 
 
 Destruction and disorder of the elements, 
 Which struck a world to chaos, as a chaos 
 Subsiding has struck out a world : such things, 
 Though rare in time, are frequent in eternity. — 
 Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 
 
 Cai^. 'T is awful! 
 
 Ludfer. And true. Behold these phantoms! they 
 were once 
 Material as thou art. 
 
 Cain. And must I be 
 
 Like them? 
 
 Ludfer. Let He who made thee answer that. 
 I show thee what thy predecessors are. 
 And what they were thou feelest, in degree 
 Inferior as thy petty feelings and 
 Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
 Of high intelligence and earthly stren?th. 
 What ye ia common have wit'i v/hat tliey had 
 Is life, and what ye shall have — death ; the rest 
 Of your poor attributes is such as suits 
 Reptiles engender'd out of the subsiding 
 Shme of a mighty universe, crush'd into 
 A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
 Things whose enjoyment %vas to be in blindness — 
 A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
 Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
 What these superior beings are or were ; 
 Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
 The earth, thy task — I '11 waft thee there in safety. 
 
 Cain. No : I '11 stay here. 
 
 Ludfer. Hov/ long? 
 
 Cain. For ever ! since 
 
 I must one day return here from the earth, 
 I rather would remain ; I am sick of all 
 That dust has shown me — let me dv/ell in shadows. 
 
 Ltidfer. It cannot be : thou now beholdest as 
 A ■vasion tliat which is reality. 
 To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou 
 Must pass thi-ough what the tilings thou see'st have 
 
 pass'd — 
 The gates of death. 
 
 Cain. By what gate have we enter'd 
 
 Even now? 
 
 Ludfer. By mine I but, plighted to return. 
 My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
 Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on ; 
 But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
 Is come. 
 
 Cain. And these, too; can they ne'er repass 
 To earth again? 
 
 Lucfer. Thdr earth is gone for ever— 
 
 So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
 Be conscious to a single present spot 
 
Act II. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 221 
 
 Of its n«w scarcely harden'd surface — 't was — 
 Ohj what a beautiful world it was ! 
 
 Cain. And is. 
 
 It is not with the earth, though I must till it, 
 I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
 By what it bears of beautiful untoiling, 
 Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
 With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
 Of death and life. 
 
 Lucifer. What thy world is, thou see'st, 
 
 But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
 That which it was. 
 
 Cain. And those enormous creatures, 
 
 Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
 (At least so seeming) to the things we have pass'd, 
 Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
 Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
 Roar nightly in the forest, but tenfold 
 In magnitude and terror ; taller than 
 The cherub-guarded walls of Eden, with 
 Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence them., 
 And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd of 
 Their bark and branches — what were they ? 
 
 Lucifer. That which 
 
 The Mammoth is in thy world ; — but these lie 
 By myriads underneath its surface. 
 
 Cain. But 
 
 None on it? 
 
 Lucifer. No: for thy frail race to war 
 With tliem would render the curse on it useless — 
 'T would be destroy'd so early. 
 
 Cain. But why war ? 
 
 Lucifer. You have forgotten the denimciation 
 Which drove your race from Eden — war with all things, 
 And death to all things, and disease to most things, 
 And pangs, and bitterness ; these were the fruits 
 Of the forbidden tree. 
 
 Cain. But animals — 
 
 Did they too eat of it, that they must die ? 
 
 Lucifer. Your Maker told ye, they were made for you, 
 As you for him. — You would not have their doom 
 Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
 Fallen, all had stood. 
 
 Cain. Alas ! the hopeless v/retches I 
 
 They too must share my sire's fate, lilce his sons ; 
 Like them, too, wilhout having shared the apple ; 
 Like them, too, without the so dear-bought knowledge ! 
 It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
 At least it promised knowledge at the price 
 Of death — but knowledge still : but what knows man? 
 
 Lucifer. It may be death leads to the highest know- 
 ledge ; 
 And bemg of all thmgs the sole thing certain, 
 At least leads to the s-urest science : therefore 
 The tree was true, though deadly. 
 
 Cain. These dim realms! 
 
 I see them, but I know them not. 
 
 Lucifer. Because 
 
 Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
 Comprehend spirit wholly — ^but 'tis something 
 To kjiow there are such realms. 
 
 Cain. We knev/ already 
 
 That there was death. 
 
 Lucifer. But not what was beyond it. 
 
 Cain. Nor know I now. 
 
 Ludfer. Thou knowest that there is 
 
 A state, and many states beyond thine own — 
 And this thou knewest not this morn. 
 
 Cain. But all 
 
 Seems dim and shadowy. 
 
 Ludfer. Be content; it will 
 
 Seem clearer to thine immortality. 
 
 Cain. And yon immeasurable liquid space 
 Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us. 
 Which looks like water, and which I should deem 
 
 The river which flows out of Paradise 
 Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
 And boundless, and of an ethereal hue — 
 What is it ? 
 
 Lucifer. There is still some such on earth, 
 Although inferior, and thy children shall 
 Dwell near it — 't is the phantasm of an ocean. 
 
 Cain. 'T is like another world ; a liquid sun — 
 And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
 Its shining surface? 
 
 Ludfer. Are its habitants. 
 
 The past leviathans. 
 
 Cain. And yon immense 
 
 Serpent, which rears his dripping mane and vasty 
 Head ten times higher than the haughtiest cedar 
 Forth from the abyss, looking as he could coil 
 Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on — 
 Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 
 The tree in Eden? 
 
 Ludfer. Eve, tliy mother, best 
 
 Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 
 
 Cain. This seems too terrible. No doubt the other 
 Had more of beauty. 
 
 Ludfer. Hast thou ne'er beheld him? 
 
 Cain. Many of the same kind, (at least so call'd,) 
 But never that precisely which persuaded 
 The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect. 
 
 Ludfer. Your father saw him not? 
 
 Cain. No : 't was my mother 
 
 Who tempted him — she tempted by the serpent. 
 
 Ludfer. Good man ! whene'er thy wife, or thy sons' 
 wives. 
 Tempt thee or them to aught that !s new or strange, 
 Be sure thou see'st first who hath tempted them. 
 
 Cain. Thy precept comes too late : there is no more 
 For serpents to tempt woman to. 
 
 Ludfer. But there 
 
 Are some things still which woman may tempt man to, 
 And man tempt woman : — let thy sons look to it ! 
 My council is a kind one; for 'tis even 
 Given chiefly at my own expense : 't is true, 
 'T wil\ not be foUow'd, so there 's little lost. 
 
 Cain. I understand not this. 
 
 Lucifer. The happier thou !— 
 
 Thy world and thou art still too young ! Thou thinkest 
 Thyself most wdcked and unhappy : is it 
 Not so ? 
 
 Cain. For crime, I know not ; but for pain, 
 I have felt much. 
 
 Ludfer. First-born of the flrst man ! 
 
 Thy present state of sin — and thou art evil. 
 Of sorrow — and thou suiFerest, are both Eden 
 In aU its innocence compared to what 
 TTiou shortly may'st be; and that state again, 
 In its redoubled wretchedness, a Paradise 
 To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating 
 In generations lilie to dust, (which they 
 In fact but add to,) shall endure and do. — 
 Now let us back to earth! 
 
 Cain. And wherefore didst thou 
 
 Lead me here only to inform me this? 
 
 Ludfer. Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 
 
 Cain. ' Yes : as being 
 
 The road to happiness. 
 
 Ludfer. If truth be so, 
 
 Thou hast it. 
 
 Cain. Then my father's God did well 
 
 When he prohibited the fatal tree. 
 
 Lucifer. But had done better in not planting it. 
 But ignorance of evil doth not save 
 From evil ; it must still roll on the same 
 A part of all things. 
 
 Cain. Not of all tilings. No : 
 
 I'll not beheve it — for I thirst for good. [evil 
 
 Ludfer. And who and what doth not? Who covets 
 
222 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 For its own bitter sake? — None — nothing! 'tis 
 The leaven of all life, and lifelessness. 
 
 Cmn. Within those glorious orbs which we behold, 
 Distant and dazzling, and innumerable, 
 Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 
 111 cannot come : they are too beautiful. 
 Lucifer. Thou hast seen them from afar. 
 Cain. And what of that ? 
 
 Distance can but diminish glory — they 
 When nearer must be more ineffable. 
 
 Lucifer. Approach the things of earth most beautiful, 
 And judge their beauty near. 
 
 Cain. I have done this — 
 
 The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 
 
 Lucifer. Then there must be delusion — what is that, 
 Which being nearest to thine eyes is still 
 More beautiful than beauteous things remote ? 
 
 Cain. My sister Adah. — All the stars of heaven. 
 The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 
 Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 
 The hues of twilight — the sun's gorgeous coming — 
 His setting indescribable, which fills 
 My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold 
 Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 
 Along that western paradise of clouds — 
 The forest shade — the green bough — the bird's voice — 
 The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love, 
 And mingles with the song of cherubim, 
 As the day closes over Eden's walls ; — 
 All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart, 
 Like Adah's face : I turn from earth and heaven 
 To gaze on it. 
 
 Ludfei: 'T is frail as fair mortality. 
 
 In the first dawn and bloom of young creation 
 And earliest embraces of earth's parents. 
 Can make its offspring ; still it is delusion. 
 Cain. You think so, being not her brother. 
 Lucifer. Mortal ! 
 
 My brotherhood 's with those who have no childrsn. 
 Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowship with us. 
 Lucifer. It may be that thine own shall be for me. 
 But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
 Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes. 
 Why art thou wretched ? 
 
 Cain. Why do I exist ? 
 
 Why art thou wretched ? why are all things so ? 
 Ev'n he who made us must be, as the maker 
 Of things unhappy ! To produce destruction 
 Can surely never be the task of joy. 
 And yet my sire says he 's omnipotent : 
 Then why is evil — he being good ? I ask'd 
 This question of my father ; and he said, 
 Because this evil only was the path 
 To good. Strange good, that must arise from out 
 Its deadly opposite. I lately saw 
 A lamb stung by a reptile : the poor suckling 
 I.ay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 
 And piteous bleating of its restless dam ; 
 My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 
 The wound ; and by degrees the helpless wretch 
 Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 
 The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 
 Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 
 Behold, my son ! said Adam how from evil 
 Springs good! 
 
 Ludfer. What didst thou answer ? 
 Cain. Nothing ; for 
 
 He is my father: but I thought, that 'twere 
 A better portion for the animal 
 Never to have been ^tung at all, than to 
 Purchase renewal of its little life 
 With agonies unutterable, though 
 Dispell'd by antidotes. 
 
 Lucifer. But as thou saidst 
 
 Of all beloved things thou lovest her 
 
 Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hers 
 Unto thy children 
 
 Cain. Most assuredly : 
 
 What should I be without her ? 
 
 Lucifer. What am I ? 
 
 Cain. Dost thou love nothing? 
 
 Lucifer. What does thy God love ? 
 
 Cain. All things, my father says ; but I confess 
 I see it not in their allotment here. 
 
 Lucifer. And, therefore, thou canst not see if/ love 
 Or no, except some vast and general purpose, 
 To which particular things must melt like snows. 
 
 Cain. Snows ! what are they ? 
 
 Lucifer. Be happier in not knowing 
 
 What thy remoter offspring must encounter ; 
 But bask beneath the clime which luiows no winter ! 
 
 Cain. But dost thou not love something like thyself? 
 
 Lucifer. And dost thou love thyself? 
 
 Cain. Yes, but love more 
 
 What makes my feelings more endurable, 
 And is more than myself, because I love it. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou lovest it, because 'tis beautiful, 
 As was the apple in thy mother's eye ; 
 And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
 Will cease, like any other appetite. 
 
 Cain. Cease to be beautiful? how can that be? 
 
 Lucifer. With time. 
 
 Cain. But time has past, and hitherto 
 
 Even Adam and my mother both are fair : 
 Not fair hke Adah and the seraphim — 
 But very fair. 
 
 Lucifer. All that must pass away 
 
 In them and her. 
 
 Cain. I 'm sorry for it ; but 
 
 Cannot conceive my love for her the less. 
 And when her beauty disappears, methinks 
 He who creates all beauty will lose more 
 Than me in seeing perish such a work. 
 
 Lucifer. I pity thee who lovest what must perish. 
 
 Cain. And I thee who lov'st nothing. 
 
 Lucifer. And thy brother- 
 
 Sits he not near thy heart ? 
 
 Cain. Why .should he not? 
 
 Lucifer. Thy father loves him well — so does thy God. 
 
 Cain. And so do I. 
 
 Lucifer. 'Tis well and meekly done. 
 
 Cain. Meekly! 
 
 Lucifer. He is the second born of flesh, 
 
 And his mother's favourite, 
 
 Cain. Let him keep 
 
 Her favour, since the serpent weis the first 
 To wdn it. 
 
 Ludfer. And his father's 
 
 Cain. What is that 
 
 To me ? should I not love that which all love ? 
 
 Lucifer. And the Jehovah — the indulgent Lord 
 And bounteous planter of barr'd Paradise — 
 He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 
 
 Cain. I 
 
 Ne'er saw him, and I know not if he smiles. 
 
 Ludfer. But you have seen his angels. 
 
 Cain. Rarely. 
 
 Lucifer. Bui 
 
 Sufficiently to see they love your brother ; 
 His sacrifices are acceptable. 
 
 Cain. So be they ! wherefore speak to me of this ? 
 
 Ludfer. Because thou hast thought of this ere now. 
 
 Cain. And if 
 
 I have thought, why recall a thought that {he paiise.<t. 
 
 as agitated) — Spirit! 
 Here we are in thy world ; speak not of mine. 
 Thou hast shown me wonders ; thou hast shown me those 
 Mighty Pre- Adamites who walk'd the earth 
 Of which ours is the wreck; thou hast pointed out 
 Myriads of starry worlds, of which our own 
 
Act III. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 223 
 
 Is the dim and remote companion, in 
 
 Infinity of life : thou hast sliown me shadows 
 
 Of that existence with the dreaded name 
 
 Which my sire brought us — Death ; thou hast shown 
 
 me mudi — 
 But not all : show me where Jehovah dwells, 
 In his especial Paradise — or thine : 
 Where is it? 
 
 Ludfer. Here, and o'er all space. 
 
 Cain, But ye 
 Have some allotted dwelling — as all things; 
 Clay has its earth, and other worlds their tenants ; 
 All temporary breathing creatures their 
 Peculiar element ; and things which have 
 Long ceased to breathe our breath, have theirs, thou 
 
 say'st ; 
 And the Jehovah and thyself have thine — 
 Ye do not dwell together ? 
 
 Loidfer. No, we reign 
 
 Together; but our dwellings are asunder. 
 
 Cain. Would there were only one of ye ! perchance 
 An unity of purpose might make union 
 In elements which seem now jarr'd in storms. 
 How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite. 
 To separate ? Are ye not as brethren in 
 Your essence, and your nature, and your glory ? 
 
 Lucifer. Art thou not Abel's brother ? 
 
 Cain. We are brethren, 
 
 And so we shall remain; but were it not so. 
 Is spirit hke to flesh? can it fall out? 
 Infinity with Immortality ? 
 Jarring and turning space to misery — 
 For what ? 
 
 Lucifer. To reign. 
 
 Cain. Did ye not tell me that 
 
 Ye are both eternal ? 
 
 Ludfer. Yea ! 
 
 Com. And what I have seen, 
 
 Yon blue immensity, is boundless ? 
 
 Ludfer. Ay. 
 
 Cain. And cannot ye both rdgn then ? — is there not 
 Enough ? — why should ye differ ? 
 
 Ludfer. We hoth reign. 
 
 Cain. But one of you makes evil. 
 
 Lvxdfer. Which ? 
 
 Cain. Thou ! for 
 
 If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not? 
 
 Ludfer. And why not he who made ? /made ye not ; 
 Ye are Ixvs creatures, and not mine. 
 
 Cain. Then leave us 
 
 His creatures, as thou say'st we are, or show me 
 Thy dwelling, or his dwelling. 
 
 Ludfer. I could show thee 
 
 Both ; but the time wdU come thou shalt see one 
 Of them for evermore. 
 
 Cain. And why not now ? 
 
 Ludfer. Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to 
 gather 
 The little I have shown thee into calm 
 And clear thought ; and thou wouldst go on aspiring 
 To the great double Mysteries ! the two Prindples ! 
 And gaze upon them on their secret thrones ! 
 Dust ! limit thy ambition ; for to see 
 Either of these, would be for thee to perish ! 
 
 Cain. And let me perish, so I see them ! 
 
 Ludfer. There 
 
 The son of her who snatch'd the apple spake ! 
 But thou wouldst only perish, and not see them ; 
 That sight is for the other state. 
 
 Cam. Of death? 
 
 Lucifer. That is the prelude. 
 
 Cain. Then I dread it less. 
 
 Now that I know it leads to something definite. 
 
 Ludfer. And now I will convey thee to thy world, 
 Where thou shalt multiply the race of Adam, 
 
 Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, and die. 
 
 Cain. And to what end have I beheld these things 
 Which thou hast shown me ? 
 
 Lucifer. Didst tliou not require 
 
 Knowledge ? And have I not, in what I show'd. 
 Taught thee to know thyself? 
 
 Cain. Alas ! I seem 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 Lucifer. And this should be the human sura 
 Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's nothingness ; 
 Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
 'T will spare them many tortures. 
 
 Cain. Haughty spirit I 
 
 Thou speak'st it proudly ; but thyself^ though proud, 
 Hast a superior. 
 
 Ludfer. No ! By heaven, which He 
 
 Holds, and the abyss, and the immensity 
 Of worlds and life, which I hold with him — No ! 
 I have a victor — true ; but no superior. 
 Homage he has from all — but none from me : 
 I battle it against him, as I battled 
 In highest heaven. Through all eternity. 
 And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 
 And the interminable realms of space, 
 And the infinity of endless ages. 
 All, all, will I dispute ! And world by world, 
 And star by star, and universe by universe 
 Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 
 Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease. 
 Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'd ! 
 And what can quench our immortality. 
 Or mutual and irrevocable hate ? 
 He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 
 Evil ; but what will be the good he gives ? 
 Were I the victor, his works would be deem'd 
 The only evil ones. And you, ye new 
 And scarce-bom mortals, what have been his gifts 
 To you already in your little world ? 
 
 Cain. But few ; and some of those but bitter. 
 
 Ludfer. Back 
 
 With me, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 
 Of his celestial boons to ye and yours. 
 Evil and good are things in their own essence. 
 And not made good or evil by the giver ; 
 But if he gives you good — so call him ; if 
 Evil springs from him, do not name it mine, 
 Till ye know better its true fount : and judge 
 Not by words, though of spirits, but the fruits 
 Of your existence, such as it must be. 
 One good gift has the fatal apple given — 
 Your reason : — let it not be oversway'd 
 By tyrannous threats to force you into faith 
 Gainst all external sense and inward feeling : 
 Think and endure, — and form an inner world 
 In your own bosom — where the outward fails ; 
 So shall your nearer be the spiritual 
 Nature, and war triumphant with your own. 
 
 [They disappear. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I.— The Earth, near Eden, as in Act L 
 Enter Cain and Adah. 
 
 Adah. Hush! tread softly, Cain. 
 
 Cain^ I will; but wherefore? 
 
 Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
 Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 
 
 Cain. . Cypress !^ 't is 
 
 A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn'd 
 O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou choose it 
 For our child's canopy ? 
 
 jldah. Because its branches 
 
 Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seem'd 
 
224 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Act hi. 
 
 Fitting to shadow slumber. 
 
 Cain. Ay, the last — 
 
 And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. 
 
 [They go up to the child. 
 How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks, 
 In their pure incaination, vying with 
 The rose leaves strewn beneath them. 
 
 Adah. And his lips, too, 
 
 How beautifully parted ! No ; you shall not 
 Kiss him, at least not now : he will awake soon — 
 His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over ; 
 But it were pity to disturb him till 
 'T is closed. 
 
 Cain. You have said well ; I will contain 
 
 My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! — Sleep on 
 And smile, thou little, young inheritor 
 Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile ! 
 Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering 
 And innocent ! tliou hast not pluck'd tlie fmit — 
 Thou know'st not thou art naked 1 Must the time 
 Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unkno\%'n, 
 Which were not thine nor mine? But now sleep on! 
 His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles, 
 And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
 Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er tliem ; 
 Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
 Laughs out, aliliough in slumber. He must dream — 
 Of what ? Of Paradise ! — Ay ! dream of it, 
 My disinherited boy 1 ' T is but a dream ; 
 For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, 
 Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! 
 
 Adah. Dear Cainl Nay, do not whisper o'er our son 
 Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past : 
 Why wilt thou always moui-n for Paradise? 
 Can we not make another ? 
 
 Cain. Where ? 
 
 Adah. Here, or 
 
 Where'er tliou wUt : where'er thou art, 1 feel not 
 The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
 Have I not thse, our boy, our sire, and brother, 
 And Zillah — our sweet sister, and om- Eve, 
 To whom we owe so much besides our birth ? 
 
 Cain. Yes — death, too, is among the debts we owe 
 
 her. 
 Adah. Cain! that proud spirit, who withdrew thee 
 hence. 
 Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped 
 The promised wonders which thou hast beheld. 
 Visions, thou say'st, of past and present worlds. 
 Would have composed thy mind into the calm 
 Of a contented knowledge ; but I see 
 Thy guide hath done thee evil : still I thank him, 
 And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
 Hath given thee back to us. 
 
 Cain. So soon 
 
 Adah. 'T is scarcely 
 
 Two hours since ye departed : two long hours 
 To me, but only hours upon the sun. 
 
 Cain. And yet I have approach'd that sun, and seen 
 Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
 Shall hght ; and worlds he never ht : methought 
 Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 
 
 Adah. Hardly hours. 
 
 Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time, 
 And measures it by that which it beholds, 
 Pleasing or painful ; Uttle or almighty. 
 I had beheld the immemorial works 
 Of endless beings ; skirr'd extinguish'd worlds ; 
 And, gazing on eternity, methought 
 I had borrow'd more by a few drops of ages 
 From its immensity ; but now I feel 
 My Uttleness again. Well said the spu-it, 
 That I was nothing ! 
 
 Adah. Wherefore said he so ? 
 
 Jehovah said not that. 
 
 Cain. No : he contents him 
 
 With making us tlie nothing which we are ; 
 And after flattermg dust with glimpses of 
 Eden and Immortality, resolves 
 It back to dust again — ^for what ? 
 
 Adah. Thou know'st — 
 
 Even for our parents' error. 
 
 Cain. What is that 
 
 To us ? they sinn'd, then let them die ! 
 
 Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that thought 
 Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
 Would / could die for them, so they might hve ! 
 
 Cain. 'Why, so say I — pro\nded that one victim 
 Might satiate the insatiable of life, 
 And that our httle rosy sleeper there 
 Might never taste of death nor human sorrow. 
 Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. 
 Adah. How know we that some such atonement one 
 day 
 May not redeem our race ? 
 
 Cain. By sacrificing 
 
 The harmless for the guilty? what atonement 
 Were there ? why, we are innocent : what have we 
 Done, that we must be victims for a deed 
 Before our birth, or need have victims to 
 Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
 If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 
 
 Adah. Alas ! thou sinnest now, my Cain : thy words 
 Sound impious i:i mine ears. 
 
 Cain. Then leave me ! 
 
 Adah. Never, 
 
 Though thy God left thee. 
 
 Cain. Say, what have we here ? 
 
 Adah. Two altars, which our brother Abel made 
 During thme absence, whereupon to offer 
 A sacrifice to God on thy return. 
 
 Cain. And how knew he, that / would be so ready 
 With the burnt offerings, which he daily brings 
 With a meek brow, whose base humility 
 Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
 To the Creator ? 
 Adah. Surely, 't is well done. 
 
 Cain. One altar may suffice ; / have no offering. 
 Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, beautiful 
 Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers, and fi-uits ; 
 These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
 Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 
 
 Cain. I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the sun 
 According to the curse : — must I do more ? 
 For what shodd I be gentle ? for a w^ar 
 With all the elements ere they will yield 
 The bread we eat? For what must I bo grateful 
 For being dust, and grovelling in the dust, 
 Till I return to dust ? If I am nothing — 
 For nothing shall I be an hypocrite, 
 And seem well-pleased with pain ? For what should I 
 Be contrite ? for my father's sui, already 
 Expiate with what w-e all have undergone, 
 And to be more than expiated by 
 The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 
 Little deems our young blooming sleeper, there, 
 The germs of an eternal misery 
 To myriads is within him ? better 't were 
 I snatch'd him in his sleep, and dash'd him 'gainst 
 The rocks, than let liim hve to— — 
 
 Adah. Oh, my God ! 
 
 Touch not the child — my child! thy child! Oh Cain! 
 
 Cain. Fear not! for all the stars, and all the power 
 Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant 
 With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 
 Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech? 
 Cain. I said, 
 
 'T were better that he ceased to live, than give 
 Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
 Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 
 
Act III. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 225 
 
 That saying jars you, let us only say — 
 
 'T were better that he never had been born. 
 
 Adah. Oh, do not say so ! Where vrere then the joys, 
 Tlie mother's joys of watching, nourishing, 
 And loving him? Soft! he awakes. Sweet Enoch! 
 
 [She goes to the child. 
 Oh Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life, 
 Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy, 
 How like to me — how like to thee, when gentle, 
 For then we are all alike ; is 't not so, Cain ? 
 Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
 Reflected in each other ; as they are 
 In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 
 When thm art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain! 
 And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. 
 Look! how he lauglis and stretches out his arms. 
 And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, 
 To hail his father ; while his little form 
 Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain ! 
 The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
 The pleasures of a parent! Bless him, Cain! 
 As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
 His heart will, and thine own too. 
 
 Cain. Bless thee, boy ! 
 
 If that a mortal blessing may avail thee. 
 To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 
 
 Adah. It shall. 
 
 Surely a father's blessing may avert 
 A reptile's subtlety. 
 
 Cain. Of that I doubt ; 
 
 But bless him ne'er the less. 
 
 Adah. Our brother comes. 
 
 Cain. Thy brother Abel. 
 
 Erder Abel. 
 
 Abel. Welcome, Cain ! My brother, 
 
 The peace of God be on thee ! 
 
 Cain. Abel, hail ! 
 
 Abel. Our sister tells me that thou hast been wandering 
 In high communion with a spirit, far 
 Beyond our wonted range. Was he of those 
 Wc have seen and spoken with, like to our father ? 
 
 Cain^ No. 
 
 Abel. Why then commune with him ? he may be 
 A foe to the Most High. 
 
 Cain. And friend to man. 
 
 Has the Most High been so — if so you term him ? 
 
 Abel. Term him I your words are strange to-day, my 
 brother. 
 My sister Adah, leave us for awhile — 
 We mean to sacrifice. 
 
 Adah. Farewell, my Cam ; 
 
 But first embrace thy son. May his soft spirit, 
 And Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 
 To peace and holiness ! 
 
 [Eodt Adah, with her child. 
 
 Abel. Where hast thou been? 
 
 Cain. I know not. 
 
 Abel. Nor what thou hast seen ? 
 
 Cain. The dead. 
 
 The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent, 
 The overpowering mysteries of space — 
 The innumerable worlds that were and are — 
 A whirlwind of such overwhelming things, 
 Suns, moons, and earths, upon their loud-voiced spheres 
 Singing in thunder round me, as have made me 
 Unfit for mortal converse : leave me, Abel. 
 
 Abel. Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural light — 
 Thy cheek is flush'd with an minatural hue — 
 Thy words are fraught with an unnatural sound — 
 What may this mean ? 
 
 Cain. It means- — I pray thee, leave me. 
 
 Abel. Not till we have pray'd and sacrificed together. 
 
 Cain. Abel, I pray thee^ sacrifice ^one — 
 Jeiiovali loves thee well. 
 
 2D 
 
 Abel. Both well, I hope. 
 
 Cain. But thee the better: I care not for that 
 Thou art fitter for his worship than I am : 
 Revere him, then — but let it be alone — 
 A least, without me. 
 
 Abel. Brother, I should ill 
 
 Deserve the name of our great father's son, 
 If as my elder I revered thee not, 
 And in the worship of our God call'd not 
 On thee to join me, and precede me in 
 Our priesthood — 't is thy place. 
 
 Cain. But I have ne'er 
 
 Asserted it. 
 
 Abel. The more my grief; I pray thee 
 
 To do so now: thy soul seems labouring in 
 Some strong delusion ; it will calm thee. 
 
 Cain. No ; 
 
 Nothing can calm me more. Calm ! say I ? Never 
 Knew I what calm was in the soul, although 
 I have seen the elements still'd. My Abel^ leave me ! 
 Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 
 
 Abel. Neiilier ; we must perfonn our task together. 
 Spurn me not. 
 
 Cain. If it niust be so well, then, 
 
 What shall I do ? 
 
 Abel. Choose one of those two altars 
 
 Cain. Choose for me : they to me are so much turf 
 And stone. 
 
 Abel. Choose thou ! 
 
 Cain. i have chosen. 
 
 Abel. 'T is the highest, 
 
 And suits thse, as the elder. Now prepare 
 Thine offerings. 
 
 Cain. Where are thine? 
 
 AJjcl. Behold them here— 
 
 The firstlings of the flock, and fat thereof— 
 A shepherd's humble offering. 
 
 Cain. I have no flocks ; 
 
 I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
 Yield what it yieldeth to my toil— its fruit t 
 
 [He gathei^s fruits. 
 Behold them in their various bloom and ripeness. 
 
 [They dress their altars, and kindle aflame 
 upon them. 
 
 Abel. My brother, as the elder, offer first 
 Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 
 
 Cain. No— I am new to this ; lead thou the way. 
 And I will follow — as I may. 
 
 Abel, (kneeting.) Oh God ! 
 
 Who made us, and who breathed the breath of life 
 Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us, 
 And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
 His children all lost, as they might have been. 
 Had not thy justice been so temper'd with 
 The mercy which is thy delight, as to 
 Accord a pardon like a Paradise, 
 
 Compared with our great crimes: — Sole Lord of light! 
 Of good, and glory, and eternity ; 
 Without whom all were evil, and with whom 
 Notliing can err, except to some good end 
 Of thine omnipotent benevolence — 
 Inscrutable, but still to be fiilfill'd — 
 Accept from out thy humble first of shepherd's 
 First of the first-born flocks — an otFuring, 
 In itself nothing — as what offering can be 
 Aught unto tliee ? — but yet accept il for 
 The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
 The face of thy high heaven, bowing his own 
 Even to the dust, of which he is, in honour 
 Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore ! 
 
 Cain, {standing erect during this speech.) Spirit ! what- 
 e'er or whosoe'er thou art. 
 Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good. 
 Shown in the exemption of thy deeds from evil ; 
 IJehovah upon earth! and God in heaven! 
 
226 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 Act 111. 
 
 And it may be with other names, because 
 
 Thine attributes seem many, as thy works: — 
 
 If thou must be propitiated with prayers, 
 
 Take them I If thou must be induced with altars, 
 
 And soften'd with a sacrifice, receive them ! 
 
 Two beings here erect them unto thee. 
 
 If thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrine, which smokes 
 
 On my right hand, hath shed it for tliy service 
 
 In the first of his flock, whose limbs now reek 
 
 In sanguinary incense to thy skies ; 
 
 Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth, 
 
 And milder seasons, which the unstain'd turf 
 
 I spread them on now offers in the face 
 
 Of the broad sun which ripen'd them, may seem 
 
 Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not 
 
 Suffer'd in Umb or life, and rather form 
 
 A sample of thy works, than supplication 
 
 To look on ours ! If a shrine without victim. 
 
 And altar without gore, may win thy favour, 
 
 Look on it! and for him who dresseth it, 
 
 He is — such as thou mad'st him ; and seeks notliing 
 
 Which must be won by kneeling : if he 's evil, 
 
 Strike him ! thou art omnipotent, and may'st — 
 
 For what can he oppose ? If he be good. 
 
 Strike him, or spare him, as thou wilt ! since all 
 
 Rests upon thee ; and good and evil seem 
 
 To have no power themselves, save in thy will; 
 
 And whether that be good or ill I know not. 
 
 Not being oianipotent, nor fit to judge 
 
 Omnipotence, but merely to endure 
 
 Its mandate ; which thus far I have endured. 
 
 [Thejire upon the altar of Abel kindles into a 
 column of the brightest Jlame, and ascends to 
 heaven ; while a whirlwind throws down the altar 
 of Cain, and scatters the fruits abroad upon the 
 earth. 
 Abel, {kneeling.) Oh, brother, pray ! Jehovah 's wroth 
 
 with thee. 
 Cain. Why so ? 
 
 Abel. Thy fruits are scatter'd on the earth. 
 
 Cain. From earth they came, to earth let them return ; 
 
 Their seed will bear fresh fruit there ere the summer : 
 
 Thy burnt flesh-off'ring prospers better ; see 
 
 How Heav'n licks up the flames, w^ien thick with blood ! 
 
 Abel. Think not upon my offering's acceptance, 
 But make another of thine own before 
 It is too late. 
 
 Cain. I will build no more altars, 
 
 Nor suffer any. — 
 
 Abel, (rising.) Cain ! what meanest thou ? 
 Cain. To cast down yon vile flatt'rer of the clouds, 
 The smoky harbinger of thy dull pray'rs — 
 Thine altar, with its blood of lambs and kids, 
 Which fed on milk, to be destroy'd in blood. 
 Abel, (opposing him.) Thou shalt not ; — add not im- 
 pious works to impious 
 Words ! let that altar stand — 't is hallow'd now 
 By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 
 In his acceptance of the victims. 
 ' Cain. His! 
 
 His pleasure ! what was his high pleasure in 
 The fumes of scorching flesh and smoking blood, 
 To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 
 Stni yearn for their dead offspring? or the pangs 
 Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
 Thy pious knife ? Give way ! this bloody record 
 Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ! 
 Abel. Brother, give back! thou shalt not touch my 
 altar 
 With violence : if that thou wilt adopt it, 
 To try another sacrifice, 't is thine. 
 
 Cain. Another sacrifice ! Give way, or else 
 
 That sacrifice may be 
 
 ^bel. What raean'st thou? 
 
 Coin. Give- 
 
 Give way ! — thy God loves blood! — then look to it:— 
 Give way, ere he hath more ! 
 
 Abel. In His great name, 
 
 I stand between thee and the shrine which hath 
 Had his acceptance. 
 
 Cairi. If thou lov'st thyself. 
 
 Stand back till I have strew'd this turf along 
 
 Its native soil: — else 
 
 Abel, (opposing him.) 1 love God far more 
 Than life. 
 
 Cain, (st)iking him with a brand, on the temples, which 
 lie snatches from the altar.) Then take thy life unto 
 thy God, 
 Since he loves lives. 
 Abel, (falls.) Wliat hast thou done, my brother? 
 
 Cain. Brother ! 
 
 Abel. Oh, God! receive thy servant, and 
 
 Forgive his slayer, for he knew not what 
 He did. — Cain, give me — give me thy hand ; and tell 
 
 Poor Zillah 
 
 Cain, (after a moment's stupefaction.) My hand! 'tis 
 all red, and with — 
 What? 
 
 [A long pause. — Looking slowly round. 
 Where am I ? alone ! Where 's Abel? where 
 Cain? Can it be that I am he? My brother, 
 Awake ! — why hest thou so on the green earth ? 
 'T is not the hour of slumber : — why so pale ? 
 
 What, hast thou ! thou wert full of life this morn ! 
 
 Abel ! I pray thee, mock me not ! I smote 
 
 Too fiercely, but not fatally. Ah, why 
 
 Would'st thou oppose me ? This is mockery ; 
 
 And only done to daunt me : — as a blow — 
 
 And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir ! 
 
 Why, so — that's well! — thou breath'sti breathe upon 
 
 me ! 
 Oh, God! Oh, God! 
 
 Abel, (very faintly.) What's he who speaks of God? 
 Cain. Thy murderer. 
 
 Abel. Then may God forgive him ! Cain, 
 
 Comfort poor Zillah: — she has but one brother 
 Now. [Abel dies. 
 
 Cain. And I none ! — Who makes me brotherless ? 
 His eyes are open ! then he is not dead ! 
 Death is like sleep ; and sleep shuts down our lids. 
 His hps, too, are apart ; why then he breathes ; 
 And yet I feel it not. — His heart ! his heart ! — 
 
 Let me see, doth it beat? — methinks No! — no I 
 
 This is a vision, else I am become 
 
 The native of another and worse world. 
 
 The earth swims round me: — what is this? 'tis wet; 
 
 [Puts his hand to his brow, and then looks at it. 
 And yet there are no dews ! 'T is blood — my blood — 
 My brother's and my oAvn ; and shed by me ! 
 Then what have I further to do with life. 
 Since I have taken life from my own flesh ? 
 But he cannot be dead I — Is silence death ? 
 No ; he will wake : then let me watch by him. 
 Life cannot be so slight, as to be quench'd 
 Thus quickly ! — he hath spoken to me since — 
 What shall I say to him ? — My brother ! — No ; 
 He will not answer to that name ; for brethren 
 Smite not each other. Yet — yet — speak to me. 
 Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
 That I may bear to hear my own again ! 
 
 Enter Zillah. 
 Zillah. I heard a heavy sound : what can it be ? 
 'T is Cain ; and watching by my husband. What 
 Dost thou there, brother ? Doth he sleep ? Oh ! heav'n ! 
 What means this paleness, and yon stream? — No! no! 
 It is not blood; for who would shed his blood? 
 Abel ! what 's this ?— who hath done this ? He moves 
 
 not; 
 He breathes not : and liis hands drop down from mine 
 
Act in. 
 
 CAIN. 
 
 227 
 
 With stony lifelessness ! Ah! cruel Cain'. 
 Why cam'st thou not in time to save hirn fi-om 
 This violence ? Whatever hath assail'd him, 
 Thou wert the stronger, and should'st have stepp'd in 
 Between him and aggression! Father! — Eve! — 
 Adah I — come hither ! Death is in the world ! 
 
 [Exit ZiLLAH, calling on her Parents, ^c. 
 Cain, {solus.) And who hath brought him there ? — 1 — 
 who abhor 
 The name of Death so deepl3', that the thought 
 
 Impoison'd all my life, before I knew 
 
 His aspect — I have led him here, and giv n 
 
 My brother to his cold and still embrace, 
 
 As if he would not have asserted his 
 
 Inexorable claim without my aid. 
 
 I am awake at last — a dreary dream 
 
 Had madden'd me ; — but he shall ne'er awake ! 
 
 Enter Adam, Eve, Adah, and Zillah. 
 
 Adam. A voice of wo from Zillah brings me here. — 
 What do I see ? — 'T is true ! — My son ! — my son I 
 Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine ! 
 
 [To Eve. 
 
 Eve. Oh ! speak not of it now : the serpent's fangs 
 Are in my heart. My best beloved, Abel ! 
 Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
 A mother's sin, to take him from me ! 
 
 Adam. Who, 
 
 Or what hath done this deed? — speak, Cain, since thou 
 Wert present; was it some more hostile angel, 
 Who walks not with Jehovah? or some wild 
 Brute of the forest? 
 
 Eve Ah ! a livid light 
 Breaks through, as from a thunder-cloud! yon brand, 
 Massy and bloody ! snatch'd from off the altar. 
 And black with smoke, and red with 
 
 Adam. Speak, my son ! 
 
 Speak, and assure us, %\Tetched as we are. 
 That we are not more miserable still. 
 
 Adah. Speak, Cain ! and say it was not thou ! 
 
 Eve. It was. 
 
 I see it now — ^he hangs his guilty head, 
 And covers his ferocious eye with hands 
 Incarnadine. 
 
 Adah. Mother, thou dost him wrong — 
 
 Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal, 
 Which grief wrings from our parent. 
 
 Eve. Hear, Jehovah ! 
 May the eternal serpent's curse be on him ! 
 For he was fitter for his seed than ours. 
 Mav all his days be desolate ! May 
 
 Adah. Hold ! 
 
 Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
 Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother. 
 And my betroth'd. 
 
 Eve. He hath left thee no brother — 
 
 Ziilah no husband — me no son ! — for thus 
 I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
 All bonds I break between us, as he broke 
 
 That of his nature, in yon Oh death ! death ! 
 
 Why didst thou not take me, who first incurr'd thee ? 
 Why dost thou not so now ? 
 
 Adam. Eve ! let not this, 
 
 Thy natural griefj lead to impiety ! 
 A heavy doom was long forespoken to us ; 
 And now that it begins, let it be borne 
 In such sort as may show our God, that we 
 Are faithful servants to his holy will. 
 
 Eve, (pointing to Cain.) His rvill ! ! the ^viIl of yon 
 incarnate spirit 
 Of death, whom I have brought upon the earth 
 To strew it with the dead. May all the curses 
 Of life be on him ! and his agonies 
 Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like ug 
 From Eden, till his children do by him 
 
 As he did by his brother ! May the swords 
 And wngs of fiery cherubim pursue him 
 By day and night — snakes spring up in his path — 
 Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the leaves 
 On which he lays his head to sleep be strew'd 
 With scorpions ! May his dieams be of his victim ' 
 His waking a continual dread of death ! 
 ]May the clear rivers turn to blood as he 
 Stoops down to stain them with his raging lip ! 
 May every element shun or change to him ! 
 May he live in the pangs which others die with! 
 And death itself wax something worse than death 
 To him who first acquainted liim with man ! 
 Hence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is Cain, 
 Through all the coming myriads of mankind, 
 Wlio shall abhor thee, though thou wert their sire ! 
 May the grass \\ither from thy feet ! the woods 
 Deny thee shelter ! earth a home I the dust 
 A gi-ave ! the sun his light ! and heaven her God ! 
 
 [Exit Eve. 
 
 Adam. Cam! get thee forth: we dwell no more 
 together. 
 Depart ! and leave the dead to me — I am 
 Henceforth alone — we never must meet more. 
 
 Adah. Oh, part not with him thus, my father : do not 
 Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head ! 
 
 Adam. I curse him not : his spirit be his curse. 
 Come, Zillah ! 
 
 Zillah. I must watch my husband's corse. 
 
 Adam. We will return again, when he is gone 
 Who hath provided for us this dread ofiice. 
 Come, Zillah! 
 
 Zillah. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay. 
 
 And those lips once so warm — my heart ! my heart ! 
 
 [Exeunt Adam and Zillah weeping. 
 
 Adah. Cain! thou hast heard, we must go forth. I 
 am ready, 
 So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 
 And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
 Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
 Under the cloud of night. — Nay, speak to me, 
 To me — thine oum. 
 
 Cain. Leave me ! 
 
 Adah. Why, all have left thee. 
 
 Cain. And wherefore lingerest thou? Dost thou not 
 fear 
 To dwell with one who hath done this ? 
 
 Adah. I fear 
 
 Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
 Shrinlc from the deed which leaves thee brotherless. 
 I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
 And the great God. 
 
 A Voice from within exclaims, Cain! Cain! 
 
 Adah. Hear'st thou that voice ? 
 
 The Voice within. Cain! Cain! 
 
 Adah. It soundetli hke an angel's tone. 
 
 Enter the Angel of the Lord. 
 
 Angel. "Where is thy brother Abel ? 
 
 Cain. Am I then 
 
 My brother's keeper ? 
 
 Angel. Cain ! what hast thou done ? 
 
 The voice of thy slain brother's blood cries out. 
 Even from the ground, unto the Lord ! — Now art thou 
 Cursed from the earth, which open'd late her mouth 
 To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash hand. 
 Henceforth, when thou shalt till the ground, it shall not 
 Yield thee her strength ; a fugitive shalt thou 
 Be from this day, and vagabond on earth ! 
 
 Adah. This punishment is more than he can bear. 
 Behold, thou drivest him from the face of earth. 
 And from the face of God shall he be hid. 
 A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
 'T will come to pass, that whoso findeth him 
 Shall slay him. 
 
228 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGS OF VENICE- 
 
 Cain. Would they could ! but v.ho are tliey 
 
 Shall slay mc ? where are tliese on the lone earth 
 As yet unpeopled ? 
 
 Angel. Thau hast slain thy brother, 
 
 And who shall warrant thee against thy son ? 
 
 -Adah, Angel of Light ! be merciful, nor say 
 That tliis poor aching breast now nourishes 
 A murderer in my boy, and of his father. 
 
 Angel. Then he would but be what his father is. 
 Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
 To him thou now see'st so besmeai-'d witli blood? 
 The fratricide might well engender parricides. — 
 But it shall not be so — the Lord thy God 
 And mine commandeth me to set his seal 
 On Cain, so that he may go fortli in safety. 
 Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 
 Be taken on his head. Come hither I 
 
 Cain. What 
 
 Would'st thou with me ? 
 
 Angel. To mark upon thy brow 
 
 Exemption from such deeds as Uiou hast done. 
 
 Caiyi. No, let me die ! 
 
 Angel. It must not be. 
 
 [The Angel sets the mark on Cain's brow. 
 
 Cain. It burns 
 
 My brow, but naught to that which is within it. 
 Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. 
 
 Angel. Stern hast thou been and stubborn from the 
 womb, 
 As the ground thou must henceforth till ; but he 
 Thou slew'st was gentle as the flocks he tended. 
 
 Cain. Afrer the fall too soon was I begotten ; 
 Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 
 The serpent, and my sire still mourn'd for Eden. 
 That which I am, I am ; I did not seek 
 For life, nor did I make myself; but could I 
 With my own death redeem him from the dust — 
 And why not so ? let him return to-day, 
 And I lie ghastly ! so shall be restored 
 By God tlie life to him he loved ; and taken 
 From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 
 
 Angel. Who shall heal murder ? what is done is done. 
 Go forth ! fulfil thy days ! and be thy deeds 
 Unlike the last! [The Angel disappears. 
 
 Adah. He 's gone, let us go forth ; 
 
 I hear our little Enoch cry within 
 Our bovver. 
 
 Cain. Ah ! httle knows he what he weeps for ! 
 
 And I who have shed blood cannot shed tears ! 
 
 But the four rivers* would not cleanse my soul. 
 Think'st thou my boy will bear to look on me ? 
 
 Adah. If I thought that he would not, I would — 
 
 Cairu, {interrupting her.) No, 
 
 No more of threats : we have had too many of them : 
 Go to our children ; I will follow thee. 
 
 Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with the dead ; 
 Let us depart together. 
 
 Cain. Oh ! thou dead 
 
 And everlasting witness ! whose unsinking 
 Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou now art, 
 I know not ! but if thou see'st what I am, 
 I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God 
 Can ne'er forgive, nor his own. soul. — Farewell! 
 I must not, dare not touch what I have made thee. 
 I, who sprung from the same womb with thee, drain'd 
 The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my own. 
 In fondness brotherly and boyish, I 
 Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
 To do that for thee, which thou should'st have done 
 For me — compose thy limbs into their grave — 
 The first grave yet dug for mortality. 
 But who hath dug that grave ? Oh, earth ! Oh, earth ! 
 For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, I 
 Give thee back this. — Now for the wilderness. 
 
 [Adah stoops doom and kisses the body of Abel. 
 
 Adah. A dreary, and an early doom, my brother 
 Has been thy lot ! Of all who mourn for thee, 
 I alone must not weep. My office is 
 Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them ; 
 But yet of all who mourn, none mourn like me, 
 Not only for t'nyself, but liim who slew thee. 
 Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden wiih thee. 
 
 Cain. Eastward from Eden will we take our way ; 
 'T is the most desolate, and suits my steps. 
 
 Adah. Lead ! thou shalt be mv guide, and may our 
 God 
 Be thine ! Now let us cany forth our children. 
 
 Cain. And he who lieth there was childless. I 
 Have dried the foimtain of a gentle race, 
 Which might have graced his recent marriage couch. 
 And might have temper'd tliis stern blood of mine. 
 Uniting with our children Abel's ofispring ! 
 O Abel! 
 
 Adah. Peace be with him ! 
 
 Cain. But with me ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 * The " four rivers" which flowed round Eden, and consequently the 
 only waters with which Cain was acqnainted upon the earth. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE, 
 
 •' Dux inquietl turbidua Adrije."— Horace. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is one of 
 the naest remarkable events in the annals of the most sin- 
 gular government, city, and people of modem history. It 
 occurred in the year 1355. Every thing about Venice is, 
 or was, extraordinary — her aspect is like a dream, and 
 her history is like a romance. The story of this Doge is 
 to be found in all her Chronicles, and particularly detailed 
 in the " Lives of the Doges," by Marin Sanuto, which is 
 given m tlie Appendix. It ig simply and clearly related, 
 
 and is perhaps more dramatic in itself than any scenes 
 which can be founded upon the subject. 
 
 Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of talents 
 and of courage. I find him commander in chief of the 
 land forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat the King of 
 Hungary and his army of 80,000 men, kilUng 8000 men, 
 and keeping the besieged at the same time in check ; an 
 exploit to which I know none similar in history, except 
 that of Caesar at Alexia, and of Prince Eugene at Bel- 
 grade. He was aflerwards commander of the fleet in the 
 same war. He took Capo d'Istria. He was ambassa- 
 
MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OP VENICE. 
 
 229 
 
 dor at Genoa and Rome, at which last he received th 
 news of his election to the dukedom ; his absence being a 
 proof that he sought it by no intrigue, since he was ap- 
 prized of his predecessor's death and his own succession 
 at the same moment. But he appears to have been of an 
 ungovernable temper. A story is told by Sanuto, of his 
 having, many years before, when podesta and captain at 
 Treviso, boxed the ears of tlie bishop, who was somewhat 
 tardy in bringing the Host. For this, honest Sanuto " sad- 
 dles him with a judgment," as Thwackum did Square 5 
 but he does not tell us whether he was punished or re- 
 buked by the Senate for this outrage at the time of its com- 
 mission. He seems, indeed, to have been afterwards at 
 peace with the church, for we find him ambassador at 
 Rome, and invested with the fief of Val di Marino, in the 
 march of Treviso, and with the title of Count, by Lorenzo 
 Count-Bishop of Ceneda. For these facts my authori- 
 ties are Sanuto, Vettor Sandi, Andrea Navagero, and the 
 account of the siege'of Zara, first published by the inde- 
 fatigable Abate MoreUi, in his " Monumenti Veneziani di 
 varia Letteratura," printed in 1796, all of which I have 
 looked over in the original language. The moderns, Darti, 
 Sismondi, and Laugier, nearly agree with the ancient 
 chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to his jea- 
 lousy ; but I find this nowhere asserted by the national his- 
 torians. Vettor Sandi, indeed, says, that " Altri scrissero 
 
 che dalla gelosa suspizion di esso Doge siasi fatto 
 
 (Michel Steno) staccar con violenza," &c. &c. ; but this 
 appears to have been by no means tlie general opinion, 
 nor is it alluded to by Sanuto or by Navagero, and Sandi 
 himself adds, a moment after, that " per altre Veneziane 
 memorie traspiri, che non il solo desiderio di vendetta lo 
 dispose alia congiura ma anche la innata abituale ambi- 
 zion sua, per cui anelava a farsi principe independente." 
 The first motive appears to have been excited by the gross 
 affront of the words written by Michel Steno on the ducal 
 chair, and by the light and inadequate sentence of the 
 Forty on the offender, who was one of their "tre Capi." 
 The attentions of Steno himself appear to have been di- 
 rected towards one of her damsels, and not to the "Doga- 
 ressa" herself, against whose fame not the shghtest insinu- 
 ation appears, while she is praised for her beauty, and re- 
 marked for her youth. Neither do I find it asserted (un- 
 less the hint of Sandi be an assertion) that the Doge was 
 actuated by jealousy of his wife ; but rather by respect for 
 her, and for his own honour, warranted by his past services 
 and present dignity. 
 
 I know not that the historical facts are alluded to in 
 English, unless by Dr. Moore in his View of Italy. His 
 account is false and flippant, full of stale jests about old 
 men and young wives, and wondering at so great an effect 
 from so slight a cause. How so acute and severe an ob- 
 server of mankind as the author of Zeluco could wonder 
 at this is inconceivable. He laiew that a basin of water 
 spilt on Mrs. Masham'sgown deprived the Duke of Marl- 
 borough of his command, and led to the inglorious peace 
 of Utrecht — that Louis XIV. was plunged into the most 
 desolating wars because his minister was nettled at his find- 
 ing fault with a window, and wished to give him another oc- 
 cupation — that Helen lost Troy — that Lucretia expelled 
 the Tarquins from Rome — and that Cava brought tlie 
 Moors to Spain — that an insulted husband led the Gauls to 
 Clusium, and thence to Rome — that a single verse of Fre- 
 derick II. of Prussia on the Abbe de Bernis, and a jest on 
 Madame de Pompadour, led to the battle of Rosbach — 
 that the elopement of Dearbhorgil with Mac Murchad 
 conducted the English to the slavery of Ireland — that a 
 personal pique between Maria Antoinette and the Diike 
 of Orleans precipitated the first expulsion of the Bour- 
 bons — and, not to multiply instances, that Commodus, Do- 
 mitian, and Caligula fell victims not to their public tyranny, 
 but to private vengeance — and that an order to m?vke 
 Cromwell disembark from the ship in which he would have 
 sailed to America destroyed both king and common\vealth. 
 After these instance-s, on the least reflection, it is indeed 
 
 extraordinar}' in Dr. Moore to seem surprised that a man 
 used to command, who had served and swayed in the most 
 important offices, should fiercely resent, in a fierce age, an 
 unpuhished affront, the grossest that can be offered to a 
 man, be he prince or peasant. The age of Faliero is little 
 to the purpose, unless to favour it. 
 
 " The young man's wrath is like straw on fire, 
 But like red hot steel is the old man's ire." 
 
 " Young men soon give and soon forget affronta, 
 
 Old age is slow at both." 
 
 Laugier's reflections are more philosophical : — " Tale fu 
 il fine ignominioso di un' uomo, che la sua nascita, la sua 
 eta, il suo carattere dovevano tener lontano dalle passioni 
 produttrici di grandi delitti. I suoi talenti per lungo 
 tempo esercitati ne' maggiori impieghi, la sua capacita 
 sperimentata ne' governi e nelle ambasciate, gli avevano 
 acquistato la stima e la fiducia de' cittadini, ed avevano 
 uniti i suffragj per collocarlo alia testa della republica. In- 
 nalzato ad un grado che terminava gloriosamenta la sua 
 vita, il risentimento di un' ingiuria leggiera insinub nel suo 
 cuore tal veleno che bastb a corrompere le antiche sue 
 qualita, e a condurlo al termine dei scellerati ; serio esem- 
 pio, che prova non esservi eta, in cui la prudenza umana sia 
 sicura, e che neW uomo restano sempre passioni capaci a dis- 
 onorarlo, quando non invigili sopra se stesso." — Laugier, Ita- 
 lian translation, vol. iv. page 30, 31. 
 
 Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Faliero begged 
 his life ? I have searched the chroniclers, and find nothing 
 of the kind ; it is true that he avowed all. He was con- 
 ducted to the place of torture, but there is no mention made 
 of any application for mercy on his part ; and the very cir- 
 cumstance of their having taken him to the rack seems 
 to argue any thing but his having showna a want of firm- 
 ness, which would doubtless have been also mentioned by 
 those minute historians who by no means favour him : such, 
 indeed, would be contrary to his character as a soldier, to 
 the age in which he lived, and at wliich he died, as it is to 
 the truth of history. I know no justification at any dis- 
 tance of time for calumniating an historical character : 
 surely truth belongs to the dead, and to the unfortunate, 
 and Ihey who have died upon a scaffold, have generally 
 had faults enough of their own, without attributing to them 
 that which the very incurring of the perils which conducted 
 them to their violent death renders, of all others, the most 
 improbable. The black veil which is painted over the 
 place of Marino Faliero amongst the doges, and the 
 Giants' Staircase where he was crowned, and discrowned, 
 and decapitated, struck forcibly upon my imagination, as 
 did his fiery character and strange story. I went in 1819, 
 in search of his tomb more than once to the church San 
 Giovanni e San Paolo, and as I was standing before the 
 monument of another family, a priest came up to me and 
 said, " I can show you finer monuments than that." I told 
 him that I was in search of that of the Faliero family, 
 and particularly of the Doge Marino's. " Oh," said he, 
 " I will show it you ;" and conducting me to the outside, 
 pointed out a sarcophagus in the wall with an illegible in- 
 scription. He said that it had been in a convent adjoin- 
 in«T, but was removed after the French came, and placed 
 in Its present situation ; that he had seen the tomb opened 
 at its removal; there were still some bones remaining, 
 but no positive vestige of the decapitation. The eques- 
 trian statue of which I have made mention in the third act 
 as before that church is not, however, of a Faliero, but of 
 some other now obsolete warrior, although of a later date. 
 There were two other Doges of this family prior to Ma- 
 rino: Ordelafo, who fell in battle at Zara in 1117, (where 
 his descendant afterwards conquered the Huns,) and Vi- 
 tal Faliero, who reigned in 1082. The family, originally 
 from Fano, was of the most illustrious in blood and wealth 
 in the city of once the most v/ealthy and still the most 
 ancient families in Europe. The length I have gone into 
 on this subject will show the interest I have taken in it. 
 Whether I have succeeded or not in the tragedy, I have at 
 
230 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OP VENICE. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 least transferred into our language an historical fact wor- 
 thy of commemoration. 
 
 It is now four years that I have meditated this work, and 
 before 1 had sufficiently examined the records,! was rather 
 disposed to have made it turn on a jealousy in Faliero. 
 But perceiving no foundation for this in historical truth, 
 and aware that jealousy is an exhausted passion in tiie 
 drama, 1 have given it a more historical form. I was 
 besides well advised by the late Matthew Lewis on that 
 point, in talking with him of my intention at Venice in 
 1817. " If you make him jealous," said he, " recollect that 
 you have to contend with estabUshed writers, to say no- 
 thing of Shakspeare, and an exhausted subject; — stick to 
 the old fiery Doge's natural character, which will bear you 
 out, if properly drawn ; and make your plot as regular as 
 you can." Sir William Drummond gave me nearly the 
 same counsel. How far I have followed these instruc- 
 tions, or whether they have availed me, is not for me to de- 
 cide. I have had no view to the stage ; in its present 
 state it is, perhaps, not a very exalted object of ambition ; 
 besides I have been too much behind the scenes to have 
 thought it so at any time . And I cannot conceive any man 
 of irritable feeling putting himself at the mercies of an 
 
 audience : the sneering reader, and the loud critic, and 
 
 the tart review, are scattered and distant calamities ; but 
 the trampling of an intelligent or of an ignorant audience 
 on a production which, be it good or bad, has been a men- 
 tal labour to the writer, is a palpable and immediate griev- 
 ance, heightened by a man's doubt of their competency to 
 judge, and his certainty of his own imprudence in electing 
 them his judges. Were I capable of writing a play which 
 could be deemed stage-worthy, success would give me no 
 pleasure, and failure great pain. It is for this reason that 
 even during the time of being one of the committee of one 
 of the theatres, I never made the attempt, and never will.* 
 But surely there is dramatic power somewhere, where 
 Joanna Baillie, and Milman, and John Wilson exist. The 
 "City of the Plague" and the "FaU of Jerusalem" are full 
 of the best " inalerieF for tragedy that has been seen 
 since Horace Walpole, except passages of Ethwald and 
 De Montfort. It is the fashion to underrate Horace Wal- 
 pole ; firstly, because he was a nobleman, and secondly, 
 because he was a gentleman ; but to say nothing of the 
 composition of his incomparable letters, and of the Castle 
 of Otranto, he is the " Ultimus Romanorum," the author of 
 the Mysterious Mother, a tragedy of the highest order, and 
 not a puling love-play. He is the father of the first ro- 
 mance and of the last tragedy in our language, and surely 
 worthy of a higher place than any living writer, be he who 
 he may. 
 
 In speaking of the drama of Marino Faliero, I forgot to 
 mention that the desire of preserving, though still too re- 
 mote, a nearer approach to unity than the irregularity. 
 
 which is the reproach of the English theatrical composi- 
 tions, permits, has induced me to represent the conspiracy 
 as already formed, and the Doge acceding to it, whereas in 
 fact it was of his own preparation and that of Israel Ber- 
 tuccio. The other characters, (except that of the duchess,) 
 incidents, and almost the time, which was wonderfully 
 short for such a design in real life, are strictly historical, 
 except that all the consultations took place in the palace. 
 Had I followed this, the unity would have been better 
 preserved ; but I wished to produce the Doge in the full 
 assembly of the conspirators, instead of monotonously 
 placing him always in dialogue with the same indivi- 
 duals." For the real facts, I refer to the Appendix. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONJE. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Conspirators. 
 
 Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice. 
 Bertuccio Faliero, Nephew of the Doge. 
 LiONi, a Patrician and Senator. 
 Benintende, Chief of the Council of Ten. 
 Michel Steivo, One of the three Capi of the Forty. 
 Israel Bertuccio, Chief of '^ 
 
 tlie Arsenal, 
 Philip Calendaro, 
 Dagolino, 
 Bertram, 
 
 ( « Signore di Notte,'^ one of the 
 Signor of the Nighty < Officers belonging to the Re- 
 
 ( public. 
 First Citizen. 
 Second Citizen. 
 Third Citizen. 
 Vincenzo, 1 
 
 PiETRO, > Officers belonging to the Ducal Palace. 
 Battista, ) 
 
 Secretary of the Council of Ten. 
 
 Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, The Council of Ten, 
 The Giunta, ^c. ^-c. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 Angiolina, Wife to the Doge. 
 Marianna, her Friend. 
 
 Female Attendants, ^c. 
 Scene Venice — in the year 1355. 
 
 * While T was in the sub-committee of Drury Lane Theatre, I can vouch 
 for my colleagues, and I hope for myself, that we did our best tobring back 
 the legitimate drama. I tried what I could to get ' ' De Montfort' ' revived, 
 but in vain, and equally in vain in favour of Sotheby's " Ivan," which 
 was thought an acting play ; and I endeavoured also to wake Mr. Cole- 
 i-idgeto write a tragedy. Those who are not in the secret will hardly 
 believe that the " School for Scandal" is the play which has brought least 
 money, averaging the number of times it has been acted since its produc- 
 tion ; so Manager Dibdin assured me. Of what has occurred since Ma- 
 turin's " Bertram," I am not aware ; so that I may be traducing, through 
 ignorance, some excellent new winter ; if so, I beg their pardon. I have 
 been absent from England nearly five years, and, till last year, I never 
 read an English newspaper since my departure, and am now only aware 
 of theatrical matters through the medium of the Parisian Gazette of Galig- 
 nani, and only for the last twelve months. Let me then deprecate all 
 offence to tragic or comic writers, to whom I wish well, and of whom I 
 know nothing. The long complaints of the actual stale of the drama 
 arise, however, from no fault of the performers. 1 can conceive nothing 
 better than Kemble, Cooke, and Kean in their very different manners, or 
 than Elliston in gentleman's comedy, and in some parts of tragedy. 
 Miss O'Neill I never saw, having made and kept a determmation to see 
 nothing which should divide or disturb my recollection of Siddons. 
 Siddons and Kemble were the ideal of tragic action ; I never saw any 
 thing at all resembling them even in person; for this reason, we shall 
 never see again Coriolanus or Macbeth. When Kean is blamed for want 
 of dignity, we should remember that it is a grace and not an art, and not 
 to be attained bv study. In &\\,not suTJer-natural parts, he is perfect ; 
 even bis very defects belong, or seem to belong, to the parts themselves, 
 and appear truer to nature. But of Kemble we may say, with reference 
 to his acting, what the Cardinal de Retz said of the Marquis of Mon- 
 trose, " that he was the only man he ever saw who reminded him of the 
 btroBs of Plutarch." 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 •Scene I.— An Antechamber in the Ducal Pcdace. 
 PiETRO speaks, in entering, to Battista. 
 
 Pie. Is not the messenger return'd ? 
 
 Bat. Not yet ; 
 
 I have sent frequently, as you commanded, 
 But still the Signory is deep in council, 
 And long debate on Steno's accusation. 
 
 Pie. Too long — at least so thinks the Doge. 
 
 j^fjif^ How bears h© 
 
 These moments of suspense ? 
 
 pfg_ With struggling patience. 
 
 Placed at the ducal table, coverd o'er 
 With all the apparel of the state ; petitions, 
 Despatches, judgments, acts, reprieves, reports. 
 He sits as rapt in duty ; but whene'er 
 He hears the jan-ing of a distant door. 
 Or aught that intimates a coming step, 
 Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye wanders, 
 And he will start up from his chair, then pausa 
 And seat himself again, and fix his gaze 
 Upon some edict ; but I have observed 
 For the last hour he has not turn'd a leaf. 
 
 Bat. 'T is said he is much moved, and donbllese 'twas 
 Foul scorn in Steno to offend so grossly. 
 
Act I. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 231 
 
 Pie. Ay, if a poor man : Steno 's a patrician, 
 Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 
 
 Bat. Then you think 
 
 He will not be judged hardly ? 
 
 Pie. 'T were enough 
 
 He be judged justly ; but 't is not for us 
 To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 
 
 Bai. And here it comes, — What news, Vincenzo ? 
 Enter Vincenzo. 
 
 Vin. T is 
 
 Decided; but as yet his doom's unknown: 
 I saw the president in act to see.l 
 The parchment which will bear the Forty's judgment 
 Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — The Ihical Chamber. 
 
 Marino Faliero, Doge ; and his Nephew, Ber- 
 
 "xjccio Faliero. 
 
 Ber. F. It cannot be but they will do you justice. 
 
 Doge. Ay, such as the Avogadori did, 
 Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 
 To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 
 
 Ber. F. His peers will scarce protect him ; such an act 
 Would bring contempt on all authority. 
 
 Doge. Know you not Venice ? Know you not the 
 Forty? 
 But we shall see anon. 
 
 Ber. F. {addressing Vincenzo, t?ien entering.) 
 How now — what tidings ? 
 
 Vin. I am charged to tell his highness that the court 
 Has pass'd its resolution, and that, soon 
 As the due forms of judgment are gone through, 
 The sentence will be sent up to the Doge ; 
 In the mean time the Forty doth salute 
 The Prince of the Republic, and entreat 
 His acceptation of their duty. 
 
 Doge. Yes — 
 
 They are wond'rous dutiful, and ever humble. 
 Sentence is past, you say ? 
 
 Vin. It is, your highness : 
 
 The president was sealing it, when I 
 Was call'd in, that no moment might be lost 
 In forwarding the intimation due 
 Not only to the Chief of the Republic, 
 But the complainant, both in one united. 
 
 Ber. F. Are you aware, from aught you have per- 
 ceived, 
 Of their decision ? 
 
 Vin. No, my lord ; you know 
 
 The secret custom of the courts in Venice. 
 
 Ber. F. True ; but there still is something given to 
 guess. 
 Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye would catch at ; 
 A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 
 More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 
 The Forty are but men — most worthy men. 
 And vvdse, and just, and cautious — this I grant— 
 And secret as the grave to which they doom 
 The guilty ; but with all this, in their aspects — 
 At least in some, the juniors of the number — 
 A searching eye, an eye like yours, Vincenzo, 
 Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced. 
 
 Vin. My lord, I came away upon the moment, 
 And had no leisure to take note of that 
 Which pass'd among the judges, even in seeming \ 
 My station near the accused, too, Michel Steno, 
 Made me 
 
 Doge, (abruptly.) And how look'd he 7 deliver that. 
 
 Vin. Calm, but not overcast, he stood resign'd 
 To the decree, whate'er it were ; — but lo ! 
 It comes, for the perusal of his highness. 
 
 Enler the Secretary of the Forty. 
 
 Sec. The high tribunal of the Forty sends 
 
 Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
 Chief Magistrate of Venice, and requests 
 His highness to peruse and to approve 
 The' sentence past on Michel Steno, born 
 Patrician, and arraign'd upon the charge 
 Contain'd, together with its penalty. 
 Within the rescript which I now present. 
 Doge. Retire, and wait without. 
 
 [Exeunt Secretary a7id Vincenzo. 
 Take thou this paper 
 The misty letters vanish from my eyes ; 
 I cannot fix them. 
 
 Ber. F. Patience, my dear uncle : 
 
 Why do you tremble thus ? — nay, doubt not, all 
 Will be as could be wish'd. 
 Doge. Say on. 
 
 Ber. F. (reading.) "Decreed 
 
 In council, without one dissenting voice, 
 That Michel Steno, by his own confession. 
 Guilty on the last night of Carnival 
 Of having graven on the ducal throne 
 
 The foOowing words " 
 
 Doge. Would'st thou repeat tbem ? 
 
 Would'st thou repeat them — thou, a Fahero, 
 Harp on the deep dishonour of our house, 
 Dishonour'd in its chief— that chief the prince 
 Of Venice, first of cities ? — To the sentence. 
 
 Ber. F. Forgive me, my good lord ; I will obey — 
 (Reads.) "That Michel Steno be detain'd a month 
 In close arrest." 
 Doge. Proceed. 
 
 Ber. F. My lord, 'tis finish'd. 
 
 Doge. How, say you? — finish'd! Do I dream? — \bi 
 false — 
 Give me fne paper — (Snatches the paper and reads)—' 
 " 'T is decreed in council 
 
 That Michel Steno" Nephew, thine arm ! 
 
 Ber. F. Nay, 
 
 Cheer up, be cabn ; this transport is uncall'd for — 
 Let me seek some assistance. 
 
 Doge. Stop, sir — Stir not— 
 
 'T is past. 
 
 Ber. F. I cannot but agree with you 
 The sentence is too slight for the oifence — 
 It is not honourable in the Forty 
 To affix so slight a penalty to that 
 Which was a foul affront to you, and even 
 To them, as being your subjects ; but 't is not 
 Yet without remedy : you can appeal 
 To them once more, or to the Avogadori, 
 Who, seemg that true justice is withheld, 
 Will now take up the cause they once declined, 
 And do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
 Think you not thus, good uncle ? why do you stand 
 So fix'd? You heed me not:— I pray you, hear me! 
 Doge, (dashing down the ducal bonnet, and offering 
 trample upon it, exclaims, as he is withheld by his 
 nephew,) 
 Oh ! that the Saracen were in St. Mark's ! 
 Thus would I do him homage. 
 Ber. F. For the sake 
 
 Of Heaven and all its saints, my lord 
 
 Doge. Away ! 
 
 Oh, that the Genoese were in the port ! 
 Oh, that the Huns whom I o'erthrew at Zara 
 Were ranged around the palace ! 
 
 Ber. F. 'T is not well 
 
 In Venice' Duke to say so. 
 
 Doge. Venice' Duke ! 
 
 Who now is Duke in Venice? let me see him, 
 That he may do me right. 
 
 Ber. F. If you forget 
 
 Your office, and its dignity and duty. 
 Remember that of man, and curb this passion. 
 The Duke of Venice 
 
232 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 Ac 
 
 Doge, {iiiierrupling him.) Tliere is no such tiling — 
 It is ii word — nay, worse — a worthless by--word : 
 The most despised, wrougVl, outraged, helpless wretch. 
 Who begs his bread, if 't is refused by one, 
 May win it from anotlier kinder heart ; 
 But he, who is denied his right by those 
 Whose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 
 Than the rejected beggar — he 's a slave — 
 And that am I, and thou, and all our house. 
 Even from this hour ; the meanest artisan 
 Will point the finger, and the haughty noble 
 May spit upon us: — where is our redress? 
 
 Ber. F. The law, my prince 
 
 Doge^ {interrupting him.) You see what it has done — 
 I ask'd no remedy but from the law — 
 I sought no vengeance but redress by law — 
 I calfd no judges but those named by law — ■ 
 As sovereign, I appeal'd unto my subjects, 
 The very subjects who had made me sovereign, 
 And gave me thus a double right lo be so. 
 The rights of place and choice, of birth and service. 
 Honours and years, these scars, these hoary hairs, 
 The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues, 
 The blood and sweat of almost eighty years, 
 Were weigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest stain, 
 The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime 
 Of a rank, rash patrician — and found wanting ! 
 And this is to be borne ! 
 
 ^er. F. I say not that :— 
 
 In case your fresh appeal should be rejected, 
 We will find other means to make all even. 
 
 Doge. Appeal agam ! art thou my brother's son ? 
 A scion of the house of Faliero ? 
 The nephew of a Doge ? and of that blood 
 Which hath already given tliree dukes to Venice ? 
 But thou say'st well — we must be humble now. 
 
 Ber. F. My princely uncle ! you are too much 
 moved : — 
 I grant it was a gross offence, and grossly 
 Left without fitting punishment : but still 
 This fury doth exceed the provocation, 
 Or any provocation : if we are wrong'd, 
 We will ask justice ; if it be denied, 
 We '11 take it ; but may do all this in calmness- 
 Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep Silence. 
 I have yet scarce a third part of your years, 
 I love our house, I honour you, its chief, 
 The guardian of my youth, and its instructer — 
 But though I understand your grief, and enter 
 In part of your disdain, it doth appal me 
 To see your anger, like our Adrian waves, 
 O'ersweep all bounds, and foam itself to air. 
 
 Doge. I tell thee— must I tell thee— what thy father 
 Would have required no words to comprehend ? 
 Hast thou no feehng save the external sense 
 Of torture from the touch ? hast thou .no soul- 
 No pride — no passion — no deep sense of honour ? 
 
 Ber. F. 'T is the first time that honour has been 
 doubted. 
 And were the last, from any other skeptic. 
 
 Doge. You know the full offence of this born villain. 
 This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon, 
 Who threw his sting into a poisonous libel, 
 And on the honour of— Oh God ! — my wife, 
 The nearest, dearest part of all men's honour, 
 Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 
 Of loose mechanics, with all course foul comments, 
 And villanous jests, and blasphemies obscene ; 
 While sneering nobles, in more polish'd guise, 
 Whisper'd the tale, and smiled upon the He 
 Which made me look like them — a courteous wittol, 
 Patient— ay, proud, it may be, of dishonour. 
 
 Ber. F. But still it was a lie — you knew it false. 
 And so did all men. 
 
 Dfige. Nephew, the Iiigh Roman 
 
 Said, " Caisar's wife must not even be suspected," 
 And put her from him. 
 
 Ber. F. True — but in those days 
 
 Doge. Wliat is it that a Roman would not sufler^ 
 That a Venetian prince must bear ? Old Dundolo 
 Refused the diadem of all the Caesars, 
 And wore tlie ducal cap I trample on. 
 Because 'tis now degraded. 
 
 Ber. F. 'T is even so. 
 
 Doge. It is — it is : — I did not visit on 
 The innocent creature thus most vilely slander'd 
 Because she took an old man for her lord, 
 For that he had been long her father's friend 
 And patron of her house, as if there were 
 No love hi woman's heart but lust of youth 
 And beardless faces ; — I did not for this 
 Visit the villain's infamy on her, 
 But craved my country's justice on his head, 
 The justice due unto the humblest being 
 Who hath a wife whose faith is sweet to hirn, 
 Who hath a home whose hearth is dear to him, 
 Who hath a name whose honour 's all to him. 
 When these are tainted by the accursing breath 
 Of calumny and scorn. 
 
 Ber. F. And what redress 
 
 Did you expect as his fit punishment ? 
 
 Doge. Death ! Was I not the sovereign of the Btat&- 
 Insulted on his very throne, and made 
 A mockery to the men who should obey me? 
 Was I not injured as a husband? scorn'd 
 As man ? reviled, degraded, as a prince ? 
 Was not offence like his a complication 
 Of insult and of treason? — and he lives! 
 Had he instead of on the Doge's throne 
 Stampt the same brand upon a peasant's stool, 
 His blood had gilt the threshold ; for the carle 
 Had stabbed him on the instant. 
 
 Ber. F. Do not doubt it, 
 
 He shall not live till simset — leave to me 
 The means, and calm yourself 
 
 Doge. Hold, nephew : this 
 
 Would have sufficed but yesterday ; at present 
 I have no further wratli against this man. 
 
 Ber. F. What mean you? is not the offence re- 
 doubled 
 By this most rank — I will not say — acquittal ; 
 For it is worse, being full acknowledgment 
 Of the offence, and leaving it unpunish'd ? 
 
 Doge. It is redoubled, but not now by him : 
 The Forty hath decreed a month's arrest — 
 We must obey the Forty. 
 
 Ber. F. Obey them I 
 
 Who have forgot their duty to the sovereign ? 
 
 Doge. Why yes ; — boy, you perceive it then at last i 
 Whether as fellow-citizen who sues 
 For justice, or as sovereign who commands it, 
 They have defrauded me of both my rights, 
 (For here the sovereign is a citizen ;) 
 But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 
 Of Steno's head — he shall not wear it long. 
 
 Ber. F. Not twelve hours longer, had you left to me 
 The mode and means ; if you had calmly heard me, 
 I never meant this miscreant should escape. 
 But wish'd you to suppress such gusts of passion, 
 That we more surely might dense together 
 His taking off. 
 
 Doge. No, nephew, he must live ; 
 
 At least, just now — a Ufe so vile as his 
 Were nothing at this hour ; in th' olden tim« 
 Some sacrifices ask'd a single victim, 
 Great expiations had a hecatomb. 
 
 Ber. F. Your wishes are my law : and yet I fain 
 Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
 The honour of our house must ever be. [proof: 
 
 Doge. Fear not ; you shall have time and place of 
 
Act I. 
 
 MARINO FALIER0,D0GE OF VENICE. 
 
 233 
 
 But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
 I am ashamed of my own anger now ; 
 I pray you, pardon me. 
 
 Ber. F. Why that's my uncle ! 
 
 The leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
 Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself ! 
 I wonder'd to perceive you so forget 
 All prudence in your fury at these years, 
 Although the cause 
 
 Doge. Ay, think upon the cause — 
 
 Forget it not : — When you lie down to rest, 
 Let it be black among your dreams ; and when 
 The morn returns, so let it stand between 
 The sun and you, as an ill omen'd cloud 
 Upon a summer-day of festival : 
 So will it stand to me ; — but speak not, stir not, — 
 Leave all to me ; — we shall have much to do, 
 And you shall have a part, — But now retire, 
 'T is fit I were alone. 
 
 Ber. F. {taking up and placing the ducal bonnet on 
 the table.) Ere I depart, 
 
 I pray you to resume what you have spum'd, 
 Till you can change it haply for a crown. 
 And now I take my leave, imploring you 
 In all things to rely upon my duty 
 As doth become your near and faithful kinsman, 
 And not less loyal citizen and subject. 
 
 [Eodt Bertuccio Faliero. 
 
 Doge, (solus.) Adieu, my worthy nephew. — Hollow 
 bauble ! [ Taking up the ducal cap. 
 
 Beset wdlh all the thorns that line a crown, 
 Without investbg the insulted brow 
 With the all-swaying majesty of kings; 
 Thou idle, gilded, and degraded toy. 
 Let me resume thee as I would a vizor. [Putsiton. 
 How my brain aches beneath thee ! and my temples 
 Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 
 Could I not turn thee to a diadem? 
 Could I not shatter the Briarean sceptre 
 Winch in this hundred-handed senate rules, 
 Making the people nothing, and the prince 
 A pageant? In my life I have achieved 
 Tasks not less difficult — achieved for them, 
 Who thus repay me ! — Can I not requite them? 
 Oh for one year ! Oh ! but for even a day 
 Of my full youth, while yet my body served 
 My soul as serves the generous steed his lord, 
 I would have dash'd among them, asldng few 
 [n aid to overthrow these swoln patricians ; 
 But now I must look round for other hands 
 To serve this hoary head ; — but it shall plan 
 In such a sort as will not leave the task 
 Herculean, though as yet it is but a chaos 
 Of darkly brooding thoughts : my fancy is 
 In her first work, more nearly to the light 
 Holding the sleeping images of things 
 For the selection of the pausing judgment.— 
 The troops Eure few in 
 
 Enter Vincenzo. 
 
 Via. There is one without 
 
 Craves audience of your highness. 
 
 Doge. I'm unwell — 
 
 I can see no one, not even a patrician — 
 Let him refer his business to the council. 
 
 Vin. My lord, I will deliver your reply ; 
 It carmot much import — he 's a plebeian, 
 The master of a galley, I believe. 
 
 Doge. How ! did you say the patron of a galley ? 
 That is — I mean — a servant of the state : 
 Admit him, he may be on public service. 
 
 [Eccit ViNCENZO 
 
 Doge, {solus.) This patron may be sounded ; I will 
 try him. 
 1 know the people to be discontented j 
 2E 
 
 They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse day, 
 
 When Genoa cono,uer'd : they have further cause 
 
 Since they are nothing in the state, and in 
 
 The city worse than nothing — mere machines, 
 
 To serve the nobles' most patrician pleasure. 
 
 The troops have long arrears of pay, oft promised, 
 
 And murmur deeply — any hope of change 
 
 Will draw them forward : they shall pay themselves 
 
 With plunder : — but the priests — I doubt the priesthood 
 
 Will not be with us ; they have hated me 
 
 Since that rash hour, when, madden'd with the drone, 
 
 ' I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso, 
 
 duickening his holy march ; yet, ne'erlheless. 
 
 They may be won, at least their chief at Rome 
 
 By some well-timed concessions ; but, above 
 
 All things, I must be speedy ; at my hour 
 
 Of twilight little light of life remains. 
 
 Could I free Venice, and avenge my wrongs, 
 
 I had lived too long, and wiilingly would sleep 
 
 Next moment with my sires ; and, wantmg this, 
 
 Better that sixty of my fourscore years 
 
 Had been already where — how soon, I care not — 
 
 The whole must be extinguish'd ;-^better that 
 
 They ne'er had been, than drag me on to be 
 
 The thing these arch-oppressors fain would make me. 
 
 Let me consider — of efficient troops 
 
 There are three thousand posted at — 
 
 Enter Vin-cewzo and Israel BfiRTCccio. 
 Vin. May it please 
 
 Your highness, the same patron whom I spake of 
 Is here to crave your patience. 
 
 Doge. Leave the chamber, 
 
 Vincenzo. — [Exit Vincekzo. 
 
 Sir, you may advance — what would you ? 
 I. Ber. Redress. 
 Doge. Of whom ? 
 
 /. Ber. Of God and of the Doge, 
 
 Doge. Alas ! my friend, you seek it of the twain 
 Of least respect and interest in Venice, 
 You must address the council. 
 
 /. Ber. 'T were in vain ; 
 
 For he who injured me is one of them. 
 Doge. There 's blood upon thy face — how came it 
 
 there ? 
 I. Ber. 'T is mine, and not the first I 've shed for 
 Venice, 
 But the first shed by a Venetian hand ; 
 A noble smote me. 
 Doge. Doth he live 1 
 
 I. Ber. Not long — 
 
 But for the hope I had and have, that you, 
 My prince, yourself a soldier, will redress 
 Him, whom the laws of discipline and Venice 
 Permit not to protect himself ;— if not — 
 I say no more. 
 
 Doge. But something you would do — 
 
 Is it not so? 
 J. Ber. I am a man, my lord 
 
 Doge. Why so is he who smote you. 
 /. Ber. He is call'd so; 
 
 Nay, more, a noble one — at least, in Venice : 
 But since he hath forgotten that I am one. 
 And treats me lilce a brute, the brute may turn — ■ 
 'Tis said the worm will. 
 Doge. Say — liis name and lineage ? 
 
 /. Ber. Barbaro, 
 
 Doge. What was the cause ? or the pretext? 
 
 /. Ber. I am the chief of the arsenal, employ'd 
 At present in repairing certain galleys 
 But roughly used by the Genoese last year. 
 This morning comes the noble Barbaro 
 Full of reproof, because our artisans 
 
 1 Had left some frivolous order of his house, 
 To execute the state's decree ; I dared 
 
234 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 
 To justify the men — ^he raised Iiis hand ; — 
 Behold my blood! the first time it e'er flow'd 
 Dishonourably. 
 Doge. Have you long time served ? 
 
 J. Ber. So long as to remember Zara's siege, 
 And fight beneath the chief who beat the Huns there, 
 Sometime my general, now the Doge Faliero. — 
 
 Doge. How 1 are we comrades ? — the state's ducal 
 robes 
 Sit newly on me, and you were appointed 
 Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome ; 
 So that I recognised you not. Who placed you ? 
 /. Ber. The late Doge ; keeping still my old com- 
 mand 
 As patron of a galley : my new oflSice 
 Was given as a reward of certain scars, 
 (So was your predecessor pleased to say:) 
 I little thought his bounty would conduct m© 
 To his successor as a helpless plaintiff; 
 At least, in such a cause. 
 
 Doge. Are you much hurt ? 
 
 /. Ber. Irreparably in my self-esteem. 
 Doge. Speak out ; fear nothing : being stung at heart, 
 What would you do to be revenged on this man ? 
 /. Ber. That which I dare not name, and yet will do. 
 Doge. Then wherefore came you here ? 
 /. Ber. I come for justice, 
 
 Because my general is Doge, and will not 
 See his old soldier trampled on. Had any. 
 Save Faliero, fiU'd the ducal throne. 
 This blood had been wash'd out in other blood. 
 Doge. You come to me for justice — unto me ! 
 The Doge of Venice, and I cannot give it ; 
 I cannot even obteiin it-^-'T was denied 
 To me most solemnly an hour ago. 
 /. Ber. How says your highness ? 
 Doge. Steno is condemn'd 
 
 To a month's confinement. 
 
 /. Ber. What ! the same who dared 
 
 To stain the ducal throne with those foul words. 
 That have cried shame to every ear in Venice ? 
 
 Doge. Ay, doubtless they have echo'd o'er the arsenal, 
 Keeping due time with every hammer's clink 
 As a good jest to jolly artizans ; 
 Or making chorus to the creaking oar, 
 In the vile tune of every galley-slave, 
 Who, as he sung the merry stave, exulted 
 He was not a shamed dotard like the Doge. 
 
 1. Ber. Is 't possible ? a month's imprisonment ! 
 No more for Steno ? 
 
 Doge. You have heard the offence, 
 
 And now you know his punishment ; and then 
 You ask redress of me ! Go to the Forty, 
 Who pass'd the sentence upon Michel Steno ; 
 They '11 do as much by Barbaro, no doubt. 
 /. Ber. Ah ! dared I speak my feelings ! 
 Doge. Give them breath. 
 
 Mine have no further outrage to endure. 
 
 I. Ber. Then, in a word, it rests but on your word 
 To punish and avenge — I will not say 
 My petty wrong, for what is a mere blow, 
 However vile, to such a thing as I am ? — 
 But the base insult done your state and person. 
 
 Doge. You overrate my power, which is a pageant. 
 This cap is not the monarch's crown; these robes 
 Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags ; 
 Nay, more, a beggar's are his own, and these 
 But lent to the poor puppet, who must play 
 Its part with all its empire in this ermine. 
 /. Ber. Wouldst thou be king ? 
 Doge. Yes— of a happy people. 
 
 /. Ber. Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of Venice ? 
 Doge. Ay, 
 
 If that the people shared that sovereignty, 
 So that nor they nor I were further slaves 
 
 To this o'ergrown aristocratic Hydra, 
 
 The poisonous heads of whose envenom'd body 
 
 Have breathed a pestilence upon us all. 
 
 /. Ber. Yet, thou wast bom and still hast lived 
 patrician. 
 
 Doge. In evil hour was I so born ; my birth 
 Hath made me Doge to be insulted : but 
 I lived and toil'd a soldier and a servant 
 Of Venice and her people, not the senate ; 
 Their good and my own honour were my guerdon. 
 1 have fought and bled ; commanded, ay, and conquer'd 
 Have made and marr'd peace oft in embassies. 
 As it might chance to be our country's 'vantage ; 
 Have traversed land and sea in constant duty, 
 Through almost sixty years, and still for Venice, 
 My fathers' and my birthplace, whose dear spires, 
 Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, 
 It was reward enough for me to view 
 Once more ; but not for any knot of men, 
 Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat ! 
 But would you know why I have done all this? 
 Ask of the bleeding pelican why she 
 Hath ripp'd her bosom ? Had the bird a voice, 
 She 'd tell thee 'twas for ail her httle ones. 
 
 /. Ber. And yet they made thee duke. 
 
 Doge. Tliey made me so i 
 
 I sought it not, the flattering fetters met me 
 Returning from my Roman embassy, 
 And never having hitherto refused 
 Toil, charge, or duty for the state, I did not, 
 At these late years, decUne what was the highest 
 Of all in seeming, but of all most base 
 In what we have to do and to endure : 
 Bear witness for me thou, my injured subject, 
 When I can neither right myself nor thee. 
 
 I. Ber. You shall do both, if you possess the will 
 And many thousands more not less oppress'd. 
 Who wait but for a signal — wLQ you give it ? 
 
 Doge. You speak in riddles. 
 
 /. Ber. Which shall soon be read 
 
 At peril of my life ; if you disdain not 
 To lend a patient ear. 
 
 Doge. Say on. 
 
 I. Ber. Not thou. 
 
 Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 
 Contemn'd and trampled on ; but the whole people 
 Groan with the strong conception of their wrongs 
 The foreign soldiers in the senate's pay 
 Are discontented for their long arrears ; 
 The native mariners, and civic troops. 
 Feel with their friends ; for who is he among them 
 Whose brethren, parents, children, wives, or sisters, 
 Have not partook oppression, or pollution. 
 From the patricians ? And the hopeless war 
 Against the Genoese, which is still maintain'd 
 With the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung 
 From their hard earnings, has inflamed them further : 
 Even now — but, I forget that speaking thus. 
 Perhaps I pass the sentence of my death ! 
 
 Doge. And suffering what thou hast done — fear'st thou 
 death? 
 Be silent then, and live on, to be beaten 
 By those for whom tliou hast bled. 
 
 /. Ber. No, I will speak 
 
 At every hazard ; and if Venice' Doge 
 Should turn delator, be the shame on him, 
 And sorrow too ; for he will lose far more 
 Than I. 
 
 Doge. From me fear nothing ; out with it ! 
 
 /. Ber. Kjiow then, that there are met and sworn in 
 secret 
 A band of brethren, vaUant hearts and true ; 
 Men who have proved all fortunes, and have long 
 Grieved over that of Venice, and have right 
 To do so ; having served her in all climes. 
 
Act II. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 235 
 
 And having rescued her from foreign foes, 
 Would do the same from those within her walls. 
 They are not numerous, nor yet too few 
 For their great purpose ; they have arms, and means, 
 And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and patient courage. 
 Doge. For what then do they pause? 
 /. Ber. An hour to strike. 
 
 Doge, (aside.) Saint Mark's shall strike that hour ! 
 /• Ber. I now have placed 
 
 My life, my honour, aU my earthly hopes 
 Within thy power, but in the firm belief 
 That injuries like ours, sprung from one cause, 
 Will generate one vengeance : should it be so, 
 Be our chief now — our sovereign hereafter. 
 Doge. How many are ye ? 
 /. Ber. I '11 not answer that 
 
 Till I am answer'd. 
 Doge. How, sir ! do you menace ? 
 
 /. Ber. No : I affirm. I have betray'd myself; 
 But there 's no torture in the mystic wells 
 Which undermine your palace, nor in those 
 Not less appalling cells, the " leaden roofs," 
 To force a single name from me of others. 
 The Pozzi 8,nd the Piombi were in vain ; 
 They might wring blood from me, but treachery never. 
 And I would pass the fearful " Bridge of Sighs," 
 Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er 
 Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which flows 
 Between the murderers and the murder'd, washing 
 The prison and the palace walls : there are 
 Those who would live to think on't, and avenge me. 
 Doge. If such your power and purpose, why come 
 here 
 To sue for justice, being in the course 
 To do yourself due right ? 
 
 /. Ber. Because the man. 
 
 Who claims protection from authority. 
 Showing his confidence and his submission 
 To that authority, can hardly be 
 Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
 Had I sate down too humbly with this blow, 
 A moody brow and mutter'd threats had made me 
 A mark'd man to the Forty's inquisition ; 
 But loud complaint, however angrily 
 It shapes its phrase, is Uttle to be fear'd, 
 And less distrusted. But, besides all this, 
 I had another reason. 
 
 Doge. What was that ? 
 
 /. Ber. Some rumours that the Doge was greatly moved 
 By the reference of the Avogadori 
 Of Michel Steno's sentence to tlie Forty 
 Had reach'd me. I had served you, honour'd you, 
 And felt that you were dangerously insulted, 
 Being of an order of such spirits, as 
 Requite tenfold both good and evil: 't was 
 My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 
 Now you know all ; and that I speak the truth. 
 My peril be the proof. 
 
 Doge. You have deeply ventured ; 
 
 But all must do so who would greatly win : 
 Thus far I '11 answer you — your secret 's safe. 
 /. Ber. And is this all ? 
 
 Doge. Unless with all intrusted^ 
 
 What would you have me answer ? 
 
 /, Ber. I would have you 
 
 Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you. 
 Doge. But I must know your plan, your names, and 
 numbers ; 
 The last may then be doubled, and the former 
 Matured and strengthen'd. 
 
 /. Ber. We 're enough already ; 
 
 You are the sole ally we covet now. 
 
 Doge. But bring me to the know^ledge of your chiefs, 
 /. Ber. That shall be done upon your formal pledge 
 To keep the faith that we will pledge to you. 
 
 Doge. When ? where ? 
 
 /. Ber. This night I '11 bring to your apartment 
 
 Two of the principals ; a greater number 
 Were hazardous. 
 
 Doge. Stay, I must think of tliis. 
 
 What if I were to trust myself among you. 
 And leave the palace ? 
 
 /. Ber. You must come alone. 
 
 Doge. With but my nephew. 
 
 /. Ber. Not were he your son. 
 
 Doge. Wretch ! darest thou name my son ? He died 
 in arms 
 At Sapienza for this faithless state. 
 Oh ! that he were alive, and I in ashes ! 
 Or that he were alive ere I be ashes ! 
 I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 
 /. Ber. Not one of all those strangers whom thou 
 doubtest 
 But will regard thee with a filial feeling. 
 So that thou keep'st a father's faith with them. 
 Doge. The die is cast. Where is the place of meeting? 
 /. Ber. At midnight I will be alone and mask'd 
 Wliere'er your highness pleases to direct me, 
 To wait your coming, and conduct you where 
 You shall receive our homage, and pronounce 
 Upon our project. 
 
 Doge. At what hour arises 
 
 The moon ? 
 
 /. Ber. Late, but the atmosphere is thick and dusky, 
 'T is a sirocco. 
 
 Doge. At the midnight hour, then. 
 
 Near to the church where sleep my sires ; the same, 
 Twin-named from the apostles John and Paul ; 
 A gondola, ^ with one oar only, will 
 Lurk in the narrow channel which ghdes by. 
 Be there. 
 /. Ber. I will not fail. 
 
 Doge. And now retire 
 
 /. Ber. In the full hope your highness will not falter 
 In your great purpose. Prince, I tcike my leave. 
 
 [Exit Israel Bertuccio. 
 Doge, (soltis.) At midnight, by the church Saints 
 John and Paul, 
 Where sleep my noble fathers, I repair — 
 To what ? to hold a council in the dark 
 With conmion ruffians leagued to ruin states ! 
 And will not my great sires leap from the vault, 
 Where lie two doges who preceded me. 
 And pluck me down among them? Would they could 
 For I should rest in honour with the honour'd. 
 Alas ! I must not think of them, but those 
 Who have made me thus unworthy of a name 
 Noble and brave as aught of consular 
 On Roman marbles ; but I will redeem it 
 Back to its antique lustre in our annals, 
 By sweet revenge on all that 's base in Venice, 
 And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 
 To all the growing calumnies of time. 
 Which never spare the fame of him who failsi, 
 But try the Caesar, or the Catiline, 
 By the true touchstone of desert — success. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — An Apartment in the Ducal Palace. 
 Angiolina {wife of the Doge) and Marianna. 
 Aug. What was the Doge's answer 7 
 Mar. That he v 
 
 That moment summon'd to a conference ; 
 
 But 't is by this time ended. I perceived 
 
 Not long ago the senators embarking; 
 
 And the last gondola may now be seen 
 
 Gliding into the throng of barks which stud 
 
 The gUtteruig waters. 
 
236 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Ang. Would he were return'd! 
 
 He has been much disquieted of late; 
 And Time, which has not tamed his fiery spirit 
 Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame, 
 Which seems to be more nourish'd by a soul 
 So quick and restless that it would consume 
 Less hardy clay — Time has but little power 
 On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 
 To other spirits of his order, who, 
 In the first burst of passion, pour away 
 Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in liim 
 An aspect of eternity : his thoughts. 
 His feelings, passions, good or evil, all 
 Have nothing of old age ; and his bold brow 
 Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years, 
 Not their decrepitude : and he of late 
 Has been more agitated than his wont. 
 Would he were come! for I alone have power 
 Upon his troubled spirit. 
 
 Mar. It is true, 
 
 His highness has of late been greatly moved 
 By the aiTront of Steno, and with cause ; 
 But the offender doubtless even now 
 Is doom'd to expiate his rash insult with 
 Such chastisement as will enforce respect 
 To female virtue, and to noble blood. 
 
 Ang. 'T was a gi-oss insult ; but I heed it not 
 For tlie rash scomer's falsehood in itself. 
 But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 
 Which it has made upon Faliero's soul, 
 The proud, the fiery, the austere — austere 
 To all save me : I tremble when I think 
 To what it may conduct. 
 
 Mar. Assuredly 
 
 The Doge can not suspect you ? ^ 
 
 Ang. Suspect me ! 
 
 Why Steno dared not : when he scrawl'd his lie, 
 Groveling by stealth in the moon's glimmering light. 
 His own still conscience smote him for the act. 
 And every shadow on the walls frown'd shame 
 Upon his coward calumny. 
 
 Mar. " 'T were fit 
 
 He should be punish 'd grievously. 
 
 Ang. He is so. 
 
 Mar. What ! is the sentence past ? is he condemn'd ? 
 
 Ang. I know not that, but he has been detected. 
 
 Mar. And deem you this enough for such foul scorn ? 
 
 Ang. I would not be a judge in my own cause, 
 Nor do I know what sense of punishment 
 May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno; 
 But if his insults sink no deeper in 
 The minds of the inquisitors than they 
 Have ruffled mine, he will, for all acquittance. 
 Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. 
 
 Mar. Some sacrifice is due to slander'd virtue. 
 
 Ang. Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim? 
 Or if it must depend upon men's words ? 
 The dying Roman said, "'t was but a name:" 
 It were indeed no more, if human breath 
 Could make or niar it. 
 
 Mar. Yet full many a dame, 
 
 Stainless and faithfijl, would feel all the wrong 
 Of such a slander ; and less rigid ladies, 
 Such as abound m Venice, would be loud 
 And 9,11-inexorable in their cry 
 For justice. 
 
 Ang. This but proves it is the name 
 
 And not the quality they prize : the first 
 Have found it a hard task to hold their honour, 
 If they require it to be blazon'd forth ; 
 And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming 
 As they would look out for an ornament 
 Of whiich they feel the want, but not because 
 They think it so ; they five in others' thoughts, 
 And would seem honest as they must seem fair. 
 
 3Iar. You have strange thoughts for a patrician dame. 
 
 Ang. And yet they were my father's ; with his name 
 The sole inheritance he left. 
 
 Mar. You want none ; 
 
 Wife to a prince, the chief of the Republic. 
 
 Ang. I should have sought none though a peasant's 
 bride, 
 But feel not less the love and gratitude 
 Due to my father, who bestow'd my hand 
 Upon his early, tried, and trusted friend. 
 The Count Val di Marino, now our Doge. 
 
 3Iar. And with that hand did he bestow your heart 
 
 Ang. He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. 
 
 Mar. Yet this strange disproportion in your years, 
 And, let me add, disparity of tempers, 
 Might make the world doubt whether such an union 
 Could make you wisely, permanently happy. 
 
 Ang. The world will think with worldlings ; but mv 
 heart 
 Has still been in my duties, which are many. 
 But never difficult. 
 
 Mar. And do you love him? 
 
 Ang. I love all noble qualities wliich merit 
 Love, and I loved my father, who first taught me 
 To single out what we should love in others. 
 And to subdue all tendency to lend 
 The best and purest feelings of our nature 
 To baser passions. He bestow'd my hand 
 Upon FaUero : he had known him noble. 
 Brave, generous, rich in all the qualities 
 Of soldier, citizen, and friend ; in all 
 Such have I found him as my father said. 
 His faults are those that dwell in the high bosoms 
 Of men who have commanded ; too much pride, 
 And the deep passions fiercely foster'd by 
 The uses of patricians, and a life 
 Spent in the storms of state and war ; and also 
 From the quick sense of honour, which becomes 
 A duty to a certain sign, a vice 
 When overstrain'd, and this I fear in him. 
 And then he has been rash from his youth upwards, 
 Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness 
 In such sort, that the wariest of republics 
 Has lavish'd all its chief employs upon him. 
 From his first fight to his last embassy, 
 From which on his return the dukedom met him. 
 
 Mar. But previous to this marriage, had your heart 
 Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth. 
 Such as in years had been more meet to match 
 Beauty like yours ? or since have you ne'er seen 
 One, who, if your fair hand were still to give. 
 Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter? 
 
 Ang. I answer'd your first question when I said 
 I married. 
 
 JViar. And the second? 
 
 Ang. Needs no answer. 
 
 3Iar. I pray your pardon, if I have offended. 
 
 Ang. I feel no wrath, but some surprise : I knew not 
 That wedded bosoms could permit themselves 
 To ponder upon what they now might choose. 
 Or auglit save their past choice. 
 
 Mar. 'T is their past choice 
 
 That far too often makes them deem they would 
 Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it. 
 
 Ang. It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts. 
 
 Mar. Here comes the Doge — shall I retire ? 
 
 Ang. It ma} 
 
 Be better you should quit me ; he seems rapt 
 In thought. — How pensively he takes his way ! 
 
 [Exit Marianna 
 
 Enter the Doge and Pietro. 
 Doge, {musing.) There is a certain Philip Calendaro 
 Now in the Arsenal, who holds command 
 Of eighty men, and has great influence 
 
Act II. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 237 
 
 Besides on all the spirits of his coinrades : 
 This man, I hear, is bold and popular. 
 Sudden and daring, and yet secret ; 't would 
 Be well that he were won : I needs must hope 
 That Israel Bertuccio has secured him. 
 But fain would be 
 
 Pie. My lord, pray pardon me 
 
 For breakmg in upon your meditation ; 
 The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman, 
 Charged me to follow and inquire your pleasure 
 To fix an hour when he may speak with you. 
 
 Doge. At sunset. — Stay a moment — let me see- 
 Say in the second hour of night. [Exit Pietro. 
 
 Ang. My lord ! 
 
 Doge. My dearest child, forgive me — why delay 
 So long approaching me 7 — I saw you not. 
 
 Ang. You were absorb'd in thought, and he who now 
 Has parted from you might have v/ords of weight 
 To bear you from the senate. 
 
 Doge. From the senate ? 
 
 Ang. I would not interrupt him in his duty 
 And theirs. 
 
 Doge. The senate's duty ! you mistake ; 
 
 'T is we who owe all service to the senate. 
 
 Ang. I thought the Duke had held command in Venice. 
 
 Doge. He shall.— But let that pass.— We will be 
 jocund. 
 How fares it with you ? have you been abroad? 
 The day is overcast, but the calm wave 
 Favours the gondolier's light skimming oar ; 
 Or have you held a levee of your friends ? 
 Or has your music made you solitary? 
 Say — is there aught that you would will within 
 The little sway now left the Duke ? or aught 
 Of fitting splendour, or of honest pleasure, 
 Social or lonely, that would glad your heart. 
 To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 
 On an old man oft moved with many cares ? 
 Speak, and 't is done. 
 
 Ang. You 're ever kind to me — 
 
 [ have nothing to desire, or to request, 
 Except to see you oftener and calmer. 
 
 Doge. Calmer? 
 
 Ang. Ay, calmer, my good lord. — Ah, why 
 
 Do you still keep apart, and walk alone. 
 And let such strong emotions stamp your brow, 
 As not betraying their full import, yet 
 Disclose too much? 
 
 Doge. Disclose too much I — of what ? 
 
 What is there to disclose ? 
 
 Ang. A heart so ill 
 
 At ease. 
 
 Doge. 'T is nothing, child. — But in the state 
 You know what daily cares oppress all those 
 Who govern this precarious commonwealth ; 
 Now suffering from the Genoese without, 
 And malecontents witliin — 't is this which makes me 
 More pensive and less tranquil than my wont. 
 
 Ang. Yet this existed long before, and never 
 Till in these late days did I see you thus. 
 Forgive me ; there is something at your heart 
 More than the mere discharge of public duties, 
 Which long use and a talent like to yours 
 Have rendered light, nay, a necessity, 
 To keep your mind from stagnating. 'T is not 
 In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you; 
 You, who have stood all storms and never sunk, 
 And climb'd up to the pinnacle of power 
 Ajid never fainted by the way, and stand 
 Upon it, and can look down steadily 
 Along the depth beneatli, and ne'er feel dizzy. 
 Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port, 
 Were civil fury raging in St. Mark's, 
 You are not to be wrought on, but would fall, 
 As you have risen, with an unalter'd brow — 
 
 Your feelings now are of a different kind ; 
 Something has stung your pride, not patriotism. 
 
 Doge. Pride ! Angiolina ? Alas ! none is left me. 
 
 A7ig. Yes — the same sin that overthrew the angels. 
 And of all sins most easily besets 
 Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : 
 The vile are only vain; the great are proud. 
 
 Doge. I had the pride of honour, of your honour. 
 Deep at my heart But let us change the theme. 
 
 Ang. Ah no ! — As I have ever shared your kindness 
 In all things else, let me not be shut out 
 From your distress : were it of public import. 
 You know I never sought, v/ould never seek 
 To win a word from you ; but feeling now 
 Your grief is private, it belongs to me 
 To hghten or divide it. Since the day 
 When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected 
 Unfix'd your quiet, you are greatly changed, 
 And I would sooth you back to what you were. 
 
 Doge. To what I was ! — Have you heard Steno's 
 sentence ? 
 
 Aiig. No. 
 
 Doge. A month's arrest. 
 
 Ang. Is it not enough ? 
 
 Doge. Enough I — yes, for a di'iuiken galley slave. 
 Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his master ; 
 But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, 
 Who stains a lady's and a prince's honour 
 Even on the throne of his authority. 
 
 Ang. There seems to me enough in the conviction 
 Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood : 
 All other punishment were light unto 
 His loss of honour. 
 
 Doge. Such men have no honour ; 
 
 They have but their vile lives — and these are spared. 
 
 Ang. You would not have him die for this offence ? 
 
 Doge. Not noiv : — being still alive, I 'd have him live. 
 Long as he can ; he has ceased to merit death ; 
 The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges. 
 And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. 
 
 Ang. Oh ! had this false and flippant libeller 
 Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon, 
 Ne'er from that moment could this breast have known 
 A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more. 
 
 Doge. Does not the law of Heaven say blood for 
 blood ? 
 And he who taints lulls more than he who sheds it. 
 Is it the pain of blows, or shame of blows. 
 That makes such deadly to the sense of man? 
 Do not the laws of man say blood for honour ? 
 And, less than honour, for a little gold ? 
 Say not the laws of nations blood for treason ? 
 Is 't nothing to have fiU'd these veins with poison 
 For their once healthful current ? is it nothing 
 To have stain'd your name and mine — the noblest names ? 
 Is 't nothing to have brought into contempt 
 A prince before his people ? to have fail'd 
 In the respect accorded by manivind 
 To youth in woman, and old age in man? 
 To virtue m your sex, and dignity 
 In ours ? — but let them look to it who have saved him. 
 
 Ang. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies. 
 
 Doge. Doth Heaven forgive her own ? Is Satan saved 
 From wrath eternal? 
 
 Ang. Do not speak thus wildly — 
 
 Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 
 
 Doge. Amen ! May Heaven forgive them ! 
 
 Ang. And will you ? 
 
 Doge. Yes, when they are in heaven ! 
 
 Ang. And not till then ? 
 
 Doge. What matters my forgiveness ? an old man's, 
 Worn out, scorn'd, spurn'd, abused ; what matters then 
 My pardon more than my resentment, both 
 Being weak and worthless ? I have lived too long. — 
 But let us change the argument. — My child 
 
238 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VExNflCE. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 My injured wife, the cliild of Loredano, 
 
 The brave, the chivalrous, how little deem'd 
 
 Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, 
 
 That he was linking thee to shame ! — Alas ! 
 
 Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst thou 
 
 But had a different husband, any husband 
 
 In Venice save the Doge, this bUght, this brand, 
 
 This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee. 
 
 So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure, 
 
 To suffer this, and yet be unavenged I 
 
 Ang. I am too well avenged, for you still love me, 
 And trust, and honour me \ and all men know 
 That you are just, and I am true : what more 
 Could I require, or you command ? 
 
 Doge. " 'T is well, 
 
 And may be better ; but whate'er betide, 
 Be thou at least kind to my memory. 
 Ang. Why speak you thus ? 
 Boge. It is no matter why ; 
 
 But I would still, whatever others think. 
 Have your respect both now and in my grave. 
 Ang. Why should you doubt it ? has it ever fail'd ? 
 Doge. Come hither, child ; I would I word with you. 
 Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 
 Made him my debtor for some courtesies 
 Which bind the good more fii-mly : when, opprest 
 With his last malady, he will'd our union. 
 It was not to repay me, long repaid 
 Before by his great loyalty in friendship ; 
 His object was to place your orphan beauty 
 In honourable safety from the perils, 
 Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail 
 A lonely and undower'd maid. I did not 
 Think with him, but would not oppose the thought 
 Which soothed his death-bed. 
 
 Ang, I have not forgotten 
 
 The nobleness with which you bade me speak 
 If my young heart held any preference 
 Which would have made me happier ; nor your offer 
 To make my dowry equal to the rank 
 Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim 
 My father's last injunction gave you. 
 
 Doge. Thus, 
 
 'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 
 Nor the false edge of aged appetite, 
 Which made me covetous of girlish beauty. 
 And a young bride : for in my fieriest youth 
 I sway'd such passions ; nor was this my age 
 Infected with that leprosy of lust 
 Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men. 
 Making them ransack to the very last 
 The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys : 
 Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, 
 Too helpless to refuse a state that 's honest, 
 Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. 
 Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 
 Freedom from me to choose, and urged in answer 
 Your father's choice. 
 
 Ang. I did so ; I would do so 
 
 In face of earth and heaven ; for I have never 
 Repented for my sake ; sometimes for yours. 
 In pondering o'er your late disquietudes. 
 
 Doge. I knew my heart would never treat you harshly 
 T knew my days could not disturb you long ; 
 And then the daughter of my earliest friend. 
 His worthy daughter, free to choose again. 
 Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom 
 Of womanhood, more skilful to select 
 By passing these probationary years 
 Inheriting a prince's name and riches, 
 Secured, by the short penance of enduring 
 An old man for some summers, against all 
 That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might 
 Have urged against her right ; my best friend's child 
 Would choose more fitly in respect of years, 
 
 And not less truly in a faithful heart 
 
 Ang. My lord, I jook'd but to my father's wishes, 
 Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart 
 For doing all its duties, and replying 
 With faith to him with whom I was affianced. 
 Ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams ; and should 
 The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so. 
 
 Doge. I do believe you ; and I know you true : 
 For love, romantic love, which in my youth 
 I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 
 Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 
 No lure for me, in my most passionate days, 
 And could not be so now, did such exist. 
 But such respect, and mildly paid regard 
 As a true feeling for your welfare, and 
 A free compliance with all honest wishes ; 
 A kindness to your virtues, watchfukiess 
 Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little failings 
 As youth is apt in, so as not to check 
 Rashly, but win you from them ere you knew 
 You had been won, but thought the change your choice ; 
 A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct, — 
 A trust in you — a patriarchal love, 
 And not a doting homage — friendship, faith — 
 
 Such estimation m your eyes as tliese 
 
 IMight claim, I hoped for. 
 
 Ang. And have ever had. 
 
 Doge. I think so. For the difference in our years 
 
 You knew it, choosing me, and chose : I trusted 
 
 Not to my qualities, nor would have faith 
 
 In such, nor outward ornaments of nature. 
 
 Were I still in my five and twentieth spring ; 
 
 I trusted to the blood of Loredano 
 
 Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 
 
 God gave you — to the truths ju\xr father taught you — 
 
 To your belief in heaven — to your mild virtues — 
 
 To your own faith and honour, for my own. 
 Ang. You have done well. — I thank you for that trust, 
 
 Which I have never for one moment ceased 
 
 To honour you the more for. 
 Doge. Where is honour, 
 
 Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock 
 
 Of faith connubial : where it is not — where 
 
 Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
 
 Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, 
 
 Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
 
 'T were hopeless for humanity to dream 
 
 Of honesty in such infected blood. 
 
 Although 't were wed to him it covets most : 
 
 An incarnation of the poet's god 
 
 In all his marble-chisell'd beauty, or 
 
 The demi-deity, Alcides, in 
 
 His majesty of superhuman manhood, 
 
 Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not ; 
 
 It is consistency which forms and proves it: 
 
 Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. 
 
 The once fall'n woman must for ever fall ; 
 
 For vice must have variety, while virtue 
 
 Stands like the sun. and all which rolls around 
 
 Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect. 
 Ang. And seeing, feeling thus this truth in others, 
 
 (I pray you pardon me ;) but wherefore yield you 
 
 To the most fierce of fatal passions, and 
 
 Disquiet your great thoughts with restless hate 
 
 Of such a thing as Steno? 
 Doge. You mistake me. 
 
 It is not Steno who could move me thus ; 
 
 Had it been so, he should but let that pass. 
 
 Ang. What is 't you feel so deeply, then, even now ? 
 Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, 
 
 At once insulted in her lord and laws. 
 
 Ang. Alas ! why will you thus consider it? 
 
 Doge. I have thouglit on 't till -but let me lead 
 
 you back 
 
 To what I urged ; all these things being noted, 
 
Act II. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 239 
 
 I wedded you; the world then did me justice 
 Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 
 They did me right, while yours was all to praise: 
 You had all freedom — all respect — all trust 
 From me and mine ; and, born of those who made 
 Princes at home, and swept kings from their thrones 
 On foreign shores, in all things you appear'd 
 Worthy to be our first of native dames. 
 
 Ang. To what does this conduct ? 
 
 Doge. To thus much — that 
 
 A miscreant's angry breath may blast it all — 
 A villain, whom for his unbridled bearing, 
 Even in the midst of our great festival, 
 I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
 How to demean himself in ducal chambers ; 
 A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
 The blighting venom of his sweltering heart. 
 And this shall spread itself in general poison ; 
 And woman's innocence, man's honour, pass 
 Into a by-word ; and the doubly felon 
 (Who first insulted virgin modesty 
 By a gross affront to your attendant damsels 
 Amidst the noblest of our dames in public) 
 Requite himself for his most just expulsion 
 By blackening publicly his sovereign's consort, 
 And be absolved by his upright compeers. 
 
 Ang. But he has been condemn'd into captivity. 
 
 Doge. For such as him a dungeon were acquittal ; 
 And his brief term of mock-arrest will pass 
 Within a palace. But I 've done with him ; 
 The rest must be with you. 
 
 An,g. With me, my lord? 
 
 Doge. Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel ; I 
 Have let this prey upon me till I feel 
 My life cannot be long ; and fain would have you 
 Regard the injunctions you will find within 
 
 This scroll (Giving her a paper) Fear not ; they are 
 
 for your advantage : 
 Read them hereafter at the fitting hour. 
 
 Ang. My lord, in life, and after life, you shall 
 Be honour'd still by me : but may your days 
 Be many yet — and happier than the present! 
 This passion will give way, and you will be 
 Serene, and what you should be — what you were. 
 
 Doge. I will be what I should be, or be nothing ; 
 But never more — oh ! never, never more, 
 O'er the few days or hours which yet await 
 The bUghted old age of Faliero, shall 
 Sweet Gtuiet shed her sunset! Never more 
 Those summer shadows rising from the past 
 Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life. 
 Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches, 
 Shall sooth me to my moment of long rest. 
 I had but little more to task, or hope. 
 Save the regards due to the blood and sweat, 
 And the soul's labour through which I had toil'd 
 To make my country honour'd. As her servant — 
 Her servant, though her chief— I would have gone 
 Down to my fathers with a name serene 
 And pure as theirs ; but this has been denied me. — 
 Would I had died at Zara ! 
 
 Ang. There you saved 
 
 The state ; then live to save her still. A day, 
 Another day Uke that would be the best 
 Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you. 
 
 Doge. But one such day occurs within an age ; 
 My life is Uttle less than one, and 'tis 
 Enough for Fortune to have granted once, 
 That which scarce one more favour'd citizen 
 May win in many states and years. But why 
 Thus speak I ? Venice has forgot that day — 
 Then why should I remember it ? — Farewell, 
 Sweet Angiolina ! I must to my cabinet ; 
 There 's much for me to do — and the hour hastens. 
 
 Ang. Remember what you were. 
 
 Doge. It were in vain ! 
 
 Joy's recollection is no longer joy, 
 While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. 
 
 ' Ang. At least, whate'er may urge, let me implore 
 That you will take some little pause of rest: 
 Your sleep for many nights has been so turbid, 
 That it had been relief to have awaked you, 
 Had I not hoped that Nature would o'erpower 
 At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers thus. 
 An hour of rest will give you to your toils 
 With fitter thoughts and freshen'd strength. 
 
 Doge. I cannot — 
 
 I must not, if I could ; for never was 
 Such reason to be watchful : yet a few — 
 Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights, 
 And I shall slumber well — but where ? — no matter. 
 Adieu, my Angiolina. 
 
 Ang. Let me be 
 
 An instant — yet an instant your companion ! 
 I cannot bear to leave you thus. 
 
 Doge. Come then, 
 
 My gentle child — forgive me ; thou wert made 
 For better fortunes than to share in mine. 
 Now darkling in their close toward the deep vale 
 Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping shadow. 
 When I am gone — it may be sooner than 
 Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring 
 Within — above — around, that in this city 
 Will make the cemeteries populous 
 As e'er they were by pestilence or war, — 
 When I am nothing, let that which I was 
 Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet hps, 
 A shadow hi thy fancy, of a thing 
 
 Which would not have thee mourn it, but remember; — 
 Let us begone, my child — the time is pressing. 
 
 [ExeuM. 
 
 Scene II. — A retired Spot near the Arsenal. 
 
 Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calendaro. 
 
 Cal. How sped you, Israel, in your late complaint ? 
 
 /. Ber. Why, weU. 
 
 Cal. Is 't possible ! will he be punish'd ? 
 
 /. Ber. Yes. 
 
 Cal. With what ? a mulct or an arrest ? 
 
 J. Ber. With death !— 
 
 Cal. Now you rave, or must intend revenge, 
 Such as I counsell'd you, with your own hand. 
 
 /. Ber. Yes ; and for one sole draught of hate, forego 
 The great redress we meditate for Venice, 
 And change a life of hope for one of exile ; 
 Leaving one scorpion crush'd, and thousands stinging 
 My friends, my family, my countrymen ! 
 No, Calendaro ; these same drops of blood, 
 Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his 
 
 For their requital But not only his ; 
 
 We will not strike for private wrongs alone : 
 Such are for selfish passions and rash men. 
 But are unworthy a tyrannicide. 
 
 Cal. You have more patience than I care to boast 
 Had I been present when you bore this insult, 
 I must have slain him, or expired myself 
 In the vain effort to repress my wrath. 
 
 I. Ber. Thank Heaven, you were not— all had else 
 been marr'd : 
 As 't is, our cause looks prosperous still. 
 
 Cal. You saw 
 
 The Doge — ^what answer gave he ? 
 
 J. Ber. That there was 
 
 No punishment for such as Barbaro. 
 
 Cal. I told you so before, and that 't was idle 
 To tliink of justice from such hands. 
 
 /. Ber. At least, 
 
 It lull'd suspicion, showing confidence. 
 Had I been silent, not a sbirro but 
 Had kept me in his eye, as meditating 
 
240 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 Act 11. 
 
 A silent, solitary, deep revenge. 
 
 Cat. But wherefore not address you to the Council ? 
 The Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce 
 Obtain right for himself. Wh}' speak to him ? 
 /. Ber. You shall know that hereafter. 
 Cal. Why not now? 
 
 /. Ber. Be patient but till midnight. Get your musters, 
 And bid our friends prepare their companies : — 
 Set all in readiness to strike the blow, 
 Perhaps in a few hours ; we have long wailed 
 For a fit time — that hour is on the dial, 
 It may be, of to-mon-ow's sun : delay 
 Beyond may breed us double danger. See 
 That all be punctual at our place of meeting, 
 And arra'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
 Who will remain among the troops to wait 
 The signal. 
 
 Cal. These brave words have breathed new life 
 
 Into my veins ; I am sick of these protracted 
 And hesitating councils : day on day 
 Crawl'd on, and added but another Hnk 
 To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 
 Inflicted on our brethren or ourselves, 
 Helping to swell our tyrants' bloated strength. 
 Let us but deal upon them, and I care not 
 For the result, which must be death or freedom ! 
 I 'm weary to the heart of find ng neither. 
 
 /. Ber. We will be free in life or death! the grave 
 Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready ? 
 And are the sixteen companies completed 
 To skty ? 
 
 Cal. All save two, in w-hich there are 
 Twenty-five wanting to make up the number. 
 
 /. Ber. No matter ; we can do without. Whose are they? 
 Cal. Bertram's and old Soranzo's, both of whom 
 Appear less forward in the cause than we are. 
 
 /. Ber. Your fiery nature makes you deem all tliose 
 Who are not restless cold : but there exists 
 Oft in concentred spirits not less daring 
 Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt them. 
 
 Cal. I do not doubt the elder ; but in Bortram 
 There is a hesitating softness, fatal 
 To enterprise like ours : I 've seen that man 
 Weep like an infant o'er the misery 
 Of others, heedless of his ov/n, though greater ; 
 And in a recent quarrel I beheld him 
 Turn sick at sight of blood, although a villain's, 
 
 /. Ber. The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes. 
 And feel for what their duty bids them do. 
 I have known Bertram long ; there doth not breathe 
 A soul more full of honour. 
 
 Cal. It may be so : 
 
 I apprehend less treachery than weakness ; 
 Yet as he has no mistress, and no wife 
 To work upon his milkiness of spirit, 
 He may go through the ordeal ; it is well 
 He is an orphan, friendless save in us: 
 A woman or a child had made him less 
 Than either in resolve. 
 
 /. Ber. Such ties are not 
 
 For those who are call'd to the high destinies 
 Which purify corrupted commonwealths ; 
 We must forget all feelings save the o?ie — 
 We must resign all passions save om- purpose — 
 We must behold no object save our country— 
 And only look on death as beautiful, 
 So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven, 
 And draw down freedom on her evermore. 
 
 Cal. But if we fail 
 
 /. Ber. They never fail who die 
 
 In a great cause : the block may soak their gore ; 
 Their heads may sodden in the sun : their limbs 
 Be strung to city gates and castle walls — 
 But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years 
 Elapse, and others share as dark a doom, 
 
 They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts 
 Which overpower all others, and conduct 
 The world at last to treedom : What were we, 
 If Brutus had not lived ? He died in giving 
 Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson — 
 A name which is a Aartue, and a soul 
 Which multiplies itself throughout all time, 
 When wicked men wax mighty, and a state 
 Turns servile: he and his high friend were styled 
 " The last of Romans !" Let us be the first 
 Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires. 
 
 Cd. Our fathers did not fly from Attila 
 Into these isles, where palaces have sprung 
 On banlis redeem'd from the rude ocean's ooze, 
 To ou-n a thousand despots in his place. 
 Better bow down before the Hun, arid call 
 A Tartar lord, than these swoln silkworms masters! 
 The first at least was man, and used his sword 
 As sceptre : these unmanly creeping things 
 Command our swords, and rule us with a word 
 As with a spell. 
 
 /. Ber. It shall be broken soon. 
 
 You say that all thmgs are in readiness ; 
 To-day I have not been the usual round. 
 And why thou knowest ; but thy \igilance 
 Will better have supplied my care : these orders 
 In recent council to redouble now 
 Our efibrts to repair the galleys, have 
 Lent a fair colour to the introduction 
 Of many of our cause into the arsenal, 
 As new artificers for their equipment, 
 Or fresh recruits obtain'd in haste to man 
 The hoped-for fleet. — Are all supplied with arms ? 
 Cal. All vrho were deem'd trust-worthy : there are ! 
 Whom it were well to keep in ignorance 
 Till it be time to strike, and then supply tliem : 
 V/hen in the heat and hurry of the hour 
 They have no opportunity to pause, 
 But needs must on with those who will surround them. 
 I. Ber. You have said well. Have you remark'd all such? 
 Cal. I 've noted most ; and caused the other cliiefs 
 To use Uke caution in their companies. 
 As far as I have seen, we are enough 
 To make the enterprise secure, if 't is 
 Commenced to-morrow; but, till 't is begun, 
 Each hour is pregnant with a thousand perils. 
 
 /. Ber. Let the Six-teen meet at the wonted hour, 
 Except Soranzo. Nicoletto Blondo, 
 And Marco Giuda, who will keep their watch 
 Within the arsenal, and hold all ready. 
 Expectant of the sisnal we will fix on. 
 Cd. We will not fail. 
 
 /. Ber. Let all the rest be there ; 
 
 I have a stranger to present to them. 
 
 Cal. A stranger 1 doth he know the secret? 
 /. Ber. Yes. 
 
 Cal. And have you dared to peril your friends' lives 
 On a rash confidence in one we know not? 
 
 /. Ber. I have risk'd no man's life except my own — 
 Of that be certam : he is one who may 
 Make our assurance doubly sure, according 
 His aid; and if reluctant, he no less 
 Is in our power: he comes alone with me. 
 And cannot 'scape us ; but he will not swerve. 
 Cal. I caimot judge of tliis until I know him : 
 Is he one of our order ? 
 
 /. Ber. Ay, in spirit, 
 
 Although a child of greatness ; he is one 
 Who would become a throne, or overthrow one — 
 One who has done great deeds, and seen great changes; 
 No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny ; 
 Valiant in war, and sage in council ; noble 
 In nature, although haughty; quick, yet wary: 
 Yet for all this, so full of certain passions, 
 That if once stirr'd and baffled, as he has been 
 
Act. I [I. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OP VENICE. 
 
 24] 
 
 Upon the tenderest points, there is no Fury 
 In Grecian story like to that which wrings 
 His vitals with her burning hands, till he 
 Grows capable of all things for revenge ; 
 And add too, that his mind is hberal, 
 He sees and feels the people are oppress'd. 
 And shares their sufferings. Take him ail in all, 
 We have need of such, and such have need of us. 
 Cal. And what part would you have him take with us ? 
 /. Ber. It may be, that of chief. 
 Cal. What ! and resign 
 
 Your own command as leader ? 
 
 /. Ber. Even so. 
 
 My object is to make your cause end well, 
 And not to push myself to power. Experience, 
 Some skill, and your own choice, had mark'd me out 
 To act in trust as your commander, till 
 Some worthier should appear: if I have found such 
 As you yourselves shall own more worthy, think you 
 That I would hesitate from selfishness, 
 And, covetous of brief authority. 
 Stake our deep interest on my single thoughts, 
 Rather than yield to one above me in 
 All leading qualities ? No, Calendaro, 
 Know your friend better ; but you all shall judge. — 
 Away ! and let us .meet at the fix'd hour. 
 Be vigilant, and all will yet go well. 
 
 Cal. Worthy Bertuccio, I have knovi-n you ever 
 Trusty and brave, with head and heart to plan 
 What I have still been prompt to execute. 
 P'or my own part, I seek no other chief; 
 What the rest will decide I know not, but 
 I am with ¥01;, as I have ever been, 
 In all our undertakings. Now farewell. 
 Until the hour of midnight sees us meet, [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Scene^ the Space between the Canal ayid the 
 Church of San Giovanni e San Paolo. An equestrian 
 Staiue before it. — A Gondola lies in tJie Camd at some 
 distance. 
 
 Ente)- the Doge alone, disguised. 
 Doge, (solu^.) I am before the hour, the hour whose 
 voice, 
 Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 
 These palaces with ominous tottering, 
 And rock their marbles to the corner-stone, 
 Waldng the sleepers from some hideous dream 
 Of indistinct but awful augury 
 Of that which will befall them. Yes, proud city ! 
 Thou must be cleansed of the black blood which makes 
 
 thee 
 A lazar-house of tyranny : the task 
 Is forced upon me, I have sought it not ; 
 And therefore %vas I punish'd, seeing this 
 Patrician pestilence spread on and on. 
 Until at length it smote me in my slumbers, 
 And I am tainted, and must wash away 
 The plague-spots in the healing wave. Tall fane ! 
 Where sleep my fathers, whose dim statues shadow 
 The floor which doth divide us from the dead, 
 Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold blood, 
 Moulder'd into a mite of ashes, hold 
 In one shrunk heap, what once made many heroes, 
 When what is now a handful shook the earth — 
 Fane of the tutelar saints who guard our house ! 
 Vault where two Doges rest — my sires ! who died 
 The one of toil, the other in the field, 
 With a long race of other lineal chiefs 
 And sages, whose gi-eat labours, wounds, and state 
 I have inherited, — ^let the graves gape, 
 Till all tliine aisles be peopled with the dead, 
 And pour them from thv portals to gaze on rae ! 
 " 2F 
 
 I call them uj), and them and thee to witness 
 
 What it hath been which put me to this task — 
 
 Their pure high blood, their blazon roll of glories, 
 
 Their mighty name dishonour'd all in me. 
 
 Not by me, but by the ungrateful nobles 
 
 We fought to make our equals, not our lords: — 
 
 And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave, 
 
 VvHio perish'd in the field, where I since conquer'd, 
 
 Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs 
 
 Of thine and Venice' foes, there offar'd up 
 
 By thy descendant, merit such acquittance ? 
 
 Spirits I smile down upon me ; for my cause 
 
 Is yours, in all life now can be of yours, — 
 
 Your fame, your name, all mingled up in mine, 
 
 And in the future fortunes of our race I 
 
 Let me but prosper, and I make this city 
 
 Free and immortal, and our house's name 
 
 Worthier of what you were, now and hereafter ! 
 
 Enter Israel Bertuccio. 
 
 I. Ber. Who goes there ? 
 Docre. A friend to Venice. 
 
 I. Ber. 'T is he. 
 
 Welcome, my lord, — you are before tne time. 
 Doge. I am ready to proceed to your assembly. 
 /. Ber. Have with you. — I am proud and pleased to see 
 Such confident alacrity. Your doubts 
 Smce our last meeting, then, are all dispell'd ? 
 
 Doge. Not so — but I have set my httle left 
 Of life upon this cast : the die was thrown 
 When I first listen'd to your treason — Start not I 
 That is the word : I cannot shape my tongue 
 To syllable black deeds into smooth names, 
 Though I be wrought on to comm.it them. When 
 I heard you tempt your sovereign, and forlK;re 
 To have you dragg'd to prison, I becan>e 
 Your guiltiest accomplice : now you may 
 If it so please you, do as much by me. 
 
 /. Ber. Strange words, my lord, and most unmerited ! 
 I am no spy, and neither are we traitors. 
 
 Doge. We — We I — no matter— you have earn'd the 
 right 
 To talk of MS.— But to the point.— If this 
 Attempt succeeds, and Venice, render'd free 
 And flourishing, when we are in our graves, 
 Conducts her generations to our tombs, 
 And makes her children with their httle hands 
 Strew flowers o'er her dehverers' ashes, then 
 The consequence will sanctify the deed^ 
 And we shall be like the two Bruti in 
 The annals of hereafter; but if not^ 
 If we should fail, employing bloody means 
 And secret plot, although to a good end^ 
 Still we are traitors, honest Israel ; — thou 
 No less than he who was thy sovereign 
 Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 
 
 /. Ber. 'T is not the moment to consider thus, 
 Else I could answer. — Let us to the meeting, 
 Or we may be observed in hngering here. 
 
 Doge. We are observed, and have been. 
 
 J. Ber. We observed 
 
 Let me discover — and this steel ' 
 
 Doge. Put up ,' 
 
 Here are no human witnesses : look there — ■ 
 What see you } 
 
 I. Ber. Only a tall warrior's statue 
 
 Bestridmg a proud steed, in the dim hght 
 Of the dull moon. 
 
 Doge. That warrior was the sire 
 
 Of my sire's fathers, and that statue was 
 Decreed to him by the twice rescued city :— 
 Think you that he looks down on us or no ? 
 
 /. Ber. My lord, these are mere phantasies ; there are 
 No eyes in marble. 
 
 Doge, But there are u> Death. 
 
242 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 1 tell thee, man, there is a spirit in 
 Such things that acts and sees, imseen, though felt ; 
 And, if there be a spell to stir the dead, 
 'T is in such deeds as we are now upon. 
 Deern'st thou the souls of such a race as mine 
 Can rest, when he, their last descendant chief. 
 Stands plotting on the brinlc of their pure graves 
 With stung plebeians ? 
 
 /. Ber. It had been as well 
 
 To have ponder'd this before, — ere you embark'd 
 In our great enterprise. — Do you repent ? 
 
 Doge. No — but I/eei, and shall do to the last. 
 I cannot quench a glorious life at once. 
 Nor dwmdle to the thing I now must be, 
 And take men's lives by stealth, without some pause : 
 Yet doubt me not ; it is this very feeling, 
 And Imowing what has wrung me to be thus, 
 Which is your best security. There 's not 
 A roused mechanic in your busy plot 
 So wrong'd as I, so fall'n, so loudly call'd 
 To his redress : the very means I am forced 
 By these fell tyrants to adopt is such. 
 That I abhor them doubly for the deeds 
 Which I must do to pay them back for theirs. 
 
 /. Ber. Let us away — hark — the hour strikes. 
 
 Doge. On — on — 
 
 It is our knell, or that of Venice — On. 
 
 /. Ber. Say rather, 't is her freedom's rising peal 
 Of triumph— — This way — we are near the place. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — The Hoicse where the Conspirators meet. 
 
 Dagolino, Doko, Bertkam, Fedele Trevisano, 
 Calendaro, Antonio delle Bende, &c. &c. 
 
 Cal, (entering.) Are all here ? 
 
 Dag. All with you ; except the three 
 
 On duty, and our leader Israel, 
 Who is expected momently. 
 
 Cal. Where's Bertram? 
 
 Ber. Here I 
 
 Cal. Have you not been able to complete 
 
 The number wanting in your company ? 
 
 Ber. I had mark'd out some : but I have not dared 
 To trust them wth the secret, till assured 
 That they were worthy faith. 
 
 Cal. There is no need 
 
 Of trusting to their faitli : who, save ourselves 
 And our m.ore chosen comrades, is aware 
 Fully of our intent ? they think themselves ' 
 Engaged in secret to the Signory, 
 To punish some more dissolute young nobles 
 Who have defied the law in tlieir excesses ; 
 But once drawn up, and their new swords well-flesh'd 
 In the rank hearts of the more odious senators. 
 They will not hesitate to follow up 
 Their blow upon the others, when they see 
 The example of their chiefs, and I for one 
 Will set them such, that they for very shame 
 And safety will not pause till all have perish'd. 
 
 Ber. How say you ? all ! 
 
 Cal. Whom wouldst thou spare ? 
 
 Ber. I spare ? 
 
 I have no power to spare. I only question'd, 
 Thinking that even among these wicked men 
 There might be some, whose age and quahties 
 Might mark them out for pity. 
 
 Cal. Yes, such pity 
 
 As when the viper hath been cut to pieces, 
 The separate fragments quivering in the sun 
 In the last energy of venomous life. 
 Deserve and have. Why, I should think as soon 
 Of pitying some particular fang which made 
 One in the jaw of the swoln serpent, as 
 Of saving one of these : they form but links 
 
 Of one long chain : one mass, one breath, one body ; 
 They eat, and drink, and hvc, and breed together, 
 Revel, and lie, oppress, and kill in concert, 
 So let them die as one ! 
 
 Dag. Should one survive. 
 
 He would be dangerous as the whole ; it is not 
 Their number, be it tens or thousands, but 
 The spirit of this aristocracy 
 Which must be rooted out ; and if there were 
 A single shoot of the old tree in life, 
 'T would fasten in the soil, and spring again 
 To gloomy verdure and to bitter fruit. 
 Bertram, we must be firm ! 
 
 Cal. Look to it well, 
 
 Bertram ; I have an eye upon thee. 
 
 Ber. Who 
 
 Distrusts me ? 
 
 Cal. Not I ; for if I did so. 
 
 Thou wouldst not now be tliere to talk of tnast : 
 It is thy softness, not thy want of faith. 
 Which makes thee to be doubted. 
 
 Ber. You should know 
 
 Who hear me, who and what I am ; a man 
 Roused like yourselves to overthrow oppression ; 
 A kind man, I am apt to think, as some 
 Of you have found me ; and if brave or no, 
 You, Calendaro, can pronounce, who have seen me 
 Put to the proof; or, if you should have doubts, 
 I '11 clear them on your person ! 
 
 Cal. You are welcome, 
 
 When once our enterprise is o'er, which must not 
 Be interrupted by a private brawl. 
 
 Ber. I am no brawler ; but can bear myself 
 As far among the foe as any he 
 Who hears me ; else why have I been selected 
 To be of your chief comrades ? but no less 
 I own my natural weakness ; I have not 
 Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate murder 
 Without some sense of shuddering; and the sight 
 Of blood which spouts tlirough hoary scalps is not 
 To me a thing of triumph, nor the death 
 Of men surprised a glory. Well — too well 
 I know that we must do such things on those 
 Whose acts have raised up such avengers ; but 
 If there were some of these who could be saved 
 From out this sweeping fate, for our own sakes 
 And for our honour, to take off some stain 
 Of massacre, which else pollutes it wholly 
 I had been glad ; and see no cause in this 
 For sneer, nor for suspicion! 
 
 Dag. Calm thee, Bertram ; 
 
 For we suspect thee not, and take good heart. 
 It is the cause, and not our will, which asks 
 Such actions from our hands : we '11 wash away 
 All stains in freedom's fountain ! 
 
 Enter Israel Bertuccio ami the Doge, disguised. 
 
 Dag. Welcome, Israel. 
 
 Consp. Most welcome. — Brave Bertuccio, thou art 
 late — 
 Who is this stranger ? 
 
 Cal. It is time to name him. 
 
 Our corhrades are even now prepared to greet him 
 In brotherhood, as I have made it known 
 That thou wouldst add a brother to our cause, 
 Approved by thee, and thus approved by all, 
 Such is our trust in all thine actions. Now 
 Let him unfold himself 
 
 /. Ber. Stranger, step forth ! 
 
 \The Doge discovers himself. 
 
 Consp. To arms ! — we are betray'd — it is the Doge ! 
 Dovm with them both ! our traitorous captain, and 
 The tyrant he hath sold us to. 
 
 Cal, (drawing his sword.) Hold! Hold! 
 
 Who moves a step against them dies. Hold ! hear 
 
 i 
 
Act III. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 243 
 
 Bertuccio — What! &re you appall'd to see 
 
 A lone, unguarded, weaponless old man 
 
 Among you 1 — Israel, speak ! what means this mystery ? 
 
 /. Ber, Let them advance and strike at their own 
 bosoms, 
 Ungrateful suicides ! for on our lives 
 Depend their own, their fortunes, and their hopes. 
 
 Doge. Strike ! — If I dreaded death, a death more fearful 
 Than any your rash weapons can inflict, 
 I should not now be here: — Oh, noble Courage ! 
 The eldest born of Fear, which makes you brave 
 Against this solitary hoary head ! 
 See the bold chiefs, who would refoi-m a state 
 And shake down senates, mad with wrath and dread 
 At sight of one patrician ! — Butcher me, 
 You can ; I care not. — Israel, are these men 
 The mighty hearts you spoke of? look upon them ! 
 
 Cal. Faith ! he hath shamed us, and deservedly. 
 Was this your trust in your true Chief Bertuccio, 
 To turn your swords against him and his guest ? 
 Sheathe them, and hear him. 
 
 /. Ber. I disdain to speak. 
 
 They might and must have known a heart like mine 
 Incapable of treachery ; and the power 
 They gave me to adopt all fitting means 
 To farther their design was ne'er abused. 
 They might be certain that whoe'er was brought 
 By me into this council had been led 
 To take his choice — as brother, or as victim. 
 
 Doge. And which am I to be? your actions leave 
 Some cause to doubt the freedom of the choice. 
 
 /. Ber. My lord, we vvould have perish'd here together. 
 Had these rash men proceeded ; but, behold. 
 They are ashamed of that mad moment's impulse, 
 And droop their heads ; believe me, they are such 
 As I described them — Speak to them. 
 
 Cal. Ay, speak ; 
 
 We are all Ustening in wonder. 
 
 /. Ber. (addressing the Conspirators.) You are safe. 
 Nay, more, almost triumphant — listen then, 
 And know my words for truth. 
 
 Doge. You see me here, 
 
 As one of you hath said, an old, unarm'd. 
 Defenceless man ; and yesterday you saw me 
 Presiding in the hall of ducal state. 
 Apparent sovereign of our hundred isles, 
 Robed in official purple, dealing out 
 The edicts of a power which is not mine, 
 Nor yours, but of our masters — the patricians 
 Why I was there you know or think you know ; 
 Why 1 am here, he who haih been most wronged, 
 He who among you hath been most insulted, 
 Outraged and trodden on, until he doubt 
 If he be worm or no, may answer for me, 
 Asking of his own heart what brought him here ? 
 You know my recent story, all men know it, 
 And judge of it far differently from those 
 Who sate in judgement to heap scorn on scorn. 
 But spare me the recital — it is here, 
 Here at my heart the outrage — but my words. 
 Already spent in unavailing plaints. 
 Would only show my feebleness the more. 
 And I come here to strengthen even the strong, 
 And urge them on to deeds, and not to war 
 With woman's weapons ; but I need not urge you. 
 Our private wrongs have sprung from pubUc vices 
 In this — I cannot call it commonwealth 
 Nor kingdom, which hath neither prince nor people, 
 But all the sins of the old Spartan state 
 Without its virtues — temperance and valour. 
 The lords of Lacedemon were true soldiers. 
 But ours are Sybarites, while we are Helots, 
 Of whom I am the lowest, most enslaved ; 
 Although drest out to head a pageant, as 
 The Gcreeks of yore made drunk their slaves to form 
 
 A pastime for their children. You are met 
 
 To overthrow this monster of a state, 
 
 This mockery of a government, this spectre. 
 
 Which must be exorcised with blood, and then 
 
 We will renew the times of truth and justice, 
 
 Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 
 
 Not rash equality but equal rights, 
 
 Proportion'd like the columns to the temple, 
 
 Giving and taking strength reciprocal. 
 
 And making firm the whole with grace and beauty, 
 
 So that no part could be removed without 
 
 Infringement of the general symmetry. 
 
 In operating this great change, I claim 
 
 To be one of you — if you trust in me ; 
 
 If not, strike home, — my life is compromised, 
 
 And I would rather fall by freemen's hands 
 
 Than live another day to act the tyrant 
 
 As delegate of tyrants ; such I am not, 
 
 And never have been— read it in our annals ; 
 
 I can appeal to my past government 
 
 In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 
 
 If I were an oppressor, or a man 
 
 Feeling and thinking for my fellow men. 
 
 Haply had I been what the senate sought, 
 
 A thing of robes and trinkets, dizen'd out 
 
 To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture ; 
 
 A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 
 
 A stickler for the Senate and " the Forty," 
 
 A skeptic of all measures which had not 
 
 The sanction of" The Ten," a council-fawner, 
 
 A tool, a fool, a puppet,— they had ne'er 
 
 Foster'd the wretch who stung me. What I suffer 
 
 Has reach'd me through my pity for the people ; 
 
 That many know, and they who know not yet 
 
 Will one day learn : meantime I do devote, 
 
 Whate'er the issue, my last days of life — 
 
 My present power such as ii is, not that 
 
 Of Doge, but of a man who has been great 
 
 Before he was degraded to a Doge, 
 
 And still has individual means and mind ; 
 
 I stake my fame (and I had fame)— my breath— 
 
 (The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) 
 
 My heart — my hope — my soul — upon this cast! 
 
 Such as I am, I offer me to you 
 
 And to your chiefs, accept me or reject me, 
 
 A Prince who fain would be a citizen 
 
 Or nothing, and who has lefl his throne to be sa, 
 
 Cal. Long live Faliero ! — Venice shall be free '. 
 
 Consp. Long live Faliero ! 
 
 /. Ser. Comrades ! did I well ? 
 
 Is not this man a host in such a cause ? 
 
 Doge. This is no time for eulogies, nor place 
 For exultation. Am I one of you ? 
 
 Cal. Ay, and the first among us, as thou hast been 
 Of Venice — be our general and chief. 
 
 Doge. Chief!— general!— 1 was general at Zara, 
 And chief in Rhodes and Cyprus, prince in Venice: 
 
 I cannot stoop that is, I am not fit 
 
 To lead a band of patriots : when I lay 
 
 Aside the dignities which I have borne, 
 'T is not to put on others, but to be 
 Mate to my fellows — ^but now to the point : 
 Israel has stated to me your whole plan — 
 'T is bold, but feasible if I assist it, 
 And must be set in motion instantly. 
 
 Cal. E'en when thou wilt— is it not so, my friends? 
 I have disposed all for a sudden blow ; 
 When shall it be then ? 
 
 Doge. At sunrise. 
 
 JSer. So soon? 
 
 Doge. So soon ? — so late — each hour accumulate 
 Peril on peril, and the more so now 
 Since I have mingled with you ; know you not 
 The Council, and « the Ten?" the spies, the eyes 
 Of the patricians dubious of their slaves, 
 
1 
 
 244 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 And now more dubious of the prince they had made one'; 
 
 I teU you you must strike, and suddenly, 
 
 Full to the Hydra's heart — its heads will follow. 
 Cul. With all my soul and sword I yield assent ; 
 
 Our companies are ready, sixty each, 
 
 And all now under arms by Israel's order ; 
 
 Each at their dirTerent place of rendezvous, 
 
 And vigilant, expectant of some blow ; 
 
 Let each repair for action to his post ! 
 
 And now, my lord, the signal ? 
 
 Doge. When you hear 
 
 The great bell of Saint Mark's, which may not be 
 
 Struck without special order of the Doge, 
 
 (The last poor privilege they leave their prince,) 
 
 March on Saint Mark's ! 
 
 /. Ber. And there ?— 
 
 Doge. By different routes 
 
 Let your march be directed, every sixty 
 
 Entering a separate avenue, and still 
 
 Upon the way let your cry be of war 
 And of the Genoese fleet, by the first dawn 
 Discern d before the port ; form round tlie palace, 
 Within whose court will be drawn out in arras 
 My nephew and the clients of our house, 
 Many and martial ; v^rhile the bell tolls on, 
 Shout ye, " Saint Mark !■ — the foe is on our waters !" 
 Cal. I see it nov/ — but on, my noble lord. 
 Doge. All the patricians flocking to the Council, 
 (Which they dare not refuse, at the dread signal 
 Pealing from out their patron saint's proud tower) 
 Will then be gatherd in unto the harvest, 
 And v/e \vill reap them witli the sv/ord for sickle. 
 If some few should be tardy or absent them, 
 'T will be but to be taken faint and single, 
 When the majority are put to rest. 
 
 Cal. Would that the hour were come ! we will not scotch, 
 But kill. 
 
 Ber. Once more, sir, with your pardon, I 
 Would now repeat the question v^-iiich I ask'd 
 Before Bertuccio added to our cause 
 This great ally who renders it more sure. 
 And therefore safer, and as such admits 
 Some dawn of mercy to a portion of 
 Our victims — must all perish in this slaughter 7 
 
 Cal. All who encounter me and mine, be sure, 
 The mercy they have shown, I show. 
 
 Consp. All! all! 
 
 Is this a time to talk of pity ? when 
 Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign'd it ? 
 
 /. Bsr. Bertram, 
 
 This false compassion is a folly, and 
 Injustice to thy coniradeg and thy cause ! 
 Dost thou not see, that if we single out 
 Some for escape, they live but to avenge 
 The fallen? and how distinguish now the innocent 
 From out the guilty ? all their acts are one — 
 A single emanation from one body, 
 Together knit for our oppression ! 'T is 
 Much that we let their children live ; I doubt 
 If all of these even should be set apart' 
 The hunter may reserve some single cub 
 From out the tiger's litter, but whoe'er 
 Would seek to save the spotted sire or dam. 
 Unless to perish by their fangs ? however, 
 I will abide by Doge Faliero's counsel : 
 Let him decide if any should be saved. 
 
 Doge. Ask mo not — tempt me not with such a ques- 
 tion-^ 
 Decide yo'.u-selves. 
 
 /. Ber. You Imov/ their private virtues 
 
 Far better than we can, to. whom alone 
 Their public vices, and most foul oppression, 
 Have made them deadly ; if there be among them 
 One who deserves to be repeal'd, pronounce. 
 
 Doge. Dolfino's father was ray friend, and Lando 
 
 Fought by my side, and Marc Cornaro shared 
 My Genoese embassy : I saved tlie life 
 Of Yeniero — shall I save it twice ? 
 Would that I could save them and Venice also ! 
 All these men, or their fathers, were my friends 
 Till they became my subjects; then fell from me 
 As faithless leaves drop from the o'erblown flower, 
 And lefi me a lone blighted thorny stalk, 
 Which, in its solitude, can shelter nothing ; 
 So, as they let me wither, let them perish ! 
 
 Cal. They cannot coexist witli Venice' freedom I 
 
 Doge. Ye, though you know and feel our mutual mass 
 Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant 
 What fatal poison to the springs of life. 
 To human ties, and all that 's good and dear, 
 Lurks m the present institutes of Venice : 
 All these men were my friends ; I loved them, they 
 Requited honourably my regards ; 
 
 We served and fought : we smiled and wept in concert ; 
 We revell'd or we sorrow'd side by side ; 
 We made alliances of blood and marriage ; 
 We grew in years and honours fairly, till 
 Their own desire, not my ambition, made 
 Them dioose me for their prince, and then farewell I 
 Farewell all social memory ! all thoughts 
 In com.mon ! and sweet bonds which link old friendships, 
 When the survivors of long years and actions, 
 Which now belong to liistory, sooth the days 
 Which yet remain by treasuring each other. 
 And never meet, but each beholds the mirror 
 Of half a century on his brother's brow, 
 And sees a hundred beings, now in earth, 
 Flit round them whispering of the days gone by, 
 And seeming not all dead, as long as two 
 Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band, 
 Which once were one and many, still retain 
 A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to speak 
 
 Of deeds that else were silent, save on marble 
 
 Oime ! Oime ! — and must I do this deed ? 
 
 /. Ber. I\Iy lord, you are much moved : it is not now 
 That such things must be dwelt upon. 
 
 Doge. - Your patience " 
 
 A moment — I recede not : mark with me 
 The gloomy vices of this government. 
 From the hour that made -me Doge, the Doge they 
 
 made me — 
 Farew-ell the past I I died to all that had been. 
 Or rather tliey to me : no friends, no kindness. 
 No pnvacy of life — all were cut off: 
 They came not near me, such approach gave umbrage ; 
 They could not love me, such was not the law ; 
 They thwarted me, 't was the state's policy ; 
 They baffled me, 't was a patrician's duty; 
 They wrong'd me, for such was to right the state ; 
 They could not right me, that would give suspicion ; . 
 So that I w^as a slave to my own subjects ; 
 So that I was. a foe to my own friends ; 
 Begirt with spies for gxiards — \\ith robes for power — 
 With pomp for freedom — gaolers for a council — 
 Inquisitors for friends — and hell for life ! . 
 I had one only fount of quiet left, 
 And that they poison'd ! My pure household gods 
 Were shiver'd on my hearth, and o'er dieir shrine 
 Sate grinning Ribaldry and sneering Scorn. 
 
 I. Bei-. You have been deeply wrong'd, and now shall be 
 Nobly avenged before another niaht. 
 
 Doge. I had borne all — it hurt me, but I bore it — 
 Till this last running over of the cup 
 Of bitterness — until this last loud hisult, 
 Not only unredress'd, but sanction'd ; then. 
 And thus, I cast all further feelings from me — 
 The feelings which they crush a for me, long, long 
 Before, even in their oath of false allegiance ! 
 Even in that very hour and vow, they abjured 
 Their friend and made a sovereign, as boys make 
 
Act 111. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 245 
 
 Playthings, to do their pleasure and be broken! 
 I from that hour liave seen but senators . 
 In darli suspicious conflict with the Doge, 
 Brooding with him in mutual hate and fear 
 They dreading he should snatch the tyranny 
 Prom out their gi'asp, and he abhorring tyrants. 
 To me, then, these men have v^o private life. 
 Nor claim to ties they have cut off from others; 
 As senators for arbitrary acts 
 Amenable, I look on them — a? such 
 Let them be dealt upon. 
 
 Cal. And now to action ! 
 
 Hence, brethren, to our posts, and may this be 
 The last night of more words : I 'd fain be doing ! 
 Saint Mark's great bell at dawn shall find me wakeful ! 
 /. Ber, Disperse then to your posts: be firm and 
 vigilant ; 
 Think on the wrongs we bear, the rights we claim. 
 This day and night shall be the last of peril ! 
 Watch for the signal, and then march. I go 
 To join my band ; let each be prompt to marshal 
 His separate charge : the Doge will now return 
 To the palace to prei)are all for the blow. 
 We part to meet in freedom and in glory ! 
 
 Cal. Doge, when I greet you next, my homage to you 
 Shall be the head of Steno on this sword ! 
 
 Doge. No ; let him be reserved unto the last, 
 Nor turn aside to strike at such a prey, 
 Till nobler game is quarried : his offence 
 Was a mere ebullition of the vice, 
 The general corruption generated 
 By the foul aristocracy ; he could not — 
 He dared not in more honourable days 
 Have risk'd it ! I have merged all pjivate wrath 
 Against him in the thought of our great purpose. 
 A slave insults me — I require his ptmishment 
 Prom his proud master's hands; if he refuse it, 
 The offence grows his, and let him answer it. 
 
 Cal. Yet, as the immediate carise of the alliance 
 Which consecrates our undertaking more, 
 [ owe him such deep gratitude, that fain 
 [ would repay him as he merits ; may I ? 
 
 Doge. You would bui lop the hand, and I the head ; 
 Yon would but smite the scholar, I the master ; 
 V"ou would but punish Steno, I the senate. 
 [ cannot pause on indivi-lual hate, 
 fn the absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge. 
 Which, like the sheeted fire from heaven, must blast 
 Without distinction, as it fell of yore. 
 Where the Dead Sea hath quench'.d two cities' ashes. 
 
 /. Ber. Away, then, to your posts! 1 but remain 
 A moment to accompany the Doge 
 To our late place of tryst, to see no spies 
 Have been upon the scout, and thence I hasten 
 To where ray allotted band is under arms. 
 Cal. Farewell, then, until da^^n ! 
 /. Ber. Success go with you ! 
 
 Consp. We will not fail — away ! My lord, farewell ! 
 [The conspiratars salute the Doge and Israel 
 Bertuccio, and refire^hcaded by Philip 
 Calendaro. The Doge and Israel 
 Bertuccio remain. 
 I. Ber. We have them in the toil— it cannot fail ' 
 iS'ow thou 'rt i.ndeed a sovereign, and wilt make 
 A. name immortal greater than the greatest ; 
 Free citizens have struck at kings ere now ; 
 Caesars have fallen, and even patrician hands 
 Have crush'd dictators, as the popular steel 
 Flas reach'd patricians ; but until this hour. 
 What prince has plotted for his people's freedom ? 
 Or risk'd a life to liberate his subjects? 
 For ever, and for ever, they conspire 
 Against the people, to abuse their hands 
 To chains, but laid aside to carry weapons 
 'Against the fellow nations, so that yoke 
 
 On yoke, and slavery and death may whet. 
 Not glut, the never-gorged Leviatlian ! 
 Now, my lord, to our enterprise ; 't is great, 
 And greater the reward ; why stand you rapt ? 
 A moment back, and you were all impatience ! 
 Doge. And is it then decided ! must they die ? 
 /. Ber. Who? 
 
 Doge. My own friends by blood and courtesy. 
 
 And many deeds and days — the senators ? 
 /. Ber, You pass'd their sentence, and it is a just one. 
 Doge. Ay, so it seems, and so it is to you 
 You are a patriot, plebeian Gracchus — 
 The rebel's oracle, the people's tribune — ■ 
 I blame you not, you act in your vocation : 
 They smote you, and oppress'd you, and despised you ; 
 So they have me: but vow ne'er spake with them; 
 You never broke their bread, nor shared their salt ; 
 You never had their wine-cup at your lips ; 
 You grew not up with them, nor laugh'd, nor wept, 
 Nor held a revel in their company ; 
 Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd their smile 
 In social interchange for yours, nor trusted 
 Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I have : 
 These hairs of mine are gray, and so are theirs. 
 The elders of the council : I remember 
 When all our locks were like the raven's wing. 
 As we went forth to take our prey around 
 The isles wrung from the false Mahometan : 
 And can I see them dabbled o'er with blood ? 
 Each stab to them will seem my suicide. 
 
 /. Ber. Doge ! Doge ! this vacillation is unworthy 
 A child ; if you are not in second childhood, 
 Call back your nerves to your own purpose, nor 
 Thus shame yourself and me. By heavens ! I 'd rather 
 Forego even no'>v, or fail in our intent. 
 Than see the man I venerate subside 
 E'rom high resolves info such shallow weakness ! 
 You have seen blood in batde, shed it, both 
 Your own and that of others ; can you shrink then 
 From a few drops from veins of hoary vampires, 
 Who but give back what they have drain'd from millions? 
 Doge. Bear with me ! Step by step, and blow on blow, 
 I will divide with you ; think not I waver: 
 Ah ! no ; it is the certainty of all 
 Which I must do doth make me tremble thus. 
 But let these last and lingering thoughts have way, 
 To which you only and" the Night are conscious. 
 And both regardless ; when the hour arrives, 
 'T is m.ine to sound iheknell, and strike the blow, 
 Which shall unpeople many palaces. 
 And hew the highest genealogic trees 
 Down to the earth, strew'd with their bleeding fruit, 
 And crush their blossom.s into barrenness : 
 This will I — must I — have I sworn to do. 
 Nor aught can turn me from my destiny ; 
 But still I quiver to behold v/hat I 
 Must be, and think what I have been ! Bear with me, 
 
 /. Ber. Re-man your breast ; I feel no such remorse, 
 I understand it not : why should you change ? 
 You acted, and you act on your free will. 
 
 Doge. Ay, there it is — you feel not, nor do I, 
 Else I should stab thee on the spot, to save 
 A thousand lives, and, killing, do no murder ; 
 You feel not — you go to this butcher- work 
 As if these high-born men were steers for shambles ! 
 When all is over, you '11 be ivee and merry. 
 And calmly wash those hands incarnadine ; 
 But I, outgoing thee and all thy fellows 
 In this surpassing massacre, shall be. 
 Shall see and feel— oh God ! oh God ! 't is true, 
 And thou dost well to answer that it was 
 " My own free will and act," and yet you err, 
 For 1 will do this ! Doubt not — fear not ; I 
 Will be your most unmerciful accomplice ! 
 And yet I act no more on my free will, 
 
246 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 Nor my own feelings — both compel me back : 
 
 But there is hell within me and around, 
 
 And like the demon who believes and trembles 
 
 Must I abh.or and do. Away ! away ! 
 
 Get thee imto thy fellows, I will hie me 
 
 To gather the retainers of our house. 
 
 Doubt not, Saint Mark's great bell shall wake all Venice, 
 
 Except her slaughter'd senate : ere the sun 
 
 Be broad upon the Adriatic there 
 
 Shall be a voice of weeping, which shall drown 
 
 The roar of waters in the cry of blood ! 
 
 I am resolved — come on. 
 
 /. Ber. With all my soul ! 
 
 Keep a firm rein upon these bursts of passion ; 
 Remember what these men have dealt to thee, 
 And that this sacrifice v.'ill be succeeded 
 By ages of prosperity and freedom 
 To this unshackled city : a true tpant 
 Would have depopulated empires, nor 
 Have felt the strange compunction which hath wrung you 
 To punish a few traitors to the people ! 
 Trust me, such were a pity more misplaced 
 Than the late mercy of the state to Steno. 
 
 Doge. Man, thou hast struck upon the chord wliich jars 
 All nature from my heart. Hence to our task ! 
 
 \Exeimt 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 ScENX I. — Palazzo of the Patrician Lioxr. Lioni 
 laying aside tJie mask and cloak which the Venetian 
 Nobles wore in public, attended by a Domestic. 
 
 Lioni. I will to rest, right weary of this revel 
 The gayest we have held for many moons. 
 And yet, I know not why, it cheei-'d me not ; 
 There came a heaviness across my heart, 
 "\\Tiich, in the Ughtest movement of the dance, 
 Though eye to eye, and hand in hand united 
 Even with the lady of my love, oppressed me. 
 And through my spirit chill'd my blood, until 
 A damp like death rose o'er my brow : I sti-ove 
 To laugh the thought away, but 't would not be ; 
 Through all the music rbging in my ears 
 A knell was sounding as distinct and clear, 
 Though low and far, as e'er the Adrian wave 
 Rose o'er the city's murmur in the night, 
 Lashing against the outward Lido's bulwark ; 
 So that I left the festival before 
 It reach'd its zenith, and will woo my pillow 
 For tlioughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness. 
 Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and Ught 
 The lamp within my chamber. 
 
 ^nt. " Yes. my lord : 
 
 Command you no refreshment ? 
 
 iMiii. Naught, save sleep, 
 
 Which will not be commanded. Let me hope it, 
 
 [Exit Antonio. 
 Though my breast feels too anxious ; I will try 
 Whether the air will calm my spirits : 't is 
 A goodly night : the cloudy wind which blew 
 From the Levant hath crept into its cave. 
 And the broad moon has brighten'd. AVhat a stillness ! 
 [ Goes to an open lattice 
 And what a contrast with the scene I left. 
 Where the tall torches' glare, and silver lamps' 
 More pallid gleam along the tapestried walls, 
 Spread over the reluctant gloom which haunts 
 Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
 A dazzling mass of artificial light, 
 Which show'd all thuig-, but nothing as they were. 
 There Age essaying to recall the plist. 
 After long striving for the hues of youth 
 At the sad labour of the toilet, and 
 Full many a glance at the too faithful mirror, 
 
 Prankt forth in all the pride of ornament, 
 
 Forgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood 
 
 Of the indulgent beams, which show, yet hide, 
 
 Believed itself forgotten, and was fiord. 
 
 There Youth, which needed not, nor thought of such 
 
 Vain adjuncts, lavish'd its true bloom, and health, 
 
 And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome press 
 
 Of flush'd and crowded wassailers, and wasted 
 
 Its hours of rest in dreaming this was pleasure, 
 
 And so shall waste them till the simrise streams 
 
 On sallow cheeks and sunken eyes, which should not 
 
 Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. 
 
 The music, and the banquet, and the wine — 
 
 The garlands, the rose odours, and the flowers— 
 
 The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments — 
 
 The white arms and the raven hair — the braids 
 
 And bracelets; swaniike bosoms, and the necklace. 
 
 An India in itself, yet dazzling not 
 
 The eye like what it circled : the thin robes, 
 
 Floating like light clouds 'tvkt our gaze and heaven; 
 
 The many-twinkling feet so small and sylphlike, 
 
 Suggesting the more secret symmetry 
 
 Of the fair forms which terminate so well — 
 
 All the delusion of the dizzy scene. 
 
 Its false and true enchantments — art and nature, 
 
 Which s%vam before my giddy eyes that drank 
 
 The sight of beauty as the parch'd pilgrim's 
 
 On Arab sands the false mirage, which ofll>rs 
 
 A lucid lake to his eluded thirst, 
 
 Are sone. — Around me are the stars and waters — 
 
 Worlds mirror'd in the ocean, goodher sight 
 
 Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass ; 
 
 And the great element, which is to space 
 
 What ocean is to earth, spreads its blue depths, 
 
 Soften'd with the first breathings of the spring ; 
 
 The high moon sails upon her beauteous way. 
 
 Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls 
 
 Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces, 
 
 "VSTiose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts, 
 
 Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles, 
 
 Like altars ranged along the broad canal. 
 
 Seem each a trophy cf some mighty deed 
 
 Rcar'd up from out the waters, scarce less strangely 
 
 Than those more massy and mysterious giants 
 
 Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics. 
 
 Which point in Egypt's plains to times that have 
 
 No other record. All is gentle : naught 
 
 Stirs rudely; but, congenial with the night, 
 
 Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit. 
 
 The tinkUngs of some vigilant guitars 
 
 Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress. 
 
 And cautious opening of the casement, showing 
 
 That he is not unheard ; wliile her young hand, 
 
 Fair as the moonlight of which it seems part, 
 
 So delicately wliite it trembles in 
 
 The act of opening the forbidden lattice. 
 
 To let in love through music, msikes his heart 
 
 Thrill like his hTe-strings at the sight ; the dash 
 
 Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle 
 
 Of the far lights of skimming gondolas. 
 
 And the responsive voices of the choir 
 
 Of boatmen answering back with verse for verse ; 
 
 Some dusky shadow chequering the Rialto ; 
 
 Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering spire. 
 
 Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade 
 
 The ocean-born and earth-commanding city — 
 
 How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm I 
 
 I thank thee, Night! for thou hast chased away 
 
 Those horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, 
 
 I could not dissipate: and vriih the blessing 
 
 Of thy benign and quiet influence, — 
 
 Now will I to my couch, although to rest 
 
 Is almost %vronging such a night as this 
 
 [A knocking is lieardfrom without 
 Hark ! what is that ? or who at such a moment ? 
 
Act IV. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 247 
 
 Enter Awtonio. 
 Ant. My lord, a man without, on urgent business, 
 Implores to be admitted. 
 
 Lioni. Is he a stranger ? 
 
 Ant. His face is muffled in his cloak, but both 
 His voice and gestures seem familiar to me ; 
 I craved his name, but this he seem'd reluctant 
 To trust, save to yourself; most earnestly 
 He sues to be permitted to approach you. 
 
 Lioni. 'T is a strange hour, and a suspicious bearing ! 
 And yet there is slight peril : 't is not in 
 Their houses noble men are struck at ; still, 
 Although I know not that I have a foe 
 In Venice, 't will be wise to use some caution. 
 Admit him, and retire ; but call up quickly 
 Some of thy fellows, who may v.-ait without. — 
 Who can this man be ? — 
 
 [Exit Antoxio, and returns icith Bertram muffled. 
 Ber. My good lord Lioni, 
 
 I have no time to lose, nor thou — dismiss 
 This menial hence ; I would be private with you. 
 Lioni. It seems the voice of Bertram — Go, Antonio. 
 [Exit Antoxio. 
 Now, stranger, what would you at such an hour ? 
 Ser. (discovering hinuelf.) A boon, ray noble patron : 
 you have granted 
 Many to your poor client, Bertram ; add 
 This one, and make him happy. 
 
 Liani. Thou hast known me 
 
 From boyhood, ever ready to assist thee 
 In all fair objects of advancement, which 
 Beseem one of thy station ; T would promise 
 Ere thy request was heard, but that the hour. 
 Thy bearing, and this strange and hurried mode 
 Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
 Hath some mysterious import — but say on — 
 What has occurred, some rash and sudden broil ? — 
 A cup too much, a scuffle, and a stab? — 
 Mere things of every day ; so that thou hast not 
 Spilt noble blood, I guarantee thy safety; 
 But then thou must withdraw, for angry friends 
 And relatives, in the first burst of vengeance. 
 Are things in Venice deadlier than the laws. 
 
 Ber. My lord, I thank you ; but 
 
 Lioni. But what ? You have not 
 
 Raised a rash hand against one of our order ? 
 If so, withdraw and fly, and own it not ; 
 I would not slay — but then I must not save thee ! 
 
 He who has shed patrician blood 
 
 Ber. I come 
 
 To save patrician blood, and not to shed it ! 
 And thereunto I must be speedy, for 
 Each minute lost may lose a life ; since Time 
 Has changed his slow scythe for the twoedged sword, 
 And is about to take, instead of sand, 
 The dust from sepulclires to fill his hourglass ! — 
 Go not thou forth tomorrow ! 
 
 Lioni. Wherefore not ? — 
 
 What means this menace ? 
 
 Ber. Do not seek its meaning. 
 
 But do as I implore thee ; — stir not forth, 
 Whate'er be stirring ; though the roar of crowds — 
 The cry of women, and the shrieks of babes — 
 The groans of men— the clash of arms — the sound 
 Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell, 
 Peal in one wide alarum ! — Go not forth 
 Until the tocsin 's silent, nor even then 
 TiU I return! 
 Lioni. Again, what does this mean ? 
 
 Ber. Again, I tell thee, ask not ; but by all 
 Thou boldest dear on earth or heaven — by all 
 The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 
 To emulate them, and to leave behind 
 Descendants worthy both of diem and thee — 
 By all thou hast of blest in hope or memory — 
 
 By ail thou hast to fear here or hereafter — 
 By all the good deeds thou hast done to me, 
 Good T v.'ould now repay with greater good. 
 Remain within — trust to thy household gods, 
 And to my word for safety, if thou dost 
 As I now counsel — but if not. thou art lost ! 
 
 Lioni. 1 am indeed already lost in wonder ; 
 Surely thou ravest I what have / to dread ? 
 Who are my foes ? or if there be such, why 
 Art thou leagued with them ? — thou ! or if so leagued, 
 Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 
 And not before ? 
 
 Ber. I cannot answer this. 
 
 Wilt thou go forth despite of this true warning ? 
 
 Lioni. I was not born to shrink from idle threats, 
 The cause of which I know not: at the hour 
 Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
 Be found among tlie absent. 
 
 Ber. Say not so I 
 
 Once more, art thou determined to go forth ? 
 Lioni. I am. Nor is there aught which shall impede 
 
 me ! 
 Ber. Then Heaven have mercy on thy soul I — Fare- 
 well ! [Going. 
 Lioni. Stay — there is more in this than my own safety 
 Which makes me call thee back ; we must not part thus. 
 Bertram, I have known thee long. 
 
 Ber. From childhood, signer, 
 
 You have been ray protector: in the days 
 Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets, 
 Or. rather, is not yet taught to remember 
 Its cold prerogative, we play'd together ; 
 Our sports, our smiles, our tears, were mingled oft ; 
 I\Iy father was your father's client, I 
 His son's scarce less than fosterbrother ; years 
 Savv us together — happy, heart-full hours I 
 Oh God! the difference 'twixt those hours and this ! 
 Lioni. Bertram, 't is thou who hast forgotten them. 
 Ber. Nor now, nor ever; whatsoe'er betide, 
 I would have saved you : when to manhood's growth 
 We sprung, and you, devoted to the state. 
 As suits your station, the more humble Berti-am 
 Was left unto the labours of the humble. 
 Still you forsook me not : and if my fortunes 
 Have not been towering, 't was no fault of him 
 Who ofttimes rescued and supported me 
 Wlien struggling with the tides of circumstance 
 AMiich bear awav the weaker : noble blood 
 Ne'er mantled in a nobler heart than thine 
 Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 
 Would that thy fellow senators were like thee I 
 
 Lioni. Why, what hast thou to say against the senate ? 
 Ber. Nothing. 
 
 Lioni. I know that there are angry spirits 
 
 And turbulent rautterers of stifled treason, 
 Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
 Muffled to whisper curses to the night ; 
 Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians, 
 And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns ; 
 Thou herdest not with such : 't is true, of late 
 I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert wont 
 To lead a temperate life, and break thy bread 
 With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect. 
 What hath come to thee ? in thy hollow eye 
 And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions, 
 Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at war 
 To waste thee. 
 
 Ber. Rather shame and sorrow light 
 
 On the accursed tyranny which rides 
 The very air in Venice, and makes men 
 INIadden as in the last hours of the plague 
 Which sweeps the soul deliriously from life ! 
 Limi. Some villains have been tampering with thee, 
 Bertram ; 
 This is not thy old language, nor own thoughts ; 
 
248 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 Some wretch has made thee drunk with disaffection : 
 
 But thou must not be lost so ; thou wert good 
 
 And kind, and art not fit for such base acts 
 
 As vice and villany would put thee to : 
 
 Confess — confide in me — thou know'st my nature — 
 
 What is it thou and thine are bound to do, 
 
 Which should prevent thy friend, the only son 
 
 Of hini who was a friend unto thy father, 
 
 So that our good-will is a heritage 
 
 We should bequeath to our posterity 
 
 Such as ourselves received it, or augmented; 
 
 I say, what is it thou must do, that I 
 
 Should deem thee dangerous, and keep the house 
 
 Like a sick girl ? 
 
 Ber. Nay, question me no further : 
 I must be gone. 
 
 Lioni. And I be murder'd ! — say, 
 
 Was it not thus thou said'st, my gentle Bertram? 
 
 Ber. Who talks of murder ? what said I of murder ?— 
 'T is false ! I did not utter such a word. 
 
 Lioni. Thou didst not ; but from out thy wolfish eye, 
 So changed from what I luiew it, tliere glares forth 
 The gladiator. If my life 's thine object, 
 
 Take it — I am unarm'd, — and then a' 
 
 vay 
 
 I would not hold my breath on such a tenure 
 
 As the capricious mercy of such things 
 
 As thou and those who have set thee to thy task-work, 
 
 Ber. Sooner than spill thy blood, I peril mjne ; 
 Sooner than harm a hair of thine, I place 
 In jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
 As noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 
 
 Lioni. Ay, is it even so ? Excuse me, Bertram ; 
 I am not worthy to be singled out 
 From such exalted hecatombs — who are they 
 That are in danger, and that make the danger? 
 
 Ber. Venice, and all that she inherits, are 
 Divided like a house against itself, 
 And so will perish ere tcmorrow's twilitrht! 
 
 Lioni. More mysteries, and awful ones ! But now, 
 Or thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 
 Upon the verge of ruin ; speak once out. 
 And thou art safe and glorious ; for 't is more 
 Glorious to save than slay, and slay i' the dark too — 
 Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for thee ! 
 How would it look to see upon a spear 
 The head of him whose heart was open to thee. 
 Borne by thy hand before the shuddeiing people? 
 And such may be my doom ; for here I swear, 
 Whate'er the peril or the penalty 
 Of thy denunciation, I go forth. 
 Unless thou dost detail the cause, and show 
 The consequence of all which led thee here ! 
 
 Ber. Is there no way to save thee ? minutes fly, 
 And thou art lost ! — thou ! my sole benefactor, 
 The only being who was constant to me 
 Through every change. Yet, make me not a traitor! 
 Let me save thee — but spare my honour ! 
 
 Lioni. Where 
 
 Can lie the honour in a league of murder? 
 And who are traitors save unto the state ? 
 
 Ber. A league is still a compact, and more binding 
 In honest hearts when v/ords must stand for law ; 
 And in my mind, there is no traitor like 
 Him whose domestic treason plants the poniard 
 Within the breast which trusted to his truth. 
 
 Lioni. And who will strike the steel to mine ? 
 
 Ber.^ Not I : 
 
 I could have wound my soul up to all things 
 Save this. TTiou must not die ! and think how dear 
 Thy life is, when I risk so many fives. 
 Nay, more, the life of fives, the liberty 
 Of future generations, not to be 
 The assassin thou miscall'st me ; — once, once more 
 [ do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! 
 
 Lioni. Tt is in vain — this moment I go forth. 
 
 Ber. Then perish Venice rather than my friend ' 
 
 I will disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy — 
 Oh, what a villain I become for thee 1 
 
 Lioni. Say, rather thy friend's saviour and the 
 state's ! — 
 Speak — pause not — all rewards, all pledges for 
 Thy safety and thy welfare ; wealth such as 
 The state accords her worthiest servants ; nay, 
 Nobility itself I guarantee thee, 
 So that thou art sincere and penitent. 
 
 Ber. I have thought again : it must not be — I love 
 thee — 
 Thou knowest it — that I stand here is the proof, 
 Not least though last ; but having done my duty 
 By thee, I now must do it by my country ! 
 Farewell — we meet no more in life ! — farewell ! 
 
 Lioni. What, ho ! — Antonio — Pedro — to the door ! 
 See that none pass — arrest this man ! 
 
 Enter Antonio and other armed Domestics, who seize 
 Bertram. 
 
 Lioni, (continues.) Take care 
 
 He hath no harm ; brhig me my sword and cloak, 
 And man the gondola with four oars — quick — 
 
 [Exit Antonio. 
 We will unto Giovanni Gradenigo's, 
 And send for Marc Comaro : — fear not, Bertram ; 
 This needful violence is for thy safety, 
 No less than for the general weal. 
 
 Ber. VvTiere wouldst thou 
 
 Bear me a prisoner? 
 
 Lioni. Firstly to " the Ten f 
 
 Next to the Doge. 
 
 Ber. To the Doge ? 
 
 Lioni. Assuredly; 
 
 Is he not chief of the state ? 
 
 Ber. Perhaps at sunrise — 
 
 Lioni. "VSHiat mean you? — but we'll know anon. 
 
 Ber. " Art sure ? 
 
 Lioni. Sure as all gentle means can make; and if 
 They fail, you know "the Ten" and their tribunal, 
 And that Saint Mark's has dungeons, and thie dungeons 
 A rack. 
 
 Ber. Apply it then before the dawn 
 Now hastening into heaven. — One more such word. 
 And you shall perish piecemeal, by the death 
 You think to doom to me. 
 
 Re-enter Antonio. 
 
 Ant. The bark is ready, 
 
 My lord, and all prepared. 
 
 Lioni. Look to the prisoner. 
 
 Bertram, I'll reason with thee as we go 
 To the Magnifico's, sage Gradenigo. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — The Ducal Palace — The Doges Apartmem. 
 The Doge and his nephew Bertuccio Faliero. 
 
 Doge. Are all the people of our house in muster ? 
 
 Ber. F. They are array'd, and eager for the signal, 
 Within our palace precincts at San Polo. * 
 I come for your last orders. 
 
 Doge. It had been 
 
 As well had there been time to have got together, 
 From my owti fief, Val di Marino, more 
 Of our retainers — but it is too late, 
 
 Ber. F. Methinks, my lord, 't is better as it is : 
 A sudden swelling of our retinue 
 Had waked suspicion ; and, though fierce and trusty, 
 The vassals of that district are too mde 
 And quick in quarrel to have long maintjun'd 
 The secret discipline we need for such 
 A service, till our foes are de It upon. 
 
 Doge. True ; but when once the signal has been gives, 
 Th£se are the men for such an enterprise ; 
 These city slaves have all their private bias. 
 
Act IV. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 249 
 
 Their prejudice against or for this noble, 
 
 Which may induce tliera to o'erdo or spare 
 
 Where mercy may be madness ; the fierce peasants, 
 
 Serfs of my county of Val di Maruio, 
 
 Would do the bidding of their lord without 
 
 Distinguishing for loye or hate bis foes ; 
 
 Alilve to thera Marcello or Cornaro, 
 
 A Gradenigo or a Foscari ; 
 
 They are not used to start at tho;e vain names, 
 
 Nor bow the knee before a ci^ac senate; 
 
 A chief in armour is then- Suzerain, 
 
 And not a thing in robes. 
 
 Ber. F. We are enough ; 
 
 And for the dispositions of our clients 
 Against the senate I will answer. 
 
 Doge. Well, 
 
 The die is thrown ; but for a warlike ser.ace. 
 Done in the field, commend me to my peasants ; 
 They made the sun shine tlirough the host of Huns 
 When sallow burghers slunk back to their tents, 
 And cower'd to hear their own victorious trumpet. 
 If there be small resistance, you will find 
 These citizens all lions, like their standard ; 
 But if there 's much to do, you '11 wish with me, 
 A band of iron rustics at our backs. 
 
 Ber. F. Thus thinlung, I must marvel you resolve 
 To strike the blow so suddenly. 
 
 Boge. Such blows 
 
 Must be struck suddenly or never. When 
 I had o'ermaster'd the weak false remorse 
 V/hich yearn'd about my heart too fondly yielding 
 A moment to the feelings of old days, 
 I was most fain to strike ; and, firstly, that 
 I might not yield again to such emotions ; 
 And, secondly, because of all these men, 
 Save Israel and Philip Calendaro, 
 I know not well the courage or the faith : 
 To-day might find 'mong them a traitor to us, 
 As yesterday a thousand to the senate ; 
 But once in, with their hilts hot in their hands, • 
 They must on for their own sakes ; one stroke struck, 
 And the mere instinct of the first-bora Cain, 
 Which ever lurks somewhere in human hearts, 
 Though cii-cums+ance may keep it in abeyance, 
 Will urge the rest on like to wolves ; the sight 
 Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more. 
 As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel ; 
 And you will find a harder task to quell 
 Than urge them when they have commenced, but till 
 That moment a mere voice, a straw, a shadow, 
 Are capable of turning them aside. — 
 How goes the night? 
 
 Ber. F. Almost upon the dawn. 
 
 Doge. Then it is time to strike upon the bell. 
 Are the men posted? 
 
 Ber. F. By this time they are ; 
 
 But they have orders not to strike, until 
 They have command from you through me in person. 
 
 Doge. 'T is well. — Will the morn never put to rest 
 These stars which twinkle yet o'er all the heavens ? 
 I am setded and bo'.md up, and being so, 
 The very effort which it cost me to 
 Resolve to cleanse this commonwealth with fire, 
 Now leaves my mind more steady. I have wept. 
 And trembled at the thought of this dread duty, 
 But now I have put down all idle passion. 
 And look the growing tempest in the face, 
 As doth the pilot of an admiral galley : 
 Yet (wouldst thou tliink it, kinsman?) it hath been 
 A greater struggle to me, than when nations 
 Beheld their fate merged in the approaching fight, 
 Where I was leader of a phalanx, where 
 Thousands were sure to perish — Yes, to sp^ill 
 The rank polluted current fj-om the veins 
 Of a few bloated despots needed more 
 2G 
 
 To steel me to a purpose such as niacie 
 Timoleoi) imrnortal, than to face 
 The toils and dangers of a life of war. 
 
 Ber. F. It gladdens me to see your farmer wisdom 
 Subdue the furies which so wiung you ere 
 You were decided. 
 
 Doge. It was ever thus 
 
 With me ; tlie hour of agitation came 
 In the first glimmerings of a purpose, when 
 Passion had too much room to sv/ay ; but in 
 The hour of action I have stood as calm 
 As were the dead who lay around me: this 
 They knew who made me what I am, and trusted 
 To the subduing power which I preserved 
 Over my mood, when its first burst vras spent. 
 But they were not aware that there are things 
 Which make revenge a virtue by reflection, 
 And not an impulse of mere anger ; though 
 The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injured souls 
 Oft do a pubhc right witli private wrong. 
 And justify their deeds unto themselves. — 
 Methinks the day breaks — is it not so ? look. 
 Thine eyes are clear with youth ; — the air puts on 
 A morning freshness, and, at least to me. 
 The sea looks grayer thi'ough the lattice. 
 
 Bsr. P. True, 
 
 The morn is dappling in tlie sky. 
 
 Doo-e. Away tlien ! 
 
 See that they strike without delay, and with 
 The first toll from St. Mark's, march on the palace 
 With all our house's strength ; here I will meet you — 
 The Sixteen and their companies will move 
 In separate columns at the self-same moment — 
 Be sure you post yourself at the great gate 
 I would not trust " the Ten" except to us — 
 The rest, the rabble of patricians, may 
 Glut the more careless swords of those leagued with us 
 Rememljer that the cry is still " Saint Mark 1 
 « The Genoese are come — ho ! to the rescue ! 
 « Saint Mark and liberty !" — Now— now to action ! 
 
 Ber. F. Farewell then, noble uncle ! we will meet 
 In freedom and true sovereignty, or never I 
 
 Doge. Come hither, my Bertuccio — one embrace — 
 Speed, for the day grows broader — Send me soon 
 A messenger to tell me how all goes 
 When you rejoin our troops, and then sound — sound 
 The storm-bell fi:ora Saint Mark's ! 
 
 [Eu;it Bertuccio Faliero 
 
 Doge, (solus.) He is gone,. 
 
 And on ea^^h footstep moves a life. — 'T is done. 
 Now the destroying Angel hovers o'er 
 Venice, and pauses ere he pours the vial,. 
 Even as the eagle overlooks his prey, 
 And for a moment, poised in middle air. 
 Suspends the motion of his mighty wings. 
 Then swoops with his unerring beak.— Thou day! 
 That slowly walk'st the waters! march — march on— 
 I would not smite i' the dark, but rather see 
 That no stroke errs. And you, ye blue sea-waves ! 
 I have seen you dyed ere now, and deeply too, 
 With Genoese, Saracen, and Hannish gore, 
 While that of Venice fiow'd too, but victorious : 
 Now thou must wear an unmix'd crimson ; no 
 Barbaric blood can reconcile us now 
 Unto that horrible incarnadine, 
 But friend or foe will roll in civic slaughter. 
 And have I lived to fjurscore years for this ? 
 I, who was named Preserver of the City? 
 I, at whose name the million's caps were flung 
 Into the air, and cries from tens of thousands 
 Rose up, imploring Heaven to send me blessings, 
 And fame, and length of days— to see this day ? 
 But this day, black within the calendar, 
 Shall be succeeded by a bright millennium 
 Doge Dandolo survived to ninety summers 
 
250 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 To vanquish cmpireSj and refuse tht-ir crown 
 
 I will resign a crown, and make the state 
 
 Renew its freedom — but oh I by what means ? 
 
 The noble end must justify them — What 
 
 Are a few drops of human blood ? 't is false, 
 
 The blood of tyrants is not human; tliey, 
 
 Like to incarnate Molo<:hs, feed on ours, 
 
 Until 't is time to give them to the tombs 
 
 Which they have made so populous. — Oh world! 
 
 Oh men ! what are ye. and our best designs, 
 
 That we must work by crime to punish crime? 
 
 And slay as if Death had but this one gate, 
 
 When a few years would make the sword superfluous '; 
 
 And I, upon the verge of th' unknown realm, 
 
 Yet send so many heralds on before rae ? — 
 
 1 must not ponder this [A pause 
 
 Hark! was there not 
 A murmur as of distant voices, and 
 The tramp of feet in martial unison? 
 AVhat phantoms even of sound our wishes raise ! 
 It cannot be — the signal hath not rune — 
 Why pauses it 1 INIy nephew's messenaer 
 Should be upon his way to me, and he 
 Himself perhaps even now draws gratin^r back 
 Upon its ponderous hmge the steep tower portal, 
 Where swings the sullen huge oracular bell, 
 Which never knells but for a princely deathj 
 Or for a state in peril, pealing forth 
 Tremendous bodements ; let it do its office, 
 And be this peal its aw^fullest and last 
 Sound till the strong tower rock !— What ! silent still ? 
 I would go forth, but that my post is here, 
 To be the centre of reunion to 
 The oft discordant elements which form 
 Leagues of this nature, and to keep compact 
 The wavering of tlie weak, in case of conflict; 
 For if they should do battle, \\s\\\ be here. 
 Within the palace, that the strife will tliicken ; 
 Then here must be my station, as becomes 
 
 The master-mover. Hark ! he comes— he comes, 
 
 My nephew, brave Bertuccio's messenger. — 
 
 What tidings? Is he marching? hath he sped? 
 
 They here !— all 's lost— yet will I make an efl:brt. 
 
 Enier a Signor of the NIGHT^ with Guards, 
 
 Sig. Doge, I arrest thee of high treason ! 
 
 Doge. Me ! 
 
 Thy prince, of treason ? — Who are they that dare 
 Cloak their own treason under such an order ? 
 
 Sig. {shoidng his order.) Behold my order from the 
 assembled Ten. 
 
 Doge. And where are they, and why assembled ? no 
 Such coimcil can be lawful, till the prmce 
 Preside there, and that duty 's mine : on tiiine 
 I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
 To the council chamber. 
 
 ^^^- Duke ! it may not be ; 
 
 Nor are they m the wonted Hall of Council, 
 But sitting in the convent of Sauit Saviour's. 
 
 Doge. You dare to disobey me then? 
 
 ^^^- I serve 
 
 The state, and needs must serve it faithfully ; 
 My warrant is the will of those who rule it. 
 
 Doge. And till that warrant has my signature 
 It is illegal, and, as now applied. 
 Rebellious— Hast thou weigh'd well thy hfe's worth, 
 That thus you dare assume a lawless function ? 
 
 Sig. 'T is not my office to reply, but act — 
 I am placed here as guard upon thy person, 
 And not as judge to hear or to decide. 
 
 Doge, (aside.) I must gain time— So that the storm- 
 bell sound 
 All may be well yet.— Kinsman, speed— speed— speed !— 
 Our fate is trembling in the balance, and 
 
 Wo to tlie vanquish'd ! be tliey prince and people, 
 Or slaves and senate — 
 
 [The great bell of SmrU Mark's tolls 
 Lo ! it sounds — it tolls ! 
 
 Doge, {(doud.) Hark, Signor of the Night ! and you 
 ye hirelings. 
 Who wield your mercenary staves in fear, 
 It is your knell — Swell on, thou lusty peal ! 
 Now, knaves, what ransom for your lives ? 
 
 Sig. Confusion 
 
 Stand to your arms, and guard the door — all 's lost 
 Unless that fearful bell be silenced soon. 
 The officer hath miss'd his path or purpose. 
 Or met some unforeseen and hideous obstacle. 
 Anselmo, with thy company proceed 
 Straight to the tower ; the rest remain with me. 
 
 [Exit part of the Guccrd 
 
 Doge. Wretch! if thou wouldst have thy vile life, 
 implore it ; 
 It is not now a lease of sixty seconds. 
 Ay, send thy miserable ruffians forth ; 
 They never shall return. 
 
 Sig. So let it be ! 
 
 They die then in their duty, as will I. 
 
 Doge. Fool ! the high eagle flies at nobler game 
 Than thou and thy base myrmidons, — Uve on. 
 So thou provok'st not peril by resistance. 
 And learn (if souls so much obscured can bear 
 To gaze upon the sunbeams) to be free. 
 
 Sig. And learn thou to be captive — It hath ceased, 
 [The bell ceases to toll. 
 The traitorous signal, which w^as to have set 
 The bloodhound mob on their patrician prey — 
 The knell hath rung, but it is not the senate's ! 
 
 Doge, {after a pause.) All 's silent, and all 's lost ! 
 
 Sig. Now, Doge, denounce me 
 
 As rebel slave of a revolted council ! 
 Have I not done my duty ? 
 
 Doge. Peace, thou thing ! 
 
 Thou hast done a worthy deed, and eam'd the price 
 Of blood, and they w^ho use thee will reward thee. 
 But thou wert sent to watch, and not to prate, 
 As thou said'st even now — then do thine office, 
 But let it be in silence, as behoove thee, 
 Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy prince. 
 
 Sig. I did not mean to fail in the respect 
 Due to your rank : in this I shall obey you. 
 
 Doge, (aside.) There now is nothing left me save to die ; 
 And yet how near success! I would have fallen. 
 And proudly, in the hour of Uiumph, but 
 To miss it thus ! 
 
 Enter other SiGNORs OF the Night, with Bertuccio 
 Faliero prisoner. 
 
 2d Sig. We took him in the act 
 
 Of issuing from the tower, where, at his order 
 As delegated from the Doge, the signal 
 Had thus begun to sound. 
 
 1st Sig. Axe all the passes 
 
 Which lead up to the palace well secured? 
 
 2d Sig. They are — besides, it matters not ; the chiefe 
 Are all in chains, and some even now on trial — 
 Their followers are dispersed, and many taken. 
 
 Ber. F. Uncle ! 
 
 Doge. It is in vam to war vrith Fortune ; 
 
 The Glory hath departed from our house. 
 
 Ber. F. Who would have deem'd it ?— Ah ! one momen 
 sooner ! 
 
 Doge. That moment would have changed the face of 
 ages ; 
 TViis gives us to eternity — We '11 meet it 
 As men whose triumph is not in success, 
 But who can make their own minds all in all, 
 Equal to every fortiuie. Droop not, 't is 
 But a brief passage — I would go alone. 
 
Act V. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 251 
 
 Yet if they send us, as 't is like, together 
 Let us go worthy of our sires and selves. 
 
 Ber. P. I shall not shame you, uncle. 
 \st Sig. Lords, our orders 
 
 Are to keep guard on both in separate chambers, 
 Until the council call ye to your trial. 
 
 Doge. Our trial ! wUl they keep theii- mockery up 
 Even to the last ? but let them deal upon us. 
 As we had dealt on them, but with less pomp. 
 'T is but a game of mutual homicides, 
 Who have cast lots for the first death, and they 
 Have won with false dice. — Who hath been our Judas ? 
 
 \st Sig. I am not warranted to answer that. 
 
 Ber. F. I '11 answer for thee — 't is a certain Bertram, 
 Even now deposing to the secret giunta. 
 
 Doge. Bertram, the Bergamask ! With what vile tools 
 We operate to slay or save ! This creature. 
 Black with a double treason, now will earn 
 Rewards and honours, and be stamp'd in story 
 With the geese in the Capitol, which gabbled 
 Till Rome awoke, and had an annual triumph, 
 While Manlius, who hurl'd do\vn the Gauls, was cast 
 From the Tarpeian, 
 
 \st Sig. He aspired to treason, 
 
 And sought to rule the state. 
 
 Doge. He saved the state, 
 
 And sought but to reform what he revived — 
 But tliis is idle Come, sirs, do your work. 
 
 1st Sig. Noble Bertuccio, we must now remove you 
 Into an inner chamber. 
 
 Ber. F. Farewell, uncle ! 
 
 If we shall meet again in life I know not. 
 But they perhaps \vill let our ashes mingle. 
 
 Doge. Yes, and our spirits, which shall yet go forth, 
 And do what our frail clay, thus clogg'd, hath fail'd in ! 
 They cannot quench the memory of those 
 Who would have hurl'd tliem from their guilty thrones. 
 And such examples will find heirs, though distant. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I.— The Hall of the Council of Ten assembled 
 with the additional Senators, who, on the Triah of the 
 Conspirators for tlie Treason of Marino Faliero, 
 composed what was called the Giunta. — Guards, Officers, 
 ^c. fyc. — Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calen- 
 DARO a^ Prisoners. — Bertram, Lioni, a^id Wit- 
 nesses, ^G. 
 
 The Chief of the Ten, Benintende. 
 
 Ben. There now rests, after such conviction of 
 Their manifold and manifest offences. 
 But to pronounce on these obdurate men 
 The sentence of the law : a grievous task 
 To those who hear, and these who speak. Alas ! 
 That it should fall to me ! and that my days 
 Of office should be stigmatised through all 
 The years of coming time, as bearing record 
 To this most foul and compUcated treason 
 Against a just and free state, known to all 
 The earth as being the Christian bulwark 'gainst 
 The Saracen and the scliismatic Greek, 
 The savage Hun, and not less barbarous Frank ; 
 A city which has open'd India's wealth 
 To Europe ; the last Roman refuge from 
 O'erwhelming Attila ; the ocean's queen ; 
 Proud Genoa's prouder rival ! 'T is to sap 
 The throne of such a city, these lost men 
 Have risk'd and forfeited their worthless Uves — 
 So let them die the death. 
 
 /. Ber. We are prepared ; 
 
 Your racks have done that for us. Let us die. 
 
 Ben. If ye have that to say which would obtain 
 Abatement of your punishment, the Giunta 
 
 Will hear you ; if you have aught to confess, 
 Now is your time, perhaps it may avail ye. 
 
 Ber, F. We stand to hear, and not to speak. 
 
 Ben. Your crimes 
 
 Are fully proved by your accomplices, 
 And all which circumstance can add to aid them ; 
 Yet we would hear from your own lips complete 
 Avowal of your treason : on the verge 
 Of that dread gulf which none repass, the truth 
 Alone can profit you on earth or heaven — 
 Say, then, what was your motive '/ 
 
 /. Ber. Justice ! 
 
 Ben. "What 
 
 Your object? 
 
 /. Ber. Freedom I 
 
 Ben. You are brief, sir. 
 
 /. Ber. So my life grows : I 
 Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 
 
 Ben. Perhaps you think by tliis blunt brevity 
 To brave your judges to postpone the sentence ? 
 
 /. Ber. Do you be brief as I am, and beheve me, 
 I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon. 
 
 Ben. Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 
 
 /. Ber. Go, ask your racks what they have vmmg 
 from us. 
 Or place us there again ; we have still some blood left, 
 And some slight sense of pain in these wrench'd limbs : 
 But this ye dare not do ; for if we die there — 
 And you "have left us little life to spend 
 Upon your engines, gorged with pangs already — 
 Ye lose the public spectacle, with which 
 You would appal your slaves to flirther slavery ! 
 Groans are not words, nor agony assent, 
 Nor affirmation truth, if nature's sense 
 Should overcome the soul into a lie. 
 For a short respite — must we bear or die ? 
 
 Ben. Say, who were your accomplices ? 
 
 / ^(.j.^ The Senate . 
 
 Ben. What do you mean ? 
 
 /. jjggr. Ask of the suffering people, 
 
 Whom your patrician crimes have driven to crime. 
 
 Ben. You know the Doge ? 
 
 / 5^. I served with him at Zara 
 
 In the field, when you were pleading here your way 
 To present office ; we exposed our lives, 
 While you but hazarded the lives of others, 
 Alike by accusation or defence ; 
 And, for the rest, all Venice knows her Doge, 
 Through his great actions, and the Senate's insults ! 
 
 Ber^. You have held conference with him ? 
 
 /. Ber. I am weary- 
 
 Even wearier of your questions than your tortures : 
 I pray you pass to judgment, 
 
 Ben. It is coming.— 
 
 And you, too, Philip Calendaro, what 
 Have you to say v;hy you should not be doom'd ? 
 
 Cal. I never was a man of many words. 
 And now have few left worth the utterance. 
 
 Ben. A further application of yon engine 
 May change your tone. 
 
 C(^. Most true ; it will do so 
 
 A former application did so ; but 
 It will not change my words, or, if it did— 
 
 Ben. What then ? 
 
 Cat. Will my avowal on yon rack 
 
 Stand good in law ? 
 
 Ben. Assuredly. 
 
 Cal. Whoe'er 
 
 The culprit be whom I accuse of treason ? 
 
 Ben. Without doubt, he will be brought up to trial. 
 
 Cal. And on this testimony would he perish ? 
 
 Ben. So your confession be detail'd and full, 
 He will stand here in peril of his life. 
 
 Cal. Then look well to thy proud self. President! 
 For by the eternity which yavms before me, 
 
252 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 I swear tlvat ihou^ and only thou, sUalt bo 
 The traitor I denounce upon that rack, 
 If I be streich'd tliere for the second lime^ 
 
 One of the Giunta. Lord President, 't Nvere best pro- 
 ceed to judgment; 
 There is no more to be drawn from these men. 
 
 Ben. Unliappy men ! prepare for instant death. 
 The nature of your crime — our law — and peril 
 The state now stands in, leave not an hour's respite — 
 Guards ! lead them forth, and upon the balcony 
 or llic red columris, whei-e, on festal Thursday,^ 
 The Doge stands to behold the chase of bulls. 
 Let them be justified : and leave exposed 
 Their wavering rehcs, in the place of judgment, 
 To the full view of Lbe assembled people 1 — 
 And Heaven have mercy on their souls I 
 • T/ie Giunia. Ainen! 
 
 J. Ber. Signors, farewell ! we shall not ail again 
 Meet iii one place. 
 
 Ben. And lest they should essay 
 
 To stir up the disti-ac^ed multitude — 
 Guards ! let their mouths be gagg'd,'' even in the act 
 Of execution. — Lead them hence! 
 
 Cd. "What 1 must we 
 
 Not even say farewell to some fond friend. 
 Nor leave a last word with our coiifessor ? 
 
 Ben. A priest is waiting in the antechamber ; 
 But, for your friends, such interviev.s would be 
 Painful to them, and useless all to you. 
 
 Cd. I knew that we were gagg'd in life ; at least 
 All those who had not heart to risk their Uvea 
 Upon their open thoughts ; but still I deem'd 
 That, in the last few moments, tiie same idle 
 Freedom of speech accorded to the dving, 
 
 Would not now be denied to us ; but since 
 
 /. Ber. Even let them have their way, brave Calendar© ! 
 What matter a few syllables ? let 's die 
 Without tlie slightest show of favour from them ; 
 So shall ovtr blood more readily ai-ise 
 To Heaven against them, and more testify 
 To then- atrocities, than could a volume 
 Spoken or written of our d}Tng words 1 
 They tremble at our voices — nay, they dread 
 Our very silence — let them live in fear ! — 
 Leave them unto their thoughts, and let us now 
 Address our own above! — Lead on; we are ready. 
 
 Cd. Israel, hadst thou but hearken 'd unto me 
 It had not now been thus ; and yon pale villain, 
 
 The coward Bertram, would 
 
 I- Ber. Peace, Calendaro! 
 
 What brooks it now to ponder upon this? 
 
 Bert. Alas ! I fain you died in peace with me : 
 I did not seek this task ; 't was forced upon me : 
 Say, you forgive me, though I never can 
 Retrieve my own forgiveness — frown not thus! 
 I. Ber. T die and pardon thee ! 
 
 Cd. {spitting at Urn.) 1 die and scorn thee ! 
 
 [Exeunt Israel Bertuccio and Philip 
 Calendaro, Guards, ^c. 
 Ben. Now that these criminals have been disposed of, 
 'T is time that we proceed to pass our sentence 
 Upon the greatest traitor upon record 
 In any annals, the Doge Faliero ! 
 The proofs and process are complete ; the time 
 And crime require a quick procedure : shall 
 He now be call'd in to receive the award? 
 The Giunta. Ay, ay. 
 
 Ben. Avogadori, order that tlie Doge 
 
 Be brought before the council. 
 
 One of the Giunta. And the rest, 
 
 When shall they be brought up ? 
 
 Ben. When all the chiefs 
 
 Have been disposed of. Some have fled to Chiozza ; 
 But there are thousands in pursuit of them, 
 And such precaution ta'enr on terra firma, 
 
 As well as in the islands, that we hope 
 None will escape to utter in strange lands 
 His libellous tale of treasons 'gainst the senate. 
 
 Enter tlie Doge as Prmner, with Guards, J^c. ^c, 
 
 Ben. Doge — for such still you are, and by the law 
 Must be consider 'd, till the hour shall come 
 When you must doti' the ducal bonnet from 
 That head, which could not wear a crown more noble 
 Than empires can confer, in quiet honour, 
 But it must plot to overthrow your peers. 
 Who made you what you are, and quench in blood 
 A city's glory — we have laid already 
 Before you in your chamber at full length, 
 By the Avogadori, all the proofs 
 Which have appear'd against you ; and more ample 
 Ne'er rear'd their sanguinary shadows to 
 Confront a traitor. What have you to say 
 In your defence ? 
 
 i)oge. What shall I say to ye, 
 
 Since my defence must be your condemnation? 
 You are at once offenders and accusers, 
 Judges and executioners! — Proceed 
 Upon your power. 
 
 Ben. Your chief accomplices 
 
 Having confess'd, there is no hope for you. 
 
 Doge. And who be they ? 
 
 Ben. In number many ; but 
 
 The first now stands before you in the court, 
 Bertram, of Bergamo, — would you question him? 
 
 Doge, {looking at him contemptuously.) No. 
 
 Ben. And tv.o others, Israel Bertuccio, 
 
 And Philip Calendaro, have admitted 
 Their fellowship in treason Avith the Doge ! 
 
 Doge. And where are they? 
 
 Ben. Gone to their place, and now 
 
 Answering to Heaven for what they did on earth. 
 
 Doge. Ah ! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone ? 
 And the quick Cassius of the arsenal ? — 
 Ho-w did tliey meet their doom ? 
 
 Ben. Think of your own ; 
 
 It is approaching. You decline to plead, then? 
 
 Doge. I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 
 Can recognise }^our legal power to try me. 
 Show me the law ! 
 
 Ben. On great emergencies, 
 
 The law must be remodell'd or amended : 
 Our fathers had not fix'd the punishment 
 Of such a crime, as on the old Roman tables 
 The sentence against parricide was left 
 In pure forgetfuhiess ; they could not render 
 That penal, which had neitiier name nor thought 
 In their great bosoms: who would have foreseen 
 That nature could be filed to such a crime 
 As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst their realms ? 
 Your sin hath made us make a law which will 
 Become a precedent 'gainst such haught traitors, 
 As would with treason mount to tyranny ; 
 Not even contented with a sceptre, till 
 They can convert it to a twoedged sword ! 
 Was not the place of Doge sufficient for ye ? 
 What 's nobler than the signory of Venice 1 
 
 Doge. The signory of Venice ! You betray'd me — 
 Yoic — you, who sit there, traitors as ye are ! 
 From my equality with you in birth, 
 And my superiority in action. 
 You drew me from my honourable toils 
 In distant lands — on flood — in field — in cities — 
 You singled me out hke a victim to 
 Stand crown'd, but bound and helpless, at the altar 
 Where you alone could minister. I knew not — 
 I sought not — wish'd not — dream'd not the election, 
 Which reach'd me first at Rome, and I obey'd ; 
 But found on my arrival, that, besides 
 The jealous vigilance which always led you 
 
 i 
 
Act V. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 
 
 253 
 
 To mock and mar your sovereign's best intents, 
 
 You had, even in the interregnum of 
 
 My journey to the capital, curtail'd 
 
 And mutilated the few privileges 
 
 Yet left the duke : all this I bore, and would 
 
 Have borne, until my very hearth was stain'd 
 
 By the pollution of your ribaldry, 
 
 And he, the ribald, whom I see among you — 
 
 Fit judge in such tribunal! 
 
 Ben. {interrupting him.) Michel Steno 
 Is here in virtue of his office, as 
 One of the Forty ; " the Ten" having craved 
 A Giunta of patricians from the senate 
 To aid our judgment in a trial arduous 
 And novel as the present : he was set 
 Free from the penalty pronounced upon him, 
 Because the Doge, who should protect the law, 
 Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 
 No punishment of others by the statutes 
 Which he himself denies and violates ! 
 
 Doge. His PUNISHMENT ! I rather see liim there, 
 Where he now sits, to glut him with my death, 
 Than in the mockery of castigation. 
 Which your foul, outward, juggling show of justice 
 Decreed as sentence ! Base as was his crime, 
 'T was purity compared with your protection. 
 
 Ben. And can it be, that the great Doge of Venice, 
 With three parts of a century of years 
 And honours on his head, could thus allow 
 His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 
 All feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on such 
 A provocation as a young man's petulance ? 
 
 Doge. A spark creates the flame — 'tis the last drop 
 Which makes the cup run o'er, and mine was full 
 Already : you oppress'd the prince and people ; 
 I would have freed both, and have fail'd in both : 
 The price of such success would have been glory, 
 Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 
 As would have made Venetian history 
 Rival to that of Greece and Syracuse 
 When they were freed, and flourish'd ages after 
 And mine to Gelon and to Thrasybulus : — 
 Failing, I know the penalty of failure 
 Is present infamy and death — the future 
 Will judge, when Venice is no more, or free ; 
 Till then, the trulh is in abeyance. Pause not ; 
 I would have shown no mercy, and I seek none ; 
 My life was staked upon a mighty hazard. 
 And being lost, take what I would have taken ! 
 1 would have stood alone amidst your tombs ; 
 Now you may flock round mine, and trample on it, 
 As you have done upon my heart while li\ing. 
 
 Ben. You do confess then, and admit the justice 
 Of our tribunal ? 
 
 Doge. I confess to have fail'd ; 
 
 Fortune is female : from my youth her favours 
 Were not withheld, the fault was mine to hope 
 Her former smiles again at this late hour. 
 
 Btn. You do not then in aught arraign our equity ? 
 Doge. Noble Venetians ! stir me not with questions. 
 I am resign'd to the worst ; but in me still 
 Have something of the blood of brighter days, 
 And am not over-patient. Pray you, spare me 
 Further interrogation, which boots nothing, 
 Except to turn a trial to debate. 
 I shall but answer that which will offend you, 
 And please your enemies — a host already ; 
 'T is true, these sullen walls should yield no echo : 
 But walls have ears — nay, more, they have tongues 
 
 and if 
 There were no other way for truth to o'erleap them, 
 You who condemn me, you who fear and slay me, 
 Yet could not bear in silence to your graves 
 What you would hear from me of good or evil ; 
 The secret were too mighty for your souls : 
 
 Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
 A danger which would double that you escape. 
 Such niy defence would be, had I full scope 
 To make it famous ; for true xvortls are things, 
 And dying men's are things which long outlive, 
 And oftentimes avenge them ; bury mine. 
 If ye would fain survive me : take this counsel. 
 And though too oft ye made me live in wrath, 
 Let me die calmly ; you may grant me this ; — 
 I deny nothing — defend nothing — nothing 
 I ask of you, but silence for myseli^ 
 And sentence from the court! 
 
 ;Ben. This full admission 
 
 Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
 The torture to elicit the whole truth 
 
 Doge. The torture ! you have put me there already 
 Daily since I was Doge ; but if you will 
 Add the corporeal j-ack, you may : these limbs 
 Will yield with age to crushing iron ; but 
 There 's that within my heart shall strain your engines. 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 Officer. Noble Venetians ! Duchess Faliero 
 Requests admission to the Giunta's presence. 
 
 Ben. Say, conscript fathers,^ shall she be admitted ? 
 
 One of the Giunta. She may have revelations of im- 
 portance 
 Unto the state, to justify compliance 
 With her request. 
 
 Ben. Is this the general will ? 
 
 All. It is. 
 
 Doge. Oh, admirable laws of Venice ! 
 
 V/hich would admit the wife, in the full hope 
 That she might testify against the husband. 
 What glory to the chaste Venetian dames ! 
 But such blasphemers 'gainst all honour, as 
 Sit here, do well to act in their vocation. 
 Now, villain Steno ! if this woman fail, 
 I '11 pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape. 
 And my owti violent death, and thy vile life. 
 
 TJie Duchess enters. 
 
 Ben. Lady ! this just tribimal has resolved, 
 Though the request be strange, to grant it, and 
 Whatever be its purport, to accord 
 A patient hearing with die due respect 
 Which fits your ancestry, your rank, and virtues : 
 But you turn pale— ho ! there, look to the lady ! 
 Place a chair instantly. 
 
 j^ng. A moment's faintness — 
 
 'T is past ; I pray you pardon me, I sit not 
 In presence of my prince and of my husband, 
 While he is on his feet. 
 
 Ben. Your pleasure, lady? 
 
 Ang. Strange rumours, but most true, if all I hear 
 And see be sooth, have reach'd me, and I come 
 To know the worst, even at the worst ; forgive 
 The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing. 
 
 Is it 1 cannot speak — I cannot shape 
 
 The question — ^but you answer it ere spoken, 
 With eyes averted, and with gloomy brows— 
 Oh God ! this is the silence of the grave ! 
 
 Ben. [after a pause.) Spare us, and spare thyself the 
 repetition 
 Of our most awful, but inexorable 
 Duty to heaven and man ! 
 
 ^„o-. Yet speak ; I cannot— 
 
 I cannot — no — even now believe these things. 
 Is he condemn'd ? 
 
 Ben. Alas ! 
 
 Ang. And was he gmlty ? 
 
 Ben. Lady! the natural distraction of 
 Thy thoughts at such a moment makes the question 
 Merit forgiveness ; else a doubt like this 
 Against a just and paramount tribunal 
 
254 
 
 MARINO FALIERQ, IXXJE OF VENICE- 
 
 Act V. 
 
 Were deep offence. But question even the Doge, 
 And if he can deny the proofs, believe him 
 Guiltless as thy own bosom. 
 
 An^. Is it so? 
 
 My lord — my sovereign — my poor father's friend — 
 The mighty in the field, the sage in council ; 
 Unsay the words of tliis man ! — Thou art silent ! 
 
 Ben. He hath already own'd to his own guilt, 
 Nor, as thou see'st, doth he now deny it no'.v. 
 
 Ang. Ay, but he must not die ! Spare his few years, 
 Which grief and shame will soon cut down to days ! 
 One day of baffled crime must not efface 
 Near sixteen lustres crowded with brave acts. 
 
 Ben. His doom must be fulfill'd without remission 
 Of time or penalty — 't is a decree. 
 
 Ang. He hath been guilty, but there may be mercy. 
 
 Ben. Not m this case with justice. 
 
 Afig. Alas! signor, 
 
 He who is only just is cruel ; who 
 Upon the earth would Uve were all judged justly ? 
 
 Ben. His punishment is safety to the state. 
 
 Ang. He was a subject, and hath served the state ; 
 He was your general, and hath saved the state ; 
 He is your sovereign, and hath ruled the state. 
 
 One of the Council He is a traitor, and betray'd the 
 state. 
 
 Ang. And, but for him, there now had been no state 
 To save or to destroy : and you who sit 
 There to pronounce the death of your deliverer, 
 Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar, 
 Or digging in the Hunnish mines in fetters ! 
 
 One of the Council. No, lady, there are others who 
 would die 
 Rather than breathe m slavery ! 
 
 -^'"■S- If there are so 
 
 Within these walls, thou art not of the number : 
 The truly brave are generous to the fallen !— 
 Is there no hope? 
 
 ^^- Lady, it cannot be. 
 
 Ang. {turning to the Doge.) Then die, FaUero ! since 
 it must be so; 
 But with the spirit of my father's friend. 
 Thou hast been guilty of a great offence, 
 Half cancell'd by the harshness of these men. 
 I would have sued to them — have pray'd to them— 
 Have begg'd as famish'd mendicants for bread- 
 Have wept as they will cry unto their God 
 For mercy, and be answer'd as they answer — 
 Had it been fitting for thy name or mine. 
 And if the cruelty in their cold eyes 
 Had not announced the heartless wrath within. 
 Then, as a prince, address thee to thy doom ! 
 
 Doge. I have lived too long not to know how to die ! 
 Thy suing to these men were but the bleating 
 Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry 
 Of seamen to the surge : I would not take 
 A life eternal, granted at the hands 
 Of wretches, from whose monstrous villanies 
 I sought to free the groaning nations ! 
 
 M. Steno. Doge, 
 
 A word with thee, and with this noble lady, 
 ■Whom I have grievously offended. Would 
 Son-ow, or shame, or penance on my part, 
 Could cancel the inexorable past ! 
 But since that cannot be, as Christians let us 
 Say farewell, and in peace : with full contrition 
 I crave, not pardon, but compassion from you. 
 And give, however weak, my prayers for both. 
 
 Ang. Sage Benintende, now chief judge of Venice, 
 I speak to thee in answer to yon signor. 
 Inform the ribald Steno, that his words ' 
 Ne'er weigh'd in mind with Loredano's daughter 
 Further than to create a moment's pity 
 For such as he is : would that others had 
 Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 
 
 My lionour to a thousand lives, could such 
 Be mukipUed in mine, but would not have 
 A single Ufe of others lost for that 
 Which nothing human can impugn — the sense 
 Of virtue, looking not to what is call'd 
 A good name for reward, but to itself 
 To me the scorner's words were as the wind 
 Unto the rock : but as there are — alas i 
 Spirits more sensitive, on which such things 
 Light as the whirlwind on the waters ; souls 
 To whom dishonour's shadow is a substance 
 More terrible than death here and hereafter ; 
 Men whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing, 
 And who, though proof against all blandishments 
 Of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are feeble 
 When the proud name on which they pinnacled 
 Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle 
 Of her high aiery ; let what we now 
 Behold, and feel, and sufier, be a lesson 
 To wretches how they tamper in their spleen 
 With beings of a higher order. Insects 
 Have made the lion mad ere now ; a shaft 
 I' the heel o'erthrew the bravest of the brave ; 
 A wife's dishonour was the bane of Troy; 
 A wife's dishonour unking'd Rome for ever; 
 An injured husband brought the Gauls to Clusium, 
 And thence to Rome, which perish'd for a time ; 
 An obscene gesture cost Caligula 
 His life, while earth yet bore his cruelties ; 
 A virgin's wrong made Spain a Moorish province ; 
 And Steno's he, couch'd in two worthless lines, 
 Hath decimated Venice, put in peril 
 A senate which hath stood eight hundred years, 
 Discrown'd a prince, cut off his crownless head, 
 And forged new fetters for a groaning people ! 
 Let the poor -wretch, like to the courtesan 
 Who fired PersepoUs, be proud of this, 
 If it so please him — 't were a pride fit for him ! 
 But let him not insult the last hours of 
 Him, who, whate'er he now is, was a hero, 
 By the intrusion of his vei-y prayers ; 
 Nothing of good can come from such a source, 
 Nor would we aught with him, nor now, nor ever : 
 We leave him to liimself, that lowest depth 
 Of human baseness. Pardon is for men, 
 And not for reptiles — we have none for Steno, 
 And no resentment ; things lil^e him must sting. 
 And higher beings suffer : 't is the charter 
 Of life. The man who dies by the adder's fang 
 May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no anger : 
 'T was the worm's nature ; and some men are worms 
 In soul, more than the living things of tombs. 
 Doge, (to Ben.) Signor I complete that wliich you 
 
 deem your duty. 
 Ben. Before we can proceed upon that duty, 
 We would request the princess to withdraw ; 
 'T will move her too much to be witness to it. 
 
 Ang. I know it will, and yet I must endure it, 
 For 't is a part of mine — I will not quit, 
 Except by force, my husband's side. — Proceed ! 
 Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear ; 
 Though my heart burst, it shall be silent. — Speak ! 
 I have that within which shall o'ermaster all. 
 
 Ben, Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice, 
 Count of Val di Marino, Senator, 
 And some time General of the Fleet and Army, 
 Noble Venetian, many times and oft 
 Intrusted by the state with high employments. 
 Even to the highest, hsten to the sentence. 
 Com-ict by many witnesses and proofs. 
 And by thine own confession, of the guilt 
 Of treachery and treason, yet unheard of 
 Until this trial — the decree is death. 
 Thy goods are confiscate unto the state. 
 Thy name is razed from out her records, save 
 
Act V. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 255 
 
 Upon a public day of thaiJvsgiving 
 
 For this our most miraculous deliverance, 
 
 When thou art noted in our calendars 
 
 With earthquakes, pestilence, and foreign foes, 
 
 And the great enemy of man, as subject 
 
 Of grateful masses for Heaven's grace in snatching 
 
 Our lives and country from thy wickedness. 
 
 The place wherein as Doge thou shouldst be painted, 
 
 With thine illustrious predecessors, is 
 
 To be left vacant, with a death-black veil 
 
 Flung over these dim words engraved beneath, 
 
 " Tliis place is of Marino Faliero, 
 
 Decapitated for his crimes." 
 
 Doge. "His crimes!" 
 
 But let it be so : — it will be in vain. 
 The veil which blackens o'er this blighted name, 
 And hides, or seems to hide, these lineaments, 
 Shall draw more gazers than the thousand portraits 
 Which glitter round it in their pictured trappings — 
 Your delegated slaves — the people's tyrants ! 
 "Decapitated for his crimes!" — What crimes? 
 Were it not better to record the facts. 
 So that the contemplator might approve, 
 Or at the least learn whence the crimes arose ? 
 When the beholder knows a Doge conspired, 
 Let him be told the cause — it is your history. 
 
 Ben. Time must reply to that ; our sons will judge 
 Their fathers' judgment, which I now pronounce. 
 As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and cap, 
 Thou shalt be led hence to the Giants' Staircase, 
 Where thou and all our princes are invested ; 
 And there, the ducal crown being first resumed 
 Upon the spot where it was first assumed, 
 Thy head shall be struck off; and Heaven have mercy 
 Upon thy soul ! 
 Doge. Is this the Giunta's sentence? 
 
 Ben. It is. 
 
 Doge. I can endure it. — And the time ? 
 
 Ben. Must be immediate. — Make thy peace with God ; 
 Within an hour thou must be in his presence. 
 Doge. I am already ; and my blood will rise 
 To Heaven before the souls of those who shed it. — 
 Are all my lands confiscated? 
 
 Ben. They are ; 
 
 And goods, and jewels, and all kind of treasure, 
 Except two thousand ducats — these dispose of. 
 Doge. That 's harsh. — I would have fain reserved the 
 lands 
 Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment 
 From Laurence the Count-bishop of Ceneda, 
 In fief perpetual to myself and heirs. 
 To portion them (leaving my city spoil, 
 My palace and my treasures, to your forfeit) 
 Between my consort and my kinsmen. 
 
 Ben. These 
 
 Lie under the state's ban ; their chief, thy nephew, 
 In peril of his own life ; but the council 
 Postpones his trial for the present. If 
 Thou wiU'st a state unto thy widow'd princess, 
 Fear not, for we will do her justice. 
 
 Ang. Signers, 
 
 I share not in your spoil ! From henceforth, know 
 I am devoted unto God alone, 
 And take my refuge in the cloister. 
 
 Doge. Come ! 
 
 The hour may be a hard one, but 't will end. 
 Have I aught else to undergo save death ? 
 
 Ben. You have naught to do, except confess and die. 
 The priest is robed, the scimitar is bare, 
 And both await without. — But, above all, 
 Think not to speak unto the people ; they 
 Are now by thousands swarming at the gates. 
 But these are closed : tlie Ten, the Avogadori, 
 The Giunta, and the chief men of the Forty, 
 Alone will be beholders of thy doom, 
 
 And they are ready to attend the Doge. 
 Doge. The Doge ! 
 
 Ben. Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and thou shalt die 
 A sovereign ; till the moment which precedes 
 The separation of that head and trunk. 
 That ducal crown and head shall be united. 
 Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning 
 To plot with petty traitors ; not so we. 
 Who in the very punishment acknowledge 
 The prince. Thy vile accomplices have died 
 The dog's death, and the wolf's ; but thou shalt fall 
 As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 
 By those who feel a proud compassion foi* thee, 
 And mourn even the inevitable death 
 Provoked by thy wild wrath, and regal fierceness. 
 Now we remit thee to thy preparation ; 
 Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 
 Thy guides unto the place where first we were 
 United to thee as thy subjects, and 
 Thy senate ; and must now be parted from thee 
 As such for ever, on the self-same spot. — 
 Guards ! form the Doge's escort to his chamber. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — The Doge's Apartment. 
 The Doge as Prisoner^ and the Duchess attending him. 
 
 Doge. Now, that the priest is gone, 't were useless all 
 To finger out the miserable minutes ; 
 But one pang more, the pang of parting from thee. 
 And I vidll leave the few last grains of sand, 
 Which yet remain of the accorded hour. 
 Still falling — I have done with Time. 
 
 Ang. Alas ! 
 
 And I have been the cause, the unconscious cause ; 
 And for this funeral niarriage, this black union, 
 Which thou, compliant with my father's wish, 
 Didst promise at his death, thou hast seal'd thine own. 
 
 Doge. Not so : there was that in my spirit ever 
 Which shaped out for itself some great reverse ; 
 The marvel is, it came not until now — 
 And yet it was foretold me. 
 
 Ang. How foretold you?' 
 
 Doge. Long years ago — so long, they are a doubt 
 In memory, and yet they live in annals : 
 When I was in my youth, and served the senate 
 And signory as podesta and captain 
 Of the town of Treviso, on a day 
 Of festival, tlie sluggish bishop who 
 Convey'd the Host aroused my rash yoimg anger, 
 By strange delay, and an-ogant reply 
 To my reproof; I raised my hand and smote him 
 Until he reel'd beneath his holy burden ; 
 And as he rose from earth again, he raised 
 His tremulous hands in pious wrath towards heaven. 
 Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen from hin^ 
 He turn'd to me, and said, " The hour will come 
 When he thou hast o'erthrown shall o'erthrow thee: 
 The glory shall depart from out tihy house. 
 The wisdom shall be shaken from thy soul. 
 And in thy best maturity of mind 
 A madness of the heart shall seize upon thee ; 
 Passion shall tear thee when all passions cease 
 In other men, or mellow into virtues ; 
 And majesty, which decks all other heads, 
 Shall crown to leave thee headless ; honours shall 
 But prove to thee the heralds of destruction, 
 And hoary hau's of shame, and both of death, 
 But not such death as fits an aged man." 
 Thus saying, he pass'd on. — That hour is come. 
 
 Ang. And with this waining couldst thou not have 
 striven 
 To avert the fatal moment, and atone 
 By penitence for that which thou hadst done ? 
 
 Doge. I own the words went to my heart, so much 
 
256 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 That I remember'd them amid the maze 
 
 Of life, as if they form'd a spectral voice, 
 
 Which shook me in a supernatuiaJ dream ; 
 
 And I repented 5 but 't was not for me 
 
 To pull in resolution : what must be 
 
 I could not change, and would not fear. — Nay more, 
 
 Thou canst not have forgot, what all remember, 
 
 That on my day of landing here as Doge, 
 
 On my return from Rome, a mist of such 
 
 Unwonted density went on before 
 
 The bucentaur like the columnar cloud 
 
 Which usher'd Israel out of Egypt, till 
 
 The pilot was misled, and diserabark'd us 
 
 Between the pillars of Saint Mark's, where 't is 
 
 The custom of the state to put to death 
 
 Its criminals, instead of touching at 
 
 The Riva della Paglia, as the wont is, — 
 
 So that all Venice shudder'd at the omen. 
 
 Ang. Ah ! little boots it now to recollect 
 Such things. 
 
 Boge. And yet I find a comfort in 
 The thought that these things are the woi-k of Fate ; 
 For I would rather yield to gods than men, 
 Or cling to any creed of destiny, 
 Rather than deem these mortals, most of whom 
 I know to be as. worthless as the dust, 
 And %veak as worthless, more than instruments 
 Of an o'er-ruling power ; they in themselves 
 Y'fcre all incapable — they could not be 
 Victors of him who oft had conquer'd for them ! 
 
 Ang. Employ the minutes left in aspirations 
 Of a more healing nature, and in peace 
 Even Avith these wretches talie thy flight to heaven. 
 
 Boge. I am at peace : the peace of certainty 
 That a sure hour will come, when their sons' sous, 
 And this proud city, and these azure waters, 
 And all which makes them eminent and bright, 
 Shall be a desolation, and a curse, 
 A hissing and a scoff unto the nations, 
 A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean Babel ! 
 
 Ang. Speak not thus now ; the surge of passion still 
 Sweeps o'er thee to the last ; thou dost deceive 
 Thyself, and canst not injure them — be calmer. 
 
 JDoge. I stand witliin eternity, and see 
 Into eiernity, and 1 behold — 
 Ay, palpable as I see thy sweet face 
 For the last time — the days which I denounce 
 Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, 
 And they who are indvvellers. 
 
 Guard, (coming forward.) Doge of Venice 
 The Ten are in attendance on your highness. 
 
 Doge. Then farewell, Angiolina ! — one embrace — 
 Forgive the old man who hath been to thee 
 A fond but fatal husband — love my memory — 
 I would not ask so much for me still hving. 
 But thou canst judge of me more kindly now 
 Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 
 Besides, of all the fruit of these long years. 
 Glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and name. 
 Which generally leave some flowers to bloom 
 Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, not even 
 A httle love, or friendship, or esteem, 
 No, not enough to extract an epitaph 
 From ostentatious kinsmen ; in one hour 
 I have uprooted all my former life. 
 And outlived every tiling, except thy heart, 
 The pure, the good, the gentle, which will oft 
 With unimpair'd but not a clamorous grief 
 
 Still keep Thou turn'st so pale!— Alas! she famts. 
 
 She has no breath, no pulse ! — Guards ! lend your aid — 
 I cannot leave her thus, and yet 't is better, 
 Smce every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
 When she shakes off" this temporary death, 
 I shall be with the Eternal. — Call her women- 
 One look ! — how cold her hand ! — aa cold as mine 
 
 Shall be ere she recovers. — Gently tend her, 
 
 And take my last thanks 1 am ready now. 
 
 [The Attendants of A^giolisa enter and surround 
 
 their mistress, wlio has fainted. — Exeunt the 
 
 Doge, Guards, ^c. ^c. 
 
 Scene III. — The Court of the Ducal Palace: Uie outer 
 gates are shut against tfie people. — 2Vie Doge enters in 
 his ducal robes, in j^rocessioyi with the Council of Ten 
 and other Patricians, attended hy the Guards till they 
 arrive at the top of the " Giants^ Staircase,''^ [v^here Vie 
 Doges took the oaths;) the Executioner is stationed there 
 with his sword. — On arriving, a Chief of the Ten takes 
 off' the ducal cap from the Doge^s head. 
 Doge. So now the Doge is nothing, and at last 
 I am again Marino Faliero: 
 'T is well to be so, though but for a moment. 
 Here was I crown'd, and here, bear witness. Heaven ! 
 Witli how much more contentment I resign 
 That shining mockery, the ducal bauble. 
 Than I received the fatal ornament. 
 
 One of the Ten. Thou tremblest, Fahero I 
 Doge. 'T is with age, then.^ 
 
 Pen. Faliero ! hast thou aught further to commend, 
 Compatible with justice, to the senate? 
 
 Doge. I would commend my nephew to their mercy, 
 My consort to their justice ; for methinks 
 My death, and such a death, might settle all 
 Between the state and me. 
 
 Ben. They shall be cared for ; 
 
 Even notwithstandbg thine unheard-of ciime. 
 Doge. Unheard of! ay, there 's not a history 
 But shows a thousand crown'd conspirators 
 Against the people ; but to set them free 
 One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 
 
 Ben. And who were tliey who fell in such a cause ? 
 Doge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge of Venice — 
 Agis and Faliero ! 
 
 Ben. Hast thou more 
 
 To utter or to do ? 
 Doge. May I speak ? 
 
 Ben. Thou may'st 5 
 
 But recollect the people are without. 
 Beyond the compass of the human voice. 
 
 Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, 
 Of wliich I grow a portion, not to man. 
 Ye elements I in which to be resolved 
 I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 
 Upon you ! Ye blue waves ! which bore my banner, 
 Ye winds ! which flutter'd o'er as if you loved it, 
 And fill'd my swelling sails as they were wafted 
 To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth. 
 Which I have bled for, and thou foreign earth. 
 Which drank this willing blood from many a wound ! 
 Ye stones, in which my gore will not sinlf, but 
 Reek up to Heaven ! Ye skies, which will receive it ! 
 Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and Thou I 
 Who kindlest and who quenchest suns ! — ^Attest I 
 I am not mnocent — but are these guiltiess '/ 
 I perish, but not unavenged ; far ages 
 Float up from the abyss of time to be. 
 And show these eyes, before they close, the doom 
 Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 
 
 On her and hers for ever ! Yes, tlie hom-s 
 
 Are silently engendering of the day, 
 
 When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, 
 
 Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield 
 
 Unto a bastard Attila, without 
 
 Shedding so much blood in her last defence 
 
 As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her, 
 
 Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought 
 
 And sold, and be an appanage to those 
 
 Who shall despise her ! — She shall stoop to be 
 
 A province for an empire, petty town 
 
 In lieu of capital, witii slaves for senates, 
 
NOTES TO MARINO FALIEHO. 
 
 257 
 
 Beggars for nobles, panders for a people ! '° 
 
 Then when the Hebrew's in thy palaces, ^^ 
 
 The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 
 
 Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ! 
 
 When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 
 
 In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 
 
 Make their nobility a plea for pity ! 
 
 Then, when the few who still retain a wreck 
 
 Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 
 
 Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vicegerent, 
 
 Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns, 
 
 Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign, 
 
 Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung 
 
 From an adulteress boastful of her guilt 
 
 With some large gondolier or foreign soldier, 
 
 Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph 
 
 To the third spurious generation ; — when 
 
 Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being, 
 
 Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish'd by the victors, 
 
 Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, 
 
 And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vices 
 
 As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 
 
 Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 
 
 Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject kingdom, 
 
 All thine inheritance shall be her shame 
 
 Entail'd on thy less virtuous daughters, grown 
 
 A \vider proverb for worse prostitution ;— 
 
 When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee, 
 
 Vice without splendour, sin without relief 
 
 Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er, 
 
 But in its stead coarse lusts of habitude, 
 
 Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness, 
 
 Depraving nature's frailty to an art ; — 
 
 When these and more are heavy on thee, when 
 
 Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure, 
 
 Youth without honour, age without respect, 
 
 Meanness and weakness, and a sense of wo 
 
 'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not murmur. 
 
 Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts. 
 
 Then, in the last gasp of thine agony, 
 
 Amidst thy many murders, think of mine. ' 
 
 Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes! '^ 
 
 Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom 1 
 
 Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods I 
 
 Thee and thy serpent seed I 
 
 {Here the Doge turns, and addresses the Executioner. 
 Slave, do thine office ! 
 Strike as I struck the foe ! Strilte as I would 
 Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse ! 
 Strike — and but once ! 
 
 [The Doge throws himself upon his knees, and as 
 the Executioner raises his sword the scene closes. 
 
 Scene IV. — The Piazza and Piazzetta of Saint Mark^s 
 — 7%e People in crowds gathered round the grated gates 
 of the Ducal Palace, which are shut. 
 
 First Citizen. I have gain'd the gate, and can discern 
 the Ten, 
 Robed in their gowns of state, ranged round the Doge. 
 Second Cit. I cannot reach thee with mine utmost 
 effort. 
 How is it ? let us hear at least, since sight 
 Is thus prohibited unto the people. 
 Except the occupiers of those bars. 
 First Cit. One has approach'd the DogOj and now they 
 strip 
 The ducal bonnet from his head — and now 
 He raises his keen eyes to Heaven ; I see 
 Them glitter, and his lips move — Hush 1 hush! — no, 
 'T was but a murmur — Curse upon the distance! 
 His words are inarticulate, but the voice 
 Swells up hke mutter'd thunder ; would we Could 
 But gather a sole sentence ! 
 
 Second Cit. Hush! we perhaps may Catch the sound. 
 First Cit. 'T is vain, 
 
 I cannot hear him. — How his hoary hair 
 Streams on the wind like foam upon the wave I 
 Now — now — he kneels — and now they form a circle 
 Round him, and all is liidden — but I see 
 
 The lifted sword in air Ah ! Hark! it falls ! 
 
 [The People murmur. 
 Third Cit. Then they have murder'd him who would 
 
 have freed us. 
 Fourth Cit. He was a kind man to the Commons ever. 
 Fifth Cit. Wisely they did to keep their portals barr'd. 
 Would we had known the work they were preparing 
 Ere we were summon'd here, we would have brought 
 Weapons, and forced them! 
 
 Sixth Cit. Are you sure he 's dead ? 
 
 First Cit. I saw the sword fall — Lo! what have we 
 here? 
 
 Enter on the Balcony of the palace which fronts Saint 
 Mark's Place, a Chief of the Ten, '^ with a 
 bloody sword. He waves it thrice before the People^ 
 and exclaims, 
 
 "Justice hath dealt upon the mighty Traitor!" 
 
 [The gates are opened; the populace rush in towards 
 the " Gianth Staircase," wlvere the execution has taken 
 place. The foremost of them exclaims to those behind^ 
 
 The gory head rolls down the « Giants' Steps !" 
 
 [The curtain falls. 
 
 NOTES TO MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 Note 1, page 233, line 80. 
 / smote the tardy bishop atJTreviso. 
 An historical fact. See Marin Sanuto's Lives of the 
 Doges. 
 
 Note 2, page 235, line 105. 
 
 A gondola with one oar only. 
 
 A gondola is not like a common boat, but is as easily 
 
 rowed with one oar as with two, (though of course not 
 
 so swiftly,) and often is so from motives of privacy ; 
 
 and (since the decay of Venice) of economy. 
 
 Note 3, page 242, lines 44 and 45. 
 
 TTiey think themselves 
 Engaged in secret to the Signory. 
 An historical fact. 
 
 Note 4, page 248, line 124. 
 Within our palace precincts at San Pdo, 
 The Dog&'s private family palace. 
 2H 
 
 Note 5, page 250, line 44. 
 " Signor of the NightP 
 "I Signori di Notte" held an important charge in the 
 old Republic. 
 
 Note 6, page 252, line 10. 
 Festal Thursday. 
 " Giovedi Grasso,'^ '•'•fat or greasy Thursday," which 
 I cannot literally translate in the text, was the day. 
 
 Note 7, page 252, line 21. 
 Guards ! let their mouths be gagg'd, even in the act. 
 Historical fact. See Sanuto, in the Appendix to this 
 tragedy. 
 
 Note 8, page 253, line 97. 
 Say, conscript fathers, shall she be admitted? 
 The Venetian senate took the same title as the 
 Roman, of " Conscript Fathers." 
 
268 
 
 APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 Note 9, page 256, line 86. 
 
 T 15 with age, then. 
 
 This was the actual reply of Bailli, maire of Paris, 
 to a Frenchman who made him the same reproach on 
 his way to execution, in the earliest part of their revo- 
 lution. I find in reading over, (since the completion of 
 this tragedy,) for the first lime these six years, "Ve- 
 nice Preserved," a similar reply on a. different occasion 
 by Renault, and other coincidences arising from the 
 subject. I need hardly remind the gentlest reader, that 
 such coincidences must be accidental, from the very 
 facility of their detection by reference to so popular a 
 play on the stage and in the closet as Otway's chef- 
 d'oeuvre. 
 
 Note 10, page 257, line 1. 
 
 Beggars for nobles, panders for a people ! 
 
 Should the dramatic picture seem harsh, let the 
 reader look to the historical, of the period prophesied, 
 or rather of the few years preceding that period. Vol- 
 taire calculated their " nostre bene merite Meretrici" 
 at 12,000 of regulars, wthout including volunteers and 
 local militia, on what authority I know not ; but it is 
 perhaps the only part of the population not decreased. 
 Venice once contained 200,000 inhabitants, there are 
 now about 90,000, and these I ! few individuals can 
 conceive, and none could describe the actual state into 
 which the more than infernal tyranny of Austria has 
 plunged this unhappy city. 
 
 Note 11, page 257, line 2. 
 Then when live Hebrew 's in thy palaces. 
 The chief palaces on the Brenta now belong to the 
 Jews ; who in the earlier times of the republic were 
 only allowed to inhabit Mestri, and not to enter the city 
 of Venice. The whole commerce is in the hands of 
 the Jews and Greeks, and the Huns form the garrison 
 Note 12, page 257, line 42. 
 Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes. 
 Of the first fifty Doges, ^t'e abdicated— :/?i;e were 
 banished with their eyes put out— ^re were massa- 
 cred — and 7iine deposed ; so that nineteen out of fifty 
 lost the throne by violence, besides two who fell in 
 battle : this occurred long previous to the reign of Ma- 
 rino Faliero. One of his more immediate predecessors, 
 Andrea Dandolo, died of vexation. Marino Fahero 
 himself perished as related. Among his successors, 
 Foscari, after seeing his son repeatedly tortured and 
 banished, was deposed, and died of breaking a blood- 
 vessel, on hearing the bell of Saint Mark's toll for the 
 election of his successor. Morosini was impeached 
 for the loss of Candia ; but this was previous to his 
 dukedom, during which he conquered the Morea, and 
 was styled the Peloponnesian. Faliero might truly say, 
 " Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes I" 
 Note 13, page 257, line 79. 
 Chief of the Ten. 
 "Un Capo de' Dieci" are the words of Sanuto'a 
 Chronicle. 
 
 APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 I. 
 
 MCCCLIV. 
 MARINO FALIERO DOGE XLIX. 
 
 "Fu eletto daquarant uno Elettori, il quale era Ca- 
 valiere e conte diValdemarino in Trivigiana, ed era ricco, 
 e si trovava ambasciadore a Roma. E a di 9, di Set- 
 tembre, dopo sepolto il suo predecessore, fu chiamato 
 il graji Consiglio, e fu preso di fare il Doge giusta il so- 
 lito. E furono fatti i cinque Correttori, Ser Bernardo 
 Giustiniani Procuratore, Ser Paolo Loredano, Ser Fi- 
 hppo Aurio, Ser Pietro Trivisano, e Ser Tommaso 
 Viadro. I quali a di 10, misero queste correzioni alia 
 promozione del Doge: che i Consiglieri non odano gli 
 Oratori e Nunzi de' Signori, senza i Capi de' quaranta, 
 ne possano rispondere ad alcuno, se non saranno quat- 
 tro Consiglieri e due Capi de' Cluaranta. E che osser- 
 vino la forma del suo Capitolare. E che Messer lo 
 Doge si metta nella miglior parte, quando i giudici tra 
 loro non fossero d' accordo. E ch' egli non possa far 
 vendere i suoi imprestiti, salvo con legittiraa causa, e 
 col voler di cinque ConsigUeri, didue Capi de' Quaranta, 
 e delle due parti del Consiglio de' Pregati. Item, che 
 in luogo di tre mila pelli di Conigli, che debbon dare i 
 Zaratini per regalia al Doge, non trovandosi tante pelli, 
 gli diano Ducati ottanta I'anno. E poi a di 11, detto, 
 misero etiam altre correzioni, che se il Doge, che sara 
 eletto, fosse fuori diVenezia, i savj possano proArvedere 
 del suo ritorno. E quando fosse il Doge ammalato, sia 
 Vicedoge uno de' Consiglieri, da essere eletto tra loro. 
 E che il detto sia nominate Viceluogotenente di Messer, 
 lo Doge, quando i giudici faranno i suoi atti. E nota, 
 perch§ fu fatto Doge uno, ch' era assente, che fu Vice- 
 doge Ser Marino Badoero piu vecchio de' Consiglieri. 
 IterTi, che il governo del Ducato sia commesso a' Con- 
 siglieri, e a' Capi de' Quaranta, quando vachera il Du- 
 cato finch^ sara eletto 1' altro Doge. E cosi a di 11 di 
 Settembre fu create il prefato Marino Faliero Doge. 
 E fu preso, che il governo del Ducato sia commesso a' 
 ConsigUeri e a' Capi de' Quaranta. I quali stiano in 
 Palazzo di continue, fine che verra il Doge. Sicche di 
 eontinuo stiano in Palazzo due Consiglieri © un Capo 
 
 de' Quaranta. E subito furono spedite lettere al detto 
 Doge, il quale era a Roma Oratore al Legato di Papa 
 Innocenzo VI. ch' era in Avignone. Fu preso nel gran 
 Consiglio d'eleggere dodici arabasciadori incontro a 
 Marino Faliero Doge, il quale veniva da Roma. E gi- 
 unto a Chioggia, il Podesta mandb Taddeo GiusLiniani 
 suo figliuolo incontro, con quiudici GanzaruoH. E poi 
 venuto a S. Clemente nel Bucintoro, venne un gran 
 califfo, adeo che il Bucintoro non si pote levare. Laonde 
 il Doge co' gentiluomini nelle piatte vennero di lungo 
 in questa Terra a' 5 d' Ottobre del 1354. E dovendo 
 smontare alia riva della Paglia per lo caligo andarono 
 ad ismontare alia riva della Piazza in mezzo alle due 
 colonne dove si fa la Giustizia, che fu un mahssimo au- 
 gurio. E a' 6, la mattina venne alia Chiesa di San 
 Marco alia laudazione di quelle. Era in questo tempo 
 Cancellier Grande Messer Benintende. I quarantuno 
 Elettori furono, Ser Giovanni Contarini, Ser' Andrea 
 Giustiniani, Ser Michele Morossini, Ser Sinione Dan- 
 dolo, Ser Pietro Lando, Ser Marino Gradenigo, Ser 
 JNIarco Dolfino, Ser Nicolb Faliero, Ser Giovanni Qui- 
 rini, Ser Lorenzo Soranzo, Ser jMarco Bembo, Sere 
 Stefano Belegno, Ser Francesco Loredano, Ser Ma- 
 rino Veniero, Ser Giovanni Mocenigo, Ser Andrea 
 Barbaro, Ser Lorenzo Barbarigo, Ser Bettino da Mol- 
 lino, Ser' Andrea Arizzo Procuratore, Ser Marco Celsi, 
 Ser Paolo Donato, ^er Bertucci Grimani, Ser Pietro 
 Steno, Ser Luca Duodo, Ser' Andrea Pisani, Ser Fran- 
 cesco Caravello, Ser Jacopo Trivisano, Sere Schiavo 
 Marcello, Ser Maffeo Aimo, Ser Marco Capello, Ser 
 Pancrazio Giorgio, Ser Giovanni Foscarini, Ser Tom- 
 maso Viadro, Sere Schiava Polani, Ser Marco Polo, 
 Ser Marino Sagredo, Sere Stefano Mariani, Ser Fran- 
 cesco Suriano, Ser Orio Pasqualigo, Ser' Andrea Gritti 
 Ser Buono da Mosto. 
 
 " Trattato di JMesser IS'larino Faliero Doge, iratto da 
 una Cronica antica. Essendo venuto il Giovedi della 
 Caccia, fu fatta giusta il soUto la Caccia. E a' que' 
 tempi dopo fatta la C accia s'andava in Palazzo del Doge 
 in una di quelle sale, e con donne facevasi una festic- 
 ciuola, dove si ballava fine alia prima campana, e ve- 
 niva una colazione ; la quale spesa faceva Messer lo 
 Doge, quando v' era la Dogaressa. E poscia tutti an- 
 
APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 269 
 
 davano a casa sua. Sopra la qual festa, pare, che Ser 
 Michele Steno, raolto giovane e povero gentiluomo, ma 
 ardito e astuto, il quale era innamorato in certa don- 
 zella della Dogaressa, essendo sul Solajo appresso le 
 donne, facesse cert' atto non conveniente, adeo che il 
 Doge comandb ch' e' fosse buttato giu dal Solajo. E 
 cosi quegli scudieri del Doge lo spinsero giu di quel 
 Solajo. Laonde a Ser Michele parve, che fossegli stata 
 fatta troppo grande ignominia. E non considerando 
 altramente il fine, ma sopra quella passione fornita la 
 festa, e andati tutti via, quella notte egli and5, e sulla 
 cadrega, dove sedeva il Doge nella Sala deli' Udienza 
 (perche allora i Doginon tenevano panno di sefa sopra 
 la cadrega, ma sedevano in una cadrega di legno) scrisse 
 alcune parole disoneste del Doge e della Dogaressa, 
 cioe : Marin Faliero dalla bella moglie : Altri la gode, 
 ed egli la mantiene. E la mattina furono vedute tali pa- 
 role scritte. E parve una brutta cosa. E per la Signoria 
 fu commessa lacosa agli Avvogadori del Comune con 
 grande efficacia. I quali Avvogadori subito diedero tag- 
 lia grande per venire in chiaro della verita di chi avea 
 scritto tal lettera. E tandem si seppe, che Michele Steno 
 aveale scritte. E fu per li Quararitapreso di ritenerlo ; e 
 ritenuto confess^, che in quella passione d' essere stato, 
 spintn giu dal Solajo, presente la sua amante, egh aveale 
 scritte. Onde poi fu placitato nel detto Consiglio, e 
 parve al Consiglio si per.rispetto all' eta, come per la 
 caldezza d'amore, di condannarlo a compiere due mesi 
 in prigione serrato, e poi ch' e' fosse bandito di Venezia 
 e dal distretto per un' anno. Per la qual condeiinagione 
 tanto piccola il Doge ne prese grande sdegno, paren- 
 dogU che non fosse stata fatta quella estimazione della 
 cosa, che ricercava la sua dignita del Ducato. E diceva, 
 ch' eglino doveano averlo fatto appiccare per la gola, o 
 laltem bandirlo in perpetuo da Venezia. E perche 
 (quando dee succedere un' effetto e necessario che vi 
 concorra la cangione a fare tal' effetto) era destinato, 
 che a Messer Marino Doge fosse tagliata la testa, per- 
 cib occorse, che entrata la Quaresima il giorno dopo 
 che fu condannato il detto Ser Michele Steno, un gen- 
 tiluomo da Ca Barbaro, di natura collerico, andasse all' 
 Arsenale, domandasse certe cose ai Padroni, ed era alia 
 presenza de' Signori I'Ammiragiio dell' Arsenale. II 
 quale intesa la domanda, disse, che non si poteva fare. 
 Quel gentiluomo venne a parole coll' Ammiraglio, e 
 diedegli un pugno su un'occhio. E perche avea uri'- 
 anello in dito, coll' anello gli ruppe la pelle, e fece san- 
 gue. E I'Ammiragiio cosi battuto e insanguinato andb 
 al Doge a lamentarsi, acciocche il Doge facesse fare 
 gran punizione contrail detto daCa Barbaro: II Doge 
 disse : Clie vuoi che ti faccia 1 Guarda le ignominiose 
 parole scritte di me, e il modo cVh stato punito quel ri- 
 baldo di Michele Steno, che le scrisse. E quale stima 
 hanno i Quaranta fatto della persona nostra? Laonde I'- 
 Ammiragiio gli disse : Messer lo Doge, se voi voletefarvi 
 Signore, e fare tagliare tutti questi becchi geniiluomini a 
 pezzi, mi basta Vanimo, dandomi voi ajido, difarui Sig- 
 nore di questa Terra. E allora voi potrete castigare tutti 
 costoro. Inteso questo, il Doge disse, Come si pub fare 
 una simile cosa ? E cosi entrarono in ragionamento. 
 
 " II Doge mandb a chiamere Ser Bertuccio Faliero 
 suo nipote, il quale stava con lui in Palazzo, e entrarono 
 in questa macchinazione. Ne si partirono di li, che man- 
 darono per Filippo Calendaro, uomo marittimo e di gran 
 seguito, e per Bertuccio Israello, ingegnere e uomo as- 
 tutissimo. E consigliatisi insieme diede ordine di chia- 
 mare alcuni altri. JE cosi per alcuni giorni la notte si 
 riducevano insieme in Palazzo in casa del Doge. E 
 chiamarono a parte a parte altri, videlicet Niccolo Fa- 
 giuolo, Giovanni da Corfu, Stefano Fagiano, Niccolo 
 dalle Bende, Niccolb Biondo, e Stefano Trivisano. 
 E ordinb difare sediciodiciassetteCapi in diversi luoghi 
 della Terra, i quahavessero cadaun di loro quarant' 
 uomini provvigionati, preparati, non dicendo a' detti suoi 
 quaranta quello, che volessero fare. Ma che il giorno 
 stabilito si mostrasse di far quistione tra loro in diversi 
 luoghi, acciocche il Doge facesse sonare a San Marco 
 le campane, le quali non si possono suonare, s' egli nol 
 comanda. E al suono delle campane questi sedici o 
 diciassette co' suoi uomini venissero a San Marco alle 
 strade, che buttano in Piazza. E cosi i nobili e primarj 
 cittadini, che venissero in Piazza, per sapere del romore 
 
 cib ch'era,li tagliassero a pezzi. E seguito questo, che 
 fosse chiamato per Signore Messer Marino Faliero 
 Doge. E fermate le cose tra loro, stabilito fu, che questo 
 dovess' essere a' 15d' Aprile del 1355 in giorno di Mer- 
 coledi. La quale macchinazione trattata fu tra loro tanto 
 segretamente, che mai ne pure se ne sospettb, non che 
 se ne sapesse cos' alcuna. Ma il Signor' Iddio, che ha 
 sempre ajutato questa gloriosissima citla, e che per le 
 santimonie e giustizie sue mai non I'ha abbandonata, 
 ispirb a un Beltramo Bergamasco il quale fu messo Capo 
 di quarant' uomini per uno de' detti congiurati (il quale 
 intese qualche parola, sicchfe comprese I'effeto, che 
 doveva succedere, e il qual era di casa di Ser Niccolb 
 Lioni di Santo Stefano) di an dare a di **** d' Aprile 
 a casa del detto Ser Niccolb Lioni. E gli disse ogni 
 cosa dell' ordin dato. II quale intese le cose, rimase 
 come morto ; e intese molte particolarita, il detto Bel- 
 tramo il pregb che lo tenesse segreto, e ghelo disse, ac- 
 ciocche il detto Ser Niccolb non si partisse di casa a di 
 15, acciocche egli non fosse morto. Ed egli volendo par- 
 tirsi, il fece ritenere a suoi di casa, e serrarlo in una ca- 
 mera. Ed esso andb a casa di M. Giovanni Gradenigo 
 Nasone, il quale fu poi Doge, che stava anch' egli a Santo 
 Stefano ; e dissegli la cosa. La quale parendogli, com'- 
 era, d'una grandissima importanza, tutti e due andarono 
 a casa di Ser Marco Cornaro, che stava a San Felice. 
 E dettogU il tutto, tutti e tre deliberarono di venire a ca- 
 sa del detto Ser Niccolb Lioni, ed esaminare il detto Bel- 
 tramo. E quello esaminato, intese le cose, il fecero stare 
 serrato. E andarono tutti e tre a San Salvatore in sa- 
 cristia, emandoronoi lorofamigli a chiamare i Consigli- 
 eri, gli Avvogadori, i Capi de' Dieci, e que' del Consiglio. 
 E ridotti insieme dissero loro le cose. I quali rimasero 
 morti. E deliberarono di mandare pel detto Beltramo, 
 e fattolo venire cautamente, ed esaminatolo, e verificate 
 le cose, ancorch^ ne sentissero gran passione, pure pen- 
 sarono la provvisione. E mandarono pe' Capi de' 
 duaranta, pe' Signori di notte, pe Capi de' Sestieri, 
 e p6 Cinque della Pace. E ordinato, ch' eglino co' 
 loro uomini trovassero degli altri buoni uomini, e man- 
 dassero a casa de' capide' congiurati, ut supra mettes- 
 sero loro le mani addosso. E tolsero i detti le Maestreri© 
 dell' Arsenale, accioche i provvisionati de' congiurati 
 non potessero ofFenderli. E si ridussero in Palazzo ver- 
 so la sera. Dove ridotti fecero serrare le porte della 
 corte del Palazzo. E mandarono a ordinare al cam- 
 panaro, che non sonasse le campane. E cosi fu eseguito, 
 e messe le mani addosso a tutti i nominati di sopra, furo- 
 noque' condotti al Palazzo. E vedendo U Consiglio de* 
 Dieci, che il Doge era nella cospirazione, presero di 
 ejjgere venti de' primarj della Terra, di giunta al detto 
 Consiglio a consigliare, non perb che potessero met- 
 tere pallotta. 
 
 "I Consiglieri furono questi: Ser Giovanni Moce- 
 nigo, del Sestiero di San Marco ; Ser Almorb Veniero 
 da Santa Marina, del Sestiero di Castello ; Ser Tom- 
 maso Viadro, del Sestiero di Caneregio ; Ser Giovanni 
 Sanudo, del Sestiero di Santa Croce ; Ser Pietro Tri- 
 visano, del Sestiero di San Paolo; Ser Pantalione 
 Barbo il Grande, del Sestiero d'Ossoduro. Gli Avvo- 
 gadori del Comune furono Ser Zufredo Morosini, e 
 Ser Orio Pasqualigo, e questi non ballottarono. due' 
 del Consiglio de' Dieci ; furono: Ser Giovanni Mar- 
 cello, Ser Tommaso Sanudo, e Ser Micheletto Dolfino, 
 Capi del detto Consiglio de' Dieci ; Ser Luca da Legge, 
 e Ser Pietro da Mosto, Inquisitori del detto Consiglio: 
 Ser Marco Polani, Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Lando 
 Lombardo, Ser Nicoletto Trivisano da Sant' Angiolo. 
 duesti elessero tra loro una Giunta, nella notte ridotti 
 quasi sul romper del giorno, di venti nobili di Venezia 
 de' migliori, de' pill savj, e de' piu antichi, per consul- 
 tare, non perb che mettessero pallottola. E non vi 
 voUero alcuno da Ca Faliero. E cacciarono fuori del 
 Consiglio Niccolb Faliero, e un' altro Niccolb Faliero, 
 da San Tommaso, per essere della casata del Doge. 
 E questa provigione di chiamare i venti della Giunta 
 fu molto commendata per tutta la Terra. Questi 
 furono i venti della Giunta, Ser Marco Giustiniani, 
 Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Erizzo, Procuratore, Ser 
 Lionardo Giustiniani, Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Con- 
 tarini, Ser Simone Dandolo, Ser Niccolb Volpe, Ser 
 Giovanni Loredano, Ser Marco Diedo, Ser Giovanni 
 
260 
 
 APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 Gradenigo, Ser' Andrea Cornaro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco 
 Soranzo, Ser Rinieri da Mosto, Ser Gazano Marcello, 
 Ser Marino Morosino, Sere Stefano Belegno, Ser 
 Niccolb Lioni, Ser Filippo Orio, Ser Marco Trivisano, 
 Ser Jacopo Bragadino, Ser Giovanni Foscarini. E 
 chiamati questi venti nel Consiglio de' Dieci, fu man- 
 dato perMesser Marino Faliero Doge,il quale andava 
 pel Palazzo con gran gente, genlilnomini, e altra buona 
 gente, che non sapeano ancora come il fatto stava. In 
 questo tempo I'u condotto, preso, e legato, Bertuccio 
 Israello, uno de' Capi del trattato per que' di Santa 
 Croce, e ancora fa preso Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto di 
 Rosa, e Nicoletto Alberto, il Guardiaga, e altri uomini 
 da mare, e d' altre condizioni. I quali fiirono esaminati, 
 e trovata la verita del tradimento. A di 16 d' Aprile 
 fii sentenziato pel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, che Filippo 
 Calandario, e Bertncci Israello fossero appiccati alle 
 colonne rosse del balconate del Palazzo, nelle quali sta 
 a vedere il Doge la festa della Caccia. E cosi furono 
 appiccati con spranghe in bocca. E nel giorno se- 
 enente' questi furono condannati, Niccolb Zuccuolo, 
 Nicoletto Blondo, Nicoletto Doro, Marco Giuda, Jaco- 
 mello Dagolino, Nicoletto Fedele figliuolo di Filippo 
 Calendaro, Marco Torello, detto Israello, Stefano Tri- 
 visano, cambiatore di Santa Margherita, Antonio dalle 
 Bende. Furono tutti presi a Chioggia, che fuggivano, 
 e dipoi in diversi giorni a due a due, ed a uno a uno, 
 per sentenza fatta nel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, furono 
 appiccati per la gola alle colonne, continuando dalle 
 rosse del Palazzo, seguendo fin verso il Canale. E 
 altri presi furono lasciati, perch^ sentirono il fatto, ma 
 non vi furono tal che fu dato loro ad intendere per 
 questi capi, che venissero coll' arme, per prendere 
 alcuni malfkttori in servigio della Signoria, ne altro 
 sapeano. Fu encora liberato Nicoletto Alberto, il 
 Guardiaga, e Bartolommeo Ciriuola, e sue figliuolo, e 
 molti altri, che non erano in colpa. 
 
 "E a di 16 d' Aprile, giorno diVenerdi,fu sentenziato 
 nel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, di tagliare la testa a Mes- 
 ser Marino Fahero Doge sul pato della scala di pietra, 
 dove i Dogi giurano il primo sagramento, quando mon- 
 tano prima in Palazzo. E cosi serrato il Palazzo, la 
 mattina seguente a ora di terza, fu tagliata la testa al 
 detto Doge a di 17 d' Aprile. E prirna la berretta fu 
 tolta di testa al detto Doge, avanti che venisse giti dalla 
 scala. E compiuta la giustizia, pare che un Capo de' 
 Dieci andasse alle Colonne del Palazzo sopra la Piazza, 
 e mostrasse la spada insanguinata a tutti, dicendo : E 
 statu fatta la gran giustizia del Traditore. E aperta la 
 porta, tutti entrarono dentro con gran furia a vedere il 
 Doge, ch' era stato iustiziato. E' da sapere, che a fare 
 la detta giustizia non fu Ser Giovanni. Sanudo ilConsi- 
 gliere, perche era andato a casa per difetto della persona, 
 sicche furono quattordici soli, che ballottarono, cioe, 
 cinque Consiglieri, e nove del Consiglio de' Dieci. E 
 fu preso, che tutti i beni del Doge fossero confiscati nel 
 Comune, e cosi degli altri tradftori. El fu conceduto 
 al detto Doge pel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, ch' egli po- 
 lesse ordinare del suo per ducati due mila. Ancora fu 
 preso, che tutti i Consiglieri, e Avvogadori del Comune, 
 que' del Consiglio de' Dieci, e della Giunta, ch' erano 
 stati a fare la detta sentenza del Doge, e d'altri, avessero 
 licenza di portar' arme di di e di notte in Venezia e da 
 Grado fino a Gavarzere, ch' h sotto il Dogato, con due 
 fanti in vita loro, stando i fanti con essi in casa al suo 
 pane e al suo vino. E chi non avesse fanti, potesse dar 
 tal licenza a' suoi figliuoli ovvero fratelh, due perb e non 
 piu. Eziandio fu data licenza dell' arme a quattro Notaj 
 della Cancelleria, cioe della Corte Maggiore, che furono 
 a prendere le deposizioni e inquisizioni, in perpetuo a 
 loro soli, i quali furono Amadio, Nicoletto di Loreno, 
 Steffanello, e Pietro de' Compostelli, Scrivani de' Si- 
 gnori di notte. Ed essendo stati impiccati i traditori, e 
 tagliata la testa al Doge, rimase la Terra in gran riposo 
 e quiete. E come in una cronica ho trovato, fu por- 
 tato il corpo del Doge in una barca con otto doppieri 
 a seppelire nella sua area a San Giovanni e Paolo, la 
 quale al presente e in quell' andito per mezzo la Chie- 
 suola di Santa Maria della Pace, fatta fare pel Vescovo 
 Gabriello di Bergamo, e un cassone di pietra con queste 
 lettere ; Heicjacet Dominus Marinus Faletro Dux. E 
 nel gran Consiglio non gli 6 stato fatto alcun brieve, ma 
 
 il luogo vacuo con lettere, che dicono cosi: Hie est locus 
 Marini Faletro, decapitati pro criminibus. E pare, che 
 la sua casa fosse data alia Chiesa di Sant' Aposlolo, la 
 qual era quella grande sul ponte. Tamen vedo il con- 
 trario che e pure di Ca Faliero, o che i Faheri la ricu- 
 perassero con danari dalla Chiesa. Ne voglio restar di 
 scrivere alcuni, che volevano, che fosse messo nel suo 
 breve, cioe : Marinus Faletro Dux, temeritas me cepit, 
 panias lui, decapitaius pro criminibus. Altri vi fecerc 
 un distico assai degno al suo merilo, il quale b questo, 
 da cessere posto su la sua sepoltura : 
 
 " Dux Veiietiim jacet heic, patriam qui prodere tentans, 
 Sceplra, decus, censura, perdidii, aique caput.'' 
 
 "Non vocrlio restar di scrivere quelle che ho letto in 
 una cronica, cioe, che Marino Fahero trovandosi Po- 
 desta e Capitano a Treviso, e dovendosi fare una pro- 
 cessione, il vescovo stette troppo a far venire il Corpo 
 di Cristo. II detto Faliero era di tanta superbiae ar- 
 roganza, che diede vm buffetto al prefato Vescovo, per 
 modo ch' egli quasi cadde in terra. Perb fu permesso^ 
 che il Faliero perdette I'intelletto, e fece la mala morte, 
 come ho scritto di sopra." 
 
 ******* 
 
 Cronica di iSanw^o— Muratori S. S. Rerura Italicarum 
 —vol. xxii. 628—639. 
 
 II. 
 
 MCCCLIV. 
 
 MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. 
 
 On the eleventh day of September, in the year of 
 our Lord 1354, Marino Faliero was elected and chosen 
 to be the Duke of the Commonwealth of Venice. He 
 was Count of Valdemarino, in the marches of Treviso, 
 and a Knight and a wealthy man to boot. As soon as 
 the election was completed, it was resolved in the 
 Great Council, that a deputation of twelve should be 
 despatched to Marino Fahero, the Duke, who was then 
 on his way from Rome : for, when he was chosen, he 
 was ambassador at the court of the Holy Father, at 
 Rome, — the Holy Father himself held his court at 
 Avignon. When Messer Marino Faliero, the Duke, 
 was about to land in this city, on the 3th day of Oc- 
 tober, 1354, a thick haze came on, and darkened the 
 air ; and he was enforced to land on the place of Saint 
 Mark, between the two columns, on the spot where 
 evil doers are put to death ; and all thought that this 
 was the worst of tokens. — Nor must I forget to write 
 that which I have read in a chronicle. — When Messer 
 Marino Faliero was podesta and Captain of Treviso, 
 the bishop delayed coming in with the holy sacrament, 
 on a day when a procession was to take place. Now 
 the said Marino Faliero was so very proud and wrath- 
 ful, that he buffeted the bishop, and almost struck him 
 to the ground. And therefore, Heaven allowed Ma- 
 rino Faliero to go out of his right senses, in order that 
 he might bring himself to an evil death. 
 
 When this Duke had held the dukedom during nine 
 months and six days, he being wicked and ambitious, 
 sought to make himself lord of Venice, in the manner 
 which I have read in an ancient chronicle. When the 
 Thursday arrived upon which they were wont to hunt 
 the bull, the bull-hunt took place as usual ; and, ac- 
 cording to the usage of those times, after the bull-hunt 
 had ended, they all proceeded unto the palace of the 
 Duke, and assembled together in one of his halls ; and 
 they disported themselves with the women. And until 
 the first bell tolled they danced, and then a banquet 
 w-as served up. My Lord the Duke paid the expenses 
 thereof, provided he had a Duchess, and after the ban- 
 quet they all returned to their homes. 
 
 Now to this feast there came a certain Ser Michele 
 Steno, a gentleman of poor estate and very young, but 
 crafty and daring, and who loved one of the damsels of 
 the Duchess, Ser Michele stood among the women 
 upon the solajo ; and he behaved indiscreetly, so that 
 my Lord the Duke ordered that he should be kicked off 
 the solajo ; and the esquires of the Duke flung him 
 down from the solajo accordingly. Ser Michele thought 
 that such an affront was beyond all bearing ; and when 
 i the feast was over and all other persons had left the 
 
APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 261 
 
 paiace, he, continuing heated with anger, went to the 
 hall of audience, and wrote certain unseemly words 
 relating to the Duke and the Duchess, upon the chair 
 in which the Duke was used to sit ; for in those days 
 the Duke did not cover his chair with cloth of sendal, 
 but he sat in a chair of wood. Ser Michele wrote 
 thereon : — " JMarin Falier, the husband of the fair wfe; 
 others kiss her, but he keeps lur." In the morning the 
 words were seen, and the matter was considered to be 
 very scandalous ; and the Senate commanded the Av- 
 vogadori of the Commonwealth to proceed therein with 
 the greatest diligence. A largess of great amount was 
 immediately proffered by the Avvogadori, in order to 
 discover who had written these words. And at length 
 it was known that Michele Steno had written the'm. 
 ft was resolved in the Council of iforty that he should 
 be arrested; and he then confessed, that in a fit of vex- 
 ation and spite, occasioned by his being thrust oiT the 
 solajo in the presence of his mistress, he had written 
 the words. Therefore the Council debated thereon. 
 And the Council took his youth into consideration, and 
 that he was a lover, and therefore they adjudged that 
 he should be kept in close confinement during two 
 months, and that afterwards he should be banished from 
 Venice and the state during one year. In consequence 
 of this merciful sentence the Duke became exceedingly 
 wroth, it appearing to him that the Council had not 
 acted in such a manner as was required by the respect 
 due to his ducal dignity ; and he said that they ought 
 to have condemned Ser Michele to be hanged by the 
 neck, or at least to be banished for life. 
 
 Now it was fated that my Lord Duke Marino was to 
 have his head cut off. And as it is necessary, when 
 any effect is to be brought about, that the cause"^of such 
 effect must happen, it therefore came to pass, that on the 
 very day after sentence had been pronounced on Ser 
 Michele Steno, being the first day of Lent, a gentleman 
 of the house of Barbaro, a choleric gentleman, went to 
 the arsenal and required certain things of the masters 
 of the galleys. This he did in the presence of the 
 admiral of the arsenal, and he, hearing the request, 
 answered, — No, it cannot be done. — High words arose 
 between the gentleman and the admiral, and the gen- 
 tleman struck him with his fist just above the eye, and 
 as he happened to have a ring on his finger, the ring 
 cut the admiral and drew blood. The admiral, all 
 bruised and bloody, ran straight to the Duke to com- 
 plain, and with the intent of praying him to inflict so.me 
 heavy punishment upon the gentleman of Ca Barbaro. 
 — " What wouldst thou have me do for thee ?" answered 
 the Duke: — " think upon the shameful gibe which hath 
 been written concerning me ; and think on the manner 
 in which they have punished that ribald Michele Steno, 
 who wrote it; and see how the Council of Forty respect 
 our person." — Upon this the admiral answered ; — 
 "My Lord Duke, if you would wish to make yourself a 
 prince, and to cut all those cuckoldy gentlemen to pieces, 
 I have the heart, if you do but help me, to make you 
 prince of all this state ; and then you may punish them 
 all." — Hearing this, the Duke said ; — " How can such 
 a matter be brought about ?" — and so they discoursed 
 thereon. 
 
 The Duke called for his nephew, Ser Bertuccio Fa- 
 liero, who lived with him in the palace, and they com- 
 muned about this plot. And, without leaving the place, 
 they sent for Phihp Calendaro, a seaman of great re- 
 pute, and for Bertuccio Israello, who was exceedingly 
 wily and cunning. Then taking counsel among them- 
 selves, they agreed to call in some others ; and so for 
 several nights successively, they met with the Duke at 
 home in his palace. And the following men were called 
 in singly : to wit ; — Niccolo Fagiuolo, Giovanni da 
 Corfu, Stefano Fagiano, Niccolo dalle Bende, Niccolo 
 Biondo,and Stefano Trivisano. — It was concerted that 
 sixteen or seventeen leaders should be stationed in va- 
 rious parts of the city, each being at the head of forty 
 men, armed and prepared ; but the followers were not 
 to know their destination. On the appointed day they 
 were to make affrays among themselves here and there, 
 in order that the Duke mi^nt have a pretence for tolling 
 the bells of San Marco : these bells are never rung but 
 by the order of the Duke. And at the sound of the 
 
 bells, these sixteen or seventeen, with their followers, 
 were to come to San Marco, through the streets which 
 open upon the Piazza. And when the noble and lead- 
 ing' citizens should come into the Piazza, to know the 
 cause of the riot, then the conspirators were to cut 
 them in pieces ; and this work being finished, my Lord 
 Marino Faliero the Duke was to be proclaimed the 
 Lord of Venice. Things having been thus settled, 
 they agreed to fiilfil their intent on Wednesday, the 
 fifteenth day of April, in the year 1355. So covertly 
 did they plot, that no one ever dreamt of their machi- 
 nations. 
 
 But the Lord, who hath always helped this most 
 glorious city, and who, loving its righteousness and 
 holiness, hath never forsaken it, inspired one Beltramo 
 Bergamascoto be the cause of bringing the plot to fight 
 m tiie following manner. This Beltramo, who be- 
 longed to Ser Niccolo Lioni of Santo Stefano, had 
 heard a word or two of what was to take place ; and 
 in the before-mentioned month of April, he went 
 to the house of the aforesaid Ser Niccolo Lioni, and 
 told him all the particulars of the plot. Ser Niccolo, 
 when he heard all these things, was struck dead, as it 
 were, with affright. He heard all the particulars, and 
 Behramo prayed him to keep it all secret; and if he 
 told Ser Niccolo, it was in order that Ser Niccolo 
 might stop at home on the fifteenth of April, and thus 
 save his life. Beltramo was going, but Ser Niccolo 
 ordered his servants to lay hands upon him and lock 
 him up. Ser Niccolo then went to the house of Mes- 
 ser Giovanni Gradenigo Nasoni, who afterwards 
 became Duke, and who also lived at Santo Stefano, 
 and told him all. The matter seemed to him to be of 
 the very greatest importance, as indeed it was ; and 
 they two went to the house of Ser Marco Conaro, who 
 lived at San Felice ; and, having spoken with him, they 
 all three then determined to go back to the house of 
 Ser Niccolo Lioni, to examine the said Beltramo ; and 
 having questioned him, and heard all that he had to 
 say, they left him in confinement. And then they all 
 three went into the sacristy of San Salvatore, and sent 
 their men to summon the Councillors, the Avvogadori, 
 the Capi de' Dieci, and those of the Great Council. 
 
 When all were assembled, the whole story was told 
 to them. They were struck dead, as it were, with 
 aiiright. They determined to send for Beltramo. He 
 was'brought iii before them. They examined him, and 
 ascertained that the matter was true ; and, although 
 they were exceedingly troubled, yet they determined 
 upon their measures. And they sent for the Capi de' 
 Quaranta, the Signori di Notte,"the Capi de' Sestieri, 
 and the Cinque della Pace ; and they were ordered to 
 associate to their men other good men and true, who 
 were to proceed to the houses of the ringleaders of the 
 conspiracy and secure them. And they secured the 
 foreman of the arsenal, in order that the conspirators 
 might not do mischief. Towards nightfall they assem- 
 hlexl in the palace. When they were assembled in 
 the palace, they caused the gates of the quadrangle of 
 the palace to be shut. And they sent to the keeper of 
 the bell tower, and forbade the tolling of the bells. AH 
 this was carried into effect. The before-mentioned 
 conspirators were secured, and they were brought to 
 the palace ; and as the Council of Ten saw that the 
 Duke was in the plot, they resolved that twenty of the 
 leading men of the state should be associated to them, 
 for the purpose of consultation and deliberation, but 
 that they should not be allowed to ballot. 
 
 The counsellors were the following: Ser Giovanni 
 Mocenigo, of the Sestiero of San Marco ; Ser Almoro 
 Veniero^da Santa Marina, of the Sestiero of Castello ; 
 Ser Tommaso Viadro, of the Sestiero ofCaneregio; 
 Ser Giovanni Sanudo, of the Sestiero of Santa Croce ; 
 Ser Pietro Trivisano,' of the Sestiero of San Paola ; 
 Ser Pantahone Barbo il Grande, of the Sestiero of Os- 
 soduro. The Avvogadori of the Commonwealth were 
 Zufredo Morosini, and Ser Orio Pasqualigo ; and these 
 did not ballot. Those of the Council of Ten were Ser 
 Giovanni Marcello, Ser Tommaso Sanudo, and Ser 
 Micheletto Dolfino, the heads of the aforesaid Council 
 of Ten. Ser Luca da Legge, and Ser Pietro da Mosto, 
 inquisitors of the aforesaid Council. And Ser Marco 
 
262 
 
 APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 Polani, Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo, 
 and Ser Nicoletto Trivisano, of Sant' Angelo. 
 
 Late in the night, just before the dawning, they 
 chose a junta of twenty noblemen of Venice from 
 among the wisest and the worthiest and the oldest. 
 They were to give council, but not to ballot. And they 
 would not admit any one of Ca Fahero. And Niccolo 
 Faliero, and another Niccolo Faliero, of San Tommaso, 
 were expelled from the Council, because they belonged 
 to the family of the Doge. And this resolution of 
 creating the' junta of twenty was much praised 
 throughout the state. The following were the mem- 
 bers of the junta of twenty: — Ser Marco Giustiniani, 
 Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Erizzo, Procuratore, Ser Lio- 
 nardo Giustiniani, Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Contarini, 
 Ser Simone Dandolo, Ser Niccolo Volpe, Ser Giovan- 
 ni Loredano, Ser Marco Diedo, Ser Giovanni Graden- 
 igo, Ser Andrea Cornaro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco So- 
 ranzo, Ser Rinieri da Mosto, Ser Gazano Marcello, 
 Ser Marino Morosini, Ser Stefano Belegno, Ser Nic- 
 colo Lioni, Ser Filippo Orio, Ser Marco Trivisano, 
 Ser Jacopo Bragadino, Ser Giovanni Foscarina. 
 
 These twenty were accordingly called into the Coun- 
 cil of Ten ; and they sent for my Lord Marino Faliero 
 the Duke ; and my Lord Marino was then consorting 
 in the palace with people of great estate, gentlemen, 
 and other good men, none of whom knew yet how the 
 fact stood. 
 
 At the same time Bertuccio Israello, who, as one of 
 the ringleaders, was to head the conspirators in Santa 
 Croce, was arrested and bound, and brought before the 
 Council. Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto di Rosa, Nico- 
 letto Alberto, and the Guardiaga, were also taken to- 
 gether, with several seamen, and people of various 
 ranks. These were examined, and the truth of the plot 
 was ascertained. 
 
 On the sixteenth of April, judgment was given in the 
 Council of Ten, that Filippo Calendaro an^d Bertuccio 
 Israello should be hanged upon the red yjillars of the 
 balcony of the palace, from which the Duke is wont to 
 look at the bull-hunt : and they were hanged with gags 
 in their mouths. 
 
 The next day the following were condemned : — Nic- 
 colo Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Blondo, Nicoletto Doro, Mar- 
 co Giuda, Jacomello Dagolino, Nicoletto Fidele, the 
 son of PhiUp Calendaro, Marco Torello, called Israello, 
 Stefano Trivisano, the money-changer of Santa Mar- 
 gherita, and Antonio dalle Bende. These were all 
 taken at Chiozza, for they were endeavouring to escape. 
 Afterwards, by virtue of the sentence which w-as passed 
 upon them in'the Council of Ten, they were hanged on 
 successive days, some singly and some in couples', upon 
 the columns of the palace, beginning from the red col- 
 umns, and so going onwards towards the canal. And 
 other prisoners were discharged, because, although they 
 had been involved in the conspiracy, yet they had not 
 assisted in it : for they were given to understand by 
 some of the heads of the plot, that they were to come 
 armed and prepared for the service of the state, and 
 in order to secure certain criminals, and they knew 
 nothing else. Nicoletto Alberto, the Guardiaga, and 
 Bartolommeo Ciriuola and his son, and several "others, 
 who were not guilty, were discharged. 
 
 On Friday, the sixteenth day of April, judgment 
 was also given, in the aforesaid Council of TeiT, that 
 my Lord Marino Fahero, the Duke, should have his 
 head cut off, and that the execution should be done on 
 the landing-place of the stone staircase, where the 
 Dukes take their oath when they first enter the palace. 
 On the following day, the seventeenth of April, the 
 doors of the palace being shut, the Duke had his head 
 cut off, about the hour ofnoon. And the cap of estate 
 was taken from the Duke's head before he came down 
 stairs. When the execution was over, it is said that 
 one of the Council of Ten went to the columns of the 
 palace over against the place of St. Mark, and that he 
 showed the bloody sword unto the people, crying out 
 with a loud voice — "The terrible doom hath fallen 
 upon the traitor !" — and the doors were opened, and 
 the people all rushed in, to see the corpse of the Duke 
 who had been beheaded. 
 
 It must be known, that Ser Giovanni Sanudo, the 
 
 councillor, was not present when the aforesaid sentence 
 was pronounced ; because he Avas unwell and remained 
 at home. So that only fourteen balloted ; that is to 
 say, f\ve councillors, and nine of the Council of Ten. 
 And it was adjudged, that all the lands and chattels of 
 the Duke, as well as of the other traitors, should be 
 forfeited to the state. And, as a grace to the Duke, it 
 was resolved in the Council of Ten, that he should be 
 allowed to dispose of two thousand ducats out of his 
 own property. And it was resolved, that all the coun- 
 cillors and all the Avvogadori of the commonwealth, 
 those of the Council of Ten, and the members of the 
 junta who had assisted in passing sentence on the 
 Duke and the other traitors, should have the privilege 
 of carrying arms both by day and by night in Venice, 
 and from Grado to Cavazere. And they were also to 
 be allowed two footmen carrying arms, the aforesaid 
 ibotraen living and boarding with them in their own 
 houses. And he who did not keep tw'o footmen might 
 transfer the privilege to his sons or his brothers ; but 
 only to two. Permission of carrying arms was also 
 granted to the four Notaries of the Chancery, that is 
 to say, of the Supreme Court, who took the deposi- 
 tions ; and they were Amedio, Nicoletto di Lorino, 
 Steifanello, and Pietro de ComposteUi, the secretaries 
 of the Signori di Notte. 
 
 After the traitors had been hanged, and the Duke 
 had his head cut off, the state remained in great 
 tranquillity and peace. And, as I have read in a chron- 
 icle, the corpse of the Duke was removed in a barge, 
 with eight torches, to his tomb in the church of San 
 Giovanni e Paolo, where it was buried. The tomb is 
 novv in that aisle in the middle of the little church of 
 Santa Maria della Pace, which was built by Bishop 
 Gabriel of Bergamo. It is a coffin of stone, with these 
 words engraved thereon : " Heicjacet Dominus Mari- 
 nua Faletro Dux^ — And they did not paint his portrait 
 in the hall of the Great Council: — But in the place 
 where it ought to have been, you see these words : — 
 '■^ Hie est locuR Marini Faletro^ decapitati pro aiminihus''' 
 — and it is thought that his house was granted to the 
 church of Sant' Apostolo ; it was that great one near 
 the bridge. Yet this could not be the case, or else the 
 family bought it back from the church ; for it still be- 
 longs to Ca Faliero. I must not refrain from noting, 
 that some w-ished to write the following words in the 
 place where his portrait ought to have been, as afore- 
 said : — " Marinus Faletro Dux, temeritas me cepit, 
 poenas lui, decapitaius pro criminibus.'^ — Others, also, 
 indited a couplet, worthy of being inscribed upon his 
 tomb. 
 
 " Dux Venetum jacet heic, patriam quiprodere teolans, 
 Sceptra, decus, censum, perdidit, atque caput." 
 [lam obliged for this excellent translation of the old chronicle to Mr. 
 F. Cohen, to whom the reader will find himself indebted for a version 
 that 1 could not myself (though after many years' intercourse with Ital- 
 ian,) have given by any means so purely and so faithfully.] 
 
 m. 
 
 " Al giovane Doge Andrea Dandolo succedette un 
 vecchio, il quale tardi si pose al timone della repubblica, 
 ma sempre prima di quel, che facea d'uopo a lui, ed alia 
 patria : egli e Marino Fahero personnaggio a me noto 
 per antica dimestichezza. Falsa era 1' opinione intorno 
 a lui, giacche egli si mostr5 fornito piu di coragoio 
 che di senno. Non pago della prima dignita, entr5 
 con sinistro piede nel pubblico Palazzo : imperciocch^ 
 questo Doge dei Veneti, magistrato sacro in tuiti i se- 
 coli, che dagU antichi fu sempre venerate qual nume in 
 quella cittaT ahr' jeri fu decollato nel vestibolo dell' 
 istesso Palazzo. Discorrerei fin dal principio le cause 
 di un tale evento, se cosi vario, ed ambiguo non ne 
 fosse il grido. Nessuno perb lo scusa, tutti afTermano, 
 che egh abbia voluto cangiar qualche cosa nell' ordine 
 della repubbhca a lui tramandato dai maggiori. Che 
 desiderava egli di piu ? lo son d'avviso, che egli abbia 
 ottenuto ci5, che non si concedette a nessun altro : 
 mentre aderapiva gh ufficj di legato {iresso il Pontefice, 
 e sulle rive del Rodano tratava la pace, che io prima 
 di lui avevo indarno tentato di conchiudere, gh fu con- 
 ferito r onore del Ducato, che nb chiedeva, n^ s' aspet- 
 
APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 263 
 
 tava. Tomato in patria, pensb a quello, cui nessuno 
 non pose mente giammai, e softri quello che a niuno 
 accade mai de sofFrire : giacche in quel luogo celeber- 
 rimo, e chiarissimo, e bellissimo infra tutti quelli, che 
 io vidi, ove i suoi antenati avevano ricevuti grandissimi 
 onori in mezzo alle pompe trionfali, ivi egli fu Irascina- 
 to in modo servile, e spogliato delle insegne ducali, 
 perdette la testa, e macchib col proprio sangue le soglie 
 del tempio, 1' atrio del Palazzo, e le scale marmoree 
 rendute spesse volte illustri o dalle solenni festivita, o 
 dalle ostili spoglie. Ho notato il luogo, ora noto il 
 tempo: e P anno delNatale di Cristo 1355, fu il giorno 
 18 d' Aprile. Si alto e il grido sparso, che se alcuno 
 esaminera la disciplina, e le costumanze di quella citta, 
 e quanto mutamento di cose venga minacciato dalla 
 morte di un sol uomo (quantunqu'e molti altri, come 
 narrano, essendo complici, o subirono 1' istesso suppli- 
 cio, o lo aspettano) si accorgera, che nulla di piu grand e 
 cavvenne ai nostri tempi nell Italia. Tu forse qui 
 attendi il mio giudizio ; assolvo il popolo, se credere alia 
 fama, bench6 abbia potuto e castigare piii mitamente, 
 e con maggior dolcezza vendicare il suo dolore: ma 
 non cosi facilmente, si modera un' ira giusta insieme, e 
 grande in un numeroso popolo principalmente, nel 
 quale il precipitoso, ed ins labile volgo aguzza gli stimoli 
 dell' iracondia con rapidi, e sconsighati clamori. Com- 
 patisco, e nell' istesso tempo mi adiro con quell' infelice 
 uomo, il quale adorno di un' insolito onore, non so che 
 cosa si volesse negli estremi anni della sua vita: la 
 calamita di lui diviene sempre piu grave, perch6 dalla 
 sentenza contra di esso promulgata aperira, che egli fu 
 non solo -misero, ma insano, e demente, e che con vane 
 arti si usurpb per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza. 
 Ammoniscoi Dogi, i quali gli succederanno, che questo 
 6 un esempio posto innanzi ai loro occhi, quale specchio 
 nel quale veggano di essere non Signori, ma Duci, 
 anzi nemmenoDuci, maonorati servi della Repubbhca. 
 Tu sta sano ; e giacch6 fluttuano le pubhcche cose, 
 sforziamoci di governar modestissimamente i privati 
 nostri affari. " 
 
 Levati. Viaggi di Petrarca, vol. iv. p. 323. 
 
 The above Italian translation from the Latin epistles 
 of Petrarch, proves — 
 
 Istly, That Marino Faliero was a personal friend of 
 Petrarch's : " antica dimestichezza," old intimacy, is the 
 phrase of the poet. 
 
 2dly, That Petrarch thought that he had more cou- 
 rage than conduct, " piu di coraggio che di senno." 
 
 3dly, That there was some jealousy on the part of 
 Petrarch ; for he says that Marino Faliero was treating 
 of the peace which he himself had " vainly attempted 
 to conclude." 
 
 4thly, That the honour of the dukedom was con- 
 ferred upon him, which he neither sought nor expected, 
 " che n6 chiedeva nes' aspettava," and which had never 
 been granted to any other in like circumstances, "cib 
 che non si concedette a nessun altro ;" " proof of the 
 high esteem in which he must have been held." 
 
 5thly, That he had a reputation for wisdom, only 
 forfeited by the last enterprise of his life, " si surpo 
 per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza." — "He had 
 usurped for so many years a false fame of wisdom ;" 
 rather a difficult task, I should think. People are gene- 
 rally found out before eighty years of age, at least in a 
 republic. 
 
 From these, and the other historical notes which I 
 have collected, it may be inferred that Marino Faliero 
 possessed many of the qualities, but not the success of 
 a hero ; and that his passions were too violent. The 
 paltry and ignorant account of Dr. Moore falls to the 
 ground. Petrarch says, " that there had been no 
 greater event in his times," {our times Uterally,) "nostri 
 tempi," in Italy. He also differs from the historian in 
 saying that Faliero was " on the banks of the Rhone" 
 instead of at Rome, when elected ; the other accounts 
 say, that the deputation of the Venetian senate met 
 him at Ravenna. How this may have been, it is not 
 for me to decide, and is of no great importance. Had 
 the man succeeded, he would have changed the face of 
 Venice, and perhaps of Italy. As it is, what are they 
 both? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Extrait de Vouvrage. — Hisioire de la Republique de 
 Venise, par P. Daru, ds VAcademie Francaise, 
 torn. v. liv. XXXV. p. 95, &c. Edition de Paris, 
 MDCCCXIX. 
 
 "A CES attaques si frequentes que le gouvernement 
 dirigeait contre le clerge, a. ces luttes etabUes entre les 
 differens corps constitues, a ces entreprises de la masse 
 de la noblesse centre les depositaires du pouvoir, a 
 toutes ces propositions d'innuvation qui se terminaient 
 toujours par des coups d'etat ; il faut ajouter une autre 
 cause, non moins propre a propager le mepris des an- 
 ciennes doctrines, c^ttait Vexcls de la corruption. 
 
 "Cette liberte de mosurs, qu'on avait long-temps 
 vantee comme le charme principal de la societe de 
 Venise, etait devenue un desordre scandaleux ; le lien 
 du mariage etait moins sacre dans ce pays catholique 
 que dans ceux ou les lois civiles et religieuses per- 
 mettent de le dissoudre. Faute de pouvoir rompre le 
 contrat, on supposait qu'il n'avait jamais existe, et les 
 moyens de nulhte, allegues avec impudeur par les 
 epoux, etaient admis avec la meme facilite par des ma- 
 gistrats et par des pretres egalement corrompus. Ces 
 divorces colores d'un autre nom devinrent si frequents, 
 que I'acte le plus important de la societe civile se trouva 
 de la competence d'un tribunal d'exception, et que ce 
 fut a la police de reprimer le scandale. Le conseil des 
 dix ordonna, en 1782, que toute femme qui intenterait 
 une demande en dissolution de mariage serait obligee 
 d'en attendre le jugement dans un couvent que le tri- 
 bunal designerait.* Bientot aprfes il evoqua devant lui 
 toutes les causes de cette nature.j Get eimpietement 
 sur la jurisdiction ecclesiastique ayant occasionne des 
 reclamations de la part de la cour de Rome, le conseil 
 se reserva le droit de debouter les epoux de leur de- 
 ande ; et consentit h, la renvoyer devant I'officialite, 
 toutes les foies qu'il ne I'aurait pas rejetee.J 
 
 " II y eut un moment ou sans doute le renversement 
 des fortunes, la perte des jeunes gens, les discordes do- 
 mestiques, determinerent le gouvernement a s'ecarter 
 des maximes qu'il s'etait faites sur la liberte de mceurs 
 qu'il permettait k ses sujets: on chassade Venise toutes 
 les courtisanes. Mais leur absence ne suffisait pas pour 
 ramener aux bonnes mceurs toute une population elevee 
 dans la plus honteuse licence. Le desordre penetra 
 dans I'interieur des families, dans les cloitres ; et I'on se 
 crut oblige de rappeler, d'indemniser meme§ des femmes 
 qui surprenaient quelquefois d'importants secrets, et 
 qu'on pouvait employer utilement a ruiner des hommes 
 que leur fortune aurait pu rendre dangereux. Depuis, 
 la licence est toujours allee croissant, et Ton a vu non 
 eulement des meres trafiquer de la virginite de leurs 
 filles, mais la vendre par un contrat, dont I'authenticite 
 etait garantie par la signature d'un officier public, et 
 I'execution raise sous la protection des lois.|| 
 
 "Les parloirs des convents oil etaient renfermees les 
 filles nobles, les maisons des courtisanes, quoique la 
 police y entretint soigneusement un grand nombre de 
 surveillans, etaient les seuls points de reunion de la so- 
 ciete de Venise, et dans ces deux endroits si divers on 
 etait egalement libre. La musique, les collations, la 
 anterie, n'etaient pas plus interdites dans les parloirs 
 que dans les casins. II y avait un grand nombre de 
 casins destines aux reunions publiques, oil le jeu etait 
 la principale occupation de la societe. C'etait un sin- 
 gulier spectacle de voir autour d'une table des personnes 
 des deux sexes en masque, et de graves personnages en 
 robe de magistrature, implorant le hasard, passant des 
 angoisses du desespoir aux illusions de I'esperance, et 
 cela sans proferer une parole. 
 
 "Les riches avaient des casins particuliers ; mais ils 
 y vivaient avec myst^re ; leurs femmes delaissees trou- 
 vaient un dedommagement dans la liberte dont elles 
 
 Correspondance de M. Schlick, charge d'affaires de France, dS- 
 pSche du 24 Aofil, 1782. 
 
 t Ibid. Dfepgchedu 31 Aout. 
 
 X Ibid. Dfepgcbe du 3 Septembre, 1785. 
 
 § Le decrel de rappel les d^sigaait sous le nom de nostre benemerite 
 merelrici. On leur assigna un fonds et des maisons appelfies Case rani- 
 pane, d'od vient la denomination injurieuse de Carampane. 
 
 II Mayer, Description de Venise, torn. ii. et M. Archenholtz, Tableau 
 de Vltalie, torn, i, chap. 2. 
 
264 
 
 APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 
 
 jouissaient ; la corruption des moeurs les avail privees 
 de tout leur empire : on vient de parcourir toute I'his 
 toire de Venise, et on ne les a pas vues une seule fois 
 eiercer la moindre influence." 
 
 V. 
 
 Extract from the History of the Republic of Venice, by 
 P. Daru, Member of the Preiich Academy, vol. v. b. 
 xxxiv. p. 95, &c. Paris Edit. 1819. 
 
 "To these attacks, so frequently pointed by the 
 government against the clergy, — to the continual strug' 
 gles between the ditferent constituted bodies, — to these 
 enterprises carried on by the mass of the nobles against 
 the depositaries of power, — to all those projects of inno' 
 vation, which always ended by a stroke of state policy 
 we must add a cause not less fitted to spread contempt 
 for ancient doctrines ; this was the excess of corrup 
 tion. 
 
 "That freedom of manners which had been long 
 boasted of as the principal charm of Venetian society, 
 had degenerated into scandalous licentiousness : the tie 
 of marriage was less sacred in that Catholic country, 
 than among those nations where the laws and reUgion 
 admit of its being dissolved. Because tliey could not 
 break the contract, they feigned that it had not existed : 
 and the ground of nullity, immodestly alleged by the 
 married pair, was admitted with equal facility by priests 
 and magistrates, alike corrupt. These divorces, veiled 
 under another name, became so frequent, that the most 
 important act of civil society was discovered to be 
 amenable to a tribunal of exceptions ; and to restrain 
 the open scandal of such proceedings became the office 
 of the pohce. la 1782 the Council of Ten decreed, that 
 every woman who should sue for a dissolution of her 
 marriage should be compelled to await the decision of 
 the judges in some convent, to be named by the court.* 
 Soon afterwards the same council summoned all causes 
 of that nature before itself j This infringement on 
 ecclesiastical jurisdiction ha^ing occasioned some re^ 
 monstrance from Rome, the council retained only the 
 right of rejecting the petition of the married persons, 
 and consented to refer such causes to the holy office as 
 it should not previously have rejected.:]: 
 
 " There was a moment in which, doubtless, the de 
 struction of private fortunes, the ruin of youth, the do- 
 mestic discord occasioned by these abuses, determined 
 the government to depart from its established maxims 
 concerning the freedom of manners allowed the subject. 
 All the courtesans were banished from Venice ; but their 
 absence w^as not enough to reclaim and bring back 
 good morals to a whole people brought up in the most 
 scandalous licentiousness. Depravify reached the verv 
 bosoms of private families, and even into the cloiste/; 
 and they found themselves obliged to recall, and even 
 (o indemnify§ women who sometimes gained posses- 
 sion of important secrets, and who might be usefully 
 employed in the ruin of men whose fortunes mit^ht 
 have rendered them dangerous. Since that time licen- 
 tiousness has gone on increasing, and we have seen 
 mothers, not only selling the innocence of their daugh- 
 ters, but selling it by a contract, authenticated by the 
 simature of a public officer, and the performance of 
 which was secured by the protection of the laws.|| 
 
 "The parlours of the convents of noble ladies, and 
 the houses of the courtesans, though the police carefully 
 kept up a number of spies about them, were the only 
 assemblies for society in Venice ; and in these two 
 places, so different from each other, there was equal 
 freedom. Music, collations, gallantry, were not more 
 forbidden in the parlours than at the casinos. There 
 were a number of casinos for the purpose of public 
 assembUes, where gaming was the principal pursuit of 
 
 • Correspondence of M. Scblick, French charge d'affaires. Despatch 
 of 24th August, 1782. 
 
 1 Ibid. Despatch, 31st August. 
 
 I Ibid. Despatch, 3d September, 1785. 
 
 § The decree for their recall designates them as nostre benemerite 
 meretnci . a fund and some houses called Case rampane were assigned 
 to them ; hence the opprobrious appellation of Carampane. 
 
 J, Mayer, Description of Venice, vol. u. and M. ArchenhoUz, Picture 
 of Italy, vol. 1. chap. 2. 
 
 the company. It was a strange sight to see persons of 
 either sex masked, or grave personages in their magis- 
 terial robes, round a table, invoking chance, and giving 
 way at one instant to the agonies of despair, at the next 
 to the illusions of hope, and that without uttering a 
 single w^ord. 
 
 " The rich had private casinos, but they lived incog- 
 nito in them ; and the wives whom they abandoned 
 found compensation in the liberty they enjoyed. The 
 corruption of morals had deprived them of their em- 
 pire. We have just reviewed the whole history of 
 Venice, and we have not once seen them exercise the 
 shghtest influence." 
 
 From the present decay and degeneracy of Venice 
 under the barbarians, there are some honourable indi- 
 vidual exceptions. There is Pasqualigo, the last, and 
 alas ! posthumous son of the marriage of the Doges with 
 the Adriatic, who fought his frigate with far greater 
 gallantry than any of his French coadjutors in the me- 
 morable action off Lissa. I came home in the squadron 
 with the prizes in 1811, and recollect to have heard Sir 
 William Hoste, and the other officers engaged in that 
 glorious conflict, speak in the highest terms of Pasqua- 
 hgo's behaviour. There is the Abbate Morelh. There 
 is Alvise Querini, who, after a long and honourable 
 diplomatic career, finds some consolation for the wrongs 
 of his country, in the pursuits of hterature, with his 
 nephew, Vittor Benzon, the son of the celebrated beauty, 
 the heroine of "La Biondina in Gondoletta." There 
 are the patrician poet Morosini, and the poet Lamberti, 
 the author of the " Biondina,'' &c. and many other 
 estimable productions : and, not least in an English- 
 man's estimation, Madame Michelli, the translator of 
 Shakspeare. There are the young Dandolo, and the 
 improvvisatore Carrer, and Giuseppe Albrizzi, the ac- 
 complished son of an accomplished mother. There is 
 Aglietti, and, were there nothing else, there is the im- 
 mortality of Canova. Ciccgnara, Mustoxithi, Bucati, 
 &c. &c. I do not reckon, because the one is a Greek, 
 and the others were born at least a hundred miles off, 
 which, throughout Italy, constitutes, if not a foreigner^ 
 at least a stranger, {forestiere. ) 
 
 VI. 
 
 Eodrait de Vouvrage — Histoire litter aire d? Italic, par 
 P. L. Ginguene, torn. ix. chap, xxxvi. p. 144. Edi- 
 tion de Paris, MDCCCXIX. 
 
 "Il y a une prediction fort singuliere sur Venise : ' Si 
 tu ne changes pas,' dit-elle a cette repubUque alti^re, ' ta 
 liberte, qui deja s'enfuit, ne comptera pas un siecle apr^s 
 la milUeme annee.' 
 
 "En faisant remonter I'epoque de la liberte Veni- 
 tienne jusqu'a Tetablissement du gouvernement sous le- 
 quel la republique a fleuri, on trouvera que I'election du 
 premier Doge date de 697, et si Ton y ajoute un siecle 
 apres mille, c'est-a-dire onze cents ans, on trouvera 
 encore que le sens de la prediction est litteralemenl 
 celui-ci : 'Ta liberte ne comptera pas jusqu'a I'an 1797.' 
 Rappelez-vous maintenant que Venise a cesse d'etre 
 hbre en Tan cmq de la Republique francaise, ou en 
 1799 ; vous verrez qu'il n'y eut jamais de prediction plus 
 precise et plus ponctuellement suivie de I'effet. Vous 
 noterez done comme tres remarquables ces trois vers de 
 I'Alamani, adresses a Venise, que personne pourtant 
 n'a remarques : 
 
 ' Se non cangi pensler, I'un secol solo 
 Non contera sopra '1 miUesimo anno 
 Tua liberta, che va. fuggendo a volo.' 
 
 Bien des propheties ont passe pour telles, et bien dea 
 gens ont ete appeles prophetes a meilleur marche." 
 
 Vll. 
 
 Extract from the Literary History of Italy, by P. L. 
 Ginguene, vol. ix. p. 144. Paris Edit. 1819. 
 
 " There is one very singular prophecy concerning 
 Venice : 'If thou dost not change,' it says to that proud 
 republic, ' thy liberty, which is already on the wing, wil] 
 not reckon a century more than the thousandth year.' 
 
SARD ANAPA LUS. 
 
 265 
 
 "If we carry back the epocha of Venetian freedom to 
 the establishment of the government under which the re- 
 public flourished, we shall find that the date of the elec- 
 tion of the first Doge is 697 ; and if we add one century 
 to a thousand, that is, eleven hundred years, v/e shall 
 find the sense of the prediction to be literally this : ' Thy 
 liberty will not last till 1797.' Recollect that Venice 
 ceased to be free in the year 1796, the fifth year of the 
 French republic ; and you will perceive that there never 
 was prediction more pointed, or more exactly followed 
 by the event. You will, therefore, note as very remark- 
 able the three lines of Alanianni, addressed to Venice, 
 which, however, no one has pointed out : 
 
 ' Se non cangi pensier, I'lni secol solo 
 Noa centers, sopra, 'I millesimo anno 
 Tua liberta, che va fuggendo a volo.' 
 
 Many prophecies have passed for such, and many men 
 have been called prophets for much less." 
 
 If the Doge's prophecy seem remarkable, look to the above, made by 
 Alamanni two hundred and seventy years ago. 
 
 The author of" Sketches Descriptive of Italy," etc. 
 one of the hundred tours lately published, is extremely 
 anxious to disclaim a possible charge of plagiarism 
 from " Childe Harold" and " Beppo. He adds, that 
 still less could this presumed coincidence arise from 
 " my conversation," as he had repeatedly declined an 
 introduction to me while in Italy. 
 
 Who this person may be, I know not ; but he must 
 have been deceived by all or any of those who " repeat- 
 edly offered to introduce" him, as I have invariably 
 refused to receive any English with whom I was not 
 previously acquainted, even when they had letters 
 from England. If the whole assertion is not an inven- 
 tion, I request this person not to sit down with the 
 
 notion that he could have been introduced, since there 
 has been nothing I have so carefidly avoided as any 
 kind of intercourse with his countrymen, — excepting 
 the very few who were a considerable time resident 
 in Venice, or had been of my previous acquaintance. 
 Whoever made him any such offer was possessed of 
 impudence equal to that of making such an assertion 
 without having had it. The fact is, that I hold in utter 
 abhorrence any contact with the travelling English, as 
 my friend the Consul-Gencral Hoppner, and the Coun- 
 tess Benzoni, (in whose house the Conversazione most- 
 ly frequented by them is held,) could amply testify, 
 wero it worth while. I was persecuted by these tourists 
 even to my riding-ground at Lido, and reduced to the 
 most disagreeable circuits to avoid them. At Madame 
 Benzoni's I repeatedly refused to be introduced to 
 them ; — of a thousand such presentations pressed upon 
 me, I accepted two, and both were to Irish women. 
 
 I shoulcl hardly have descended ta speak of such 
 trifles publicly, if the impudence of this "sketcher" 
 had not forced me to a refutation of a disingenuous 
 and gratuitously impertinent assertion ; — so meant to 
 be, for what could it import to the reader to b.e told 
 that the author " had repeatedly declined an introduc- 
 tion," even had it been true, wnich, for the reasons I 
 have above given, is scarcely possible. Except Lords 
 Lansdowne, Jersey, and Lauderdale : Messrs. Scott, 
 Hammond, Sir Hurnpliry Davy, the late M. Lewis, W. 
 Bankes, Mr. Hoppner, Thomas Moore, Lord Kinnaird, 
 his brother, Mr. Joy, and Mr. Hobhouse, I do not re- 
 collect to have exchanged a word with anotlier English- 
 man since I left their country ; and almost all these I 
 had known before. The others — and God knows there 
 were some hundreds — who bored me with letters or vis- 
 its, I refused to have any communication with, and shall 
 be proud and happy when that wish becomes mutual. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE 
 
 STRANGER PRESUMES TO OFFER THE HOMAGE OF A LITERARY VASSAL TO HIS I.I EGE LORD, 
 THE FIRST OF EXISTING WRITERS, WflO HAS CREATED THE LITERATURE 
 OF HIS OWN COUNTRY, AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OF EUROPE. 
 THE UNWORTHY PRODUCTION WHICH THE 'AUTHOR VENTURES TO INSCRIBE TO HIM IS BNTITLKD 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In publishing the following Tragedies I have only to 
 repeat that they were not composed with the most 
 remote view to the stage. 
 
 On the attempt made by the Managers in a former 
 instance, the public opinion has been already expressed. 
 
 With regard to my own private feelings, as it seems 
 that they are to stand for nothing, I shall say nothing. 
 
 For the historical foundation of the following compo- 
 sitions, the reader is referred to the Notes. 
 
 The Author has in one instance attempted to preserve, 
 and in the other to approach the " unities ;" conceiving 
 that with any very distant departure from them, there 
 may be poetry, but can be no drama. He is aware of 
 the unpopularity of this notion in present English litera- '' 
 ture ; but it is not a system of his own, being merely an 
 opinion, which, not very long ago, was the law of literature j 
 21 
 
 throughout the world, and is still so in the more civilized 
 parts of it. But " Nous avons change tout cela," and are 
 reaping the advantages of the change. The writer is 
 far from conceiving that any thing he can adduce by per- 
 sonal precept or example can at all approach his regular, 
 or even irregular predecessors: he is merely giving a 
 reason why he preferred the more regular formation of a 
 structure, however feeble, to an entire abandonment of all 
 rules whatsoever. Where he has failed, the failure is in 
 the architect, — and not in the art. 
 
 In this tragedy it has been my intention to follow the 
 account of Diodorus Siculus ; reducing it, however, to 
 such dramatic regularity as I best could, and trying to 
 approach the unities. I therefore suppose the rebellion 
 to explode and succeed in one day by a sudden conspira- 
 cy instead oi the long war of the liistory. 
 
266 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 MEN. 
 Sardanapalus, King of Nineveh and Assyria, <^c. 
 Arbaces, the Mede who aspired to the Throne. 
 Beleses, a Chaldean and Soothsayer. 
 Salemenes, theKing^s Brother-in-law. 
 AltadAj an Assyrian Officer of the Palace. 
 Pania. 
 Zames. 
 Sfero. 
 Bale A. 
 
 WOMEN 
 ZarixAj the Queen. 
 MvRRHA, an Ionian female Slave, and the Favourite of 
 
 Sardanapalus. 
 Women composing the Harem of Sardanapalus, 
 
 Guards, Attendants, Chaldean Priests, Medes, 
 
 Scene — a Hall in tlie Royal Palace of Nineveh. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — A Hall in tJie Palace. 
 Salemenes, (solus.) He hath wrong'd his queen, but 
 still he is her lord ; 
 He hath wrong'd my sister, still he is my brother ; 
 He hath wrong'd his people, still he is their sovereign, 
 And I must be his friend as well as subject: 
 He must not perish thus. I will not see 
 The blood of Nimrod and Semiramis 
 Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years 
 Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale ; 
 He must be roused. In his effeminate heart 
 There is a careless courage which corruption 
 Has not all quench'd, and latent energies, 
 Repress'd by circumstance, but not destroy'd — 
 Steep'd, but not drown'd, in deep voluptuousness. 
 If born a peasant, he had been a man 
 To have reach'd an empire ; to an empire bom, 
 He will bequeath none ;. nothing but a name, 
 Wliich his sons ■s\nll not prize in heritage : — 
 Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 
 His sloth and shame, by only being that 
 Which he should be, as easily as the thing 
 He should not be and is. Were it less toil 
 To sway his nations than consume his life ? 
 To head an army than to rule a harem ? 
 He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul, 
 And saps liis goodly strength, in toils which yield not 
 Health hke the chase, nor glory like the war — 
 He must be roused. Alas ! there is no sound 
 
 [Sound of soft music heard from within. 
 To rouse him short of thunder. Hark ! the lute, 
 The lyre, the timbrel ; the lascivious tinklings 
 Of lulling instruments, the softening voices 
 Of women, and of beings less than Avomen, 
 Must chime in to the echo of his revel, 
 While the great king of all we know of earth 
 Lolls crown'd with roses, and his diadem 
 Lies negligently by to be caught up 
 By the first manly hand which dares to snatch it 
 Lo, where they come ! already I perceive 
 The reeking odours of the perfumed trains, 
 And see the bright gems of the glittering girls. 
 At once his chorus and his council, flash 
 Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels, 
 As femininely garb'd, and scarce less female, 
 The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen. 
 He comes ! Shall I await him? yes, and front him, 
 And tell him what all good men tell each other. 
 Speaking of him and his. They come, the slaves, 
 Led by the monarch Bubject to his slaves. 
 
 Scene II.— Enter Sardanapalus effeminately dressed, 
 his head crowned with flowers, and his robe negligently 
 flowing, attended by a train of women and young slaves. 
 
 Sar. {speaking to some of his attendants.) Let the 
 pavilion over the Euphrates 
 Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish'd forth 
 For an especial banquet; at the hour 
 Of midnight we will sup there : see naught wanting, 
 And bid die gallery be prepared. There is 
 A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear river : 
 We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who deign 
 To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, 
 We '11 meet again in that the sweetest hour 
 When we shall gather like the stars above us, 
 And you will form a heaven as bright as theirs ; 
 Till then, let each be mistress of her time. 
 And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha, ^ choose. 
 Wilt thou along with them or me ? 
 
 Myr. My lord 
 
 Sar. My lord, my life ! why answerest thou so coldly ? 
 It is the curse of lungs to be so answer'd. 
 Rule thy own hours, thou rulestmine — say, wouldst tliou 
 Accompany our guests, or charm away 
 The moments from me? 
 
 Myr. The king's choice is mine. 
 
 Sar. I pray thee say not so : my chiefest joy 
 7s to contribute to thine every wish. 
 I do not dare to breathe my own desire, 
 Lest it should clash v.ith thine ; for thou art still 
 Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others. 
 
 Myr. I would remain : I have no happiness 
 Save in beholding thine ; yet 
 
 Sar. Yet ! what yet ? 
 
 Thy ouTi sweet will shall be the only barrier 
 Which ever rises betv.ixt. thee and me. 
 
 Myr. I think the present is the wonted hour 
 Of council \ it were better I retire. 
 
 Sal. (comes foncard and says,) The Ionian slave says 
 well ; let her retire. 
 
 Sar. "Who answers? How now, brother? 
 
 Scd. The quecn^s brother. 
 
 And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 
 
 Sar. (addressing his train.) As I have said, let all 
 dispose their hours 
 Till midnight, when again we pray your presence. 
 
 [The court retiring. 
 (To MvRRHA, who is going.) Myrrha! I thought thou 
 wouldst remain. 
 
 3Iyr. Great king. 
 
 Thou didst not say so. 
 
 Sar. But thou lookedst it ; 
 
 I know each glance of those Ionic eyes, 
 Which said thou wouldst not leave me. 
 
 3Iyr. Sire I your brother 
 
 Sal. His consort's brother, minion of Ionia ! 
 How darest thou name 7ne and not blush ? 
 
 Sar. Not blush ! 
 
 Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make her crimson 
 Like to the dying day on Caucasus, 
 Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows, 
 And then reproach her with thine o^vn cold blindness. 
 Which will not see it. What, in tears, my Myrrha ? 
 
 Sal. Let them flow on ; she weeps for more than one 
 And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 
 
 Sar. Cursed be he who caused those tears to flow! 
 
 Sal. Curse not thyself— milhons do that already. 
 
 Sar. Thou dost forget thee ; make me not remember 
 I am a monarch. 
 
 Sal. Would thou couldst ! 
 
 Myr. My sovereign, 
 
 I pray, and thou, too, prince, permit my absence. 
 
 Sar. Since it must be so, and this churl has check'd 
 Thy gentle spirit, go ; but recollect 
 That we must forthwith meet : I had rather lose 
 
Act I. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 267 
 
 An empire than thy presence. [Exit Myrrha 
 
 Sal. It may be, 
 
 Thou wilt lose both, and both for ever ! 
 
 Sar. Brother, 
 
 1 can at least command myself, who listen 
 To language such as this ; yet urge me not 
 Beyond my easy nature. 
 
 Sal. 'T is beyond 
 
 That easy, far too easy, idle nature, 
 Which I would urge thee. O that I could rouse thee ! 
 Though 't were against myself. 
 
 Sar. By the god Baal ! 
 
 The man would make me tyrant. 
 
 Sal. So thou art. 
 
 Think'st thou there is no tyrrany but that 
 Of blood and chains? the despotism of vice — 
 The weakness and the wickedness of luxury— 
 The negligence — the apathy — the evils 
 Of sensual sloth — produce ten thousand tyrants, 
 AVhose delegated cruelty surpasses 
 The worst acts of one energetic master. 
 However harsh and hard in his own bearing. 
 The false and fond examples of thy lusts 
 Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
 In the same moment all thy pageant power 
 And those who should sustain it ; so that whether 
 A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
 Distract within, both will alike prove fatal : 
 The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer ; 
 The last they rather would assist than vanquish. 
 
 Sar. Why what makes thee the mouth-piece of the 
 people ? 
 
 Sal. Forgiveness of the queen, my sister's wrongs ; 
 A natural love unto my infant nephews ; 
 Faith to the king, a faith he may need shortly. 
 In more than words ; respect for Nimrod's line ; 
 Also, another thing thou knowest not. 
 
 Sar. What 's that ? 
 
 Sal. To thee an unknown word. 
 
 Sar. Yet speak it ; 
 
 I love to learn. 
 
 Sal. Virtue. 
 
 Sar. Not know the word I 
 
 Never was word yet rung so in my ears — 
 Worse than the rabble's shout, or splitting trumpet ; 
 I 've heard thy sister talk of nothing else. 
 
 Sal. To change the irksome theme, then, hear of vice. 
 
 Sar. From whom? 
 
 Sal. Even from the winds, if thou couldst listen 
 Unto the echoes of the nation's voice. 
 
 Sar. Come, I 'm indulgent, as thou knowest, patient, 
 As thou hast often proved — speak out, what moves thee? 
 
 Sal. Thy peril. 
 
 Sar. Say on. 
 
 Sal. Thus, then: all the nations, 
 
 For they are many, whom thy father left 
 [n heritage, are loud in wrath against thee. 
 
 Sar. 'Gainst me ! What would the slaves ? 
 
 Sal. A king. 
 
 Sar. And what 
 
 Am I then ? 
 
 Sal. In their eyes a nothing ; but 
 
 fn mine a man who might be something still. 
 
 Sar. The railing drunkards! why, what would they 
 have ? 
 Have they not peace and plenty ? 
 
 Sal. Of the first 
 
 More than is glorious ; of the last, far less 
 Than the king recks of. 
 
 Sar. Whose then is the crime, 
 
 But the false satraps, who provide no better ? 
 
 Sd. And somewhat in the monarch who ne'er looks 
 Beyond his palace walls, or if he stirs 
 Beyond them, 'tis but to some mountain palace. 
 Till summer heats wear down. O glorious Baal ! 
 
 Who built up this vast empire, and wert made 
 A god, or at the least shinest like a god 
 Through the long centuries of thy renown, 
 This, thy presumed descendant, ne'er beheld 
 As kiiig the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero, 
 Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, and peril 
 For what ? to furnish imposts for a revel, 
 Or mulliphed extortions for a minion. 
 
 Sar. 1 understand thee — thou wouldst have me go 
 Forth as a conqueror. By all the stars 
 Which the Chaldeans read — the restless slaves 
 Deserve that I should curse them with their wishes, 
 And lead them forth to glory. 
 
 Sal. Wherefore not 7 
 
 Semiramis — a woman only — led 
 These our Assyrians to the solar shores 
 Of Ganges. 
 
 Sar. 'Tis most true. And haw return'd? 
 
 Sal. Why, like a man — a hero; baffled, but 
 Not vanquish'd. With but twenty guards, she made 
 Good her retreat to Bactria. 
 
 Sar. And how many 
 
 Left she behind in India to the vultures ? 
 
 Sal. Our annals say not. 
 
 Sar. Then I will say for them— 
 
 That she had better woven within her palace 
 Some twenty garments, than with twenty guards 
 Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens. 
 And wolves, and men — the fiercer of the three, 
 Her myriads of fond subjects. Is this glory ? 
 Then let me live in ignominy ever. 
 
 Sal. All warlike spirits have not the same fate. 
 Semiramis, the glorious parent of 
 A hundred kings, although she fail'd in India, 
 Brought Persia, Media, Bactria, to the realm 
 WMch she once swa}''d — and thou might'st sway, 
 
 Sar. I sway them — 
 
 She but subdued them, 
 
 Sal. It may be ere long 
 
 That they wiO need her sword more than your sceptre. 
 
 Sar. There was a certain Bacchus, was there not? 
 I 've heard my Greek girls speak of such — they say 
 He was a god, that is, a Grecian god. 
 An idol foreign to Assyria's worship. 
 Who conquer'd this same golden realm of Ind 
 Thou prat'st of, where Semiramis was vanquish'd. 
 
 Sal. I have heard of such a man ; and thou perceiv'st 
 That he is deem'd a god for what he did. 
 
 Sar. And in his godship I will honour him — 
 Not much as man. What, ho! my cupbearer! 
 
 Sal. What means the king ? 
 
 Sar. To worship your new god 
 
 And ancient conqueror. Some wine, I say. 
 
 Enter Cupbearer. 
 
 Sar. {addressing the Cupbearer.) Bring me the golden 
 goblet thick with gems, 
 Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. Hence 
 Fill full, and bear it quickly. [Exit Cupbearer 
 
 Sal. Is this moment 
 
 A fitting one for the resumption of 
 Thy yet unslept-off revels ? 
 
 Re-enter Cupbearer, with nnne. 
 
 Sar. {taking the cup from him.) Noble kinsman, 
 If these barbarian Greeks of the far shores 
 And skirts of these our realms lie not, this Bacchus 
 Conquer'd the whole of India, did he not ? 
 
 Sal. He did, and thence was deem'd a deity. 
 
 Sar. Not so : — of all his conquests a few columns 
 Which may be his, and might be mine, if I 
 Thought them worth purchase and conveyance, are 
 The landmarks of the seas of gore he shed. 
 The realms he wasted, and the hearts he broke. 
 But here, here in this goblet is this title 
 
268 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Act I, 
 
 To immortality — the immortal grape 
 
 From wliich he first express'il the soul, aiul gave 
 
 To gladden that of man, as some atonement 
 
 For the victorious mischiefs he had done. 
 
 Had it not been for this, he would have been 
 
 A mortal still in name as in his grave ; 
 
 And, like my ancestor Semiramis, 
 
 A sort of semi-glorious human monster. 
 
 Here 's tliat which deified him — ^let it now 
 
 Humanize thee ; my surly, chid'mg brother, 
 
 Pledge me to the Greek god ! 
 
 Sal. For all thy realms 
 
 I would not so blaspheme our country's creed. 
 
 Sar. That is to say, thou thinkest him a hero, 
 That he shed blood by oceans ; and no god. 
 Because he turn'd a fruit to an enchantment, 
 Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires 
 The young, makes Weariness forget liis toil, 
 And Fear her danger ; opens a new world 
 When this, the present, palls. Well, than I pledge thee 
 And him as a true man, who did his utmost 
 In good or evil to surprise mankind. [Drinks^ 
 
 SaJ. Wilt thou resume a revel at this hour ? 
 Sar. And if I did, 't were better than a trophy. 
 Being bought without a tear. But that is not 
 My present purpose : since thou wilt not pledge me, 
 Continue what thou pleascst, 
 ( To the Cupbearer.) Boy, retire. 
 
 [Exit Cupbearer. 
 Sal. I would but have recall'd thee from thy dream 
 Better by me awaken'd than rebellion. 
 
 Sar. Who should rebel? or why? what cause? pretext? 
 I am the lawful king, descended from 
 A race of kings who knew no predecessors. 
 What have I done to thee, or to the people, 
 That thou shouldst rail, or they rise up against me ? 
 Snl. Of what thou hast done to me. I speak not. 
 Sar. But 
 
 Thou think'st that I have wrong'd the queen : is 'tnot so? 
 Sal. Think ! Thou hast wrong'd her ! 
 Sar. Patience, prince, and hear me. 
 
 She has all power and splendour of her station, 
 Respect, the tutelage of Assyria's heirs, 
 The homage and the appanage of sovereignty. 
 I married her as monarchs wed — for state, 
 And loved her as most husbands love their wives. 
 If she or thou supposedst I could link me 
 Like a Chaldean peasant to his mate, 
 He knew nor me, nor monarchs, nor mankind. 
 
 Sal. I pray thee, change the theme ; my blood disdains 
 Complaint, and Salemenes' sister seeks not 
 Reluctant love even from Assyria's lord ! 
 Nor would she deign to accept divided passion 
 With foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves. 
 The queen is silent. 
 
 Sar. And why not her brother ? 
 
 Sal. I only echo iheo the voice of empires, 
 Which he who long neglects not long will govern. 
 Sar. The ungrateful and ungracious slaves! they 
 murmur 
 Because I have not shed their blood, nor led them 
 To dry into the desert's dust by myriads. 
 Or whiten with their bones the banks of Ganges ; 
 Nor decimated them with savage laws, 
 Nor sweated them to build up pyramids, 
 Or Babylonian walls. 
 
 Sal. Yet these are trophies 
 
 More worthy of a people and their prince 
 Than songs, and lutes, and feasts, and concubines, 
 And lavish'd treasures, and contemned virtues. 
 
 Sar. Or for my trophies I have founded cities : 
 There 's Tar?us and Anchialus, both built 
 In one day — what could that blood-loving beldame, 
 My martial grandam, chaste Semiramif', 
 Do more, except destrov them ? 
 
 Sal. 'T 13 most true ; 
 
 I own thy merit in those founded cities, 
 Built for a whim, recorded with a verse 
 Which shames both them and thee to coming ages. 
 
 Sar. Shame me ! By Baal, the cities, though well built, 
 Are not more goodly than the verse ! Say what 
 Thou wilt 'gainst me, my mode of hfe or rule, 
 But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief record. 
 Why, those few lines contain the history 
 Of all things human ; hear — " Sardanapalus, 
 The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
 In one day built Ancliialus and Tarsus. 
 Eat, drink, and love ; the rest 's not worth a fillip." '^ 
 
 Sal. A worthy moral, and a wise inscription, 
 For a king to put up before his subjects ! 
 
 Sar. Oh, thou wouldst have mo doubtless set up 
 edicts — 
 "Obey the king — contribute to his treasure — 
 Recruit his phalanx — spill your blood at bidding- 
 Fall do\vn and worship, or get up and toil." 
 Or thus — " Sardanapalus on this spot 
 Slew fifty thousand of his enemies. 
 These are their sepulchres, and this his trophy." 
 I leave such things to conquerors ; enough 
 For me, if I can make my subjects feel 
 The weight of human misery less, and ghde 
 Ungroaning to the tomb ; I take no hcence 
 Which I deny to them. We all are men. 
 
 Sal. Thy sires have been revered as gods — 
 
 Sar. In dust 
 
 And death, where they are neither gods nor men. 
 Talk not of such to me ! the worms are gods ; 
 At least they banqueted upon your gods, 
 And died for lack of farther nutriment. 
 Those gods were merely men ; look to their issue — 
 I feel a thousand mortal tilings about me, 
 But nothmg godlike, unless it may be 
 The thing which you condemn, a disposition 
 To love and to be merciful, to pardon 
 The follies of my species, and (that 's human) 
 To be indulgent to my own. 
 
 Sal. Alas ! 
 
 The doom of Nineveh is seal'd. — Wo — Wo 
 To the unrivall'd city ! 
 
 Sar. What dost dread ? 
 
 Sal. Thou art guarded by thy foes: in a few hours 
 The tempest may break out which overwhelms thee, 
 And thine and mine ; and in another day 
 What is shall be the past of Belus' race. 
 
 Sar. What must we dread ? 
 
 Sal. Ambitious treachery, 
 
 Which has environ'd thee with snares ; but yet 
 There is resource : empower me with thy signet 
 To quell the machinations, and I lay 
 The heads of thy chief foes before thy ket. 
 
 Sar. The heads — ^how many ? 
 
 Sal. Must I stay to number 
 
 When even thine own 's in peril ? Let me go; 
 Give me thy signet — trust me with the rest. 
 
 Sar. I will trust no man with unlimited Uves. 
 When we take those from others, we nor know 
 What we have taken, nor the thing we give. 
 
 Sal. Wouldst thou not take their lives who seek for 
 tliine? 
 
 Sar. That's a hard question — But, I answer Yes. 
 Cannot tlie thing be done without? Who are they 
 Whom thou suspectest? — Let them be arrested. 
 
 Sal. I would thou wouldst not ask me ; the next moment 
 Will send my answer through thy babbling troop 
 Of paramours, and thence fly o'er the palace, 
 Even to the city, and so baffle all. — 
 Trust me. 
 
 Sar. Thou knowest I have done so ever i 
 Take thou the signet. [Gives the signet. 
 
 S'jI. I have ono more request. — 
 
Act I. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 269 
 
 Sar. Name it. 
 
 Scd. That thou this night forbear the banquet 
 [n the j)avilion over the Euphrates. 
 
 Sar. Forbear the banquet ! Not for all the plotters 
 That ever shook a kingdom ! Let them come, 
 And do their worst : I shall not blench for them ; 
 Nor rise the sooner; nor forbear the goblet; 
 Nor crown me with a single rose the less ; 
 Nor lose one joyous hour. — I fear them not. 
 
 Sal. But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst thou not, if 
 needful ? 
 
 Sar. Perhaps. I have the goodliest armour, and 
 A sword of such a temper ; and a bow 
 And javeUn, which might flirnish Nimrod forth: 
 A little heavy, but yet not unwieldy. 
 And now I think on't, 'tis long since I Ve used them, 
 Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, brother *? 
 
 Sal. Is this a time for such fantastic trifling? — 
 If need be, wilt thou wear them ? 
 
 Sar. Will I not? 
 
 Oh ! if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
 Will not be ruled with less, I '11 use the sword 
 Till tliey shall vAish it turn'd into a distaff. 
 
 Sal. They say, thy sceptre 's turn'd to that already ? 
 
 Sar. That 's false ! but let them say so : the old Greeks, 
 Of whom our captives often sing, related 
 The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 
 Because he loved a Lydian queen : thou seest 
 The populace of all the nations seize 
 Each calumny they can to sink their sovereigns. 
 
 Sal. They did not speak thus of thy fathers. 
 
 Sar. No ; 
 
 They dared not. They were kept to toil and combat, 
 And never changed their chains but for their armour : 
 Now they have peace and pastime, and the licence 
 To revel and to rail ; it irks me not, 
 I would not give the smile of one fair girl 
 For all the popular breath that e'er divided 
 A name from nothing. What are the rank tongues 
 Of this Aile herd, grown insolent with feeding, 
 That I should prize their noisy praise, or dread 
 Their noisome clamour ? 
 
 Sal. You have said they are men ; 
 
 As such their hearts are something. 
 
 Sar. So my dogs' are ; 
 
 And better, as more faithful : — but, proceed ; 
 Thou hast my signet : — since they are tumultuous, 
 Let them be temper'd, yet not roughly, till 
 Necessity enforce it. I hate all pain. 
 Given or received ; we have enough Avithin us, 
 The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, 
 Not to add to each others natural burden 
 Of mortal misery, but rather lessen. 
 By mild reciprocal alleviation. 
 The fatal penalties imposed on life : 
 But this they know not, or they wiU not know. 
 [ have, by Baal ! done all 1 could to sootli them : 
 [ made no wars. I added no new imposts, 
 [ interfered not with their civic Uves, 
 I let them pass their days as best might suit them, 
 Passii^ my own as suited me. 
 
 Sd. Thou stopp'st short 
 
 Of the duties of a king ; and therefore 
 They say thou art unfit to be a monarch. 
 
 Sar. They lie. — Unhappily, I am unfit 
 To be aught save a monarch ; else for me 
 The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 
 
 Sal. There is one Mede, at least, who seeks to be so. 
 
 Sar. What mean'st thou? — 't is thy secret ; thou 
 desire st 
 Few questions, and I 'm not of curious nature. 
 Take the fit steps ; and, since necessity 
 Requires, I sanction and support thee. Ne'er 
 Was man who more desired to rule in peace 
 The peaceful only ; if they rouse me, better 
 
 They had conjured up stern Nimrod from his ashes, 
 " The mighty hunter." I will turn these realms 
 To one wide desei-t chase of brutes, who toere, 
 But would no more, by their own choice, be human. 
 What they have foimd me, they belie ; thai which 
 They yet may find me — shall defy their wish 
 To speak it worse ; and let them thank themselves. 
 
 Sal. Then thou at last canst feel ? 
 
 iS";'?-. Feel ! who feels not 
 
 Ingi-atitude ? 
 
 Sal. I will not pause to answer 
 
 With words, but deeds. Keep thou awake that energy 
 Which sleeps at times, but is not dead within thee, 
 And thou may'st yet be glorious in thy reign. 
 As powerful in thy realm. Farewell 1 
 
 [Exit Salemknes. 
 
 Sar. {solus.) Farewell ! 
 
 He 's gone ; and on liis finger bears my signet, 
 Which is to him a sceptre. He is stem 
 As I am heedless ; and the slaves deserve 
 To feel a master. What may be the danger, 
 I know not : he hath found it, let him quell it. 
 Must I consume my hfe — this little life — 
 In guardmg against all may make it less ? 
 It is not worth so much ! It were to die 
 Before my hour, to live in dread of death, 
 Tracing revolt ; suspecting all about me, 
 Because they are near ; and all who are remote, 
 Because they are far. But if it should be so — 
 If thev should sweep me off from earth and empire. 
 Why,'what is earth or empire of the eartli? 
 I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my image ; 
 To die is no less natural than those — 
 Acts of this clay I 'T is true I have not shed 
 Blood as I might have done, in oceans, till 
 ]>.Iy name became the synonyme of death — 
 A terror and a trophy. But for this 
 I feel no penitence ; my life is love : 
 If I must shed blood, it shall be by force. 
 Till now, no drop from an Assyrian vem 
 Hath flow'd for me, nor hath the smallest coin 
 Of Niniveh's vast treasures e'er been lavish'd 
 On objects which could cost her sons a tear : 
 If then they hate me, 't is because I hate not : 
 If they rebel, 't is because I oppress not. 
 Oh, men ! ye must be ruled with scythes, not sceptres, 
 And mow'd do'ATi Uke the grass, else all we reap 
 Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 
 Of discontents infecting the fair soil. 
 Making a desert of fertility.— 
 I'll think no more. Within there, ho! 
 
 Enter an AUmdarU. 
 Sar. Slave, tell 
 
 The Ionian Myrrha we would crave her presence. 
 Attend. King, she is here. 
 
 Myrrha enters. 
 
 Sar. {apart to Attendant.) Away 
 {Addressing Myrrha.) Beautiful being 
 
 Thou dost ahnost anticipate my heart ; 
 It throbb'd for thee, and here thou comest : let me 
 Deem that some unknown influence, some sweet oracle, 
 Communicates between us, though unseen. 
 In absence, and attracts us to each other. 
 
 Myr. There doth. 
 
 Sar. I know there doth, but not its name; 
 
 What is it? 
 
 Myr. In my native land a God, 
 
 And in my heart a feeling like a God's, 
 Exalted; yet I own 'tis only mortal ; 
 For what I feel is humble, and yet happy — 
 
 That is, it would be happy ; but 
 
 [Myrrha pauses. 
 
 Sar. There comes 
 
270 
 
 SARDANAPALIJS. 
 
 Act f. 
 
 For ever something between us and what 
 We deem our happiness : let me remove 
 The barrier which that hesitating accent 
 Proclaims to thine, and mine is seal'd. 
 
 Myr. My lord ! — 
 
 Sar. My lord — my king — sire — sovereign 5 thus it is — 
 For ever thus, addressed with awe. I ne'er 
 Can see a smile, unless in some broad banquet's 
 Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons 
 Have gorged themselves up to equality, 
 Or I have quaff'd me down to their al^asement. 
 Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these names, 
 Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time was I prized 
 
 them, 
 That is, I suffer'd them — from slaves and nobles 
 But when they falter from the lips I love, 
 The lips which have been press'd to mine, a chill 
 Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood 
 Of this my station, which represses feeling 
 In those for whom I have felt most, and makes me 
 Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara, 
 And share a cottage on the Caucasus 
 With thee, and v/ear no crowns but those of flowers. 
 
 Myr. Would that we could ! 
 
 Sar. And dost thou feel this ?— Why ? 
 
 Myr. Then thou v>rouldst know what thou canst never 
 know. 
 
 Sar. And that is 
 
 Myr. The true value of a heart ; 
 
 At least, a woman's. 
 
 Sar. I have proved a thousand — 
 
 A thousand, and a thousand. 
 
 Myr. Hearts? 
 
 Sar. I tl«nk so. 
 
 Myr. Not one ! the time may come thou may'st. 
 
 Sar. It will. 
 
 Hear, Myrrha : Salemenes has declared — 
 Or why or how he hath divined it, Belus, 
 Who founded our great realm, knows more than I— 
 But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
 In peril. 
 
 Myr. He did well. 
 
 Sar. And say'st thou so ? 
 
 Thou whom he spurn'd so harshly, and now dared 
 Drive from our presence with his savage jeers, 
 And made thee weep and blush? 
 
 Myr. I should do both 
 
 More frequently, and he did well to call me 
 Back to my duty. But thou spakest of peril — 
 Peril to thee 
 
 Sar. Ay, from dark plots and snares 
 
 From Modes — and discontented troops and nations. 
 I know not what — a labyrinth of things — 
 A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries : 
 Thou know'st the man — it is his usual custom. 
 But he is honest. Come, we '11 think no more on't— 
 But of the midnight festival. 
 
 Myr. 'T is time 
 
 To think of aught save festivals. Thou hast not 
 Spurn'd his sage cautions ? 
 
 Sar. What?— and dost thou fear? 
 
 Myr. Fear ? — I 'm a Greek, and how should I fear 
 death ? 
 A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom ? 
 
 Sar. Then wherefore dost thou turn so pale ? 
 
 Myr. I love 
 
 Sar. And do not I ? I love thee far — far more 
 Than either the brief life or the wide realm, 
 Which, it may be, are menaced ; — yet I blench not. 
 
 Myr. That means thou lovest nor thyself nor me ; 
 For he who loves another loves himself 
 Even for that other's sake. This is too rash : 
 Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost. 
 
 Sar. Lost ! — why who is the aspiring chief who dared 
 Assume to win them? 
 
 Myr. Who is he should dread 
 
 To try so much ? When he who is their ruler 
 Forgets himself, will they remember him ? 
 
 Sar. Myrrha! 
 
 Myr. Frown not upon me : you have smiled 
 
 Too often on me not to make those frowns 
 Bitterer to bear than any punishment 
 Which they may augur. — King, I am your subject! 
 Master, I am your slave ! Man, I have loved you ! — 
 Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness, 
 Although a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs — 
 A slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, 
 And, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
 Degraded by that passion than by chains ! 
 Still I have loved you. If that love were strong 
 Enough to overcome all former nature, 
 Shall it not claim the privilege to save you? 
 
 Sar. Save me, my beauty ! Thou art very fair^ 
 And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 
 
 Myr. And without love where dwells security ? 
 
 Sar. I speak of woman's love. 
 
 3Iyr. The very first 
 
 Of human hfe must spring from woman's breast, 
 Your first small words are taught you from her hps, 
 Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs 
 Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing. 
 When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
 Of watching the last hour of him who led them. 
 
 Sar. My eloquent Ionian ! thou speak'st music ; 
 The very chorus of the tragic song 
 I have heard thee talk of as the favourite pastime 
 Of thy far-father land. Nay, weep not — calm thee. 
 
 Myr. I weep not. — But I pray thee, do not speak 
 About my fathers or their land. 
 
 Sar. Yet oft 
 
 Thou speakest of them. 
 
 Myr. True — true : constant thought 
 
 Will overflow in words unconsciously; 
 But when anotlier speaks of Greece, it wounds me. 
 
 Sar. Well, then, how wouldst thou save me, as thou 
 saidst ? 
 
 Myr. By teaching thee to save thyselfj and not 
 Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all 
 The rage of the worst war — the war of brethren. 
 
 Sar. Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors ; 
 I live in peace and pleasure : what can man 
 Do more ? 
 
 Myr. Alas ! my lord, with common men 
 There needs too oft the show of war to keep 
 The substance of sweet peace ; and for a kmg 
 'T is sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. 
 
 Sar. And I have never sought but for the last. 
 
 Myr. And now art neither. 
 
 Sar. Dost thou say so, Myrrha? 
 
 Myr. I speak of civic popular love, self love, 
 Which means that men are kept in awe and law, 
 Yet not oppress'd — at least they must not think so ; 
 Or if they think so, deem it necessary, 
 To ward off" worse oppression, their own passions. 
 A king of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and revel, 
 And love, and mirth, was never kmg of glory. 
 
 Sar. Glory ! what 's that ? 
 
 Myr. Ask of the gods thy fathers. 
 
 Sar. They carmot answer; when the priests speak 
 for them, 
 'T is for some small addition to the temple. 
 
 Myr. Look to the annals of thine empire's founders. 
 
 Sar. They are so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot. 
 But what wouldst have ? the empire has been founded. 
 I cannot go on multiplying empires. 
 
 Myr. Preserve thine own. 
 
 Sar. At least I will enjoy it. 
 
 Come, Myrrha, let us on to the Euphrates : 
 I The hour invites, the galley is prepared, 
 I And the pavillion, deck'd for our return, 
 
Act II. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 271 
 
 In fit adornment for the evening banquet, 
 Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until 
 It seems unto the stars which are above us 
 Itself an opposite star ; and we will sit 
 Crown'd with fresh flowers like 
 
 Myr. Victims. 
 
 Sar. No, like sovereigns, 
 
 The shepherd king of patriarchal times, 
 Who knew no brighter gems than summer wreaths. 
 And none but tearless triumphs. Let us on. 
 
 Enter Pania. 
 
 Pan. May the king live for ever ! 
 
 Sar. Not an hour 
 
 Longer than he can love. How my soul hates 
 This language, which makes hfe itself a he, 
 Flattering dust with eternity. Well, Pania 1 
 Be brief. 
 
 Pan. I am charged by Salemenes to 
 Reiterate his prayer unto the king. 
 That for this day, at least, he will not quit 
 The palace ; when the general returns, 
 He will adduce such reasons as will warrant 
 His daring, and perhaps obtain tlie pardon 
 Of his presumption. 
 
 Sar. What! am I then coop'd? 
 
 Already captive ? can I not even breathe 
 The breath of heaven ? Tell prince Salemenes, 
 Were all Assyria raging round the walls 
 In mutinous myriads, I would still go forth. 
 
 Pan. I must obey, and yet — 
 
 Myr. Oh, monarch, listen. — 
 
 How many a day and moon thou hast reclined 
 Within these palace walls in silken dalUance, 
 And never shown thee to thy people's longing ; 
 Leaving thy subject's eyes ungratified, 
 The satraps uncontroll'd, the gods unworshipp'd, 
 And all things in the anarchy of sloth, 
 Till all, save evil, slumber'd through the realm ! 
 And wilt thou not now tarry for a day, 
 A day which may redeem thee ? Wilt thou not 
 Yield to the few still faithful a few hours. 
 For them, for thee, for thy past father's race, 
 And for thy son's inheritance ? 
 
 Pan. 'T is true! 
 
 From the deep urgency with which the prince 
 Despatch'd me to your sacred presence, I 
 Must dare to add my feeble voice to tliat 
 Which now has spoken. 
 
 Sar. No, it must not be. 
 
 Myr. For the sake of thy realm ! 
 
 Sar. Away I 
 
 Pan. For tliat 
 
 Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
 Round thee and thine. 
 
 Sar. These are mere phantasies; 
 
 There is no peril: — 'tis a sullen scheme 
 Of Salemenes to approve his zeal. 
 And show himself more necessary to ug. 
 
 Myr. By all that's good and glorious take this counsel. 
 
 Sar. Business to-morrow. 
 
 Myr. Ay, or death to-night. 
 
 Sar. Why let it come then unexpectedly 
 'Midst joy and gentleness, and mirth and love ; 
 So let me fall hke the pluck'd rose 1 — far better 
 Thus than be wither'd. 
 
 Myr. Then thou wilt not yield, 
 
 Even for the sake of all that ever stirr'd 
 A monarch into action, to forego 
 A trifling revel. 
 
 Sar. No. 
 
 Myr. Then yield for mine ; 
 
 For my sake ! 
 
 Sar. Thine, my Myrrha ! 
 
 Myr^ 'T is the first 
 
 Boon which I ever ask'd Assyria's king. 
 
 Sar. That 's true, and wer 't my kingdom must be 
 granted. 
 Well, for thy sake, I yield me. Pania, hence ! 
 Thou hear'st me. 
 
 Pan. And obey. {Exit Pania. 
 
 Sar. I marvel at thee. 
 
 What is thy motive, Myrrha, thus to urge me ? 
 
 Myr. Thy safety \ and the certainty that naught 
 Could urge the prince thy kinsman to require 
 Thus much from thee, but some impending danger. 
 
 Sar. And if I do not dread it, why shouldst thou? 
 
 Myr. Because thou dost not fear, I fear for thee. 
 
 Sar. To-morrow thou wilt smile at these vain fancies. 
 
 Myr. If the worst come, I shall be where none weep, 
 And that is better than the power to smile. 
 And thoui? 
 
 Sar. I shall be king, as heretofore. 
 
 Myr. Where? 
 
 Sar. With Baal, Nimrod, and Semiramis, 
 
 Sole in Assyria, or with them elsewhere. 
 Fate made me what I am — may make me nothing — 
 But either that or nothing must I be ; 
 I will not live degraded. 
 
 Myr. Hadst thou felt 
 
 Thus always, none would ever dare degrade thee. 
 
 Sar. And who will do so now ? 
 
 Myr. Dost thou suspect none ? 
 
 Sar. Suspect !— that 's a spy's office. Oh ! we lose 
 Ten thousand precious moments in vain words. 
 And vainer fears. Within there ! — ^ye slaves, deck 
 The hall of Nimrod for the evening revel : 
 If I must make a prison of our palace, 
 At least we '11 wear our fetters jocundly ; 
 If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 
 The summer dwelling on its beauteous border. 
 Here we are still unmenaced. Ho ! within there ! 
 
 [Exit SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Myr. (solus.) "VVhy do I love this man? My country's 
 
 daughters 
 Love none but heroes. But I have no country ! 
 The slave hath lost all save her bonds. I love him ; 
 And that 's the heaviest link of the long chain — 
 To love whom we esteem not. Be it so: 
 The hour is coming when he '11 need all love, 
 And find none. To fall from him now were baser 
 Than to have stabb'd hun on his throne when highest 
 Would have been noble in my county's creed: 
 I was not made for either. Could I save him, 
 I should not love him better, but myself; 
 And I have need of the last, for I have fallen 
 In my own thoughts, by loving this soft stranger : 
 And yet methinks I love him more, perceiving 
 That he is hated of his own barbarians, 
 The natural foes of all the blood of Greece. 
 Could I but wake a single thought like those 
 Which even the Phrygians felt when batthng long 
 Twixt Ilion and the sea, within his heart, 
 He would tread down the barbarous crowds, and 
 
 triumph. 
 
 He loves me, and I love him ; the slave loves 
 Her master, and would free him from his vices. 
 If not, I have a means of freedom still. 
 And if I cannot teach him how to reign, 
 May show him how alone a king can leave 
 His throne. I must not lose him from my sight. [Erne- 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — 77i£ Portal of the same Hall of the Palace. 
 
 Beleses, (solus.) The sun goes down: methinks he 
 sets more slowly, 
 Taking his last look of Assyria's empire. 
 
272 
 
 JARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Acr II, 
 
 How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds, 
 
 Like the blood ho predicts. If not in vain, 
 
 Thou sun that sinkest, and ye stars which rise, 
 
 I have outwatch'd ye, reading ray by ray 
 
 The edicts of your orbs, which make Time tremble 
 
 For what he brings the nations, 't is the furthest 
 
 Hour of Assyria's years. And yet how calm ! 
 
 An earthquake should announce so great a fall — 
 
 A summer's sun discloses it. Yon disk, 
 
 To the star-read Chaldean, bears upon 
 
 Its everlasting page the end of what 
 
 Seem'd everlasting ; but oh ! thou tiue sun ! 
 
 The burn'mg oracle of all that live, 
 
 As fountain of all life, and symbol of 
 
 Him who bestows it, wherefore dost thou limit 
 
 Thy lore unto calamity? Why not 
 
 Unfold the rise of days more worthy thine 
 
 All-glorious burst from ocean ? why not dart 
 
 A beam of hope athwart the future years. 
 
 As of wrath to its days ? Hear me ! oh ! hear me ! 
 
 I am thy worshipper, thy priest, thy servant — 
 
 I have gazed on thee at thy rise and fall, 
 
 And bow'd my head beneath thy mid-day beams, 
 
 When my eye dared not meet thee. I have watch'd 
 
 For thee, and after thee, and pray'd to thee. 
 
 And sacrificed to thee, and read, and fear'd thee, 
 
 And ask'd of thee, and thou hast answer'd — but 
 
 Only to thus much: while I speak, he sinks — 
 
 Is gone — and leaves his beauty, not his knowledge, 
 
 To the delighted west, which revels in 
 
 Its hues of dying glory. Yet what is 
 
 Death, so it be but glorious ? 'T is a sunset ; 
 
 And mortals may be happy to resemble 
 
 The gods but in decay. 
 
 Enter Arbaces, hy an inner door. 
 
 Arb. Beleses, v/hy 
 
 So rapt in thy devotions ? Dost thou stand 
 Gazing to trace thy disappearing god 
 Into some realm of undiscover'd day ? 
 Our business is with night — 't is come. 
 
 Bel. But not 
 
 Gone. 
 
 Arb. Let it roll on — we are ready. 
 
 Bel Yes. 
 
 Would it were over 
 
 Arb. Does the prophet doubt, 
 
 To whom the very stars shine victory ? 
 
 Bel. I do not doubt of victory — ^but the victor. 
 
 Arb. Well, let thy silence settle that. Meantime 
 1 have prepared as many gUttering spears 
 As will out-sparkle our alhes — your planets, 
 There is no more to thwart us. The she-king. 
 That less than woman, is even now upon 
 The waters with liis female mates. The order 
 Is issued for the feast in the pavilion. 
 The first cup which he drains will be the last 
 Q.uafr'd by the line ofNimrod. 
 
 Bel. 'T was a bravo one. 
 
 Arb. And is a weak one — ^'t is worn out — we '11 mend it. 
 
 Bel. Art sure of that ? 
 
 Arb. Its founder was a hunter— 
 
 I am a soldier — what is there to fear ? 
 
 Bel. The soldier. 
 
 Arb. And the priest, it may be ; but 
 
 If you thought thus, or think, why not retam 
 Your king of concubines ? why stir me up? 
 Why spur me to tliis enterprise ? your own 
 No less than mine ? 
 
 Bel. Look to the sky! 
 
 Arb. I look. 
 
 Bel. What seest thou ? 
 
 Arb. A fair summer's twilight, and 
 
 The gathering of the stars. 
 
 Bel. And midst them, mark 
 
 Yon earliest, and the brightest, which so quivers, 
 As it would quit its place in the blue ether. 
 Arb. Well? 
 
 Bel. 'T is thy natal ruler— thy birth planet. 
 
 Arb. {touching his scabbard.) My star is in tliis scab- 
 bard: when it shines. 
 It shall out-dazzle comets. I-et us think 
 Of what is to be done to justify 
 Thy planets and their portents. When we conquer, 
 They shall have temples~ay, and priests — and thou 
 Shalt be the pontiflf of— what gods thou wiU ; 
 For I observe that they are ever just, 
 And own the bravest for the most devout. 
 
 Bel. Ay. and the most devote for brave — thou hast not 
 Seen me turn back from battle. 
 
 Arb. No ; I own thee 
 
 As finn in fight as Babylonia's captain. 
 As skilful in Chaldea's worship ; now, 
 Will it but please thee to forget the priest, 
 And be the warrior? 
 Bel. Why not both? 
 
 Arb. The better; 
 
 And yet it abnost shames me, we shall have 
 So little to effect. This woman's warfare 
 Degrades the very conqueror. To have pluck'd 
 A bold and bloody despot from his throne, 
 And grappled with him, clashing steel with steel, 
 That were heroic or to w m or fall ; 
 But to upraise ray sword against this silkworm, 
 
 And hear him whine, it may be 
 
 Bel. Do not deem it : 
 
 He has that in him which may make you strife yet ; 
 And were he all you think, his guards are hardy, 
 And headed by the cool, stern Salemenes. 
 Arb. They '11 not resist. 
 
 Bel. Why not? they are soldiers. 
 
 Arb. True, 
 
 And therefore need a soldier to command them. 
 Bel. That Salemenes is. 
 Arb. But not their kuig. 
 
 Besides, he hates the effeminate thing that governs, 
 For the queen's sake, his sister. Mark you not 
 He keeps aloof from all the revels ? 
 
 Bel. But 
 
 Not from the council — there he is ever constant. 
 
 Arb. And ever thwarted ; what would you have more 
 To malce a rebel out of? A fool reigning, 
 His blood dishonour'd, and himself disdain'd ; 
 Why, it his revenge we work for. 
 
 Bel. Could 
 
 He but bo brought to think so:' this, I doubt of. 
 Arb. What, if we sound him ? 
 Bel. Yes — if the time served. 
 
 Enter Balea. 
 
 Bed. Satraps ! The king commands your presence at 
 The feast to-night. 
 
 Bel. To hear is to obey. 
 
 In the pavilion? 
 
 Bed. No ; here in the palace. 
 
 Arb. How ! in the palace ? it was not thus order'd. 
 
 Bal. It is so order'd now. 
 
 Arb. And why ? 
 
 Bal. I know not. 
 
 May I retire ? 
 
 Arb. Stay. 
 
 Bd. {to Arb. aside.) Hush ! let him go his way. 
 {Alternately to Bal.) Yes, Balea, thank the monarch, 
 
 kiss the hem 
 Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves 
 Will take the crums he deigns to scatter fi-om 
 His royal table at the hour — was 't midnight ? 
 j Bal. It was : the place, the hall of Nimrod. Lords, 
 1 1 humble me before you, and depart. [Exit Balea 
 
Act II. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 273 
 
 Arb. I like not this same sudden change of place ; 
 There is some mystery : wherefore should he change it ? 
 
 Bel. Doth he not change a thousand times a day? 
 Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 
 And moves more parasangs in its intents 
 Than generals in, their marches, when they seek 
 To leave their foe at fault. — Why dost thou muse? 
 
 Arb. He loved that gay pavilion, — it was ever 
 His summer dotage. 
 
 Bel. And he loved his queen — 
 
 And thrice a thousand harlotry besides — 
 And he has loved all things by turns, except 
 Wisdom and glory. 
 
 Arb. Still— I like it not. 
 If he has changed — why, so must we : the attack 
 Were easy in the isolated bower. 
 Beset with drowsy guards and drunken courtiers ; 
 But in the hall of Nimrod 
 
 Bel. Is it so ? 
 
 Methought the haughty soldier fear'd to mount 
 A throne too easily — does it disappoint thee 
 To find there is a slipperier step or two 
 Than what was counted on ? 
 
 Arb. When the hour comes. 
 
 Thou shalt perceive how far I fear or no. 
 Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gaily play'd for — 
 But here is more upon the die — a kingdom. 
 
 Bel. I have foretold already — thou wilt win it : 
 Then on, and prosper. 
 
 Arb. Now were I a soothsayer, 
 
 I would have boded so much to myself. 
 But be the stars obey'd — I cannot quarrel 
 With them, nor their interpreter. Who's here? 
 
 Enter Salemenes. 
 
 Sal. Satraps! 
 
 Bel. My prince ! 
 
 Sal. Well met — I sought ye both, 
 
 But elsewhere than the palace. 
 
 Arb. Wherefore so? 
 
 Sal. 'T is not the hour. 
 
 Arb. The hour! — what hour? 
 
 Sal. Of midnight. 
 
 Bel. Midnight, my lord ! 
 
 Sal. What, are you not invited ? 
 
 Bel. Oh! yes — we had forgotten. 
 
 Sal. Is it usual 
 
 Thus to forget a sovereign's invitation ? 
 
 Arb. Why — we but now received it. 
 
 Sal. Then why here? 
 
 Arb. On duty. 
 
 Sal. On what duty ? 
 
 Bel. On the state's. 
 
 We have the privilege to approach the presence ; 
 But found the monarch absent. 
 
 Sal. And I too 
 
 Am upon duty. 
 
 Arb. May we crave its purport ? 
 
 Sal, To arrest two traitors. Guards ! Within there ! 
 
 Enter Guards. 
 
 Satraps 
 
 Sal. (continuing.) 
 Your swords. 
 
 Bel. {delivering his.) My lord, behold my scimitar. 
 
 Arb. {drawing his sword.) Take mine. 
 
 Sal. {advancing.) - 1 will, 
 
 Arb. But in your heart the blade — 
 
 The hilt quits not this hand. 
 
 Sal. {drawing.) How ! dost thou brave me ? 
 
 'T is well — this saves a trial, and false mercy. 
 Soldiers, hew down the rebel ! 
 
 Arb. Soldiers! Ay — 
 
 Alone you dare not. 
 
 Sal. Alone ! foolish slave— 
 
 2K 
 
 What is there in thee that a prince should shrink from 
 Of open force ? We dread thy treason, not 
 Thy strength : thy tooth is naught without its venom — 
 The serpent's, not the hon's. Cut him down. 
 Bel. (interposing.) Arbaces ! Are you mad ? Have I 
 not render'd 
 My sword ? Then trust like me our sovereign's justice. 
 Arb. No — I will sooner trust the stars thou prat'st of, 
 And this slight arm, and die a king at least 
 Of my own breath and body — so far that 
 None else shall chain them. 
 
 Sal. (to the Guards.) You hear him and me. 
 
 Take him not, — kill. 
 
 [T^e Gruards attack Arbaces, who defemls himself 
 valiantly and dexterously till they waver. 
 Sal. Is it even so ; and must 
 
 I do the hangman's office ? Recreants ! see 
 How you should fell a traitor. 
 
 [Salemenes attacks Arbaces. 
 
 Enter Sardanapalus and Train. 
 
 Sar. Hold your hands — 
 
 Upon your lives, I say. "What, deaf or drunken ? 
 My sword ! O fool, I wear no sword : here, fellow. 
 Give me thy weapon. [To a Guard. 
 
 [Sarbanapalus snatches a sword from one of the 
 soldiers, and makes between the combatants — they 
 separate. 
 
 Sar. In my very palace ! 
 
 What hinders me from cleaving you in twain. 
 Audacious brawlers ? 
 
 Bel. Sire, your justice. 
 
 Sal. Or— 
 
 Your weakness. 
 
 Sar. (raising the sword.) How ? 
 
 Sal. Strike ! so the blow 's repeated 
 
 Upon yon traitor — whom you spare a moment, 
 I trust, for torture — I 'm content. 
 
 Sar. What — ^hira ! 
 
 Who dares assail Arbaces ? 
 
 Sal. I ! 
 
 Sar . Indeed ! 
 
 Prince, you forget yourself. Upon what warrant ? 
 
 Sal. (showing the signet.) Thine. 
 
 Arb. (confuted.) The king's! 
 
 Sal. Yes ! and let the king confirm it. 
 
 Sar. I parted not from this for such a purpose. 
 
 Sal. You parted with it for your safety — I 
 Employ'd it for the best. Pronounce in person. 
 Here I am but your slave — a moment past 
 I was your representative. 
 
 Sar. Then sheathe 
 
 Your swords. 
 
 [Arbaces and Salemenes return their swords to 
 the scabbards. 
 
 Sal. Mine 's sheathed : I pray you sheathe not yours 
 'T is the sole sceptre left you now with safety. 
 
 Sar. A heavy one ; the hilt, too, hurts my hand. 
 (To a Guard.) Here, fellow, take thy weapon back. 
 
 Well, sirs, 
 What doth this mean ? 
 
 Bel. The prmce must answer that. 
 
 Sal. Truth upon my part, treason upon theirs. 
 
 Sar. Treason — Arbaces ! treachery and Beleses ! 
 That were an union I will not believe. 
 
 Bel. Where is the proof? 
 
 Sal. 1 '11 answer that, if once 
 
 The king demands your fellow-traitor's sword. 
 
 Arb. (to Sal.) A sword which hath been drawn as 
 oft as thine 
 Against his foes. 
 
 Sal. And now against his brother, 
 
 And in an hour or so against himself. 
 
274 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Sar. That is not possible : he dared not ; no — 
 No — I '11 not hear of such tilings. These vain bickerings 
 Are spawn'd in courts by base intrigues, and baser 
 Hirelings, who live by lies on good men's lives. 
 You must have been deceived, my brother. 
 
 Sal First 
 
 Let him deliver up his w^eapon, and 
 Proclaim himself your subject by that duty, 
 And I will answer all. 
 
 Sar. Why, if I thought so— 
 
 But no, it cannot be : the Mede Arbaces — 
 The trusty, rough, true soldier — the best captain 
 
 Of all who discipline our nations No, 
 
 I 'II not insult him thus, to bid him render 
 
 The scimitar to me he never yielded 
 
 Unto our enemies. Chief, keep your weapon. 
 
 Sal. {delivering back the signet.) Monarch, take back 
 your signet. 
 
 Sar. No, retain it ; 
 
 But use it with more moderation. 
 
 Sal. Sire, 
 
 I used it for your honour, and restore it 
 Because I cannot keep it with my own. 
 Bestow it on Arbaces. 
 
 Sar. So I should : 
 
 He never ask'd it. 
 
 Sal. Doubt not, he vfill have it, 
 
 Without that hollow semblance of respect, 
 
 Bel. I know not what hath prejudiced the prince 
 So strongly 'gamst two subjects, than whom none 
 Have been more zealous for Assyria's weal. 
 
 Sal. Peace, factious priest, and faithless soldier ! tliou 
 Unit'st in thy own person the worst vices 
 Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 
 Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies 
 For those who know thee not. Thy fellow's sin 
 Is, at the least, a bold one, and not temper'd 
 By the tricks taught thee in Chaldea. 
 
 -SeZ. Hear him, 
 
 My liege— the son of Belus ! he blasphemes 
 The worship of the land, which bows the knee 
 Before your fathers. 
 
 Sar. Oh ! for that I pray you 
 
 Let him have absolution. I dispense with 
 The worship of dead men ; feeling that I 
 Am mortal, and believing that the race 
 From whence I sprung are — what I see them — ashes. 
 
 Bel. King ! Do not deem so : they are with the stars. 
 And 
 
 Sar. You shall join them there ere they will rise. 
 If you preach farther — Whv, this is rank treason. 
 
 Sal. My lord ! 
 
 Sar. To school me in the worship of 
 
 Assyria's idols ! Let him be released — 
 Give him his sword. 
 
 Sal. My lord, and king, and brother, 
 
 I pray ye pause. 
 
 Sar. Yes, and be sermonized. 
 
 And dinn'd, and deafen'd with dead men and Baal, 
 And all Chaldea's starry mysteries. 
 
 Bel. Monarch ! respect them. 
 
 Sar. Oh ! for that— I love them ; 
 
 I love to watch them in tlie deep blue vault, 
 And to compare them with my Myrrha's eyes ; 
 I love to see their rays redoubled in 
 The tremulous silver of Euphrates' wave. 
 As the light breeze of midnight crisps the broad 
 And rolling water, sighing through the sedges 
 Which fringe his banks : but whether they may be 
 Gods, as some say, or the abodes of gods, 
 As others hold, or simply lamps of night, 
 Worlds, or the lights of worlds, I know nor care not. 
 There 's something sweet in my uncertainty 
 I would not change for your Chaldean lore ; 
 Beaides, I know of these all clay can know 
 
 Of aught above it, or below it — nothing. 
 
 I see their brilliancy and feel their beauty — 
 
 When they shine on my grave I shall know neitlier. 
 
 Bel. For neither, sire, say better. 
 
 Sar. I will wait, 
 
 If it so please you, pontiiF, for that knowledge. 
 In the mean time receive your sword, and know 
 That I prefer you service mihtant 
 Unto your ministry — not loving either. 
 
 Sal. (aside.) His lusts have made him mad. Then 
 must I save him, 
 Spite of liimself. 
 
 Sar. Please you to hear me, Satraps! 
 
 And chiefly thou, my priest, because I doubt thee 
 More than the soldier ; and would doubt thee all 
 Wert thou not half a warrior : let us part 
 In peace — I 'II not say pardon — which must be 
 Earn'd by the guilty ; this I '11 not pronounce ye, 
 Although upon this breath of mine depends 
 Your own ; and, deadlier for ye, on my fears. 
 But fear not — for that I am soft, not fearfiil — 
 And so live on. Were I the thing some think me, 
 Your heads would now be dripping the last drops 
 Of their attainted gore from the high gates 
 Of this our palace, into the dry dust. 
 Their only portion of the coveted kingdom 
 They would be crown'd to reign o'er — let tliat pass. 
 As I have said, I will not deem ye guilty. 
 Nor doom ye guiltless. Albeit better men 
 Than ye or I stand ready to arraign you ; 
 And should I leave your fate to sterner judges, 
 And proofs of all kinds, I might sacrifice 
 Two men, who, whatsoe'er tliey now are, were 
 Once honest. Ye are free, sirs. 
 
 Arb. Sire, this clemency 
 
 Bel. (interrupting him.) Is worthy of yourself; and, 
 although innocent. 
 We thank 
 
 Sar. Priest ! keep your thanksgivings for Belus ■■, 
 His offspring needs none. 
 
 Bel. But being innocent 
 
 Sar. Be silent — Guilt is loud. If ye are loyal. 
 Ye are injured men, and should be sad, not grateful. 
 
 Bel. So we sliould be, were justice always done 
 By earthly power omnipotent ; but iimocence 
 Must oft receive her right as a mere favour. 
 
 Sar. That 's a good sentence for a homily. 
 Though not for this occasion. Prithee keep it 
 To plead thy sovereign's cause before his people. 
 
 Bel. 1 trust there is no cause. 
 
 Sar. No cause, perhaps ; 
 
 But many causers : — if ye meet with such 
 In the exercise of your inquisitive function 
 On earth, or should you read of it in heaven 
 In some mysterious twinkle of the stars. 
 Which are your chronicles, I pray you note. 
 That there are worse things betwixt earth and heaven 
 Than him who ruleth many and slays none ; 
 And, hating not himself, yet loves his fellows 
 Enough to spare even those who would not spare him 
 Were they once masters — but that 's doubtful. Satraps ! 
 Your swords and persons are at liberty 
 To use them as ye will — but from this hour 
 I have no call for either. Salemenes ! 
 Follow me. 
 
 [Exeunt Sardanapalus, Salemejstes, and the 
 Train, fyc. leaving Arbaces and Beleses. 
 
 Arb. Beleses ! 
 
 Bel. Now, what think you ? 
 
 Arb That we are lost. 
 
 Bel. That we have won the kingdom. 
 
 Arb. What? thus suspected — with the sword slung 
 o'er us 
 But by a single hair, and that still wavering, 
 
Act ir. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 275 
 
 To be blown down by his imperious breath 
 Which spared us— why, I know not. 
 
 Bel. Seek not why ; 
 
 But let us profit by the interval. 
 The hour is still our own — our power the same — 
 The night the same we destined. He hath changed 
 Nothing except our ignorance of all 
 Suspicion into such a certainty 
 As must make madness of delay. 
 
 Arb. And yet 
 
 Bel. What, doubting still ? 
 
 Arb. He spared our Uves, nay, more. 
 
 Saved them from Salemenes. 
 
 Bel. And how long 
 
 Will he so spare ? till the first drunken minute. 
 
 Arb. Or sober, rather. Yet he did it nobly ; 
 Gave royally what he had forfeited 
 Basely 
 
 Bel. Say bravely. 
 
 Arb. Somewhat of both, perhaps. 
 
 But it has touch'd me, and, whate'er betide, 
 I will no furtlier on. 
 
 Bel. And lose the world! 
 
 Arb. Lose any thing except my own esteem. 
 
 Bel. I blush that we should owe our lives to such 
 A king of distaffs ! 
 
 Arb. But no less we owe them ; 
 
 And I should blush far more to take the grantor's ! 
 
 Bel. Thou may'st endure whate'er thou wUt, the stars 
 Have written otherwise. 
 
 Arb. Though they came down, 
 
 And marshall'd me the way in all their brightness, 
 I would not follow. 
 
 Bel. This is weakness — worse 
 
 Than a scared beldam's dreaming of the dead. 
 And waking in the dark. — Go to — go to. 
 
 Arb. Methought he look'd like Nimrod as he spoke. 
 Even as the proud imperial statue stands 
 Looking the monarch of the kings around it, 
 And sways, while they but ornament, the temple. 
 
 Bel. I told you that you had too much despised him, 
 And that there was some royalty within him — 
 What then ? he is the nobler foe. 
 
 Arb. But we 
 
 The meaner ; — Would he had not spared us '. 
 
 Bel. So— 
 
 Wouldst thou be sacrificed thus readily ? 
 
 Arb. No — but it had been better to have died 
 Than live ungrateful. 
 
 Bel. Oh, the souls of some men ! 
 
 Thou wouldst digest what some call treason, and 
 Fools treachery — and, behold, upon the sudden. 
 Because for something or for nothing, this 
 Rash reveller steps, ostentatiously, 
 'Twixt thee and Salemenes, thou art turn'd 
 Into — what shall I say ? — Sardanapalus ! 
 I know no name more ignominious. 
 
 Arb. But 
 
 An hour ago, who dared to term me such 
 Had held his life but lightly — as it is, 
 I must forgive you, even as he forgave us — 
 S emir amis herself would not have done it. 
 
 Bd. No — the queen liked no sharers of the kingdom, 
 Not even a husband. 
 
 Arb. I must serve him truly 
 
 Bel. And humbly? 
 
 Arb. No, sir, proudly — being honest. 
 
 I shall be nearer thrones than you to heaven ; 
 And if not quite so haughty, yet more lofty. 
 You may do your own deeming — you have codes, 
 And mysteries and corollaries of 
 Right and wrong, which I lack for my direction, 
 And must pursue but what a plain heart teacheb. 
 And now yo\i know me. 
 
 Bel. Have you finish'd ? 
 
 Yes— 
 
 Arb, 
 With you. 
 
 Bel. And would, perhaps, betray as well 
 
 As quit me ? 
 
 Arb. That 's a sacerdotal thought, 
 
 And not a soldier's. 
 
 Bel. Be it what you will — 
 
 Truce with these wranglings, and but hear rae. 
 
 Arb. No- 
 
 There is more peril in your subtle spirit 
 Than in a phalanx. 
 
 Bel. If it must be so — 
 
 I'll on alone. 
 
 Arb. Alone ! 
 
 Bel. Thrones hold but one. 
 
 Arb. But this is fiU'd. 
 
 Bel. With worse than vacancy — 
 
 A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces : 
 I have still aided, cherish'd, loved, and urged you ; 
 Was wiling even to serve you, in the hope 
 To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself 
 Seem'd to consent, and all events were friendly, 
 Even to the last, till that your spirit shrunk 
 Into a shallow softness ; but now, rather 
 Than see my country languish, I will be 
 Her saviour or the victim of her tyrant, 
 Or one or both, for sometimes both are one \ 
 And, if I win, Arbaces is my servant. 
 Arb. Vour servant ! 
 
 Bel. Why not? better than be slave, 
 
 The pardorCd slave of she Sardanapalus. 
 
 Enter Pania. 
 
 Pan. My lords, I bear an order from the king. 
 
 Arb. It is obey'd ere spoken. 
 
 Bel. Notwithstanding, 
 
 Let 's hear it. 
 
 Pan. Forthwith, on this very night, 
 
 Repair to your respective satrapies 
 Of Babylon and Media. 
 
 Bel. With our troops ? 
 
 Pan. My order is unto the satraps and 
 Their household train. 
 
 Arb. But 
 
 Bel. It must be obey'd \ 
 
 Say, we depart. 
 
 Pan. My order is to see you 
 
 Depart, and not to beai- your answer. 
 
 Bel. (aside.) Ay ! 
 
 Well, sir, we will accompany you hence. 
 
 Pan. I will retire to marshal forth the guard 
 Of honour which befits your rank, and wait 
 Your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds not. 
 
 [Exit Pania. 
 
 Bel. Now then obey ! 
 
 Arb. Doubtless. 
 
 Bel. Yes, to the gates 
 
 That grate the palace, which is now our prison, 
 No further. 
 
 Arb. Thou hast harp'd the truth indeed ! 
 
 The realm itself in all its wide extension, 
 Yawns dungeons at each step for thee and me. 
 
 Bel. Graves! 
 
 Arb. If I thought so, this good sword should dig 
 One more than mine. 
 
 Bel. It shall have work enough. 
 
 Let me hope better than thou augurest ; 
 At present let us hence as best we may. 
 Thou dost agree with me in understanding 
 This order as a sentence ? 
 
 Arb. Why, what other 
 
 Interpretation should it bear ? it is 
 The very policy of orient monarchs — 
 Pardon and poison — favours and a sword — 
 A distant voyage, and an eternal sleep. 
 
276 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 How many satraps in his father's time — 
 For he I ovvn is, or at least was, bloodless — 
 
 Bel. But will not, can not be so now. 
 
 Arb. I doubt it. 
 
 How many satraps have I seen set out 
 In his sire's day for mighty vice-royalties, 
 Whose tombs are on their path ! I know not how, 
 But they all sicken'd by the way, it was 
 So long and heavy. 
 
 Bel. Let us but regam 
 
 The free air of the city, and we '11 shorten 
 The journey. 
 
 Arb. 'T will be shorten'd at the gates, 
 
 It may be. 
 
 Bel. No ; they hardly will risk that. 
 
 They mean us to die privately, but not 
 Within the palace or the city walls, 
 Where we are known and may have partisans : 
 If they had meant to slay us here, we were 
 No longer with the living. Let us hence. 
 
 Arb. If I but thought he did not mean my life 
 
 Bel. Fool ! hence — -what else should despotism 
 alarm'd 
 Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops, and march. 
 
 Arb. Towards our provinces ? 
 
 Bel. No; towards your kingdom. 
 
 There 's time, there 's heart, and hope, and power, and 
 
 means, 
 Wliich their half measures leaves us in full scope. — 
 Away ! 
 
 Arb. And I even yet repenting must 
 Relapse to guilt ! 
 
 Bel. Self^defence is a virtue, 
 Sole bulwark of all right. Away, I say ! 
 Let 's leave this place, the air grows thick and choking, 
 And the walls have a scent of nightshade — ^hence ] 
 Let us not leave them time for further council. 
 Our quick departure proves our civic zeal ; 
 Our quick departure hinders our good escort. 
 The worthy Pania, from anticipating 
 The orders of some parasangs from hence ; 
 Nay, there 's no other choice, but hence, I say. 
 
 [Exit with Are ACES, who follows reluctantly. 
 
 Enter Sardanapaltjs and Salemeiies. 
 
 Sar. Well, all is remedied, and mthout bloodshed, 
 That worst of mockeries of a remedy ; 
 We are now secure by these men's exile. 
 
 Sal. Yes, 
 
 As he who treads on flowers is from the adder 
 Twined round their roots. 
 
 Sar. Why, what wouldst have me do? 
 
 Sal. Undo what you have done. 
 
 Sar. Revoke my pardon ? 
 
 Sal. Replace the crown now tottering on your temples. 
 
 Sar. That were tyrarmical. 
 
 Sal. But sure. 
 
 Sar. We are so. 
 
 What danger can they work upon the frontier ? 
 
 Sal. They are not there yet — never should they be so. 
 Were I well listen'd to. 
 
 Sar. Nay, I have hsten'd 
 
 Impartially to thee — why not to them? 
 
 Sal. You may know that hereafter ; as it is, 
 I take my leave to order forth the guard. 
 
 Sar. And you will join us at the banquet? 
 
 Sal. Sire, 
 
 Dispense with me — I am no wassailer: 
 Command me in all service save the Bacchant's. 
 
 Sar. Nay, but 't is fit to revel now and then. 
 
 Sal. And fit that some should watch for those who 
 revel 
 Too oft. Am I permitted to depart? 
 
 Sar. Yes Stay a moment, my good Salemenes, 
 
 My brother, my best subject, better prince 
 
 Than I am kmg. You should have been the monarch, 
 
 And I — I know not what, and care not ; but 
 
 Think not I am insensible to all 
 
 Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough yet kind. 
 
 Though oft reproving, sufferance of my follies. 
 
 If I have spared these men against thy counsel, 
 
 That is, their lives — it is not that I doubt 
 
 The advice was sound ; but, let them live : we will not 
 
 Cavil about their lives — so let them mend them. 
 
 Their banishment will leave me still sound sleep, 
 
 Which their death had not left me. 
 
 Sal. Thus you run 
 
 The risk to sleep for ever, to save traitors — 
 A moment's pang now changed for years of crime. 
 Still let them be made quiet. 
 
 Sar. Tempt me not : 
 
 My word is past. 
 
 Sal. But it may be recall'd. 
 
 Sar. 'T is royal. 
 
 Sal. And should therefore be decisive. 
 
 This half indulgence of an exile serves 
 But to provoke — a pardon should be full, 
 Or it is none. 
 
 Sar. And who persuaded me 
 
 After I had repeal'd them, or at least 
 Only dismiss'd them from our presence, who 
 Urged me to send them to their satrapies ? 
 
 Sal. True ; that I had forgotten ; that is, sire, 
 If they e'er reach'd their satrapies — why, then, 
 Reprove me more for my advice. 
 
 Sar. And if 
 
 They do not reach them — look to it ! — in safety, 
 In safety, mark me — and security — 
 Look to thine own, 
 
 Sal. Permit me to depart; 
 
 Their safety shall be cared for. 
 
 Sar. Get thee hence, then-, 
 
 And, prithee, think more gently of thy brother. 
 
 Sal. Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sovereign. 
 
 [Exit Salemenes. 
 
 Sar. (solus.) That man is of a temper too severe ; 
 Hard but as lofty as the rock, and free 
 From all the taints of common earth — while I 
 Am softer clay, impregnated with flowers. 
 But as our mould is, must the produce be. 
 If I have err'd this time, 't is on the side 
 Where error sits most lightly on that sense, 
 I know not what to call it ; but it reckons 
 With me ofttimes for pain, and sometimes pleasure; 
 A spirit which seems placed about my heart 
 To court its throbs, not quicken them, and ask 
 Questions which mortal never dared to ask me. 
 Nor Baal, though an oracular deity — 
 Albeit his marble face majestical 
 Frowns as the shadows of the evening dim 
 His brows to changed expression, till at times 
 I think the statue looks in act to speak. 
 Away with these vain thoughts, I will be joyous— 
 And here comes Joy's true herald. 
 
 Enter Myrrh A. 
 
 Myr. King ! the sky 
 
 Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder, 
 In clouds that seem approaching fast, and show 
 In forked flashes a commanding tempest. 
 Will you then quit the palace ? 
 
 Sar. Tempest, sayst thou? 
 
 3fyr. Ay, my good lord. 
 
 Sar. For my own part, I should be 
 
 Not ill content to vary the smooth scene, 
 And watch the warring elements; but this 
 
Act III. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 277 
 
 Would little suit the silken garments and 
 
 Smooth faces of our festive friends. Say, MjTrha, 
 
 Art thou of those who dread the roar of clouds ? 
 
 l^yr. In my own country we respect their voices 
 As auguries of Jove. 
 
 Sot. Jove — ay, your Baal — 
 
 Ours also has a property in thunder, 
 And ever and anon some falling bolt 
 Proves his divinity, and yet sometimes 
 Strikes his own altars. 
 
 Myr. That were a dread omen, 
 
 S(xr. Yes — for the priests. Well, we wall not go 
 forth 
 Beyond the palace walls to night, but make 
 Our feast within. 
 
 Myr. Now, Jove be praised ! that he 
 
 Hath heard the prayer thou wouldst not hear. The 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Are kinder to thee than thou to thyself, 
 
 And flash this storm between thee and thy foes, 
 
 To shield thee from them. 
 
 Sux. Child, if there be peril, 
 
 Methinks it is the same within these walls 
 As on the river's brink. 
 
 Myr. Not so; these walls 
 
 Are high and strong, and guarded. Treason has 
 . To penetrate through many a winding way, 
 And massy portal 5 but in the pavilion 
 There is no bulwark. 
 
 Sar. No, nor in the palace. 
 
 Nor in the fortress, nor upon the top 
 Of cloud-fenced Caucasus, where the eagle sits 
 Nested in pathless clefts, if treachery be : 
 Even as the arrow finds the airy king. 
 The steel will reach the earthly. But be calm: 
 The men, or innocent or guilty, are 
 Banish'd, and far upon their wa}'. 
 
 Myr, They live, then? 
 
 Sar. So sanguinary ? Thjou I 
 Myr. I would not shrink 
 
 From just infliction of due punishment 
 On those who seek your hfe :■ wer 't otherwise, 
 I should not merit mine. Besides, you heard 
 The princely Salemenes. 
 
 Sar. This is strange ; 
 
 The gentle and the austere are both against me, 
 And urge me to revenge. 
 
 Myr. 'T is a Greek virtue. 
 
 Sar. But not a kingly one — I '11 none on't ; or 
 If ever I indulge in 't, it shall be 
 With kings — my equals. 
 Myr. These men sought to be so, 
 
 Sar. Myrrha, this is too feminine, and springs 
 
 From fear 
 
 Myr. For you. 
 
 Sar. No matter, still 'tis fear. 
 
 I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath, 
 Are timidly vindictive to a pitch 
 Of perseverance, which I would not copy. 
 I thought you were exempt from this, as from 
 The childless helplessness of Asian women. 
 
 Myr. My lord, I am no boaster of my love, 
 Nor of my attributes ; I have shared your splendour. 
 And will partg,ke your fortunes. You may Uve 
 To find one slave more true than subject myriads ; 
 But this the gods avert ! I am content 
 To be beloved on trust for what I feel. 
 Rather than prove it to you in your griefs. 
 Which might not yield to any cares of mine. 
 
 Sar. Grief cannot come where perfect love exists, 
 Except to heighten it, and. vanish from 
 That which it could not scare away. Let's in — 
 The hour approaches, and we must prepare 
 To meet the invited guests, who grace oiu: feast. 
 
 \ExemiJt. 
 
 Scene I. — The HaU of the Palace illuminated — Sarda- 
 NAPALUS and his Guests at Table. — A Storm withouty 
 and Thunder occasionally heard during the Banquet. 
 Sar. Fill full ! why this is as it should be : here 
 Is my true realm, amidst bright eyes and faces 
 Happy as fair ! Here sorrow cannot reach. 
 
 Zam. Nor elsewhere — where the king is, pleasure 
 
 sparkles. 
 Sar. Is not this better now than Nimrod's huntings, 
 Or my wUd grandam's chase in search of kingdoms 
 She could not keep when conquer'd ? 
 
 AU. Mighty though 
 
 They were, as all thy royal line have been, 
 Yet none of those who went before have reach'd 
 The acme of Sardanapalus, who 
 Has placed his joy in peace — the sole true glory. 
 
 .Sar. And pleasure, good Altada, to which glory 
 Is but the path. What is it that we seek? 
 Enjoyment ! We have cut the way short to it, 
 And not gone tracking it through human ashes, 
 Making a grave with every footstep. 
 
 Zarn. No; 
 
 All hearts are happy, and all voices bless 
 The king of peace, who holds a world in jubilee. 
 
 Sar. Art sure of that? I have heard otherwise; 
 Some say that there be traitors. 
 
 Zam. Traitors they 
 
 Who dare to say so ! — 'T is impossible. 
 What cause? 
 
 Sar. What cause ? true, — fill the goblet up ; 
 
 We will not think of them : there are none such. 
 Or if there be, they are gone. 
 
 Alt. Guests, to my pledge ! 
 
 Down on your knees, and drink a measure to 
 The safety of the long — the monarch, say 1? 
 The god Sardanapalus ! 
 
 [Zames and the Guests kneel, and exclaim— ~ 
 Mightier than 
 His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus ! 
 
 [It thunders as they kneel ; some start up in 
 confusion. 
 Zam. Why do you rise, my friends ? in that strong peal 
 His fad;ier gods consented. 
 
 Myr. Menaced, rather. 
 
 King, wilt thou bear this mad impiety ? 
 
 Sar. Impiety ! — nay, if the sires who reign'd 
 Before me can be gods, I '11 not disgrace 
 Their lineage. But arise, my pious friends ; 
 Hoard your devotion for the thunderer there ; 
 I seek but to be loved, not worshipp'd. 
 
 Alt. Both— 
 
 Both you must ever be by all true subjects. 
 
 Sar. Methinks the thunders still increase : it is 
 An awful night. 
 
 Myr. Oh yes, for those who have 
 
 No palace to protect their worshippers. 
 
 Sar. That 's true, my Myrrha ; and could I convert 
 My realm to one wide shelter for the wretched, 
 I 'd do it. 
 
 Myr. Thou'rt no god, then, not to be 
 Able to work a will so good and general. 
 As thy wish would imply. 
 
 Sar. And your gods, then, 
 
 Who can, and do not ? 
 
 3Iyr. Do not speak of that. 
 
 Lest we provoke them. 
 
 Sar. True, they love not censure 
 
 Better than mortals. Friends, a thought has struck me : 
 Were there no temples, would there, think ye, be 
 Air worshippers ? that is, when it is angry, 
 And pelting as even now. 
 
 Myr. The Persian prays 
 
 Upon his mountam. 
 
278 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Sar. Yes, when the sun shines. 
 
 Myr. And I would ask if this your palace were 
 Unroof'd and desolate, how many flatterers 
 Would lick the dust in which the king lay low ? 
 
 Alt. The fair Ionian is too sarcastic 
 Upon a nation whom she knows not well ; 
 The Assyrians know no pleasure but their king's ; 
 And homage is their pride. 
 
 Sar. Nay, pardon, guests, 
 
 The fair Greek's readiness of speech. 
 
 Alt. Pardon! sire: 
 
 We honour her of all things next to thee. 
 Hark ! what was that ? 
 
 Zam. That ! nothing but the jar 
 
 Of distant portals sliaken by the wind. 
 
 Alt. It sounded like the clash of— hark again ! 
 
 Zam. The big rain pattering on the roof. 
 
 Sar. No more . 
 
 Myrrha, my love, hast thou thy shell in order ? 
 Sing me a song of Sappho, her, thou know'st. 
 Who in thy country threw 
 
 Enter Pania, with his sword and garments bloody, and 
 disordered. The Guests rise in confusion. 
 
 Pan. {to the Guards.) Look to the portals ; 
 
 And with your best speed to the walls without. 
 Your arms ! To arms ! the king 's in danger. Monarch ! 
 Excuse this haste, — 'tis faith. 
 
 Sar. Speak on. 
 
 Pan. It is 
 As Salemenes fear'd ; the faithless satraps 
 
 Sar. You are wounded — give some wine. Take 
 breath, good Pania. 
 
 Pan. 'T is nothing — a mere flesh wound. I am worn 
 More with my speed to warn my sovereign, 
 Than hurt in his defence. 
 
 Myr. Well, sir, the rebels? 
 
 Pan. Soon as Arbaces and Beleses reach'd 
 Their stations in the city, they refused 
 To march ; and on my attempt to use the power 
 Which I was delegated with, they call'd 
 Upon their troops, who rose in fierce defiance. 
 
 Myr. All? 
 
 Pan. Too many. 
 
 Sar. Spare not of thy free speech. 
 
 To spare mine ears the truth. 
 
 Pan. My own slight guard 
 
 Were faithful, and what 's left of it is still so. 
 
 Myr. And are these all the force still faithful? 
 
 Pan. No— 
 
 The Bactrians. now led on by Salemenes, 
 Wlio even then was on his way, still urged 
 By strong suspicion of the Median chiefs. 
 Are numerous, and make strong head against 
 The rebels, fighting inch by inch, and forming 
 An orb around the palace, where they mean 
 To centre all their force, and save the king. 
 (He Jiesitates.) I am charged to 
 
 Myr. 'T is no time for hesitation. 
 
 Pan. Prince Salemenes doth implore the king 
 To arm himself although but for a moment. 
 And show himself unto the soldiers : his 
 Sole presence in this instant might do more 
 Than hosts can do in his behalf. 
 ^ Sar. What, ho! 
 
 My armour there. 
 
 Myr. And wilt thou ? 
 
 Sar. Wminot? 
 
 Ho, there ! — but seek not for the buckler : 't is 
 Too heavy : — a light cuirass and my sword. 
 Where are the rebels? 
 
 Pan. Scarce a furlong's length 
 
 From the outward wall, the fiercest conflict rages. 
 Sar. Then I may charge on horseback. Sfero, ho ! 
 
 Order my horse out. — There is space enough 
 Even in our courts, and by the outer gate. 
 To marshal half the horsemen of Arabia. 
 
 [Exit Sfero for the armour. 
 Myr. How I do love thee ! 
 
 Sar. I ne'er doubted it. 
 
 3Iyr. But now I know thee. 
 
 Sar. {to las Attendant. ) Bring dov^TH my spear to — ■ 
 Where 's Salemenes ? 
 
 Pan. Where a soldier should be, 
 
 In the thick of the fight. 
 
 Sar. Then hasten to hi m ■ Is 
 
 The path still open, and communication 
 Left 'twixt the palace and the phalanx ? 
 
 Pan 'T was 
 
 When I late left him, and I have no fear : 
 Our troops were steady, and the phalanx form'd 
 
 Sar. Tell him to spare his person for the present, 
 And that I will not spare my own — and say, 
 I come. 
 
 Pan. There 's victory in the very word. 
 
 [Eadt Pania. 
 
 Sar. Altada — Zames— forth, and arm ye ! There 
 Is all in readiness in the armoury. 
 See that the women are bestow'd in safety 
 In the remote apartments : let a guard 
 Be set before them, with strict charge to quit 
 The post but with their hves — command it, Zames. 
 Altada, arm yourself, and return here ; 
 Your post is near our person. 
 
 [Exeunt Zames, Altada, and all save Myrrha. 
 
 Enter Sfero and others with the King's Arms, ^c. 
 
 Sfe. King! your armour. 
 
 Sar. {arming himself .) Give me the cuirass — so: my 
 baldric ; now > 
 My sword : I had forgot the helm — ^where is it ? 
 That 's well — no, 't is too heavy : you mistake, too — 
 It was not this I meant, but that which bears 
 A diadem around it. 
 
 Sfe, Sire, I deem'd 
 
 That too conspicuous from the precious stones 
 To risk your sacred brow beneath — and, trust me. 
 This is of better metal, though less rich. 
 
 Sar. You deem'd! Are you too turn'd a rebel ? Fellow 
 Your part is to obey: return, and — ^no — 
 It is too late — I will go forth without it. 
 
 Sfe. At least wear this. 
 
 Sar. Wear Caucasus ! why, 't is 
 
 A mountain on my temples. 
 
 Sfe. Sire, the meanest 
 
 Soldier goes not forth thus exposed to battle. 
 All men will recognize you — for the storm 
 Has ceased, and the moon breaks forth in her bright- 
 ness. '■ 
 
 Sar. I go forth to be recognized, and thus 
 Shall be so sooner. Now — my spear ! I 'm arm'd. 
 
 [In going stops short, and turns to Sfero. 
 Sfero — I had forgotten — bring the mirror.* 
 
 Sfe. The mirror, sire ? 
 
 Sar. Yes, sir, of polish'd brass. 
 
 Brought from the spoils of India — but be speedy. 
 
 [Exit Sfero. 
 
 Sar. Myrrha, retire unto a place of safety. 
 Why went you not forth with the other damsels ? 
 
 Myr. Because my place is here. 
 
 Sar. And when I am gone 
 
 Myr. I follow. 
 
 Sar. You ! to battle ? 
 
 Myr. If it were so, 
 
 'T were not the first Greek girl had trod the path. 
 I will await here your return. 
 
 Such the mirror Olho held 
 
 In the Illyriaii field,"— See Juvenal, 
 
Act hi. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 279 
 
 Sar. Tlie place 
 
 Is spacious, and the first to be sought out, 
 If they prevail ; and, if it should be so. 
 And I return not 
 
 Myr. Still we meet again. 
 
 Sar. How ? 
 
 Myr, In the spot where all must meet at last- 
 
 In Hades ! if there be, as I believe, 
 A shore beyond the Styx: and if there be not, 
 In ashes. 
 
 Sar. Darest thou so much ? 
 
 Myr. 1 dare all things 
 
 Except survive what I have loved, to be 
 A rebel's booty : forth, and do your bravest. 
 
 Re-enter Sfero with the mirror. 
 
 Sar. {looking at himself.) This cuirass fits me well 
 the baldric better, 
 And the helm not at all. Methinks I seem 
 
 [Flings away the helmet after trying it again. 
 Passing well in these toys ; and now to prove them. 
 Altada! Where 's Altada ? 
 
 Sfe. Waiting, sire, 
 
 Without : he has your shield in readiness. 
 
 Sar. True ; I forgot he is my shield-bearer 
 By right of blood, derived from age to age. 
 Myrrha, embrace me; — yet once more — once more — 
 Love me, whate'er betide. My chiefest glory 
 Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 
 
 Myr. Go forth, and conquer! 
 
 [Exeunt Sardanapalus and Sfero. 
 Now, I am alone. 
 All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
 Perhaps return. Let him but vanquish, and 
 Me perish ! If he vanquish not, I perish ; 
 For I will not outlive him. He has wound 
 About my heart, I know not how nor why. 
 Not for that he is king ; for now his kingdom 
 Rocks underneath his throne, and the earth yawns 
 To yield him no more of it than a grave ; 
 And yet I love him more. Oh, mighty Jove ! 
 Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian. 
 Who knows not of Olympus ! yes, I love him 
 
 Now, now, far more than Hark — to the war shout ! 
 
 Methinks it nears me. If it should be so, " 
 
 [She draws forth a small vial. 
 This cunning Colchian poison, which my father 
 Learn'd to compound on Euxine shores, and taught me 
 How to preserve, shall free me ! It had freed me 
 Long ere this hour, but that I loved, until . 
 I half forgot I was a slave : — where all 
 Are slaves save one, and proud of servitude. 
 So they are served in turn by something lower 
 In the degree of bondage, we forget 
 That shackles worn hke ornaments no less 
 Are chains. Again that shout! and now the clash 
 Of arms — and now — Jind now 
 
 Enter Altada. 
 
 AU. Ho, Sfero, ho ! 
 
 Myr. He is not here ; what wouldst thou with him ? 
 How 
 Goes on the conflict ? 
 
 AU. Dubiously and fiercely. 
 
 Myr. And the king? 
 
 AU. Like a king. I must find Sfero, 
 
 And bring him a new spear and his ovm helmet. 
 He fights till now bareheaded, and by far 
 Too much exposed. The soldiers knew his face, 
 And the foe too ; and in the moon's broad light, 
 His silk tiara and his flowing hair 
 Make him a mark too royal. Every arrow 
 Is pointed at the fair hair and fair features, 
 And the broad fillet which crowns both. 
 
 Myr. Ye gods. 
 
 Who fulminate o'er my father's land, protect him ! 
 Were you sent by the king ? 
 
 Alt. By Salemenes, 
 
 Who sent me privily upon this charge. 
 Without the knowledge of the careless sovereign. 
 The king ! the king fights as he revels ! ho ! 
 What, Sfero ! I will seek the armoury — 
 He must be there. [Exit Altada. 
 
 Myr. 'Tis no dishonour — no — 
 
 'T is no dishonour to have loved this man. 
 I almost wish now, what I never wish'd 
 Before, that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
 Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
 She-garb, and wielding her vile distaff; surely 
 He, who springs up a Hercules at once, 
 Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to manhood, 
 And rushes from the banquet to the battle. 
 As though it were a bed of love, deserves 
 That a Greek girl should be his paramour, 
 And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek tomb 
 His monument. How goes the strife, sir ? 
 
 Enter an Officer. 
 
 Officer. Lost, 
 
 Lost almost past recovery. Zames ! Where 
 Is Zames ? 
 
 Myr. Posted with the guard appointed 
 
 To watch before the apartment of the women. 
 
 [Exit Officer. 
 
 Myr. (solus.) He 's gone ; and told no more than 
 that all 's lost ! 
 What need have I to know more ? In those words, 
 Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
 A line of thirteen ages, and the lives 
 Of thousands, and the fortune of all lefi; 
 With life, are merged ; and I, too, with the great, 
 Like a small bubble breaking v^ath the wave 
 Which bore it, shall be nothing. At the least 
 My fate is in my keeping : no proud victor 
 Shall count me with his spoils. 
 
 Enter Pania. 
 
 Pan. Away with me, 
 
 Myrrha, without delay ; we must not lose 
 A moment — all that 's left us now. 
 
 Myr. The king? 
 
 Pan. Sent me here to conduct you hence, beyond 
 The river, by a secret passage. 
 
 Myr. Then 
 
 He Hves 
 
 Pan. And charged me to secure your hfe, 
 And beg you to live on for his sake, till 
 He can rejoin you. 
 
 Myr. Will he then give way ? 
 
 Pan. Not till the last. Still, still he does whate'er 
 Despair can do ; and step by step disputes 
 The very palace. 
 
 Myr. They are here, then: — ay, 
 
 Their shouts come ringing through the ancient halls, 
 Never profaned by rebel echoes till 
 This fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's line ! 
 Farewell to all of Nimrod ! Even the name 
 Is now no more. 
 
 Pan. Away vrith me — away ! 
 
 Myr. No : I 'U die here !— Away, and tell your king 
 I loved him to the last. 
 
 Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes vuith soldiers. 
 Pania quits Myrrha, and ranges himself with them. 
 
 Sar. Since it is thus. 
 
 We '11 die where we were born — in our own halls. 
 Serry your ranks — stand firm. I have despatched 
 A trusty satrap for the guard of Zames, 
 All fresh and faithful : they '11 be here anon. 
 All is not over. — Pania, look to Myrrha. 
 
 [Pania returns towards Myrrha. 
 
280 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Scd. We have breathing time ; yet once more charge 
 my friends — 
 One for Assyria ! 
 
 Sar. Rather say for Bactria! 
 
 My faithful Bactrians, I will henceforth be 
 King of your nation, and we '11 hold together 
 This realm as province. 
 
 Sal. Hark ! tliey come — they come. 
 
 Enter Beleses and Arbaces with the Rebels. 
 Arb. Set on, we have them in the toil. Charge ! 
 
 Charge I 
 Bel. On ! on 1 — Heaven fights for us, and with us. — 
 On! 
 {They charge the King and Salemenes loiih their 
 Troops, who defend themselves till the Arrival of 
 Zames, with the Guard before mentioned. The 
 Rebels are then driven of, and pursued by Sale- 
 menes, ^c. As the King is going to join the 
 pursuit, Beleses crosses him. 
 Bel. Ho! tyrant — I will end tliis war. 
 Sar. Even so. 
 
 My warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
 Grateful and trusty subject : — yield, I pray thee. 
 I would reserve thee for a fitter doom, 
 Rather than dip my hands m holy blood. 
 Bel. Thine hour is come. 
 
 Sar. No, thine. — I 've lately read, 
 
 Though but a young astrologer, the stars ; 
 And, ranging round the zodiac, found thy fate 
 In the sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
 That thou wilt now be crush'd. 
 Bel. But not by thee. 
 
 [They Jigkt; Beleses is wounded and disarmed. 
 Sar. (raising his sword to dei^atch him, exclaims) — 
 Now call upon thy planets, will they shoot 
 From the sky to preserve their seer and credit? 
 
 [A party of Rebels enter and rescue Beleses. Tliey 
 assail the King, luho, in turn, is rescued by a Party 
 of his Soldiers, ivho drive the Rebels qff". 
 The villain was a prophet after all. 
 Upon them — ho ! there — victory is ours. 
 
 \Exit in pursuit. 
 Myr. {to Pan.) Pursue.! Why stand'st thou here, 
 and leavest the ranks 
 Of fellow-soldiers conquering without thee ? 
 Pan. The kbg's command was not to quit thee. 
 Myr. Mel 
 
 Think not of me — a single soldier's arm 
 Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 
 1 need no guard: what, with a world at stake, 
 Keep watch upon a woman ? Hence, I say, 
 Or thou art shamed ! Nay, then, / will go forth, 
 A feeble female, 'midst their desperate strife, 
 And bid thee guard me there — where thou shouldst shield 
 Thy sovereign. [Eocit Mykrha. 
 
 Pan. Yet stay, damsel ! She 's gone. 
 
 If aught of ill betide her, better I 
 Had lost my Ufe. Sardanapalus holds her 
 Far dearer than his kingdom, yet he fights 
 For that too ; and can I do less than he, 
 Who never flash'd a scimitar till now ? 
 Myrrha, return, and I obey you, though 
 In disobedience to the monarch. [Eocit Pania. 
 
 Enter Altada and Sfero hy an opposite door. 
 
 Alt. Myrrha! 
 
 What, gone ? yet she was here when the fight raged, 
 And Pania also. Can aught have befallen them ? 
 
 Sfe. I saw both safe, when late the rebels fled: 
 They probably are but retired to make 
 Their way back to the harem. 
 
 AU. If the king 
 
 Prove victor, as it seems even now he must, 
 And miss his own Ionian, we are doom'd 
 
 To worse than captive rebels. 
 
 ^e. Let us trace them , 
 
 She carmot be fled far; and, found, she makes 
 A richer prize to our soft sovereign 
 Than his recover'd kingdom. 
 
 Alt. Baal himself 
 
 Ne'er fought more fiercely to vnn empire, than 
 His silken son to save it ; he defies 
 All augury of foes or friends ; and like 
 The close and sultry summer's day, which bodes 
 A twilight tempest, bursts forth in such thunder 
 As sweeps the air and deluges the earth. 
 The man's inscrutable. 
 
 Sfe. Not more than others. 
 
 All are the sons of circumstance : away — 
 Let's seek the slave out, or prepare to be 
 Tortured for his infatuation, and 
 Conderrm'd without a crime. [Exeunt 
 
 Enter Salemenes and Soldiers, fyc. 
 
 Sal. The triumph is 
 
 Flattering : they are beaten backward from the palace 
 And we have open'd regular access 
 To the troops station'd on the other side 
 Euphrates, who may still be true ; nay, must be, 
 When they hear of our victory. But where 
 Is the chief victor ? where 's the king ? 
 
 Enter Sardanapalus, cum suis, ^c. and Myrrha. 
 
 Sar. Here, brother. 
 
 Sal. Unhurt, I hope. 
 
 Sar. Not qmte ; but let it pass. 
 We 've clear'd the palace 
 
 Sal. And I trust the city. 
 
 Our numbers gather ; and I 've ordered onward 
 A cloud of Parthians, hitherto reserved, 
 All fresh and fiery, to be pour'd upon them 
 In their retreat, which soon will be a flight. 
 
 Sar. It is already, or at least they march'd 
 Faster than I could follow with my Bactrians, 
 Who spared no speed. I am spent: give me a seat. 
 
 Sal. There stands the throne, sire. 
 
 Sar. 'T is no place to rest on, 
 
 For mind nor body : let me have a couch, 
 
 [They place a seat. 
 A peasant's stool, I care not what : so— now 
 I breathe more freely. 
 
 Sal. Tliis great hour has proved 
 
 The brightest and most glorious of your life. 
 
 Sar. And the most tiresome. Where 's my cupbearer? 
 Bring me some water. 
 
 Sal. (smiling.) 'T is the first time he 
 
 Ever had such an order : even I, 
 Your most austere of counsellors, would now 
 Suggest a purpler beverage. 
 
 Sar. Blood, doubtless. 
 
 But there 's enough of that shed ; as for vdne, 
 I have learn'd to-night the price of the pure element 
 Thrice have I drank of it, and thrice renew'd, 
 With greater strength than the grape ever gave me, 
 My charge upon the rebels. Where 's the soldier 
 Who gave me water in his helmet ? 
 
 One of the Chiards. Slain, sire ! 
 
 An arrow pierced his brain, while, scattering 
 The last drops from his helm, he stood in act 
 To place it on his brows. 
 
 Sar. Slain! unrewarded! 
 
 And slain to serve my thirst : that 's hard, poor slave ! 
 Had he but Uved, I would have gorged him with 
 Gold : all the gold of earth could ne'er repay 
 The pleasure of that draught ; for I was parch'd 
 As I am now. [They bring water— he drinks. 
 
 I Uve again — fi-om henceforth 
 The goblet I reserve for hours of love^ 
 But war on water. 
 
Act IV. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 281 
 
 Sal. And that bandage, sire, 
 
 Which girds your arm ? 
 Sar. A scratch from brave Beleses 
 
 Myr. Oh ! he is wounded ! 
 
 Sar. Not too much of that : 
 
 And yet it feels a little stiff and painful, 
 Now I am cooler. 
 
 Mi/r. You have bound it with 
 
 Sar. The fillet of my diadem : the first timo 
 That ornament was ever aught to me, 
 Save an incumbrance. 
 
 Myr. (to the Attendants.) Summon speedily 
 A leech of the most skilful : pray, retire ; 
 I will unbind your wound and tend it. 
 
 Sar. Do bo, 
 
 For now it throbs sufficiently : but what 
 Know'st thou of woimds ? yet wherefore do I ask ? 
 Know'st thou, my brother, where I lighted on 
 This minion ? 
 
 Sal. Herding with the other females, 
 
 Like frighten'd antelopes. 
 
 Sar. No : like the dam 
 
 Of the young lion, femininely raging, 
 (And femininely meaneth furiously, 
 Because all passions in excess are female,) 
 Against the hunter flying with her cub, 
 She urged on with her voice and gesture, and 
 Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the soldiers, 
 In the pursuit. 
 
 Sal. Indeed ! 
 
 Sar. You see, this night 
 
 IVIade warriors of more than me. I paused 
 To look upon her, and her kindled cheek ; 
 Her large black eyes, that flash'd through her long hair 
 As it stream'd o'er her ; her blue veins that rose 
 Along her most transparent brow ; her nostril 
 Dilated from its symmetry ; her lips 
 Apart ; her voice that clove through all the din. 
 As a lute's pierceth through the cymbal's clash, 
 Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud brattling ; lier 
 Waved arms, more dazzling with their own born 
 
 whiteness 
 Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up 
 From a dead soldier's grasp ; all these things made 
 Her seem unto the troops a prophetess 
 Of victory, or Victory herself, 
 Come down to hail us her's. 
 
 Sal. (aside.) This is too much. 
 
 Again the love-fit 's on him, and all 's lost, 
 Unless we turn liis thoughts. 
 
 {Aloud.) But pray thee, sire. 
 Think of your wound — you said even now 't was painfuL 
 Sar. That 's true, too ; but I must not think of it. 
 Sal. I have look'd to all things needful, and will now 
 Receive reports of progress made in such 
 Orders as 1 had given, and then return 
 To hear your further pleasure. 
 
 Sar. fee it so. 
 
 Sal. {in retiring.) Myrrha ! 
 
 Myr. Prince ! 
 
 Sal. You have shown a soul to-night, 
 
 Which, were he not my sister's lord But now 
 
 I have no time: thou lovest the king? 
 
 Myr. I love 
 
 Sardanapalus. 
 
 Sal. But wouldst have him long still? 
 
 Myr. I would not have him less than what he should be. 
 Sal. Well then, to have him king, and yours, and all 
 He should, or should not be ; to have him live, 
 Let him not sink back into luxury. 
 You have more power upon his spirit than 
 Wisdom within these walls, or fierce rebellion 
 Raging without : look well that he relapse not. 
 
 Myr. There needed not the voice of Salemenes 
 To urge me on to this : I will not fail. 
 2L 
 
 Is pow< 
 
 Ail that a woman's weakness can — 
 
 Sal. 
 Omnipotent o'er such a hoart as his : 
 Exert it wisely. [Exit Salemenes. 
 
 Sar. IMyrrha! what, at whispers 
 
 With my stern brother? I shall soon be jealous. 
 
 Myr. {smiling.) You have cause, sire ; for on the 
 earth there breathes not 
 A man more worthy of a woman's love — • 
 A soldier's trust — a subject's reverence — 
 A king's esteem — the whole world's admiration ! 
 
 Sar. Praise him, but not so warmly. I must not 
 Hear those sweet lips gi'ow eloquent in aught 
 That throws me into shade ; yet you speak truth. 
 
 Myr. And now retire, to have your wound look'd to. 
 Pray, lean on mo. 
 
 Sar. Yes-j love ! but not from pain. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — Sardanapalus discovered sleeping upon a 
 Couch, and occasionally disturbed in his Slumbers, with 
 Myrrha watching. 
 
 BIyr. {sola, gazing.) I have stolen upon his rest, if 
 rest it be, 
 Which thus convulses slumber : shall I wake him ? 
 No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of duiet ! 
 Whose reign is o'er seal'd eyelids and soft dreams,. 
 Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathom'd. 
 Look like thy brother. Death — so siiU — so stirlcss — 
 For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 
 Are hap[>iest of all within the realm 
 Of thy stern, silent, and unwakening twii>. 
 Again he moves — again the play of pain 
 Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust 
 Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm 
 Beneath the mountain shadow ; or the blast 
 Ruffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 
 Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. 
 I must awake him — yet not yet : who knows 
 From what I rouse him? It seems pain: but if 
 I quicken him to heavier pain ? The fever 
 Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of 
 His wound, tliough slight, may cause all this, and shake 
 Me more to see than him to suffer. No : 
 Let nature use her own maternal means, — 
 And I await to second not disturb her. 
 
 Sar. {awakening.) Not so — although ye multiplied 
 the stars, 
 And gave them to me as a realm to share 
 From you and mth you ! I would not so purchase 
 The empire of eternity. Hence — hence — 
 Old hunter of the earliest brutes ! and ye, 
 Who hunted fellow-creatures as if brutes ! 
 Once bloody mortals — and now bloodier idols, 
 If your priests lie not ! And thou, ghastly beldame ! 
 Dripping with dusky gore, and trampling on 
 The carcasses of Inde — away ! away ! 
 
 Where am I ? Where the spectres? Wliere No— 
 
 that 
 Is no false phantom : I should know it 'midst 
 All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 
 From their black gulf to daunt the living. Myrrha J 
 
 Myr. Alas ! thou art pale, and on thy brow the drop^ 
 Gather like night dew. My beloved, hush — 
 Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another world. 
 And thou art loved of this. Be of good cheer; 
 All will go well. 
 
 Sar. Thy hand — so^'tis thy hand; 
 
 T is flesh ; grasp — clasp — yet closer, till I feel 
 Myself that which I was. 
 
 JV%r. At least know me 
 
282 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 For what I am, and ever must be — thine, 
 
 Sar. I know it now, I know this life again. 
 Ah, Myrrha ! I have been where we shall be. 
 Myr. My lord! 
 Sar. I 've been i' the grave — where worms are lords, 
 
 And kings are But I did not deem it so ; 
 
 I thought 't was nothing. 
 
 3Iyr. So it is ; except 
 
 Unto the timid, who anticipate 
 That which may never be. 
 
 Sar. Oh, Myrrha ! if 
 
 Sleep show such things, what may not death disclose ? 
 
 3Iyr. I know no evil death can show, which life 
 Has not already shown to those who live 
 Embodied longest. If there be indeed 
 A shore, where mind survives, 't will be as mind, 
 All unincorporate : or if there flits 
 A shadow of this cumbrous clog of clay, 
 Wliich stalks, methinks, between our souls and heaven. 
 And fetters us to earth — at least the phantom, 
 Whate'er it have to fear, will not fear death. 
 
 Sar. I fear it not ; but 1 have felt — have seen — 
 A legion of the dead. 
 
 iV/yr. And so have I. 
 
 The dust we tread upon was once alive, 
 And wretched. But proceed : what hast thou seen ? 
 Speak it, 't will lighten thy dinm;i'd mind. 
 
 Sar. Methought 
 
 Myr. Yet pause, thou art tired — in pain — exhausted; 
 all 
 Which can impair both strength and spirit: seek 
 Rather to sleep again. 
 
 Sar. Not now — I would not 
 
 Dream ; though I know it now to be a dream 
 What I have dreamt :~and canst thou bear to hear it? 
 
 Myr. I can bear all things, dreams of life or death. 
 Which I participate with you, in semblance 
 Or full reality. 
 
 Sar. And this look'd real, 
 
 I tell you : after that these eyes were open, 
 I saw tliem in their flight— for then they fled. 
 3Ii/r. Say on. 
 
 Sar. I sav/, that is, 1 dream'd myself 
 
 Here — here — even where we are, guests as we were. 
 Myself a host that deem'd himself but guest, 
 Willing to equal all in social freedom ; 
 But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
 Of thee and Zames, and our accustom'd meeting, 
 Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, dark, 
 And deadly face — I could not recognize it. 
 Yet I had seen it, though I knew not where ; 
 The features were a giant's, and the eye 
 Was still, yet lighted ; his long locks curl'd down 
 On his vast bust, whence a huge quiver rose 
 With shaft-heads feather'd from the eagle's wing, 
 That peep'd up brisding through his serpent hair. 
 I invited him to fill the cup which stood 
 
 Between us, but he answer'd not — I fill'd it 
 
 He took it not, but stared upon me, till 
 
 I trembled at the fu'd glare of his eye : 
 
 I frown'd upon him as a king should frown — 
 
 He frown'd not in his turn, but look'd upon me 
 
 With the sam.e aspect, which appall'd me more, 
 
 Because it changed not ; and I tum'd for refuge 
 
 To milder guests, and sought them on the right, 
 
 Where thou wert wont to be. But 
 
 [He pauses 
 ^'^yr. What instead ? 
 
 Sar. In thy own chair — thy own place in the ban- 
 quet — 
 I sought thy sweet face in the circle — but 
 Instead — a gray-hair'd, withered, bloody-eyed, 
 And bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thuig, 
 Female in garb, and crown'd upon the brow, 
 Furrow'd with years, yet sneering with the passion 
 
 Of vengeance, leering too with that of lust, 
 Sate : — my veins curdled. 
 Myr. Is this all ? 
 
 Sar. Upon 
 
 Her right hand — her lank, bird-like right hand — stood 
 A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood ; and on 
 Her left, another, fill'd with — what I saw not, 
 But turn'd from it and her. But all along 
 The table sate a range of crowned wretches, 
 Of various aspects, but of one expression. 
 Myr. And felt you not this a mere vision ? 
 Sar. No : 
 
 It was so palpable, I could have touch'd them. 
 I turn'd from one face to another, in 
 The hope to find at last one which I knew 
 Ere I saw theb's : but no — all turn'd upon me, 
 And stared, but neither ate nor drank, but stared, 
 Till I grew stone, as they seem'd half to be, 
 Yet breathing stone, for I felt life in them, 
 And life in me : there was a horrid kind 
 Of sympathy between us, as if they 
 Had lost a part of death to come to me, 
 And I the half of life to sit by them. 
 We were in an existence all apart 
 
 From heaven or earth^ And rather let me see 
 
 Death all than such a being ! 
 
 Myr. And the end? 
 
 Sar. At last I sate marble, as they, when rose 
 The hunter, and the crew ; and smiling on me — 
 Yes, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
 The hunter smiled upon me — I should say. 
 His lips, for his eyes moved not — and the woman's 
 Thin Ups relax'd to something like a smile. 
 Both rose, and the crown'd figures on each hand 
 Rose also, as if aping their chief shades — 
 Mere miniics even in death — but I sate still : 
 A desperate courage crept through every limb, 
 And at the last I fear'd them not, but laugh'd 
 Full in then- phantom faces. But then — then 
 The hunter laid his hand on mine : I took it, 
 And grasp'd it — but it melted from my own, 
 While he too vanish'd, and left nothing but 
 The memory of a hero, for he look'd so. 
 
 Myr. And was : the ancestor of heroes, too, 
 And thine no less. 
 
 Sar. Ay, Myrrha, but the woman, 
 
 The female who remain'd, she flew upon me. 
 And burnt my lips up with her noisome kisses. 
 And, flingbg down the goblets on each hand, 
 Methought their poisons flow'd around us, till 
 Each form'd a hideous river. Still she clung ; 
 The other phantoms, like a row of statues, 
 Stood dull as in our temples, but she still 
 Embraced me, while I shrunk from her, as if. 
 In lieu of her remote descendant, I 
 Had been the son who slew her for her incest. 
 Then — then — a chaos of all loathsome things 
 Throng'd thick and shapeless: I was dead, yet feeling- 
 Buried, and raised again — consumed by worms, 
 Purged by the flames, and wither'd in the air ! 
 I can fix nothing further of my thoughts, 
 Save that I long'd for thee, and sought for thee, 
 In all these agonies, and woke and found thee. 
 Myr. So shalt thou find me ever at thy side, 
 Here and hereafter, if the last may be. 
 But think not of these tilings — the mere creations 
 Of late events, acting upon a frame 
 Unused to toil, yet overwrought by toil 
 Such as might try the sternest. 
 
 Sar. I am better. 
 
 Now that I see thee once more, what was seen 
 Seems nothing. 
 
 Enter Salemenes. 
 SaL la the king so soon awako 7 
 
Act IV. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 283 
 
 Sar. Yes, brother, and I would I had not slept ; 
 For all the predecessors of our line 
 Rose up, methought, to drag me down to them. 
 My father was among them, too ; but he, 
 I know not why, kept from me, leaving me 
 Between the hunter-founder of our race, 
 And her, the homicide and husband-killer, 
 Whom you call glorious. 
 
 Sal. So I term you also, 
 
 Now you have shov\Ti a spirit like to hers. 
 By day-break I propose that we set forth. 
 And charge once more the rebel crew, who still 
 Keep gathering head, repulsed, but not quite quell'd. 
 Sar. How wears the night? 
 
 Sal. There yet remain some hours 
 
 Of darkness : use them for your further rest, 
 
 Sar. No, not to-night, if 'tis not gone: methought 
 I pass'd hours in that vision. 
 
 Myr. Scarcely one ; 
 
 I watch'd by you : it was a heavy hour. 
 But an hour only, 
 
 Sar. Let us then hold council ; 
 
 To-morrow we set forth. 
 
 Sal. But ere that time, 
 
 I had a grace to seek. 
 
 Sar. 'T is granted, 
 
 Sal. Hear it 
 
 Ere you reply too readily ; and 'tis 
 For your ear only, 
 
 Myr. Prince, I take my leave, 
 
 [Exit Myrrha. 
 
 Sal. That slave deserves her freedom. 
 
 Sar. Freedom only! 
 
 That slave deserves to share a throne. 
 
 Scd. Your patience — 
 
 'T is not yet vacant, and 't is of its partner 
 I come to speak with you. 
 
 Sar. How ! of the queen ? 
 
 Sal. Even so, I judged it fitting for their safety, 
 That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her children 
 For Paphlagonia, where our kinsman Cotta 
 Governs ; and there at all events secure 
 My nephews and your sons their lives, and with them 
 Their just pretensions to the crown in case 
 
 Sar. I perish — as is probable : well thought — 
 Let them set forth with a sure escort, 
 
 Sal. That 
 
 Is all provided, and the galley ready 
 To drop down the Euphrates ; but ere they 
 Depart, will you not see 
 
 Sar. My sons ? It may 
 
 Unman my heart, and the poor boys will weep ; 
 And what can I reply to comfort them, 
 Save with some hollow hopes, and ill-worn smiles ? 
 You know I cannot feign. 
 
 Sal. But you can feel ; 
 
 At least, I trust so : in a word, the queen 
 Requests to see you ere you part — for ever. 
 
 Sar. Unto what end ? what purpose ? I will grant 
 Aught — all that she can ask — but such a meetmg, 
 
 Sal. You know, or ought to know, enough of women, 
 Since you have studied them so steadily, 
 That what they ask in aught that touches on 
 The heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
 Their fancy, than the v.'hole external world. 
 I think as you do of my sister's wish ; 
 But 't was her wish — she is my sister — you 
 Her husband — will you grant it ? 
 
 Sar. 'T will be useless : 
 
 But let her come. 
 
 Sd. 1 go. 
 
 [Exit Salemenes. 
 
 Sar. We have lived asunder 
 
 Too long to meet again — and now to meet I 
 Have I not cares enow, and pangs enow, 
 
 To bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows. 
 Who have ceased to mingle love ? 
 
 Re-enter Salemenes and Zarina. 
 
 Sal. My sister ! Courage : 
 
 Shame not our blood with trembling, but remember 
 From whence we sprung. The queen is present, sire. 
 Zar, I pray thee, brother, leave me. 
 Sal. Since you ask it* 
 
 [Exit Salemenes. 
 Zar. Alone with him ! How many a year has past, 
 Though we are still so young, since we have met. 
 Which I have worn in widowhood of heart. 
 He loved me not : yet he seems httle changed — 
 Changed to me only — would the change were mutual ! 
 He speaks not — scarce regards me — not a word — 
 Nor look — yet he was soft of voice and aspect — 
 Indifferent, not austere. My lord ! 
 
 Sar. Zarina! 
 
 Zar. No, not Zarina — do not say Zarina. 
 That tone — that word — annihilate long years, 
 And things which make them longer. 
 
 Sar. 'T is too late 
 
 To think of these past dreams. Let's not reproach — 
 
 That is, reproach me not — for the last time 
 
 Zar, And Jirst. I ne'er reproach'd you. 
 Sar. 'Tis most true; 
 
 And that reproof comes heavier on my heart 
 
 Than But our hearts are not in our own power. 
 
 Zar. Nor hands ; but I gave both. 
 Sar. Your brother said 
 
 It was your will to see me, ere you went 
 
 From Nineveh with {He hesitates.) 
 
 Zar. Our children : it is true. 
 
 I wish'd to thank you that you have not divided 
 My heart from all that's left it now to love — 
 Those who are yours and mine, who look like you, 
 And look upon me as you look'd upon me 
 
 Once But they have not changed. 
 
 Sar. Nor ever will. 
 
 I fain would have them dutiful. 
 
 Zar. I cherish 
 
 Those infants, not alone from the blind love 
 Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
 They are now the only tie between us. 
 
 Sar. Deem not 
 
 I have not done you justice : rather make them 
 Resemble your own line than their own sire. 
 I trust them with you — to you : fit them for 
 
 A throne, or, if that be denied You have heard 
 
 Of this night's tumults ? 
 
 Zar. I had half forgotten, 
 
 And could have welcomed any grief save yours, 
 Which gave me to behold your face again. 
 
 Sar. The throne — I say it not in fear — but 'tis 
 In peril ; they perhaps may never mount it : 
 But let them not for this lose sight of it, 
 I will dare all things to bequeath it them ; 
 But if I fail, then they must win it back 
 Bravely — and, won, wear it wisely, not as I 
 Have wasted down my royalty. 
 
 Zar. They ne'er 
 
 Shall know from me of aught but what may honour 
 Their father's memory. 
 
 Sar. Rather let them hear 
 
 The truth from you than from a trampling world. 
 If they be in adversity, they '11 learn 
 Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownless prmces, 
 And find that all their father's sins are theirs. 
 My boys ! — I could have borne it were I childless. 
 
 Zar. Oh ! do not say so — do not poison all 
 My peace left, by unwishing that thou wert 
 A father. If thou conquerest, they shall reign, 
 And honour him who saved the realm for them, 
 
284 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 So iittle cared for as hts own ; and if 
 
 Sar. 'T is lost, all earth will cry out thank your father! 
 And they will swell the echo with a curse. 
 
 Zar. That they shall never do ; but rather honour 
 The name of him, who, dying like a king, 
 In his last hours did more for his own memory 
 Than many monarchs in a lenj^th of days, 
 Which date the flight of time, but make no annals. 
 
 Sar. Our annals draw perchance unto their close ; 
 But at the least, w-hate'er die past, their end 
 Shall be like their beginning — memorable. 
 
 Zar. Yet, be not rash — be careful of your life, 
 Live but for those who love. 
 
 Sar. And who are they ? 
 
 A slave, who loves from passion — I'll not say 
 Ambition — she has seen thrones shake, and loves ; 
 A few friends, who have revell'd till we ai-e 
 As one, for they are nothing if I fall ; 
 A brother I have injured — children whom 
 
 I have neglected, and a spouse 
 
 Zar. Who loves. 
 
 Sar. And pardons ? 
 
 Zar. I have never thought of this. 
 
 And cannot pardon till I have condemn'd. 
 Sar. My wife! 
 
 Zar. Now blessings on thee for that word ! 
 
 I never thought to hear it more — from thee. 
 
 Sar. Oh! thou wilt hear it from my subjects. Yes — 
 These slaves whom I have mu-tured, pamper'd, fed, 
 And swoln with peace, and gorg'd with plenty, till 
 They reign themselves — all monarchs in their mansions — 
 Now swarm forth in rebellion, and demand 
 His death, who made their lives a jubilee ; 
 While the few upon whom I have no claim 
 Are faitliful ! This is true, yet monstrous. 
 
 Zar. 'Tis 
 
 Perhaps too natural ; for benefits 
 Turn poison in bad minds. 
 
 Sar. And good ones make 
 
 Good out of evil. Happier than the bee. 
 Which hives not but from wholesome flowers. 
 
 Zar. Then reap 
 
 The honey, nor inquire whence 't is derived. 
 Be satisfied — you are not all abandon'd. 
 
 Sar. My life insures me that. How long, bethink you. 
 Were not I yet a king, should 1 be mortal ; 
 That is, where mortals are^ not where they must be ? 
 
 Zar. I know not. But yet live for my — that is, 
 Your children's sake! 
 
 Sar. My gentle, wrong'd Zarina ! 
 
 I am the very slave of circum.stance 
 And impulse — borne away with every breath ! 
 Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in life. 
 I know not what I could have been, but feel 
 I am not what I should be — let it end. 
 But take this wdth thee : if I was not form'd 
 To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine, 
 Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I 've doted 
 On lesser charms, for no cause save that such 
 Devotion was a duty, and I hated 
 All that look'd like a chain for me or others, ■ 
 (This even rebeUion must avouch ;) yet hear 
 These words, perhaps among my last — that none 
 E'er valued more thy virtues, though he knew not 
 To profit by them — as the miner hghts 
 Upon a vein of virgin ore, discovering 
 That which avails him nothing : he hath found it, 
 But 't is not his — but some superior's, who 
 Placed him to dig, but not divide the wealth 
 Which sparkles at his feet ; nor dare he lift 
 Nor poise it, but must grovel on, upturning 
 The sullen earth. 
 
 Zar. Oh ! if thou hast at length 
 
 Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, 
 I ask no more — kit let us hence together, 
 
 And /—let me say we — shall yet be happy. 
 Assyria is not all the earth — we '11 find 
 A world out of our own — and be more blest 
 Than I have ever been, or tliou, with all 
 An empire to indulge thee. 
 
 Ejiter Salemenes. 
 
 Sal. I must part ye — 
 
 The moments, which must not be lost, are passing. 
 
 Zo?-. Inhuman brother ! wilt thou thus weigh out 
 Instants so high and blest ? 
 
 Sal. Blest ! 
 
 Zar. He hath beeix 
 
 So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
 Of quitting. 
 
 Sal. So — this feminine farewell 
 
 Ends as such partings end, in no departure. 
 I thought as much, and yidded against all 
 My better bodings. But it must not be. 
 
 Zar. Not be ? 
 
 Sal. Remain, and perish 
 
 Zar. With my husband 
 
 Sal. And children. 
 
 Zar. Alas ! 
 
 Sal. Hear me, sister, like 
 
 My sister : — all 's prepared to make your safety 
 Certain, and of the boys too, our last hopes ; 
 'T is not a single question of mere feehng. 
 Though that were much — but 'tis a point of state: 
 The rebels would do more to seize upon 
 The offspring of their sovereign, and so crush—— 
 
 Zar. Ah ! do not name it. 
 
 Sal. Well, then, mark me : when 
 
 They are safe beyond the Median's grasp, the rebels? 
 Have miss'd their chief aim — the extinction of 
 The line of Nimrod. Though the present king 
 Fall, his sons live for victory and vengeance. 
 
 Zar. But could not I remain, alone ? 
 
 Sal. What! 
 
 Your children, with two parents and yet orpha 
 In a strange land — so young, so distant? 
 
 Zar. ^ No— 
 
 My heart will break. 
 
 Sal. Now you know all — decide. 
 
 Sar. Zarina, he hadi spoken well, and we 
 Must yield awhile to this necessity. 
 Remaining here, you may lose all ; departing, • 
 You save the better part of what is Itft, 
 To both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
 As yet beat in these kingdoms. 
 
 Sal. The time presses. 
 
 Sar. Go, then. If e'er we meet again, perhaps 
 I may be worthier of you — and, if not, 
 Remember that my faults, though not atoned for, 
 Are ended. Yet, I dread thy nature will 
 Grieve more above the blighted name and ashes 
 
 "Which once were mightiest in Assyria — than 
 
 But I grow womanish again, and must not; 
 I must learn sternness now. My sins have all 
 
 Been of the softer order hide thy tears — 
 
 I do not bid thee not to shed them — 'twere 
 Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 
 Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
 But let me not behold them ; they unman me 
 Here when I had remann'd myself. My brother, 
 Lead her away. 
 
 Zar. ' Oh, God ! I never shall 
 
 Behold him more ! 
 
 Sal. {striving to conduct her.) Nay, sister, I nmst be 
 obey'd. 
 
 Zar. I must remain — away ! you shall not hold me. 
 What, shall he die alone ? — / live alone ? 
 
 Sal. He shall not die alon« ; kit Icmely you 
 Have Uved for vears^ 
 
 leave 
 
Act IV. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 285 
 
 Zar. That 's false ! I knew he lived, 
 
 And lived upon his image — let me go ! 
 
 Sal. {conducting her off the stageJ) Nay, then, I must 
 use some fraternal force, 
 Which you will pardon. 
 
 Zar. Never. Help me! Oh! 
 
 Sardanapalus, wilt thou thus behold me 
 Torn from thee ? 
 
 Sal. Nay — then all is lost again. 
 
 If that this moment is not gain'd. 
 
 Zar. My brain turns — 
 
 My eyes fail — where is he? [She faints. 
 
 Sar. {advancing.) No — set her down — 
 
 She 's dead — and you have slain her. 
 
 Sal. 'T is the mere 
 
 Faintness of o'erwrought passion : in the air 
 She will recover. Pray, keep back. — [Aside.] I must 
 Avail myself of this sole moment to 
 Bear her to where her children are embark'd, 
 I' the royal galley on the river. 
 
 [Salemenes bears her off. 
 
 Sar. {solus.) This, too— 
 
 And this too must I suffer — I, who never 
 Inflicted purposely on human hearts 
 A voluntary pang ! But that is false- 
 She loved me, and I loved her. — Fatal passion ! 
 Why dost thou not expire at once in hearts 
 Which thou hast lighted up at once ? Zarina ! 
 I must pay dearly for the desolation 
 Now brought upon thee. Had I never loved 
 But thee, I should have been an unopposed 
 Monarch of honouring nations. To what gulfs 
 A single deviation from the track 
 Of human duties leads even those who claim 
 The homage of mankind as their born due, 
 And find it, till they forfeit it themselves ! 
 
 Enter Myrrh A. 
 
 Sar. You here I Who call'd you ? 
 
 Myr. No one — ^but I heard 
 
 Far off a voice of wail and lamentation, 
 And thought 
 
 Sar. It forms no portion of your duties 
 
 To enter here till sought for. 
 
 Myr. Though I might. 
 
 Perhaps, recall some softer words of yours, 
 (Although they too were chiding,) which reproved me, 
 Because I ever dreaded to intrude ; 
 Resistmg my own wish and your injunction 
 To heed no time nor presence, but approach you 
 Uncall'd for: I retire. 
 
 Sar. Yet stay — being here. 
 
 I pray you pardon me : events have sour'd me 
 Till 1 wax peevish — heed it not : I shall 
 Soon be myself again. 
 
 Myr. I wait with patience, 
 
 What T shall sec with pleasure. 
 
 Sar. Scarce a moment 
 
 Before your entrance in this hall, Zarina, 
 dueen of Assyria, departed hence. 
 
 Myr. Ah! 
 
 Sar. Wherefore do you start? 
 
 Myr. Did I do so? 
 
 Sar. 'T was well you enter'd by another portal. 
 Else you had met. That pang at least i 
 her! 
 
 Myr. I know to feel for her. 
 Sar. That is too much. 
 
 And beyond nature — 't is nor mutual 
 Nor possible. You cannot pity her, 
 Nor she aught but 
 
 Myr. Despise the favourite slave ? 
 
 Not more than I have ever scorn'd myself. 
 Sar. Scorn'd! what, to be the envy of your 8©x, 
 
 And lord it o'er the heart of the world's lord? 
 
 Myr. Were you the lord of twice ten thousand 
 worlds — 
 As you are like to lose the one you sway'd — 
 I did abase myself as much in being 
 Your paramour, as though you were a peasant — 
 Nay, more, if that the peasant were a Greek. 
 
 Sar. You talk it well 
 
 Myr. And truly. 
 
 Sar. In the hour 
 
 Of man's adversity all things grow daring 
 Against the falling; but as I am not 
 duite fall'n, nor now disposed to bear reproaches, 
 Perhaps because I merit them too often, 
 Let us then part while peace is still between us. 
 
 Myr. Part ! 
 
 Sar. Have not all past human beings parted, 
 
 And must not all the present one day part ? 
 
 Myr. Why? 
 
 Sar. For your safety, which I will have look'd to 
 With a strong escort to your native land ; 
 And such gifts, as, if you had not been all 
 A queen, shall make your dowry worth a kingdom. 
 
 Myr. I pray you talk not thus. 
 
 Sar. The queen is gone : 
 
 You need not shame to follow. I would fall 
 Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure. 
 
 Myr. And I no pleasure but in partbg not. 
 You shall not force me from you. 
 
 Sar. Think well of it— 
 
 It soon may be too late. 
 
 Myr. So let it be ; 
 
 For then you cannot separate me from you. 
 
 Sar. And will not ; but I thought you wish'd it. 
 
 Myr. I- 
 
 Sar. You spoke of your abasement. 
 
 Myr. And I feel it 
 
 Deeply — more deeply than all things but love. 
 
 Sar. Then fly from it. 
 
 Myr. 'T will not recall the past — 
 
 'T will not restore my honour, nor my heart. 
 No — here I stand or fall. If that you conquer, 
 I live to joy in your great triumph ; should 
 Your lot be diff'erent, I '11 not weep, but share it. 
 You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 
 
 Sar. Your courage never — nor your love till now ; 
 And none could make me doubt it save yourself. 
 Those words 
 
 Myr. Were words. I pray you, let the proofs 
 
 Be in the past acts you were pleased to prais* 
 This very night, and in my further bearing. 
 Beside, wherever you are borne by fate. " 
 
 Sar. I am content : and, trusting in my cause, 
 Think we may yet be victors and return 
 To peace — the only victory I covet. 
 To me war is no glory — conquest no 
 Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right 
 Sits heavier on my heart than all the wrongs 
 These men would bow me down with. Never, never 
 Can I forget this night, even should I live 
 To add it to the memory of others. 
 I thought to have made mine inoffensive rule 
 An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 
 A green spot amidst desert centuries, 
 On which the future would turn back and smile, 
 And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 
 Recall Sardanapalus' golden reign. 
 I thought to have made my realm a paradise, 
 And every moon an epoch of new pleasures. 
 I took the rabble's shouts for love— the breath 
 Of friends for truth— the lips of woman for 
 My only guerdon— so they are, my Myrrha: 
 
 [He kisseft her 
 Kiss me. Now let them take my realm and life ! 
 They shall have both, but never thee ! 
 
2S6 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 Myr. No, never ! 
 
 Man may despoil his brother man of all 
 That 's great or glittering — kingdoms fall — hosts vield — 
 Friends fail — slaves fly — and all betray — and, more 
 Than all, the most indebted — ^but a heart 
 That loves without self-love ! 'T is here — now prove it. 
 
 Enter Salemexes. 
 
 Sal. I sought you — How ! she here again ? 
 
 SuT. Return not 
 
 Now to reproof: methinks your aspect speaks 
 Of higher matter than a woman's presence. 
 
 Sal. The only woman whom it much imports me 
 At such a moment now is safe in absence — 
 The queen 's embark'd. 
 
 Sar. And well ? sav that much. 
 
 Sal. ' Yes. 
 
 Her transient weakness has pass'd o'er ; at least, 
 It settled into tearless silence : her 
 Pale face and glittering eye, after a glance 
 Upon her sleeping cliildren, were still fix'd 
 Upon the palace towers as the swift galley 
 Stole down the hurrying stream beneath the starlight; 
 But she said nothing. 
 
 Snr. Would I felt no more 
 
 Than she has said ! 
 
 Sal. 'T is now too late to feel ! 
 
 Your feelings cannot cancel a sole pang : 
 To change them, my advices bring sure tidings 
 That the rebellious Medes and Chaldees, marshall'd 
 By their two leaders, are already up 
 In arms agam ; and, serrymg tlieir ranks. 
 Prepare to attack : they have apparently 
 Been join'd by other satraps. 
 
 Sar. What ! more rebels ? 
 
 Let us be first, then. 
 
 Sal. That w^ere hardly prudent 
 
 Now, though it was our first intention. If 
 By noon to-morrow we are join'd by those 
 I Ve sent for by sure messengers, we shall be 
 In strength enough to venture an attack, 
 Ay, and pursuit too ; but till then, my voice 
 Is to await the onset. 
 
 Sar. I detest 
 
 That waiting ; though it seems so safe to fight 
 Behind high walls, and hurl do^vn foes into 
 Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 
 Strew'd to receive them, still I like it not — 
 My soul seems lukewarm ; but when I set on them, 
 Though they were piled on mountains, I would have 
 A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood ! — 
 Let me then charge. 
 
 Sal. You talk like a young soldier. 
 
 Sar. I am no soldier, but a man : speak not 
 Of soldiership, I loathe the word, and those 
 Who pride themselves upon it ; but direct me 
 Where I may pour upon them. 
 
 Sal. You must spare 
 
 To expose your life too hastily ; 't is not 
 Like mine or any other subject's breath : 
 The whole war turns upon it — with it ; this 
 Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it- 
 Prolong it — end it. 
 
 Sar. Then let us end both ! 
 
 'T were better thus, perhaps, than prolong eidier ; 
 I 'm sick of one, perchance of both. 
 
 [-4 trumpet sounds without. 
 
 Sal. Hark ! 
 
 Sar. Let us 
 
 Reply, not listen. 
 
 Sal. And your wound ! 
 
 Sar. 'T is bound— 
 
 'T is heal'd — I had forgotten it. Away! 
 
 A leech's lancet would have scratch'd me deeper ; 
 The slave that gave it might be well ashamed 
 To have struck so weakly. 
 
 Sal. Now, may none this hour 
 
 Strike with a better aim! 
 
 Sar. Ay. if we conquer ; 
 
 But if not, they will only leave to me 
 A task they might have spared their king. Upon them ! 
 
 [Trumpet sounds again. 
 
 Sal. I am with you 
 Sar. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Ho, my arms ! again, my arms ! 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — The same Hall in the Palace. 
 MvRRHA ona Balea. 
 
 Myr. {at a window.) The day at last has broken 
 What a night 
 Hath usher'd it ! How beautiful in heaven ! 
 Though varied with a transitory storm, 
 More beautiful in that variety ! 
 How hideous upon earth ! where peace and hope, 
 And love and revel, in an hour were trampled 
 By human passions to a human chaos, 
 Not yet resolved to separate elements — 
 'T is warring still 1 And can the sun so rise, 
 So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 
 Vapours more lovely than the unclouded sky, 
 With golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains. 
 And billows purpler than the ocean's, making 
 In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, 
 So like we almost deem it permanent : 
 So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught 
 Beyond a vision, 't is so transiently 
 Scatter'd along the eternal vault : and yet 
 It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul, 
 And blends itself into the soul, until 
 Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 
 Of sorrow and of love ; which they who mark not, 
 Know not the realms where those twin genii 
 (Who chasten and who purify our hearts. 
 So that we would not change their sweet rebukes 
 For all the boisterous joys that ever shook 
 The air %vith clamour) build the palaces 
 Where their fond votaries repose and breathe 
 Briefly ; — but in that brief cool calm inhale 
 Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 
 The rest of common, hea\y, human hours, 
 And dream them through in placid sufferance ; 
 Though seemingly employ'd like all the rest 
 Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks 
 Of pain or pleasure, two names for one feeling. 
 Which our internal, restless agony 
 Would vary in the sound, although the sense 
 Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 
 
 Bal. You muse right calmly : and can you so watch 
 The sunrise which may be our last ? 
 
 3Iyr. It is 
 
 Therefore that I so watch it, and reproach 
 Those eyes, which never may behold it more, 
 For having look'd upon it oft, too oft. 
 Without the reverence and the rapture due 
 To that which keeps all earth from being as fragile 
 As I am in this form. Come, look upon it, 
 The Chaldee's god, which, when I gaze upon, 
 I gi-ow almost a convert to your Baal. 
 
 Bal. As now he reigns in heaven, so once on earth 
 He sway'd. 
 
 Myr. He sways it now far more, then ; never 
 
Act V. 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 287 
 
 Had earthly monarch half the peace and glory 
 Which centres in a single ray of his. 
 Bal. Surely he is a god ! 
 
 Myr. So we Greeks deem too 
 
 And yet I sometimes think that gorgeous orb 
 Must rather be the abode of gods than one 
 Of the immortal sovereigns. Now he breaks 
 Through all the clouds, and fills my eyes with light 
 That shuts the world out. I can look no more. 
 Bal. Hark ! heard you not a sound ? 
 iSiyr. No, 't was mere fancy ; 
 
 They battle it beyond the wall, and not 
 As in late midnight conflict in the very 
 Chambers : the palace has become a fortress 
 Since that insidious hour ; and here witliin 
 The very centre, girded by vast courts 
 And regal halls of pyramid proportions. 
 Which must be carried one by one before 
 They penetrate to where they then arrived, 
 We are as much shut in even from the sound 
 Of peril as from glory. 
 
 Bal. But they reach'd 
 
 Thus far before. 
 
 Blyr. Yes, by surprise, and were 
 
 Beat back by valour ; now at once we have 
 Courage and vigilance to guard us. 
 
 Bal. May they 
 
 Prosper ! 
 
 Myr. That is the prayer of many, and 
 The dread of more : it is an anxious horn- ; 
 I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas ! 
 How vainly! 
 
 Bal. It is said the king's demeanour 
 
 In the late action scarcely more appall'd 
 The rebels than astonish'd his true subjects. 
 
 Myr. 'T is easy to astonish or appal 
 The vulgar mass which moulds a horde of slaves ; 
 But he did bravely. 
 
 Bal. Slew he not Beleses ? 
 
 I heard the soldiers say he struck him down. 
 
 Myr. The wretch was overthrown, but rescued to 
 Triumph, perhaps, o'er one who vanquish'd him 
 In fight, as he had spared him in his peril ; 
 And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 
 Bal. Hark! 
 Myr. You are right ; some steps approach, but slowly. 
 
 Enter Soldiers, bearing in Salemenes wounded^ with 
 a broken Javelin in his side; they seat him upon one 
 of the Couches which furnish the Apartment. 
 
 Myr. Oh, Jove ! 
 
 Bal. Then all is over. 
 
 Sal. That is false. 
 
 Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier. 
 
 Myr. Spare him — he 's none : a mere court butterfly, 
 That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 
 
 Sal. Let him live on, then. 
 
 Myr. So wilt thou, I trust. 
 
 Sal. I fain would live this hour out, and the event, 
 But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me here ? 
 
 Sol. By the kmg's order. When the javelin struck you, 
 You fell and fainted ; 't was his strict command 
 To bear you to this hall. 
 
 Sai. 'T was not ill done : 
 
 For seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance, 
 The sight might shake our soldiers — but — 't is vain, 
 I feel it ebbing ! 
 
 Myr. Let me see the wound ; 
 
 I am not quite skilless : in my native land 
 'Tis part of our instruction. War being constant, 
 We are nerved to look on such things. 
 
 Sol. Best extract 
 
 The javelin. 
 
 Myr. Hold ! no, no, it cannot be. 
 
 Sal. I am sped, t/ien ! 
 
 Myr. With the blood that fast must follow 
 
 The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 
 
 Sd. And I not death. Where was the king when you 
 Convey'd me from the spot where I was stricken ? 
 
 Sol. Upon the same ground, and encouraging 
 With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
 Who had seen you fall, and falter'd back. 
 
 Sal. Whom heard ye 
 
 Named next to the command ? 
 I Sol. I did not hear. 
 
 J Sal. Fly, then, and tell him, 't was my last request 
 I That Zames take my post until the junction, 
 f So hoped for, yet delay'd, of Ofratanes, 
 [Satrap of Susa. Leave me here: our troops 
 Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 
 
 Sol. But, prince 
 
 Sal. Hence, I say ! Here 's a courtier and 
 
 A woman, the best chamber company. 
 As you would not permit me to expire 
 Upon the field, I '11 have no idle soldiers 
 About my sick couch. Hence ! and do my bidding ! 
 
 [Exeunt the Soldiers. 
 Myr. Gallant and glorious spirit ! must the earth 
 So soon resign thee? 
 
 Sd. Gentle Myrrha, 'tis 
 
 The end I would have chosen, had I saved 
 The monarch or the monarchy by this ; 
 As 'tis I have not outlived them. 
 
 Myr. You wax paler. 
 
 Sal. Your hand ; this broken weapon but prolongs 
 My pangs, without sustaining life enough 
 To make me useful : I would draw it forth 
 And my hfe with it, could I but hear how 
 The fight goes. 
 
 Enter Sardanapaltts and Soldiers. 
 
 " Sar. My best brother ! 
 
 Sal. And the battle 
 
 Is lost ? 
 
 Sar. {despondingly .) You see me here. 
 
 Sal I 'd rather see you thus 
 
 [He draws out tJie iveaponfrom the wound and 
 dies. 
 
 Sar. And thus I will be seen ; unless the succour, 
 The last frail reed of our beleaguer'd hopes, 
 Arrive with Ofratanes. 
 
 Myr. Did you not 
 
 Receive a token from your dying brother. 
 Appointing Zames chief? 
 
 Sar. I did. 
 
 Myr. Where 's Zames ? 
 
 Sar. Dead. 
 
 3Iyr AndAltada? 
 
 Sar. Dying. 
 
 Myr Pania? Sfero? 
 
 Sar. Pania yet lives ; but Sfero 's fled, or captive. 
 I am alone. 
 
 Myr. And is all lost? 
 
 Sar. Our walls, 
 
 Though thinly mann'd, may sti:l hold out against 
 Their present force, or aught save treachery: 
 But i' the field 
 
 Myr. I thought 'twas the intent 
 
 Of Salemenes not to risk a sally 
 Till ye were strengthen'd by the expected succours. 
 
 Sar. I overruled him. 
 
 Myr. Well, the fault 's a brave one 
 
 Sar. But fatal. Oh, my brother ! I would give 
 These realms, of which thou wert the ornament, 
 The sword and shield, the sole-redeenung honour, 
 
 To call back but I will not weep for thee ; 
 
 Thou shalt be mourn'd for as thou wouldst be mournd 
 
288 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Act V 
 
 It grieves me most that thou couldst quit this Ufe 
 Believing that I could survive wliat thou 
 Hast died for — our long royalty of race. 
 If I redeem it, I will give thee blood 
 Of thousands, tears of millions, fur atonement, 
 (The tears of all the good are thine already.) 
 If not, we meet again soon, if the spirit 
 Within us lives beyond : — thou readest mine, 
 And dost me justice now. Let me once clasp 
 That yet warm hand, and fold that throbless heart 
 
 l^Embraces the body. 
 To this which beats so bitterly. Now, bear 
 The body hence. 
 
 Sol. Where ? 
 
 Sar. To my proper chamber. 
 
 Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
 The king lay there : when this is done, we will 
 Speak further of the rights due to such ashes. 
 
 [ExeutU Soldiers with the body o/Salemenes, 
 
 Enter Pania. 
 
 Sar. Well, Panial have you placed the guards, and 
 issued 
 The orders fk'd on ? 
 
 Pan. Sire, I have obey'd. 
 
 Sar. And do the soldiers keep their hearts up ? 
 
 Pan. Sire? 
 
 Sar. I 'm answer'd ! When a king asks twice, and has 
 A question as an answer to his question. 
 It is a portent. What! they are dishearten'd ? 
 
 Pan. The death of Salemenes, and the shouts 
 Of the exulting rebels on his fall, 
 Have made them 
 
 Sar. Rage — not droop — it should have been. 
 
 We '11 find the means to rouse them. 
 
 Pan. Such a loss 
 
 Might sadden even a victory. 
 
 Sar. Alas! 
 
 Who can so feel it as I feel ? but yet, 
 Though coop'd\vithin these walls, they are strong, and we 
 Have those without will break their way through hosts. 
 To make tlieir sovereign's dwelling what it was — 
 A palace ; not a prison, nor a fortress. 
 
 Enter an Officer^ hastily. 
 
 Sar. Thy face seems ominous. Speak! 
 
 Qffi. I dare not. 
 
 Sar. Dare not ? 
 
 While milhons dare revolt with sword in hand ! 
 That 's strange. I pray thee break that loyal silence 
 Which loathes to shock its sovereign ; we can hear 
 Worse than thou hast to tell. 
 
 Pan. Proceed, thou hearest. 
 
 Offi. The wall which skirted near the river's brink 
 Is thrown down by the sudden inundation 
 Of the Euphrates, which now rolling, swobi 
 From the enormous mountains where it rises, 
 By the late rains of that tempestuous region, 
 O'erfloods its banks, and hath destroyed the bulwark. 
 
 Pan. That 's a black augury ! it has been said 
 For ages, " That the city ne'er should yield 
 To man, until the river grew its foe." 
 
 Sar. I can forgive the omen, not the ravage. 
 How much is swept down of the wall? 
 
 Qffi. About 
 
 Some twenty stadii. 
 
 Sar. And all this is left 
 
 Pervious to the assailants ? 
 
 Qffi. For the present 
 
 The river's fury must impede the assault ; 
 But when he shrinks into his wonted channel, 
 And may be cross'd by the accustom'd barks, 
 The palace is their own. 
 
 Sar. That shall be never. 
 
 Though men, and gods, and elements, and omens, 
 Have risen up 'gainst one who ne'er provcked them, 
 My fatliers' house shall never be a cave 
 For wolves to horde and howl in. 
 
 Pan. With your sanction 
 
 I will proceed to the spot, and take such measures 
 For the assurance of the vacant space 
 As time and means permit. 
 
 Sar. About it straight, 
 
 And bring me back as speedily as full 
 And fair investigation may permit 
 Report of the true state of this irruption 
 Of waters. 
 
 [Exeunt Pania and the Officer, 
 
 Myr. Thus the very waves rise up 
 
 Against you. 
 
 Sar. They are not my subjects, girl, 
 
 And rnay be pardon'd, since they can't be punish'd. 
 
 Myr. I joy to see this portent shakes you not. 
 
 Sar. I am past the fear of portents : they can tell me 
 Nothing I have not told myself since midnight: 
 Despair anticipates such things. 
 
 Myr. Despair ! 
 
 Sar. No ; not despair precisely. When we know 
 All that can come, and how to meet it, our 
 Resolves, if firm, may merit a more noble 
 Word than this is to give it utterance. 
 But what are words to us ? we have well nigh done 
 With them and all things. 
 
 Myr. Save one deed — the last 
 
 And greatest to all mortals ; crowning act 
 Of all that was — or is — or is to be— 
 The only thing common to all mankind, 
 So different in their births, tongues, sexes, natures, 
 Hues, features, climes, times, feelings, intellects, 
 Without one point of union save in this. 
 To which we tend, for which we 're born, and thread 
 The labyrinth of mystery, call'd life. 
 
 Sar. Our clew being well nigh wound out, let's be 
 cheerful. 
 They who have nothing more to fear may well 
 Indulge a smile at that which once appall'd ; 
 As children at discover'd bugbears. 
 
 Re-enter Pania. 
 
 Pan. 'Tis 
 
 As was reported : I have order'd there 
 A double guard, withdrawing from the wall 
 Where it was strongest the required addition 
 To watch the breach occasion'd by the waters. 
 
 Sar. You have done your duty faithfully, and aa 
 My worthy Pania ! further ties between us 
 Draw near a close. I pray you take tliis key : 
 
 {Gives a key. 
 It opens to a secret chamber, placed 
 Behind the couch in my own chamber. (Now 
 Press'd by a nobler weight than e're it bore — 
 Though a long line of sovereigns have lain down 
 Along its golden frame — as bearing for 
 A time what late was Salemenes.) Search 
 The secret covert to which this will lead you ; 
 'T is full of treasure ; take it for yourself 
 And your companions : there 's enough to load ye, 
 Though ye be many. Let the slaves be freed, too ; 
 And all the inmates of the palace, of 
 Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. 
 Thence launch the regal barks, once form'd for pleasure, 
 And now to serve for safety, and embark. 
 The river 's broad and swoln, and uncommanded 
 (More potent than a king) by these besiegers. 
 Fly ! and be happy I 
 
 Pan. Under your protection I 
 
 So you accompany your faithful guard. 
 
 Sar. No, Pania ! that must not be ; get theo hence, 
 
Act V. 
 
 SARDANAPALtJS. 
 
 289 
 
 And leave me to ray fate. 
 
 Pan. 'T is the first time 
 I ever disobey'd ; but now 
 
 Sar. So all men 
 
 Dare beard me now, and Insolence within 
 Apes Treason from without, duestion no further ; 
 "r is my command, my last command. Wilt thou 
 Oppose it ? thou ! 
 
 Pan. But yet — Bot yet. 
 
 Sar. Well, then, 
 
 Swear that you will obey when I shall give 
 The signal. 
 
 Pan. With a heavy but true hearty 
 
 I promise. 
 
 Sar. 'T is enough. Now order here 
 
 Faggots, pine-nuts, and wither'd leaves, and such 
 Things as catch fire and blaze with one sole spark ; 
 Bring cedar, too, and precious dmgs, and spices, 
 And mighty planks, to nourish a tall pite ; 
 Bring frankincense and myrrh, too, for it is 
 For a great sacrifice I build the pyre ; 
 And heap them rotmd yon throne. 
 
 Pan. My lord ! 
 
 Sar. I have said it, 
 
 And you have sworn. 
 
 Pan. And could keep my faith 
 
 Without a vow 
 
 [Exit Pania. 
 
 Myr. What mean you ? 
 
 Sar. You shall know 
 
 Anon — what the whole earth shall ne'er forget. 
 
 Pania, returning with a Herald. 
 
 Pan. My king, in going forth upon my duty, 
 This herald has been brought before me, craving 
 An audience. 
 
 Sar. Let him speak. 
 
 Her. The King Arbaces 
 
 Sar. What, crown'd already ? — But, proceed. 
 
 Her. Beleses, 
 
 The anointed high-priest — - 
 
 Sar. Of what god or demon ? 
 
 With new kings rise new altars. But, proceed ; 
 You are sent to prate your master's will, and not 
 Reply to mine. 
 
 Her. And Satrap Ofratanes 
 
 Sar. Why, he is ours. 
 
 Her. {Showing a ring.) Be sure that he is now 
 In the camp of the conquerors ; behold 
 His signet ring. 
 
 Sar. 'T is his. A worthy triad T 
 
 Poor Salemenes ! thou hast died in time 
 To see one treachery the less : this man 
 Was thy true friend and my most trusted subject. 
 Proceed. 
 
 Her. They offer thee thy life, and freedom 
 Of choice to single out a residence 
 In any of the further provinces, 
 Guarded and watch'd, but not confined in person, 
 Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace ; but on 
 Condition that the three young princes are 
 Given up as hostages. 
 
 Sar. (Ironically.) The generous victors ! 
 
 Her. I wait the answer. 
 
 Sar. Answer, slave ! How long 
 
 Have slaves decided on the doom of kings ? 
 
 Her. Since they were free. 
 
 Sar. Mouthpiece of mutiny ! 
 
 Thou at the least shalt learn tlie penalty 
 Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania ! 
 Let his head be thrown from our waUs within 
 The rebels' lines, his carcass down the river. 
 Away with him ! 
 
 [Pania and the Chiards seizing him. 
 
 Pan. I never yet obey'd 
 
 2M 
 
 Your orders with more pleasure than the present. 
 Hence with him, soldiers ! do not soil this hall 
 Of royalty with treasonable gore ; 
 Put hull to rest without. 
 
 Mer. A single word : 
 
 My office, king, is sacred. 
 
 Sar. And what 's mine ? 
 
 That thou shouldst come and dare to ask of me 
 To lay il do^vn ? 
 
 Her. I but obey'd my Orders, 
 
 At the same peril if refused, as now 
 Incurr'd by my obedience. 
 
 Sar. So there are 
 
 New monarchs of an hour s growth as despotic 
 As sovereigns swalthed in purple, and enthroned 
 From birth to manhood ! 
 
 Her. My life waits your breath. 
 
 Yours (I speak humbly) — ^but it may b'e — yours 
 May also be in danger scarce less imminent ; 
 Would it then strit the last horfrs of a line 
 Such as is that of Nimrod, to destroy 
 A peaceful herald, unarm'd, in his office ; 
 And violate not only all that man 
 Holds sacred between man and man — but that 
 More holy tie which finks us with the gods ? 
 
 Sar. He 's right. — Let him go free. — My life's last act 
 Shall not be one of wTath. Here, fellow, take 
 
 [Gives him a golden cup from a tablenear. 
 This golden goblet, let it hold your wine.. 
 And think of me ; or melt it into ingots, 
 And think of nothing but their weight and value. 
 
 Her. I thank you doubly for my life, and tliis 
 Most gorgeous gift, which renders it more precious. 
 But must I bear no answer? 
 
 Sar. Yes,^I ask 
 
 An hour's truce to consider. 
 
 Her. But an hour's ? 
 
 Sar. An hour's : if at the expiration of 
 That time your masters hear no further from me, 
 They are to deem that I reject their terms, 
 And act befittingly. 
 
 Her. I shall not fail 
 
 To be a faithful legate of your pleasure. 
 
 Sar. And, hark ! a word more. 
 
 Her. I shall not forget it, 
 
 Whate'er it be. 
 
 Sar. Conunend me to Beleses ;' 
 
 And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon- 
 Him hence to meet me. 
 
 Her. Where r 
 
 Sar. At Babylon. 
 
 At least from thence he will depart to meet me.- 
 
 Her. I shall obey you to the letter. 
 
 [Emt Herald. 
 
 Sar. Pania !^ 
 
 Now, my good Pania! — quick — with what I order'd. 
 
 Pan. My lord, — the soldiers are already charged. 
 And, see! they enter. 
 
 [Soldiers enter^ and form a Pile about the Throne^ ^c. 
 
 Sar. Higher, my good soldiers, 
 
 And thicker yet ; and see that the foundation 
 Be such as will not speedily exliaust 
 Its o^vn too subtle flame ; nor yet be quench'd 
 With aught officious aid would bring to quell it. 
 Let the throne form the core of it ; I would not 
 Leave that, save fraught with fire unquenchable, 
 To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
 'T were to enkindle the strong tower of our 
 Inveterate enemies. Now it bears an aspect t 
 How say you, Pania, will this pile suffice 
 For a king's obsequies ? 
 
 Pan. Ay, for a kingdom's. 
 
 I understand you, now. 
 
 Sar. And blame me % 
 
290 
 
 SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 Pccn. No— 
 
 Let me but fire the pile, and share it with you. 
 
 Myr. That duty 's mine. 
 
 Pan. A womaji's ! 
 
 Myr. 'T is the soldier's 
 
 Part to die /or his sovereign, and why not 
 The woman's with her lover ? 
 
 Pan. 'T is most strange ! 
 
 Myr. But not so rare, my Pania, as thou think'st it. 
 In the meantime, live thou. — Farewell! the pile 
 Is ready. 
 
 Pan. I should shame to leave my sovereign 
 With but a single female to partake 
 His death. 
 
 Sar. Too many far have heralded 
 
 Me to the dust, aheady. Get thee hence ; 
 Enrich thee. 
 
 Pan. And live wretched ! 
 
 Sar. Think upon 
 
 Thy vow: — 'tis sacred and irrevocable. 
 
 Pan. Since it is so, farewell. 
 
 Sar. Search well my chamber. 
 
 Feel no remorse at bearing off the gold ; 
 Remember, what you leave you leave the slaves 
 Who slew me: and when you have borne away 
 All safe off to your boats, blow one long blast 
 Upon the trumpet as you quit the palace. 
 The river's brink is too remote, its stream 
 Too loud at present to permit the echo 
 To reach distuictly from its banks. Then fly,— 
 And as you sail, turn back ; but slUl keep on 
 Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
 The land of Paphlagonia, where the queen 
 Is safe with my three sons in Cotta's court, 
 Say what you saw at parting, and request 
 That she remember what I said at one 
 Parting more mournful still. 
 
 Pan. That royal hand ! 
 
 Let me then once more press it to my lips ; 
 And these poor soldiers who throng round you, and 
 Would fain die with you ! 
 
 [The Soldiers and Pania throng round him, kissing 
 his hand and the hem of his robe. 
 
 Sar. My best ! my last friends ! 
 
 Let 's not unman each other : part at once : 
 All farewells should be sudden, when for ever. 
 Else they make an eternity of moments, 
 And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. 
 Hence, and be happy : trust me, I am not 
 JVow to be pitied ; or far more for what 
 Is past than present ; — for the future, 't is 
 In the hands of the deities, if such 
 There be: I shall know soon. Farewell — Farewell. 
 
 [Exeunt Pania and Soldiers. 
 
 Myr. These men were honest: it is comfort still 
 That our last looks should be on loving faces. 
 
 Sar. And lovely ones, my beautiful ! — but hear me ! 
 If at this moment, for we now are on 
 The brhik, thou feelest an inward shrinking from 
 This leap through flame into the future, say it : 
 I shall not love thee less ; nay, perhaps more, 
 For yielding to thy nature: and there's time 
 Yet for thee to escape hence. 
 
 Myr. ShaU I light 
 
 One of the torches which lie heaped beneath 
 The ever-burning lamp that burns without. 
 Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining hall? 
 Sar. Do so. Is that thy answer ? 
 
 Myr. Thou shalt see. 
 
 [Exit MrRRHA 
 
 Sar. (solus.) She's firm. My fathers! whom I wil 
 rejoin, 
 It may be, purified by death fi-om some 
 Of the gross staina of too material being, 
 
 I would not leave your ancient first abode 
 
 To the defilement of usurping bondmen ; 
 
 If I have not kept your inheritance 
 
 As ye bequeath'd it, this bright part of it, 
 
 Your treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 
 
 Of arms, and records, monuments, and spoils, 
 
 In which they would have revell'd, I bear with me 
 
 To you in that absorbing element, 
 
 Which most personifies the soul as leaving 
 
 The least of matter unconsumed before 
 
 Its fiery workings : — and the light of this 
 
 Most royal of funereal pyres shall be 
 
 Not a mere pillar form'd of cloud and flame, 
 
 A beacon in the horizon for a day. 
 
 And then a mount of ashes, but a light 
 
 To lessen ages, rebel nations, and 
 
 Voluptuous princes. Time shall quench full many 
 
 A people's records, and a hero's acts ; 
 
 Sweep empire after empire, Uke this first 
 
 Of empires, into nothing ; but even then 
 
 Shall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 
 
 A problem few dare imitate, and none 
 
 Despise — but, it may be, avoid the life 
 
 Which led to such a consummation. 
 
 Myrrha returns with a lighted Torch in one hand, and 
 a Cup in the other. 
 Myr. Lo ! 
 
 I 've fit the lamp which hghts us to the stars. 
 Sar. And the cup ? 
 
 Myr. 'T is my country's custom to 
 
 Make a hbation to the gods. 
 
 Sar. And mine 
 
 To make libations among men. I've not 
 Forgot the custom ; and although alone, 
 Will drain one draught in memory of many 
 A joyous banquet past. 
 
 [Sardanapax-us takes the cup, and after drinking 
 and tinkling the reversed cup, as a drop falls 
 exclaims — 
 
 And this Ubation 
 Is for the excellent Beleses. 
 
 3Iyr. Why 
 
 Dwells thy mind rather upon that man's name 
 That on his mate's in villany 7 
 
 Sar. The one 
 
 Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 
 Of human sword in a friend's hand ; the other 
 Is master-mover of his warlike puppet : 
 But I dismiss them from my mind. — ^Yet pause, 
 My Myrrha ! dost thou truly follow me. 
 Freely and fearlessly ? 
 
 Myr. And dost thou think 
 
 A Greek girl dare not do for love, that which 
 An Indian widow braves for custom ? 
 
 Sar. Then 
 
 We but await the signal. 
 
 Myr. It is long 
 
 In sounding. 
 
 Sar. Now, farewell ; one last embrace. 
 
 Myr. Embrace, but not the last; there is one more. 
 Sar. True, the commingling fire will mix our ashes. 
 3Iyr. And pure as is my love to thee, shall they, 
 Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly passion. 
 Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet irks me. 
 Sar. Say k. 
 
 Myr. It is that no kind hand vn[\ gather 
 
 The dust of both into one urn. 
 
 Sar. The better: 
 
 Rather let them be borne abroad upon 
 The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air, 
 1 Than be polluted more by human hands 
 Of slaves and traitors ; in this blazing palace. 
 And its enormous walls of reeking ruin, 
 IWe leave a nobler monument than Egypt 
 
THE TV/0 FOSGARI. 
 
 291 
 
 Hath piled in her brick mountains, o'er dead kings, 
 Or kine, for none know whether those proud piles 
 Be for their monarch, or their ox-god Apis ; 
 So much for monuments that have forgotten 
 Their very record ! 
 
 Myr. " Then farewell, thou earth ! 
 
 And loveliest spot of earth ! farewell, Ionia ! 
 Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 
 Aloof from desolation ! My last prayer 
 Was for thee, my last thoughts, save one, were of thee ! 
 
 Sar. And that? 
 
 Myr. Is yours. 
 
 {The trumpet of Pania sounds without. 
 
 Sar. Hark ! 
 
 Myr. Now I 
 
 Sar. Adieu, Assyria! 
 
 I loved thee well, my own, my fathers' land, 
 And better as my country than my kingdom. 
 I sadated thee with peace and joys ; and this 
 rs ray reward ! and now I owe thee nothing, 
 Not even a grave. [He mounts the pile. 
 
 Nov/, Myrrha! 
 Myr. Art thou ready ? 
 
 Sar. As the torch in thy grasp. 
 
 [Myrkha ^res the pile. 
 Myr. 'T is fired ! I come. 
 
 [As Myrrha springs forward to throw herself into 
 the fames, the Curtain falls. 
 
 NOTES TO SARDANAPALUS. 
 
 Note 1, page 266, line 60. 
 And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha. 
 " The Ionian name had been still more compre- 
 hensive, having included the Achaians and the Boeo- 
 tians, who, together with those to whom it was after- 
 wards confined, would make nearly the whole of the 
 Greek nation, and among the orientals it was always 
 the general name for the Greeks." — Mit ford's Greece. 
 vol. 1. p. 199. 
 
 Note 2, page 268, lines 83—86. 
 
 " Sardanapalus 
 
 The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
 In one day built Anchiahis and Tarsus. 
 Eat, drink, and love; the resits not worth afllip.'" 
 " For this expedition he took not only a small chosen 
 Dody of the phalanx, but all his light troops. In the 
 first day's march he reached Anchialus, a town said to 
 have been founded by the king of Assyria, Sardana- 
 palus. The fortifications, in their magnitude and ex- 
 tent, still in Arrian's time, bore the character of 
 greatness, which tlie Assyrians appear singularly to 
 have affected in works of the kind, A monument 
 representing Sardanapalus was found there, warranted 
 by an inscription in Assyrian characters, of course in 
 the old Assyrian language, which the Greeks, whether 
 well or ill, interpreted thus : ' Sardanapalus, son of 
 Anacyndaraxes, in one day founded Anchialus and 
 
 (for Arrian says it was not quite so,) whether the 
 purpose has not been to invite to civil order a people 
 disposed to turbulence, rather than to recommend im- 
 moderate luxury, may perhaps reasonably be ques- 
 tioned. What, indeed, could be the object of a kino- 
 of Assyria in founding such towns in a country so dis- 
 tant from his capital, and so divided from it by an 
 immense extent of sandy deserts and lofty mountains, 
 and, still more, how the inhabitants could be at once in 
 circumstances to abandon themselves to the intem- 
 perate joys which their prince has been supposed to 
 have recommended, is not obvious: but it may deserve 
 observation that, in that fine of coast, the southern of 
 Lesser Asia, ruins of cities, evidently of an age after 
 Alexander, yet barely named in history, at this day 
 astonish the adventurous traveller by their magnificence 
 and elegance. Amid the desolation which, under a 
 singularly barbarian government, has for so many cen- 
 turies been daily spreading in the finest countries of 
 the globe, whether more from soil and climate, or from 
 opportunities for commerce, extraordinary means must 
 have been found for communities to flourish there, 
 whence it may seem that the measures of Sardana- 
 palus were directed by juster views than have been 
 commonly ascribed to him : but that monarch having 
 been the last of a dynasty, ended by a revolution, 
 obloquy on his memory would follow of course from 
 the policy of his successors and their partisans. 
 
 " The inconsistency of traditions concerning Sarda- 
 
 , m ^ 
 
 Tarsus. Eat, drink, play : all other human joys are napalus is striking in Diodorus' account of him." — Mit- 
 not worth a fillip.' Supposing this version nearly exact, j/orcTs Greece, vol. ix. pp. 311, 312, and 313- 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI, 
 
 an historical tragedy. 
 
 The father softens, but the governor 'e resolved. 
 
 •^ CRITia 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 MEN. 
 Francis Foscari, Doge of Venice. 
 Jacopo Foscari, Son of the Doge. 
 James Loredano, a Patrician. 
 Marco Memmo, a Chief of the Forty. 
 Barbarigo, a Senator. 
 Other Senators, the Council of Ten, Guards, 
 Attendants, ^c. ^c. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 Marina, IVife of young Foscari. 
 
 Scene — the Ducal Palace, Venice. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — A Hall in the Ducal Palase. 
 Enter Loredano and Barbarigo, meeting, 
 
 Jjor. Where is the prisoner ? 
 
 Bar. Reposing from 
 
 The Gluestion. 
 
 Lor. The hour's past — fix'd yesterday 
 
 For the resumption of tus trial. — Let us 
 Rejoin our colleagues in the council, and 
 Urge his recall. 
 
 Bar. Nay, let him profit by 
 
 A few brief minutes for his tortured limbs ; 
 
292 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 Act 
 
 He was o'erwrought by the duestion yesterday, 
 And may die under it if now repeated. 
 
 Lor. Well ? 
 
 Bwr. I yield not to you in love of jusilce, 
 
 Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
 Father and son, and all their noxious race ; 
 But the poor wretch has suffer'd beyond nature's 
 Most stoical endurance. 
 
 Lot. Without owning 
 
 His crime ? 
 
 Bar. Perhaps without committing any. 
 
 But he avow'd the letter to the Duke 
 Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
 Such weakness. 
 
 Lm. W^e shall see 
 
 Bar. You, Loredar40, 
 
 Pursue hereditary hate too far. 
 
 Lor. How far ? 
 
 Bar. To extermination. 
 
 Lor. WTien they are 
 
 Exdnct, you may say this. — ^Let 's in to council. 
 
 Bar. Yet pause — tlie number of our colleagues is not 
 Complete yet ; two are wanting ere we can 
 Proceed. 
 
 Lor. And the cliief judge, the Doge ? 
 
 Bar. No — he 
 
 With more than Roman fortitude, is ever 
 First at the board in this unhappy process 
 Against his last and only son. 
 
 Lot. True— true— 
 
 His last. 
 
 Bar. Will nothing move you ? 
 
 Lor. Feels he^ think you 7 
 
 Bar. He shows it not. 
 
 Lor. I have mark'd that— the wTetch ! 
 
 Bar. But yesterday, I hear, on his return 
 To the ducai chainbers, as he pass'd the threshold 
 The old man fainted. 
 
 Lrr. It begins to work, then. 
 
 Bar. The work is half your o\vn. 
 
 J^- And should be all mine — 
 
 My father and my uncle are no more. 
 
 Bar. I have read their epitaph, which says they xlied 
 By poison. 
 
 Lor. "V^Tien the Doge declared that he 
 
 Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
 The death of Peter Loredano, both 
 The brothers sicken'd shortly : — he is sovereign. 
 
 Bar. A WTetched one. 
 
 L^. What should they be who make 
 
 Orphans ? 
 
 Ba^. But did the Doge make you so ? 
 
 Lor. Yes. 
 
 Bar. What solid procfs ? 
 
 Lor. When princes set themselves 
 
 To work in secret, proofs and process are 
 Alike made difficult ; but I have such 
 Of the first, as shall make the Second needless. 
 
 Bar. But you will move by law ? 
 
 L)r. By all the laws 
 
 Which he would leave us. 
 
 Bar. They are such in this 
 
 Our state as render retribution easier 
 Than 'mongst remoter nations. Is it true 
 That you have written in your books of commerce, 
 (The wealthy practice of our highest nobles,) 
 * Doge Foscari, my debtor for the deaths 
 Of Marco and Pietro Loredano, 
 My sire and uncle ?" 
 
 L)r. It is written thus. 
 
 Bar. And will you leave it unerased ? 
 
 Lor. Till balanced. 
 
 Bar. And how ? 
 
 [Tivo Senators pass over the stage, as in their 
 way to ''the Hall of the Council of Ten.'' 
 
 Lor. You see the number is complete. 
 
 Follow nie. [Exit Loredano. 
 
 Bar. (solus.) Follow the^ ! I have foUow'd long 
 Thy path of desolation, as the wave 
 Sweeps after that before it, alike whelming 
 The wreck that creaks to the wild winds, and WTetch 
 Who shrieks within its riven ribs, as gush 
 The waters through them ; but this son and sire 
 Might move the elements to pause, and yet 
 Must I on hardily hke them — Oh ! would 
 I could as blindly and remorselessly ! — 
 Lo, where he comes ! — Be still, my heart ! they are 
 Thy foes, must be tliy victims : wilt thou beat 
 For those who almost broke diee ? 
 
 Enter Guards^ with young Foscari as prisoner, ^c. 
 
 Guard. Let him rest. 
 
 Signor, take time. 
 
 Ja^:. Fos. I thank thee, friend, I 'm feeble ; 
 
 But thou may'st stand reproved. 
 
 Guard. 1 11 stand the hazard 
 
 Jac. Fos. That 's kind : — I meet some pity, but no 
 mercy ; 
 This is the ifi^st. 
 
 Guard. And might be last, did they 
 
 "Who rule behold us. 
 
 Bar. [advancing to the Cruard.) There is one who does 
 Yet fear not ; I will neither be thy judge 
 Nor thy accuser ; though the hour is past. 
 Wait tlieir last summons — I am of " tiie Ten," 
 And waiting for that summons, sanction you 
 Even by my presence : when the last call sounds. 
 We '11 in together. — Look well to the prisoner ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. What voixie is tliat ? — 'T is Barbarigo's I Ah ! 
 Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. 
 
 Bar. To balance such a foe, if such there be, 
 Thy father sits among thy judges. 
 
 Jac. Fos. True, 
 
 He judges. 
 
 Bar. Then deem not the laws too harsh 
 Which yield so much indulgence to a sire 
 As to allow his voice in such high matter 
 As the state's safety — r- 
 
 Jac. Fos. And his son 's. I 'm faint ; 
 
 Let me approach, I pray you, for a breath 
 Of air, yon window which o'erlooks the waters. 
 
 Enter an Officer, who ivhispers Barbarigo. 
 
 Bar. {to the Guard.) Let him approach. 1 must 
 not speak with him 
 Fui-ther than thus ; I have transgress^ my duty 
 In this brief parley, and must now redeem it 
 Within the Council Chamber. [Exit Barbarigo. 
 
 [Guard conducting Jacopo Foscari «o the window. 
 
 Guard. There, sir, 't is 
 
 Open — How feel you ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Like a boy — Oh Venice ! 
 
 Guard. And your limbs ? 
 
 Joe. Fos. Limbs ! how often have they borne me 
 Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I have skimm'd 
 The gondola along in childish race. 
 And, masqued as a young gondolier, amidst 
 I\Iy gay competitors, noble as I, 
 Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of strength ; 
 While the fair populace of crowding beauties, 
 Plebeian as patrician, cheer'd us on 
 With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible. 
 And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hcmds. 
 Even to the goal I — How many a time have I 
 Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more daring, 
 The wave all roughen'd; with a swimmer's stroke 
 Flinging the billows back from my drench'd hair, 
 And lauglouig from my lip the audacious brine, 
 Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup, rising o'er 
 The wave3 as they arose, and prouder still 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 293 
 
 The loftier they uplifted me; and oft, 
 
 In wantonness of spirit, plunging down 
 
 Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making 
 
 My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen 
 
 By those above, till they wax'd fearful ; then 
 
 Returning with my grasp full of such tokens 
 
 As show'd that I had search'd the deep : exulting, 
 
 With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep 
 
 The long-suspended bi'eath, again I spurn'd 
 
 The foam which broke around me, and pursued 
 
 My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy then. 
 
 Guard. Be a man now : there never was more need 
 Of manhood's strength. 
 Jac. Fos. (looking from the lattice.) My beautiful, my 
 own, 
 My only Venice — this is breath'. Thy breeze, 
 Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face 1 
 Thy very winds feel native to my veins. 
 And cool them into calmness ! How unlike 
 The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades, 
 Which howl'd about my Candiote dungeon, and 
 Made my heart sick. 
 
 Guard. I see the colour comes 
 
 Back to your cheek : Heaven send you strength to bear 
 What more may be imposed ! — I dread to think on 't. 
 
 Jac. Fos. They will not banish me again ? — No— no. 
 Let them wring on; I am strong yet. 
 
 Gnard. Confess, 
 
 And the rack will be spared you. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I confess'd 
 
 Once — twice before : both times they exiled me. 
 Guard. And the third time will slay you. 
 Jac. Fos. Let them do so. 
 
 So 1 be buried in my birthplace; better 
 Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewhere. 
 
 Guard. And can you so much love the soil which 
 
 hates you? 
 Jac. Fos. The soil ! — Oh no, it is the seed of the soil 
 Which persecutes me ; but my native earth 
 Will take me as a mother to her arms. 
 I ask no more than a Venetian grave, 
 A dungeon, what they will, so it be here. 
 
 Fnter an Officer. 
 
 Qffi. Bring in the prisoner! 
 
 Guard. Signor, you hear the order. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Ay, I am used to such a summons ; 't is 
 The third time they have tortured me : — then lend me 
 Thine arm. [To the Guard. 
 
 Qffi. Take mine, sir ; 't is my duty to 
 
 Be nearest to your person. 
 
 Jac. Fos. You I — you are he 
 
 Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs — 
 Away ! — I '11 walk alone. 
 
 Offi. As you please, signor ; 
 
 The sentence was not of my signing, but 
 I dared not disobey the Council when 
 They 
 
 Jac. Fos. Bade thee stretch me on their horrid engine. 
 I pray thee touch me not — that is, just now ; 
 The time will come they will renew that order. 
 But keep off from me till 't is issued. As 
 I look upon thy hands my curdling limbs 
 Q,uiver with the anticipated wrenching, 
 
 And the cold drops strain through my brow, as if 
 
 But onward — I have borne it — I can bear it. — 
 How looks my father ? 
 
 Offi. With his wonted aspect, 
 
 Jac. Fos. So does the earth, and sky, the blue of ocean, 
 The brightness of our city, and her domes, 
 The mirth of her Piazza, even now 
 Its merry hum of nations pierces here. 
 Even here, into these chambers of the unknown 
 Who govern, and the unknown and the unnumber'd 
 Judged and destroy'd in silence, — all things wear 
 
 The self-same asperf, to my very sire ! 
 Nothing can syr»pathize with Foscari, 
 Not even a Foscari. — Sir, I attend you. 
 
 [Exeunt Jacopo Foscari, Officer, ^c. 
 
 Enter Memmo and another Senator. 
 
 Mem. He 's gone — we are too late: — think you "the 
 Ten" 
 Will sit for any length of time to-day ? 
 
 Sen. They say the prisoner is most obdurate, 
 Persisting in his first avowal; but 
 More I know not. 
 
 Mem. And that is much ; the secrets 
 
 Of yon terrific chamber are as hidden 
 From us, the premier nobles of the state, 
 As fi"om the people. 
 
 Sen. Save the wonted rumours, 
 
 Which (like the tales of spectres that are rife 
 Near rum'd buildings) never have been proved. 
 Nor wholly disbelieved : men know as little 
 Of the state's real acts as of the grave's 
 Unfathom'd mysteries. 
 
 Mem. But with length of time 
 
 We gain a step in knowledge, and I look 
 Forward to be one day of the decemvirs. 
 Sen. Or Doge ? 
 
 Mem. Why, no ; not if I can avoid it. 
 
 Sen. 'T is the first station of the state, and may 
 Be lawfully desired, and lawfully 
 Attain'd by noble aspirants. 
 
 Mem. ^ To such 
 
 I leave it ; though born noble, my ambition 
 Is limited : I 'd rather be an unit 
 Of an united and imperial " Ten," 
 Than shine a lonely, though a gilded cipher. — 
 Whom have we here ? the wife of Foscari ? 
 
 Enter Makina, with a female Attendant. 
 
 Mar. What, no one? — I am wrong, there still are 
 two; 
 But they are senators. 
 
 Mem. Most noble lady, 
 
 Command us. 
 
 Mar. I command ! — Alas I my life 
 
 Has been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 
 
 Mem. I understand thee, but I must not answer. 
 
 Mar. (fiercely.) True — none dare answer here save 
 on the rack, 
 Or question save those 
 
 3Iem. (interrupting her.) High-born dame ! betliink 
 thee 
 Where thou now art. 
 
 Mar. Where 1 now am I — It was 
 
 My husband's father's palace. 
 
 Mem. The Duke's palace. 
 
 Mar. And his son's prison ; — true, I have not forgot it ; 
 And if there were no other nearer, bitterer 
 Remembrances, would thank the illustrious Memmo 
 For pointing out the pleasures of the place. 
 
 Mem. Be calm ! 
 
 Mar. (looking up towards heaven.) I am ; but oh, thou 
 eternal God ! 
 Canst thou continue so, with such a world? 
 
 Mem. Thy husband yet may be absolved. 
 
 Mar. He is, 
 
 In heaven. I pray you, signor senator. 
 Speak not of that ; you are a man of office, 
 So is the Doge ; he has a son at stake 
 Now, at this moment, and I have a husband. 
 Or had ; they are there within, or were at least 
 An hour since, face to face, as judge and culprit : 
 Will he condemn him 7 
 
 Mem, I trust not, 
 
294 
 
 THE TWO FOSCART. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Mar. But if 
 
 He does not, there are those will seinence both. 
 
 Mem. They can. 
 
 Mar. And with them power and will are one 
 
 In wickedness : — my husband 's lost ! 
 
 Mem. Not so ; 
 
 Justice is judge in Venice. 
 
 3Iar. If it were so. 
 
 There now would be no Venice. But let it 
 Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
 Of nature's summons ; but " the Ten's" is quicker, 
 And we must wait on 't. Ah ! a voice of wail ! 
 
 [Afai7it cry within. 
 
 Sen. Hark! 
 
 Mem. 'T was a cry of— 
 
 Mar. No, no ; not my husband's — 
 
 Not Foscari's. 
 
 Mem. The voice was — 
 
 Mar. JVot his : no. 
 
 He shriek ! No ; that should be his fatlier's part. 
 Not his — not his — he '11 die in silence. 
 
 YA faint groan again vciihin. 
 
 Mem. What! 
 
 Mar. His voice ! it seem'd so : I will not 
 Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease 
 To love ; but — no — no — no — it must have been 
 A fearful pang, which wrung a groan from him. 
 
 Sen. And, feeling for thy husband's wrongs, wouldst 
 thou 
 Have him bear more than mortal pain, in silence ? 
 
 Mar. We all must bear our tortures. I have not 
 Left barren the great house of Foscari, 
 Though they sweep both the Doge and son from life ; 
 I have endured as much in giving Ufe 
 To those who vaW. succeed them, as tliey can 
 In leaving it : but mine were joyful pangs ; 
 And yet they wrung me till I could have shriek'd. 
 But did not, for my hope was to bring forth 
 Heroes, and would not v,-elcome them va\h tears. 
 
 Mem. All's silent now. 
 
 Mar. Perhaps all's over; but 
 
 1 will not deem it : he hath nerved himself, 
 And now defies them. 
 
 Enter an Officer hastily. 
 
 Mem. How now, friend, what seek you ? 
 
 Ojffi. A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 
 
 [Exit Officer. 
 
 Mem. Lady, 
 
 'T were better to retire. 
 
 Sen. {offering to assist her.) I oray thee do so. 
 
 Mar. Off! / %vill tend him. 
 
 3Iem. You ! Remember, lady ! 
 
 Ingress is given to none within those chambers, 
 Except " the Ten," and their familiars. 
 
 Mar. Well, 
 
 I know that none who enter there return 
 As they have enter'd — many never; but 
 They shall not balk my entrance. 
 
 Mem. Alas! this 
 
 Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse 
 And worse suspense. 
 
 Mar. Who shall oppose me ? 
 
 Mem. They 
 
 Whose duty 't is to do so. 
 
 Mar. 'T is their duty 
 
 To trample on all human feelings, all 
 Ties which bind man to man, to emulate 
 The fiends, who will one dav requite them in 
 Variety of torturing ! Yet 1 '11 pass. 
 
 Mem. It is impossible. 
 Mar. That shall be tried. 
 
 Despair defies even despotism : there is 
 That in my heart would make its way through hosts 
 With levell'd spears ; and think you a few jailers 
 
 Shall put me from my path ? Give me, then, way ; 
 This is the Doge's palace ; I am wife 
 Of the Duke's son, the innocent Duke's son, 
 And they shall hear this ! 
 
 Mem. It vpill only serve 
 
 More to exasperate has judges. 
 
 3Iar. What 
 
 Are judges who give way to anger ? they 
 Who do so are assassins. Give me way. 
 
 [Exit Makiwa. 
 
 Sen. Poor lady ! 
 
 3Iem. 'T is mere desperation ; she 
 
 Will not be admitted o'er the threshold. 
 
 Sen. And 
 
 Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 
 But, see, the officer returns. 
 
 [The Officer passes over the stage with another person 
 
 Mem. I hardly 
 
 Thought that "the Ten" had even this touch of pity, 
 Or would permit assistance to this sufferer. 
 
 Sen. Pity ! Is 't pity to recall to feeling 
 The wretch too happy to escape to death 
 By the compassionate trance, poor nature's last 
 Resource against the tyranny of pain? 
 
 Mem. I marvel they condemn him not at once. 
 
 Sen. That 's not their policy ; they 'd have him live, 
 Because he fears not death ; and banish him, 
 Because ail earth, except his native land. 
 To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
 Of foreign air he drav.s seems a slow poison, 
 Consuming but not killing. 
 
 Mem. Circumstance 
 
 Confirms his crimes, but he avows them not. 
 
 Sen. None, save the letter, which he says was written, 
 Address'd to Milan's duke, in the full knowledge 
 That it would fall into the senate's hands, 
 And thus he should be reconveyed to Venice. 
 
 Mem. But as a culprit. 
 
 Sen. Yes, but to his countiy ; 
 
 And that was all he sought, so he avouches. 
 
 Mem. The accusatiori of the bribes was proved. 
 
 Sen. Not clearly, and the charge of homicide 
 Has been annuU'd by the death-bed confession 
 Of Nicolas Erizzo, who slew the late 
 Chief of "the Ten." 
 
 Mem. Then why not clear him ? 
 
 Sen. That 
 
 They ought to answer : for it is well known 
 That Almoro Donato, as I said, 
 Was slain by Erizzo for private vengeance. 
 
 Mem. There must be more in this strange process 
 than 
 The apparent crimes of the accused disclose — 
 But here come two of " the Ten ;" let us retire. 
 
 [Exeunt Memmo aivi Senator. 
 
 Enter Loredaxo and Barbarigo. 
 
 Bar. {addressing LoR.) That were too much : 
 believe me, 'twas not meet 
 The trial should go further at this moment. 
 
 Lor. And so the Council must break up, and Justice 
 Pause in her full career, because a woman 
 Breaks in on our deliberations ? 
 
 Bar. No, 
 
 That 's not tlie cause ; you saw the prisoner's slate. 
 
 Lor. And had he not recover'd? 
 
 Bar. To relapse 
 
 Upon the least renewal. 
 
 Lonr. 'T was not tried. 
 
 Bar. 'T is vain to murmur ; the majority 
 In council were against you. 
 
 Lofr. Thanks to you, sir, 
 
 And the old ducal dotard, who combined 
 The worthy voices which o'erruled my own. 
 [ Bar. I am a judge ; but must confess that part 
 
 k 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 295 
 
 Of our stem duty, which prescribes the duestion, 
 And bids us sit and see its sharp infliction, 
 Makes me wish 
 
 Lor. What? 
 
 Bar. That you would sometimes feel 
 
 As I do always. 
 
 Lor. Go to, you 're a child, 
 
 Infirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 
 About by every breath, shook by a sigh. 
 And melted by a tear — a precious judge 
 For Venice ! and a worthy statesman to 
 Be partner in my policy ! 
 
 Bwr. He shed 
 
 No tears. 
 
 L>r. He cried out twice. 
 
 Bar. A saint had done so. 
 
 Even with the crown of glory in his eye. 
 At such inhuman artifice of pain 
 As was forced on him ; but he did not cry 
 For pity 5 not a word nor groan escaped him, 
 And those two shrieks were not in supplication. 
 But rung from pangs, and foUow'd by no prayers. 
 
 Lor. He mutter'd many times between his teeth 
 But inarticulately. 
 
 Bar. That I heard not 
 
 You stood more near him. 
 
 Lior. 1 did so. 
 
 Bar. Methought, 
 
 To my surprise too, you were touch'd with mercy, 
 And were the first to call out for assistance 
 When he was failing. 
 
 L)r. I believed that swoon 
 
 His last. 
 
 Bar. And have I not oft heard thee name 
 His and his father's death your nearest wish ? 
 
 Lor. If he dies innocent, that is to say. 
 With his guilt unavow'd, he '11 be lamented. 
 
 Bar. What, wouldst thou slay his memory? 
 
 Lor. Wouldst thou have 
 
 His state descend to his children, as it must. 
 If he die unattainted? 
 
 Bar. War with them too ? 
 
 Lor. With all their house, till theirs or mine are 
 nothing. 
 
 Bar. And the deep agony of his pale wife. 
 And the repress'd convulsion of the high 
 And princely brow of his old father, which 
 Broke forth in a slight shuddering, though rarely. 
 Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped away 
 In stern serenity ; these moved you not ? 
 
 [Exit LOREDANO. 
 
 He's silent in his hate, as Foscari 
 
 Was in his suffering ; and the poor wi-etch moved me 
 
 More by his silence than a thousand outcries 
 
 Could have effected. 'T was a dreadful sight 
 
 When his distracted wife broke through into 
 
 The hall of our tribunal, and beheld 
 
 What we could scarcely look upon, long used 
 
 To such sights. I must think no more of this. 
 
 Lest I forget in this compassion for 
 
 Our foes their former injuries, and lose 
 
 The hold of vengeance Loredano plans 
 
 For him and me ; but mine would be content 
 
 With lesser retiibution than he thirsts for, 
 
 And I would mitigate his deeper hatred 
 
 To milder thoughts ; but for the present, Foscari 
 
 Has a short hourly respite, granted at 
 
 The instance of the elders of the Council, 
 
 Moved doubtless by his wife's appearance in 
 
 The hall, and his own sufferings. — Lo ! they come : 
 
 How feeble and forlorn ! I cannot bear 
 
 To look on them again in this extremity: 
 
 I '11 hence, and try to soften Loredano. 
 
 [Exit Barbariqo. 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 Scene I. — A Hall in the Doge's Palace. 
 The Doge and a Senator. 
 
 Sen. Is it your pleasure to sign the report 
 Now, or postpone it till to-morrow ? 
 
 Doge. Now \ 
 
 I overlook'd it yesterday : it wants 
 Merely the signature. Give me the pen — 
 
 [The Doge sits down and signs the paper. 
 There, signor. 
 
 Sen. {looking at the paper.) You have forgot ; it is 
 not sign'd. 
 
 Doge. Not sign'd ? Ah, I perceive my eyes begin 
 To wax more weak with age. I did not see 
 That I had dipp'd the pen without effect. 
 
 Sen. (dipping the pen into the ink, and placing the 
 paper before the Doge.) Your hand, too, 
 shakes, my lord : allow me, thus — 
 
 Doge. 'T is done, I thank you. 
 
 Sen. Thus the act confirm'd 
 
 By you and by "the Ten," gives peace to Venice. 
 
 Doge. 'T is long since she enjoy'd it : may it be 
 As long ere she resume her arms ! 
 
 Sen. 'Tis ahnost 
 
 Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless warfare 
 With the Turk, or the powers of Italy ; 
 The state had need of some repose. 
 
 Doge. No doubt : 
 
 I found her queen of ocean, and I leave her 
 Lady of Lombardy; it is a comfort 
 That I have added to her diadem 
 The gems of Brescia and Ravenna ; Crema 
 And Bergamo no less are hers ; her realm 
 By land has grown by thus much in my reign. 
 While her sea-sway has not shrunk. 
 
 Sen. 'T is most true, 
 
 And merits all our country's gratitude. 
 
 Doge. Perhaps so. 
 
 Sen. Which should be made manifest. 
 
 Doge. I have not complain'd, sir. 
 
 Sen. My good lord, forgive me. 
 
 Doge. For what ? 
 
 Sen. My heart bleeds for you. 
 
 Doge. For me, signor? 
 
 Sen. And for your— — 
 
 Doge. Stop ! 
 
 Sen. It must have way, my lord : 
 
 I have too many duties towards you 
 And all your house, for past and present kindness, 
 Not to feel deeply for your son. 
 
 Doge. Was this 
 
 In your commission? 
 
 Sen. What, my lord? 
 
 Doge. This prattle 
 
 Of things you know not : but the treaty 's sign'd ; 
 Return with it to them who sent you. 
 
 Sen. I 
 
 Obey. I had m charge, too, from the Council 
 That you would fix an hour for their reunion. 
 
 Doge. Say, when they will — now, even at this 
 moment, 
 If it so please them : I am the state's servant. 
 
 Sen. They would accord some time for your repose. 
 
 Doge. I have no repose, that is, none which shall cause 
 The loss of an hour's time unto the state. 
 Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 
 Where I should be, and what I have been ever. 
 
 [Exit Senator. 
 [The Doge remains in silence. 
 
 Att. Prince! 
 Doge, 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 Say on. 
 
296 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 Act If. 
 
 The illustrious lady Foscari 
 
 Att. 
 Requests an audience. 
 
 Boge. Bid her enter. Poor 
 
 Marina 1 [Exit Attendant. 
 
 [The Doge remains in silence as before. 
 
 Enter Marina. 
 Mar. I have ventured, father, on 
 Your privacy. 
 
 Doge. I have none from you, my child. 
 
 Command my time, when not commanded by 
 The state. 
 
 Mar. I wish'd to speak to you of him. 
 Doge. Your husband ? 
 Mar. And your son. 
 
 Doge. Proceed, my daughter ! 
 Mar. I had obtain'd permission from the " Ten" 
 To attend my husband for a limited number 
 Of hours. 
 
 Doge. You had so. 
 Mar. 'T is revoked. 
 
 Doge. By whom? 
 
 Mar. "The Ten." — When we had reach'd "the 
 Bridge of Sighs," 
 Which I prepared to pass with Foscari, 
 The gloomy guardian of that passage first 
 Demurr'd : a messenger was sent back to 
 " The Ten ;" but as the court no longer sate, 
 And no permission had been given in writing, 
 I was thrust back, with the assurance that 
 Until that high tribunal reassembled 
 The dungeon walls must still divide us. 
 
 Doge. True, 
 
 The form has been omitted in the haste 
 With which the court adjourn'd, and till it meets, 
 'T is dubious. 
 
 Mar. Till it meets ! and when it meets. 
 
 They'll torture him again; and he and / 
 Must purchase by renewal of the rack 
 The interview of husband and of wife. 
 The hoUest tie beneath the heavens ! — Oh God ! 
 Dost thou see this ? 
 
 Doge. Child— child 
 
 Mar. (abruptly.) Call me not « child !" 
 
 You soon will have no children — you deserve none — 
 You, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
 In circumstances which would call forth tears 
 Of blood from Spartans ! Though these did not weep 
 Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
 That they beheld them perish piecemeal, nor 
 Stretch'd forth a hand to save them ? 
 
 Doge. You behold me : 
 
 I cannot weep — I would I could ; but if 
 Each white hair on this head were a young life, 
 This ducal cap the diadem of earth, 
 This ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
 A taUsman to still them — I 'd give all 
 For him. 
 
 Mar. With less he surely might be saved. 
 Doge. That answer only shows you know not Venice. 
 Alas ! how should you ? she knows not herself 
 In all her mystery. Hear me — they who aim 
 At Foscari, aim no less at his father ; 
 The sire's destruction would not save the son ; 
 The work by different means to the same end. 
 
 And that is ^but they have not conquePd yet. 
 
 Mar. But they have crush'd. 
 Doge. Nor crush'd as yet — I live. 
 
 Mar. And your son, — how long will he live ? 
 Doge. I trust, 
 
 For all that yet is past, as many years 
 And happier than his father. The rash boy 
 With womanish impatience to return. 
 Hath ruin'd all by that detected letter: 
 A high crime, which I neither can deny 
 
 Nor palliate, as parent or as Duke: 
 Had he but borne a little, little longer 
 
 His Candiote exile, 1 had hopes he has quench'd 
 
 them — 
 He must return. 
 
 Mar. To exile? 
 
 Doge. I have said it. 
 
 Mar. And can I not go with him ? 
 Doge. You well know 
 
 This prayer of yours was twice denied before 
 By the assembled " Ten," and hardly nosv 
 Will be accorded to a third request. 
 Since aggravated errors on the part 
 Of your lord renders them still more austere. 
 
 Mar. Austere? Atrocious! The old human fiends, 
 With one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, strange 
 To tears save drops of dotage, with long white 
 And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, and heads 
 As palsied as their hearts are hard, they council, 
 Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
 Were no more than the feelings long extinguish'd 
 In their accursed bosoms. 
 
 Doge. You know not 
 
 3Iar. I do — I do — and so should you, methinks — 
 That these are demons : could it be else that 
 Men, who have been of women bom and suckled — 
 Who have loved, or talk'd at least of love — have given 
 Their hands in sacred vows — have danced their babes 
 Upon their knees, perhaps have moum'd above them 
 In pain, in peril, or in death — who are. 
 Or were at least in seeming human, could 
 Do as they have done by yours, and you yourself, 
 You, who abet them ? 
 
 Doge. I forgive this, for 
 
 You laiow not what you say. 
 
 Mar. You know it well, 
 
 And feel it nothing. 
 
 Doge. I have borne so much, 
 
 That words have ceased to shake me. 
 
 Mar. Oh, no doubt ! 
 
 You have seen your son's blood flow, and your flesh 
 
 shook not; 
 And after that, what are a woman's words ? 
 No more than woman's tears, that they should shake you. 
 Doge. Woman, this clamorous grief of thine, I tell 
 thee. 
 Is no more in the balance weigh'd with that 
 
 Which but I pity thee, my poor Marina ! 
 
 Mar. Pity my husband, or I cast it from me ; 
 Pity thy son ! Thou pity ! — 't is a word 
 Strange to thy heart — how came it on thy lips ? 
 Doge. I m.ust bear these reproaches, though they 
 wrong me. 
 
 Couldst thou but read 
 
 Blar. 'T is not upon thy brow. 
 
 Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts, — where then 
 Should 1 behold this sympathy ? or shall ? 
 Doge, (pointing downwards.) There ! 
 Mar. In the earth ? 
 
 Doge. To which I am tending : when 
 
 It lies upon this heart, far lighther, though 
 Loaded with marble, than the thoughts which press it 
 Now, you will know me better. 
 
 Mar. Are you, then, 
 
 Indeed, thus to be pitied ? 
 
 Doge. Pitied ! None 
 
 Shall ever use that base word, with which men 
 Cloke their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit one 
 To mingle with my name ; that name shall be, 
 As far as I have borne it, what it was 
 When I received it. 
 
 Mar. But for the poor children 
 
 Of him thou canst not, or thou wilt not save. 
 You were the last to bear it. 
 
 Doge. Would it were bo 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 297 
 
 Better for him he never had been born, 
 
 Better for me. — I have seen our house dishonour'd. 
 
 Mar. That 's false ! A truer, nobler, trustier heart, 
 More loving, or more loyal, never beat 
 Within a human breast. I would not change 
 My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband, 
 Oppress'd but not disgraced, crush'd, overwhelm'd, 
 Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin 
 In story or in fable, with a world 
 To back his suit. Dishonour'd I — he dishonour^ ! 
 I tell thee, Doge, 't is Venice is dishonour'd ,• 
 His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach, 
 For what he suffers, not for what he did. 
 'T is ye who are all traitors, tyrant ! — ye ! 
 Did you but love your country lilce this victim 
 WTio totters back in chains to tortures, and 
 Submits to all things rather than to exile, 
 You'd fling yourselves before him, and implore 
 His grace for your enormous guilt. 
 
 Doge. He was 
 
 Indeed all you have said. I better bore 
 The deatlis of the two sons Heaven took from me 
 Than Jacopo's disgrace. 
 
 Mar. That word again ? 
 
 Doge. Has he nol been condemn'd ? 
 
 Mar. Is none but guilt so? 
 
 Doge. Time may restore liis memory — I would hope 
 so. 
 
 He was my pride, my but 't is useless now — 
 
 I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 
 When he was born: those drops were ominous. 
 
 Mar. I say he 's innocent ! And were he not so, 
 Is our own blood and Idn to shrink from us 
 In fatal moments ? 
 
 Doge. I shrank not from him : 
 
 But I have other duties than a father's ; 
 The state would not dispense me from those duties ; 
 Twice I demanded it, but was refused* 
 They must then be fulfiU'd. 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 Att. A message from 
 
 * The Ten." 
 
 Doge. Who bears it ? 
 
 Att. Noble Loredano. 
 
 Doge He ! — ^but admit him. {Exit Attendant. 
 
 Mar. Must I then retiie ? 
 
 Doge. Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 
 Concerns your husband, and if not— —Well, signer. 
 Your pleasure ! [To Loredano entering. 
 
 Lor. I bear that of " the Ten." 
 
 Doge They 
 
 Have chosen well theii- envoy. 
 
 Lor. 'T is their choice 
 
 Which leads me here. 
 
 Doge. It does their wisdom honour, 
 
 And no less to their courtesy. — Proceed. 
 
 /•or. We have decided. 
 
 Doge. We ? 
 
 Lor. "^ The Ten" in council. 
 
 Doge. What ! have they met again, and met without 
 Apprising me ? 
 
 Lon: They vnsh'd to spare your feelings. 
 
 No less than age. 
 
 Doge. That 's new — when spared they either ? 
 
 I thank them, notwithstanding. 
 
 Lor. You know well 
 
 That they have power to act at their discretion, 
 With or without the presence of the Doge. 
 
 Doge. 'T is some years since I learn'd this, long before 
 I became Doge, or dream'd of such advancement. 
 You need not school me, signor : I sate in 
 That council when you were a young patrician. 
 
 Lor. True, in my father's time ; I have heard him and 
 The admiral, his brother, say as much. 
 2N 
 
 Your highness may r^^nember them ; they both 
 Died suddenly. 
 
 Doge. And if they did so, better 
 
 So die than live on hngeringly in pain. 
 Lor. No doubt ; yet most men like to live their days 
 
 out. 
 Doge. And did not they? 
 
 Lor. The grave knows best : they died, 
 
 As I said, suddenly. 
 
 Doge. Is that so strange. 
 
 That you repeat the woi-d emphatically ? 
 
 Lor. So far from strange, that never w£ts there death 
 In my mind half so natural as theirs. 
 Think you not so ? 
 Doge. W^hat should I think of mortals ? 
 
 Lor. That they have mortal foes. 
 Doge. I understand you ; 
 
 Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all things. 
 Lor. You best know if I should be so. 
 Doge. I do. 
 
 Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard 
 Foul rumours were abroad ; I have also road 
 Their epitaph, attributing tlieir deaths 
 To poison. 'T is perhaps as true as most 
 Inscriptions upon tombs, and y«t no less 
 A fable. 
 
 Lor. W^ho dares say so ? 
 Doge. I !— 'T is true 
 
 Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter 
 As tlieir son e'er can be, and I no less 
 Was theirs; but I was openly their foe: 
 I never work'd by plot in council, nor 
 Cabal in commonwealth, nor secret means 
 Of practice against life by steel or drug. 
 The proof is, your existence. 
 Lor. ■ I fear not. 
 
 Doge. You have no cause, being what I am ; but 
 were I 
 That you would haw me thought, you long ere now 
 Were past the sense of fear. Hate on ; I care not. 
 
 Lor. I never yet knew that a noble's life 
 In Venice had to dread a Doge's f{•o^\^^, 
 That is, by open means. 
 
 Doge. But I, good signor. 
 
 Am, or at least was, more than a mere duke. 
 In blood, in mind, in means ; and that they know 
 Who dreaded to elect me, and have since 
 Striven all they dare to weigh me down : be sure, 
 Before or since that period, had I held you 
 At so much price as to require your absence 
 A word of mine had set such spirits to work 
 As would have made you nothing. But in all things 
 I have observed the strictest reverence ; 
 Not for the laws alone, for those you have strain'd 
 (I do not speak of you but as a single 
 Voice (rf the many) somewhat beyond what 
 I could enforce for my authority 
 Were I disposed to brawl ; but, as I said, 
 I have observed with veneration, like 
 A priest's for the high altar, even unto 
 The sacrifice of my owt> blood and quiet, 
 Safety, and all save honour, the decrees, 
 The health, the pride, and welfare of the state. 
 And now, sir, to your business. 
 
 Lor. 'T is decreed, 
 
 That, without farther repetition of 
 The duestion, or continuance of the trial, 
 Which only tends to show how stubborn guilt isj 
 (" The Ten," dispensing with the stricter law 
 Which still prescribes the Q^uestion till a full 
 Confession, and the prisoner partly having 
 Avow'd his crime in not denying that 
 The letter to the Duke of Milan 's his,) 
 James Foscari return to banishment, 
 And sail in the same galley which convey'd him. 
 
298 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Mar. Thank God. At least ihey will not drag him 
 more 
 Before that horrible tribunal. Would he 
 But think so, to my mind the happiest doom, 
 Not he alone, but all who dwell here, could 
 Desire, were to escape from such a land. 
 
 Doge. That is not a Venetian thought, my daughtbr. 
 
 Mar. No, 't was too human. May I shai-e his e.xile ? 
 
 Lor Of this " the Ten" said nothing. 
 
 Mar. So I thought : 
 
 That were too human, also. But it was not 
 Inhibited ? 
 
 Jjor. It was not named. 
 
 Mar. {to the Doge.) Then, father, 
 
 Surely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 
 
 [To LOREDANO. 
 
 And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 
 Permitted to accompany my husband. 
 
 Doge. I will endeavour. 
 
 Mar. And you, signor? 
 
 Lor. Lady ! 
 
 'T is not for me to anticipate the pleasure 
 Of the tribunal. 
 
 Mar. Pleasure ! what a word 
 To use for the decrees of 
 
 Doge. Daughter, know you 
 
 In what a presence you pronounce these things ? 
 
 Mar. A prince's and his subject's. 
 
 Ijrr. Subject! 
 
 Mar. Oh! 
 
 It galls you : — well, you are his equal, as 
 You think ; but that you are not, nor would be, 
 V/ere he a peasant : — w^ell, then, you 're a prince, 
 A princely noble ; and what then am I ? 
 
 Lm. The oft'spring of a noble house. 
 
 Mar. And wedded 
 
 To one as noble. What or whose, then, is 
 The presence that should silence my free thoughts ? 
 
 Lor. The presence of your husband's judges. 
 
 Doge. And 
 
 The deference due even to the lightest word 
 That falls from those who rule in Venice. 
 
 Mar. Keep 
 
 Those maxims for your mass of scared mechanics, 
 Your merchants, your Dalmatian and Greek slaves, 
 Your tributaries, your dumb citizens. 
 And mask'd nobility, your sbirri, and 
 Your spies, your galley and your other slaves, 
 To whom your midnight carryings off and dro\\Tiings, 
 Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or under 
 The water's level ; your mysterious meetings, 
 And unknown dooms, and sudden executions, 
 Your " Bridge of Sighs," your strangling chamber, and 
 Your torturing instruments, have made ye seem 
 The beings of another and worse world ! 
 Keep such for them : I fear ye not. I know ye ; 
 Have known and proved your worst, in the infernal 
 Process of my poor husband ! Treat me as 
 Ye treated him : — you did so, in so dealing 
 With him. Then what have I to fear from you. 
 Even if I were of fearful nature, which 
 I trust I am not? 
 
 Doge. You hear, she speaks wildly. 
 
 Mar. Not wisely, yet not wildly. 
 
 Lor. Lady ! words 
 
 Utter'd within these walls I bear no further 
 Than to the threshold, saving such as pass 
 Between the Duke and me on the state''s service. 
 Doge ! have you aught in answer ? 
 
 Doge. Something from 
 
 The Doge ; it may be also from a parent. 
 
 Lor. My mission Ivere Is to the Doge. 
 
 Doge. Then say 
 
 The Doge will choose his own ambassador, 
 Or state in person what is meet ; and for 
 
 The father 
 
 Lor. 1 remember viine. — Farewell ! 
 
 I kiss the hands of the illustrious lady. 
 And bow me to the Duke. {Exit Loredano. 
 
 Mar. Are you content? 
 
 Doge. I am what you behold. 
 
 Mar. And that 's a mystery. 
 
 Doge. All things are so to mortals ; who can read 
 them 
 Save he who made ? or, if they can, the few 
 And gifted spirits, who have studied long 
 That loathsome volume — man, and pored upon 
 Those black and bloody leaves, his heart and brain, 
 But learn a magic which recoils upon 
 The adept who pursues it: all the sms 
 We find in others, nature made our own; 
 All our advantages are those of fortune ; 
 Birth, wealth, health, beauty, are her accidents, 
 And when we cry out against Fate, 't were well 
 We should remember Fortune can take naught 
 Save what she gave — the rest was nakedness, 
 And lusts, and appetites, and vanities, 
 The universal heritage, to battle 
 With as we may, and least in humblest stations, 
 Where hunger swallows all in one low want, 
 And the original ordinance, that man 
 Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all passionjr 
 Aloof, save fear of famine ! All is low, 
 And false, and hollow — clay from first to last, 
 The prince's urn no less than potter's vessel. 
 Our fame is in men's breath, our hves upon 
 Less than their breath ; our durance upon days. 
 Our days on seasons ; our whole being on 
 Something which is not us ! — So, we are slaves, 
 The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests 
 Upon our will ; the will itself no less 
 Depends upon a straw t]\an on a storm ; 
 And when we think we lead, we are most led, 
 And still towards death, a thing which comes as much 
 Without our act or choice as birth, so that 
 JMethinks we must have sinn'd in some old world, 
 And this is hell : the best is, that it is not 
 Eternal. 
 
 Mar. These are things we cannot judge 
 On earth. 
 
 Doge. And how then shall we judge each other, 
 Who are all earth, and I, w^ho am call'd upon 
 To judge my son ? I have administer'd 
 My country faithfully — victoriously — 
 I dare them to the proof, the chart of what 
 She was and is : my reign has doubled realms ; 
 And, in reward, the gratitude of Venice 
 Has left, or is about to leave, me single. 
 
 Mar. And Foscari ? I do not thuik of such tilings, 
 So I be left with him. 
 
 Doge. You shall be so ; 
 
 Thus much they cannot well deny. 
 
 Mar. And if 
 
 They should, I will fly Nvith him. 
 
 Doge. That can ne'er be. 
 
 And whither would you fly ? 
 
 3Iar. I know not, reck, not— 
 
 To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman — 
 Any where, where we might respire imfetter'd. 
 And five nor girt by spies, nor Uable 
 To edicts of inquisitors of state. 
 
 Doge. What, wouldst thou have a renegade for 
 husband. 
 And turn hun into traitor ? 
 
 Mar. He is none! 
 
 The country is the traitress, which thrusts forth 
 Her best and bravest from her. Tyrarmy 
 Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem 
 None rebels except subjects? The prince who 
 Neglects or violates his trust is more 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 299 
 
 A brigand than the robber-chief. 
 
 Doge. I cannot 
 
 Charge me with such a breach of faith . 
 
 Mar. No; thou 
 
 Observ'st, obey'st, such laws as make old Draco's 
 A code of mercy by comparison. 
 
 Doge. I found the law ; I did not make it. Were I 
 A subject, still I might find parts and portions 
 Fit for amendment ; but as prince, I never 
 Would change, for the sake of my house, the c/iarter 
 Left by our fathers. 
 
 Mar. Did they make it for 
 
 The ruin of their children ? 
 
 Doge. Under such laws, Venice 
 
 Has risen to what she is — a state to rival 
 In deeds, and days, and sway, and, let me add, 
 In glory, (for we have had Roman spirits 
 Among us,) all that history has bequeath'd 
 Of Rome and Carthage in their best times, when 
 The people sway'd by senates. 
 
 Mar. Rather say, 
 
 Groan'd under the stern oligarchs. 
 
 Doge. Perhaps so 
 
 But yet subdued the world ; in such a state 
 An individual, be he richest of 
 Such rank as is permitted, or the meanest, 
 Without a name, is alike nothing, when 
 The policy, irrevocably tending 
 To one great end, must be maintain'd in vigour. 
 
 Mar. This means that you are more a Doge than father. 
 
 Doge. It means, I am more citizen than either. 
 If we had not for many centuries 
 Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
 I trust, have still such, Venice were no city. 
 
 Mar. Accursed be the city where the laws 
 Would stifle nature's ! 
 
 Doge. Had I as many sons 
 
 As I have years, I would have given them all, 
 Not without feeling, but I would have given them 
 To the state's service, to fulfil her wishes 
 On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be, 
 As it, alas ! has been, to ostracism. 
 Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse 
 She might decree. 
 
 Mar. And this is patriotism ? 
 
 To me it seems the worst barbarity. 
 Let me seek out my husband : the sage " Ten," 
 With all its jealousy, will hardly war 
 So far with a weak woman as deny me 
 A moment's access to his dungeon. 
 
 Doge. I 'U 
 
 So far take on myself, as order that 
 You may be admitted. 
 
 Mar. And what shall I say 
 
 To Foscari from his father? 
 
 Doge. That he obey 
 
 The laws. 
 
 Mar. And nothing more ? Will you not see him 
 
 Ere he depart? It may be the last time. 
 
 Doge. The last ! — my boy ! — the last time I shall see 
 My last of chDdren ! Tell him I will come. 
 
 [ExeuTvL. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 ScEN^E I. — The Prison of Jacopo Foscasi. 
 
 Jac. Fos. (solus.) No light, save yon faint gleam; 
 which shows me w'alls 
 Which never echo'd but to sorrow's sounds, 
 The sigh of long imprisonment, the step 
 Of feet on which the iron clank'd, the groan 
 Of death, the imprecation of despair ! 
 And yet for this I have return'd to Venice, 
 With some faint hope, 't is true, that time, which wears 
 
 The marble down, tad worn away the hate 
 
 Of men's hearts -r but I knew them not, and here 
 
 Must I const'Wie my own, which never beat 
 
 For Ven><;e but wiiJi such a yearning as 
 
 The dove has for her distant nest, when wheeling 
 
 Jiigh in the air on her return to greet 
 
 Her callow brood. What letters are these which 
 
 [Approaching the wall. 
 Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall 1 
 Will the gleam let me trace ihem ? Ah ! the names 
 Of my sad predecessors in this place. 
 The dates of their despair, the brief words of 
 A grief too great for many. This stone page 
 Holds like an epitaph their history. 
 And the poor captive's tale is graven on 
 His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 
 Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 
 His own and his beloved's name. Alas ! 
 I recognise some names tamiliar to me, 
 And blighted like to mine, which I will add. 
 Fittest for such a chronicle as tb.is. 
 Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches. 
 
 [He engraves his name. 
 
 Eyiter a Familiar of " the Ten." 
 
 Fam. I bring you food. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I pray you set it down ; 
 
 I am past hunger : but my lips are parch 'd — 
 The water! 
 
 Fam. There. 
 
 Jac. Fos. (after drinking.) I thank you : I am better. 
 
 Fam. I am commanded to inform you 
 That your further trial is postponed. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Till when? 
 
 Fam. 1 know not. — It is also in my orders 
 That your illustrious lady be admitted. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Ah ! they relent, then — I had ceased to 
 hope it; 
 'T was time. 
 
 Enter Marina. 
 
 Mar. My best beloved ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. (embracing her.) My true wife, 
 
 And only friend ! What happiness I 
 
 Mar. We 'U part 
 
 No more. 
 Jac. Fos. How ! would'st thou share a dungeon ? 
 Mar. Ay, 
 
 The rack, the grave, all — any thing with thee, 
 But the tomb last of all, for there we shall 
 Be ignorant of each other, yet I will 
 Share that — all things except new separation ; 
 It is too much to have survived the first. 
 How dost thou ? How are those worn limbs ? Alas ! 
 
 Why do I ask? Thy paleness 
 
 Jac. Fos. 'T is the joy 
 
 Of seeing thee again so soon, and so 
 Without expectancy, has sent the blood 
 Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like thine, 
 For thou art pale too, my Marina ! 
 
 Mar. _ 'T is 
 
 The gloom of this eternal cell, which never 
 Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare 
 Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin 
 To darkness more than hght, by lending to 
 The dungeon vapours its bituminous smoke. 
 Which cloud whate'sr we gaze on, even thine eyes — 
 No, not thine eyes — they sparkle — how they sparkle ! 
 Jac. Fos. And thine ! — but I am blinded by the torch. 
 Mar. As I had been without it. Couldst thou see 
 
 here ? 
 Jac. Fos. Nothing at first ; but use and time had 
 taught me 
 Familiarity with what was darkness ; 
 And the gray twilight of such gliiiimerings as 
 
300 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARL 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Glide through the crevices made by the winds 
 AVas kinder to mine eyes than the ful\ sun, 
 When gorgcoDsly o'ergilding any towers 
 Save those of Venice ; but a moment ere 
 Thou earnest hither I was busy writing. 
 
 Mar. What? 
 
 Jac. Fos. My name : look, 't is there — recorded next 
 The name of him who here preceded me, 
 If dungeon dates say true. 
 
 Mar. And what of him ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. These walls are silent of men's ends ; they 
 only 
 Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls 
 Were never piled on high save o'er the dead, 
 Or those who soon must be so — What of him? 
 Thou askest. — What of me ? may soon be ask'd, 
 With the like answer — doubt and dreadful surmise — 
 Unless thou lell'st my tale. 
 
 Mar. I speak of thee ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. And wherefore not ? All then shall speak 
 of me : 
 The tyranny of silence is not lasting, 
 And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 
 Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's ! 
 I do not douht my memory, but my life ; 
 And neither do I fear. 
 
 Mar. Tliy life is safe. 
 
 Jac. Fos. And liberty ? 
 
 Mar. The mind should make its own. 
 
 Jccc. Fos. That has a noble sound ; but 't is a sound, 
 A music most impressive^ but too transient: 
 The mind is much, but is not all. The mind 
 Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death, 
 And torture positive, far v.-orse than death, 
 (If death be a deep sleep,) without a groan, 
 Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges 
 Than me; but 'tis not all, for there are things 
 More woful — such as this small dungeon, where 
 I may breathe many years. 
 
 Mar. Alas! and this 
 
 Small dungeon is all that belongs to thee 
 Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince. 
 
 Jac. Fos. That thought would scarcely aid me to en- 
 dure it. 
 My doom is common, many are in dungeons. 
 But none like mine, so near their father's palace: 
 But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope 
 Will stream along those moted rays of light 
 Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 
 Our only day ; for, save the jailer's torch, 
 And a strange firefly, which was quickly caught 
 Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 
 I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas] 
 I know if mind may bear us up, or no, 
 For I have such, and shown it before men ; 
 It sinks in solitude : my soul is social. 
 
 Mar. I Avill be with thee, 
 
 Jac . Fos. Ah ! if it were so ! 
 
 But theO. they never granted — nor will grant, 
 And I shall be alone : no men — no books — 
 Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
 I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind, 
 Which they term annals, history, what you will, 
 Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were 
 Refused me, so these walls have been my study, 
 More faithful pictures of Venetian story. 
 With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is 
 The hall not far from hence, which bears on high 
 Hundreds of doges, and their deeds and dates. 
 
 Mar. I come to tell thee the result of their 
 Last council on thy doom. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I know it — look! 
 
 [He points to his limbs, as referring to the tortures 
 which he had undergone. 
 
 Mar. No— no — no more of that : even -they relent 
 
 From that atrocity. 
 
 Jac. Fos. What then ? 
 
 Mar. That you 
 
 Return to Candia. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Then my last hope 's gone. 
 
 I could endure my dungeon, for 't was Venice ; 
 I could support the torture, there was something 
 li-i my native air that buoy'd my spirits up 
 Like -3. ship on the ocean toss'd by storms, 
 But protk^ly still bestriding the high waves, 
 And holding on its course ; but there^ afar. 
 In that accursed isle of slaves, and captives, 
 And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck, 
 My very soul seem'd mouldering in my bosom, 
 And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded. 
 
 Mar. And here ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. At once — by better means, as briefer. 
 
 What I would they even deny me my sire's sepulchre, 
 As well as home and heritage ? 
 
 Mar. My husband ! 
 
 I have sued to accompany thee hence. 
 And not so hopelessly. This love of thine 
 For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil 
 Is passion, and not patriotism ; for me, 
 So I could see thee with a quiet aspect. 
 And the sweet freedom of the earth and air, 
 I would not cavil about climes or regions. 
 This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
 A paradise; its first inhabitants 
 Were wretched exiles. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Well I know how wretched ! 
 
 Mar. And yet you see how from their banishment 
 Before the Tartar into these salt isles, 
 Their antique energy of mind, all that 
 Remain'd of Rome for their inheritance, 
 Created by degrees an ocean-Rome; 
 And shall an evil, which so often leads 
 To good, depress thee thus ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Had I gone forth 
 
 From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking 
 Another region, v/ith their flocks and herds ; 
 Had I been ca.st out like the Jews from Zion 
 Or like our fathers, driven by Attila 
 From fertile Italy, to barren islets, 
 I would have given some tears to my late country, 
 And many thoughts ; but afterwards address'd 
 MyselfJ with those about me, to create 
 A new home and fresh state : perhaps I could 
 Have borne this — though I know not. 
 
 Mar. Wherefore not ? 
 
 It was the lot of millions, and must be 
 The fate of myriads more. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Ay — we but hear 
 
 Of the survivors' toil in their new lands, 
 Their numbers and success ; but who can number 
 The hearts which broke in silence of that parting, 
 Or after their departure ; of that malady* 
 Which calls up green and native fields to view 
 From the rough deep, with such identity 
 To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he 
 Can scarcely he restrained from treading them? 
 That melody,f which out of tones and tunes 
 Collects' such pasture for the longing sorrow 
 Of the sad mountaineer, when far away 
 From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds. 
 That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought, 
 And dies. You call this ii^eafoiess / It is strength, 
 I. say, — the parent of all honest feeling. 
 He who loves not his country, can love nothing. 
 
 Mar. Obey her, then : 't is she that puts thee forth. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Ay, there it is ; 't is like a mother's curse 
 Upon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 
 
 * The caleuUirc. t AUudingto tho Swim air ftnd Us effects. 
 
Act til 
 
 THE TWO FOSOARI. 
 
 301 
 
 -The exiles you speak of went forth by nations, 
 Their hands upheld each other by the way, 
 Their tents were pitch'd together — I 'm alone. 
 
 Mar. You shall be so no more — I will go with thee. 
 
 Jac. Fos. My best Marina ! — and our children ? 
 
 Mar. They, 
 
 I fear, by the prevention of the state's 
 Abhorrent policy, (which holds all ties 
 As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure,) \ 
 
 Will not be sufFer'd to proceed with us. 
 
 Jac. Fos. And canst thou leave them ? 
 
 Mar. Yes. With many a pang. 
 
 But — I can leave them, children as they are. 
 To teach you to be less a child. From this 
 Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted 
 By duties paramount ; and 't is our first 
 On earth to bear. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Have I not borne ? 
 
 Mar. Too much 
 
 From tyrannous injustice, and enough 
 To teach you not to shrink now from a lot, 
 Which, as compared with what you have undergone 
 Of late, is mercy. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Ah ! you never yet 
 
 Were far away from Venice, never saw 
 Her beautiful towers in the receding distance, 
 While every furrow of the vessel's track 
 Seem'd ploughing deep into your heart ; you never 
 Saw day go down upon your native spires 
 So calmly with its gold and crimson glory, 
 And after dreaming a disturbed vision 
 Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. 
 
 Mar. I will divide this with you. Let us think 
 Of cur departure from this much-loved city, 
 (Since you must love it as it seems,) and this 
 Chamber of state, her gratitude allots you. 
 Our children will be cared for by the Doge, 
 And by my uncles : we must sail ere night. 
 
 Jac. Fos. That 's sudden. Shall I not behold my 
 father ? 
 
 Mar. You will. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Where ? 
 
 Mar. Here or in the ducal chamber — 
 
 He said not which, I would that you could bear 
 Your exile as he bears it. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Blame him not. 
 
 I sometimes murmur for a moment ; but 
 He could not now act otherwise. A show 
 Of feeling or compassion on his part 
 Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
 Suspicion from " the Ten," and upon mine 
 Accumulated ills. 
 
 Mar. Accumulated ! 
 
 What pangs are those they have spared you? 
 
 Jac. Fos. That of leaving 
 
 Venice without beholding him or you, 
 Which might have been forbidden now, as 't was 
 Upon my former exile. 
 
 Mar. That is true, 
 
 And thus far I am also the state's debtor, 
 And shall be more so when I see us both 
 Floating on the free waves — away — away — 
 Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd, 
 Unjust, and 
 
 Jac. Fos. Curse it not. If I am silent, 
 Who dares accuse my country? 
 
 Mar. Men and angels! 
 
 The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven. 
 The groans of slaves in chains, and men in dungeons. 
 Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and subjects, 
 Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads ; and 
 Though last, not least, thy silence. Couldst thou say 
 Aught in its favour, who would praise like thee ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Let us address us then, since so it must be. 
 To our departure. Who comes here ? 
 
 Enter LoRED>-^o, attended by Familiars. 
 
 I^r. {to ike Familiars.) Retire, 
 
 But leave th^ torch. [Exeunt the two Familiars. 
 
 Jac. F)-^- Most welcome, noble signer. 
 
 I did not deem this poor place could have drawn 
 Sach presence liither. 
 
 Zar. 'T is not the first time 
 
 I have visited these places. 
 
 3Iar. Nor would be 
 
 The last, were all men's merits well rewarded. 
 Came you here to insult us, or remain 
 As spy upon us, or as hostage for us ? 
 
 Lor. Neither are of my office, noble lady ! 
 I am sent hither to your husband, to 
 Announce "the Ten's" decree. 
 
 3Iar. That tenderness 
 
 Has been anticipated : it is known. 
 Ijor. As how? 
 
 Mar. I have inform'd him, not so gently, 
 
 Doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe. 
 The indulgence of your colleagues ; but he knew it. 
 If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence ! 
 The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you, 
 And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
 Their sting is honester. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I pray you, calm you: 
 
 What can avail such words ? 
 
 Mar. To let him know 
 
 That he is known. 
 
 Ixir. Let the fair dame preserve 
 
 Her sex's privilege. 
 
 Mar. I have some sons, sir 
 
 Will one day thank you better. 
 
 Zj>r. You do well 
 
 To nurse them wisely. Foscari — you know 
 Your sentence, then ? 
 Jac. Fos. . Return to Candia ? 
 
 Lor. True— 
 
 For life. 
 Jac. Fos. Not long. 
 Lor. I said— for life. 
 
 Jac. Fos. And I 
 
 Repeat — not long. 
 
 Lor. A year's imprisonment 
 
 In Canea — afterwards the freedom of 
 The whole isle. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Both the same to me: the after 
 
 Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
 Is 't true my wife accompanies me ? 
 
 Lor. Yes, 
 
 If she so wills it. 
 
 Mar. Who obtain'd that justice ? 
 
 Lor. One who wars not with women. 
 Mar. But oppresses 
 
 Men: howsoever let him have my thanks 
 For the only boon I would have ask'd or taken 
 From him or such as he is. 
 
 Z/rr. He receives them 
 
 As they are ofFer'd. 
 
 Mar. May they thrive with him 
 
 So much ! — no more. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Is this, sir, your whole mission ? 
 
 Because we have brief time for preparation. 
 And you perceive your presence doth disquiet 
 This lady, of a house noble as yours. 
 Mar. Nobler I 
 
 Jjor. How nobler? 
 
 Mar. As more generous ! 
 
 We say the "generous steed" to express the purity 
 Of his high blood. Thus much I've learnt, although 
 Venetian, (who see few steeds save of bronze,) 
 From those Venetians who have skimm'd the coasts 
 Of Egypt, and her neighbour Araby : 
 And why not say as soon the " generous man .?" 
 
302 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARi. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 If race be aught, it is in qualities 
 
 More than in years ; and mine, whiOa js as old 
 
 As yours, is better in its product, nay — 
 
 Look not so stern — but get you back, and p^re 
 
 Upon your genealogic trees most green 
 
 Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there 
 
 Blush to find ancestors, who would have blush'd 
 
 For such a son — thou cold inveterate hater ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. Again, Marina! 
 
 Mar. Again! slill, Marina. 
 
 See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 
 With a last look upon our misery ? 
 Let him partake it ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. That were difficult. 
 
 Mar. Nothing more easy. He partakes it now — 
 Ay, he may veil beneath a marble brow 
 And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. 
 A few brief words of truth shame the devil's servants 
 No less than niaster \ I have probed his soul 
 A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long, 
 Will reach it always. See how he shrinks from me ! 
 Witli death, and chains, and exile in his hand 
 To scatter o'er his kind as he thiiilcs fit : 
 They are his weapons, not his armour, for 
 I have pierced him to the core of his cold heart. 
 I care not for his frowns ! We can but die, 
 And he but live, for him the very worst 
 Of destuiies : each day secures him more 
 His tempter's. 
 
 Jac. Fos. This is mere insanity. 
 
 Mar. It may be so ; and wlio hath made us mad 7 
 
 Lor. Let her go on ; it irks not me. 
 
 Mar. That's false! 
 
 You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph 
 Of cold looks upon manifold griefs ! You cam© 
 To be sued to in vain — to mark our tears, 
 And hoard our groans — to gaze upon the wreck 
 Which you have made a prince's son — my husband ; 
 In short, to trample on the fallen — an office 
 The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him I 
 How have you sped ? We are wretched, signer, as 
 Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire us, 
 And how/eei you ? 
 
 Ljor. As rocks. 
 
 Mar. By thunder blasted : 
 
 They feel not, but no less are shiverd. Come, 
 Foscari; now let us go, and leave this felon, 
 The sole fit habitant of such a cell, 
 Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly 
 Till he himself shall brood in it alone. 
 
 Enter the Doge. 
 
 Jac. Fos. My father ! 
 
 Doge, (embracing him.) Jacopo ! my son — my son ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. My father still ! How long it is since I 
 Have heard thee name my name — otir name ! 
 
 Doge. My boy ! 
 
 Couldst thou but know 
 
 Jac. Fos. I rarely, sir, have murmur'd. 
 
 Doge. I feel too much thou hast not. 
 
 Mar. Doge, look there ! 
 
 [She points to Loeedano. 
 
 Doge. I see the man — what mean'st thou ? 
 
 Mar. Caution ! 
 
 Lor. Being 
 
 The virtue which this noble lady most 
 May practise, she doth well to recommend it. 
 
 Mar. Wretch ! 't is no virtue, but the policy 
 Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice : 
 As such I recommend it, as I would 
 To one whose foot was on an adder's path. 
 
 Doge. Daughter, it is superfluous ; I have long 
 Known Loredano. 
 
 Lfir. You may know him better. 
 
 Mar. Yes ; toorsc ho could not. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Father, let not these 
 
 Our parting hours be lost in listening to 
 Reproaches, ivhich boot nothing. Is it — is it, 
 Indeed, our last of meetings ? 
 
 Doge. You behold 
 
 These white hairs ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. And I feel, besides, that mine 
 
 Will never be so white. Embrace me, father ! 
 I Ibved you ever — never more than now. 
 Look lo my children — to your last child's children : 
 Let them be all to you which he was once, 
 And never be to you what I am now. 
 May I not see them also ? 
 
 Mar. No — not Jiere. 
 
 Jac. Fos. They might behold their parent any where. 
 
 Mar. I would that they beheld their father in 
 A place which would not mingle fear with love, 
 To freeze their young blood in its natural current. 
 They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not that 
 Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well, 
 I know his fate may one day be their heritage, 
 But let it only be their heritage, 
 And not their present fee. Their senses, though 
 Alive to love, are yet awake to terror ; 
 And these vile damps, too, and yon thick green wave 
 Which floats above the place where we now stand — ■ 
 A cell so far below the water's level. 
 Sending its pestilence through every crevice, 
 Might strike them : this is not their atmosphere, 
 However you — and you — and, most of all, 
 As worthiest — you, sir, noble Loredano ! 
 May breathe it without prejudice. 
 
 Jac. Fos. I had not 
 
 Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 
 I shall depart, then, without meeting them ? 
 
 Doge. Not so : they shall await you in my chamber. 
 
 Jac. Fos. And must I leave them aU ? 
 
 Lor. You must. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Not one ? 
 
 Lor. They are the state's. 
 
 Mar. I thought they had been mine. 
 
 Lor. They are, in all maternal things. 
 
 Mar. That is, 
 
 In all things painful. If they 're sick, tliey will 
 Be left to me to tend them ; should they die, 
 To me to bury and to mourn ; but if 
 They Uve, they '11 make you soldiers, senators, 
 Slaves, exiles — what you will ; or if they are 
 Females with portions, brides and bribes for nobles ! 
 Behold the state's care for its sons and mothers ! 
 
 Lor. The hour approaches, and the wind is fair. 
 
 Jac. Fos. How know you that here, where thegenia 
 wind 
 Ne'er blows in all its blustering freedom ? 
 
 L,or. 'T was so 
 
 When I came here. The galley floats within 
 A bow-shot of the "Riva di Schiavoni." 
 
 Jac. Fos. Father ! I pray you to precede me, and 
 Prepare my children to behold their father. 
 
 Doge. Be firm, my son! 
 
 Jac. Fos. I will do my endeavour. 
 
 Mar. Farewell ! at least to tliis detested dungeon, 
 And him to whose good offices you owe 
 In part your past imprisonment. 
 
 Lor. And present 
 
 Liberation. 
 
 Doge. He spealis truth. 
 
 Jac. Fos. No doubt ! but 't is 
 
 Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe him. 
 He knows this, or he had not sought to change them 
 But I reproach not. 
 
 Lor. The time narrows, signor. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Alas ! I little thought so lingeringly 
 To leave abodes like this: but when I feel 
 That every step I take, even from this cell. 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 303 
 
 Is one away from Venice, I look back 
 
 Even on these dull damp walls, and — 
 
 Doge. 
 
 Boy ! no tears. 
 
 Mar. Let them flow on : he wept not on the rack 
 To shame him, and they cannot shame him now. 
 They will relieve his heart — that too kind heart — 
 And I will find an hour to wipe away 
 Those tears, or add my own. I could weep now, 
 But would not gratify yon wretch so far. 
 Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way. 
 
 Lor. {to the Familiar.) The torM, there ! 
 
 JMar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral py/e. 
 With Loredano mourning like an heir. 
 Doge. My son, you are feeble ; take this hand. 
 Jac. Fos. Alas! 
 
 Must youth support itself on age, and I 
 Who ought to be the prop of yours ? 
 Lor. Take mine. 
 
 Mar. Touch it not, Foscari ; 't will sting you. Signor, 
 Stand off! be sure, that if a grasp of yours 
 Would raise us from the gulf wherein we are plunged. 
 No hand of ours would stretch itself to meet it. 
 Come, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave you ; 
 It could not save, but will support you ever. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 
 
 Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 
 
 Bar. And have you confidence in such a project ? 
 Lor. I have. 
 
 Bar. 'Tis hard upon his years. 
 
 Lor. Say rather 
 
 Kind to relieve him from the cares of state. 
 Bar. 'T will break his heart. 
 
 Lar. Age has no heart to break. 
 
 He has seen his son's half broken, and, except 
 A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
 Swerved. 
 
 Bar. In his countenance, I grant you, never ; 
 But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 
 So desolate, that the most clamorous grief 
 Had naught to envy him witloin. Where is he ? 
 
 Lor. In his own portion of the palace, with 
 His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 
 
 Bar. Bidding farewell. 
 
 Lor. A last. As soon he shall 
 
 Bid to his dukedom. 
 
 Bar. When embarks the son? 
 
 Lor. Forthwith — ^^vhen this long leave is taken. 'T is 
 Time to admonish them again. 
 
 Bar. Forbear ; 
 
 Retrench not from their moments. 
 
 Lor. Not I, now 
 
 We have higher business for our own. This day 
 Shall be the last of the old Doge's reign, 
 As the first of liis son's last banishment, 
 And that is vengeance. 
 
 Bar. In my mind, too deep. 
 
 Lor. 'T is moderate — not even life for Ufe, the rule 
 Denounced of retribution from all time ; 
 They owe me still my father's and my uncle's. 
 
 Bar. Did not the Doge deny this strongly ? 
 
 Lor. Doubtless 
 
 Bar. And did not this shake your suspicion? 
 
 Lor, No. 
 
 Bar. But if this deposition should take place 
 By our imited influence in the Council, 
 It must be done with all the deference 
 Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 
 
 Ijir. As much of ceremony as you will, 
 
 So that the thing be dop- You may, for aught 
 I care, depute the Council on their knees, 
 (Like Barbarossp '-o the Pope,) to beg him 
 To have the r^urtesy to abdicate. 
 Bar. WJ'at, if he will not ? 
 Lor. We 'U elect another, 
 
 Ani^ make him null. 
 Bar. But will the laws uphold us? 
 
 Lor. What laws ?— « The Ten " are laws ; and if 
 they were not, 
 I will be legislator in this business. 
 Bar. At your own peril ? 
 
 Lor. There is none, I tell you, 
 
 Our powers are such. 
 
 Bar. But he has twice already 
 
 Solicited permission to retire, 
 And twice it was refused. 
 
 L^r. The better reason 
 
 To grant it the third time. 
 Bar. Unask'd? 
 
 Lor. It shows 
 
 The impression of his former instances : 
 If they were from his heart, he may be thankful : 
 If not, 't will punish his hypocrisy. 
 Come, they are met by this time ; let us join them, 
 And be thou fix'd in purpose for this once. 
 I have prepared such arguments as will not 
 Fail to move them, and to remove him: since 
 Their thoughts, their objects, have been sounded, do not 
 You^ with your wonted scruples, teach us pause, 
 And all will prosper. 
 
 Bar. Could I but be certain 
 
 This is no prelude to such persecution 
 Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 
 I would support you. 
 
 Lor. He is safe, I tell you ; 
 
 His fourscore years and five may linger on 
 As long as he can drag them : 't is his throne 
 Alone is aim'd at. 
 
 Bar. But discarded princes 
 
 Are seldom long of life. 
 
 Zw. And men of eighty 
 
 More seldom still. 
 Bar. And why not wait these few years ? 
 
 Lor. Because we have waited long enough, and he 
 Lived longer than enough. Hence ! In to council ! 
 
 [Exeunt Loredano and Barbarigo. 
 
 Enter Memmo and a Senator. 
 
 Sen. A summons to "the Ten!" Why so? 
 
 Mem. « The Ten" 
 
 Alone can answer; they are rarely wont 
 To let their thoughts anticipate their purpose 
 By previous proclamation. We are summon'd— 
 That is enough. 
 
 Sen. For them, but not for us ; 
 
 I would know why. 
 
 Mem. You will know why anon, 
 
 If you obey ; and, if not, you no less 
 Will know why you should have obey'd. 
 
 Sen. I mean not 
 
 To oppose them, hut 
 
 Mem. In Venice " buf 's a traitor. 
 
 But me no " huts^^ unless you would pass o'er 
 The Bridge which few repeiss. 
 
 Sen. I am silent, 
 
 Mem. Why 
 
 Thus hesitate ? " The Ten" have call'd in aid 
 Of their deliberation five and twenty 
 Patricians of the senate — you are one. 
 And I another; and it seems to me 
 Both honoured by the choice or chance which leads us 
 To mingle with a body so august. 
 
 Sen. Most true. I say no more. 
 
 Mem. As we hope, signor, 
 
304 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 And all may honestly (that is, -^w those 
 Of noble blood may) one day hop^ to be 
 Decemvir, it is surely for the senates, 
 Chosen delegates, a school of wisdom, to 
 Be thus admitted, though as novices, 
 To view tlie mysteries. 
 
 Sen. Let us view them: they, 
 
 No doubt, are worth it. 
 
 Mem. Being worth, our lives 
 
 If we divulge them, doubtless they are worth 
 Something, at least to you or me. 
 
 Sen. I sought not 
 
 A place within the sanctuary ; but being 
 Chosen, however reluctantly so chosen, 
 I shall fulfil my office. 
 
 3Iem. Let us not 
 
 Be latest in obeying " The Ten's" summons. 
 
 . Sen. All are not met, but I am of your thought 
 So far — let's in. 
 
 Mem. The earliest are most welcome 
 
 [n earnest councils — we will not be least so. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter the Doge, Jacopo Foscari, and Marina. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Ah, father ! though I must and will depart. 
 Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me 
 That I once more return unto my home, 
 Howe'er remote the period. Let there be 
 A point of time as beacon to my heart. 
 With any penalty annex'd they please, 
 But let me still return. 
 
 Doge. Son Jacopo, 
 
 Go and obey our country's will : 't is not 
 For us to look beyond. 
 
 Jac. Fos. But still I must 
 
 Look back. I pray you think of me. 
 
 ■O^^-e. " Alas ! 
 
 You ever were my dearest offspring, when 
 They were more numerous, nor can be less so 
 Now you are last ; but did the state demand 
 The exile of the disinterred ashes 
 Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth. 
 And their desponding shades came flitting round 
 To impede the act, I must no less obey 
 A duty, paramount to every duty. 
 
 Mar. My husband I let us on : this but prolongs 
 Our sorrow. 
 
 Jac. Fos. But we are not summon'd yet ; 
 The galley's sails are not unfurl'd : — who knows ? 
 The wind may change. 
 
 Mar. And if it do, it will not 
 
 Change their hearts, or your lot: the galley's oars 
 Will quickly clear the harbour. 
 
 Jac. Fos. O ye elements! 
 
 Where are your storms ? 
 
 Mar. In human breasts. Alas! 
 
 Will nothing calm you ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Never yet did mariner 
 
 Put up to patron saint such prayers for prosperous 
 And pleasant breezes, as I call upon you. 
 Ye tutelar saints of my own city ! which 
 Ye love not with more holy love than I, 
 To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves, 
 And waken Auster, sovereign of the tempest ! 
 Till the sea dash me back on my own shore 
 A broken corse upon the barren Lido, 
 Where I may mingle with the sands which skirl 
 The land I love, and never shall see more ! 
 
 Mar. And wish you this wth me beside you? 
 
 Jac. Fos. No — 
 
 No — not for thee, too good, too kind ! May'st thou 
 Live long to be a mother to those children 
 Thy fond fidehty for a time deprives 
 Of such support ! But for myself alone. 
 May all the winds of heaven howl down the Gulf, 
 And tear the vessel, till the mariners. 
 
 Appall'd, turn their despairing eyes on me, 
 
 As the Phenicians did on Jonah, then 
 
 Cast me out from among them, as an offering 
 
 To appease the waves. The billow which destroys mo 
 
 Will be more merciful than man, and bear me, 
 
 Dead, but stiU bear me to a native grave. 
 
 From fisher's hands upon the desolate strand, 
 
 Which, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er received 
 
 ^ne lacerated lilce the heart which then 
 
 Wlf. be But wherefore breaks it not."? why live I? 
 
 Mar. To man thyself, I trust, with time, to master 
 
 passion. Until now thou wert 
 
 Such useless; 
 
 A sufferer, but not a loud one : why 
 
 What is this to the things thou hast borne in silence — 
 
 Imprisonment and actual torture ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Double, 
 
 Triple, and tenfold torture! But you are right, 
 It must be borne. Father, your blessing. 
 
 Doge. Would 
 
 It could avail thee ! but no less thou hast it. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Forgive 
 
 Doge. What? 
 
 Jac. Fos. My poor mother, for my birth 
 
 And me for having hved, and you yourself 
 (As I forgive you ) for the gift of 1 Je, 
 Which you bestow'd upon me as my sire. 
 
 Mar. What hast thou done? 
 
 Jac. Fos. Nothing. I cannot charge 
 
 My memory with much save sorrow : but 
 I have been so beyond the common lot 
 Chasten'd and visited, I needs must think 
 That I was wicked. If it be so, may 
 What I have undergone here keep me from 
 A like hereafter! 
 
 Mar. Fear not : that 's reserved 
 
 For your oppressors. 
 
 Jac. Fos. Let me hope not. 
 
 Mar. Hope not ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. I cannot wish them all they have inflicted. 
 
 Mar. All ! the consummate fiends ! A thousand fold 
 May the worm which ne'er dieth, feed upon them ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. They may repent. 
 
 3Iar. And if they do. Heaven will not 
 
 Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 
 
 Enter an Officer and Cruards. 
 
 Offi. Signor ! the boat is at the shore — the wind 
 Is rising — we are ready to attend you. 
 
 Jac. Fos. And I to be attended. Once more, father, 
 Your hand! 
 
 Doge. Take it. Alas ! how thine own trembles ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. No — ^j'ou mistake •, 't is yours that shakes, 
 my father. 
 Farewell! 
 
 Doge. Farewell ! Is there aught else ? 
 
 Jac. Fos. No — nothing. 
 
 [To the Officer. 
 Lend me your arm, good signor. 
 
 Offi- You turn pale — 
 
 Let me support yoix — paler — ho ! some aid there ! 
 Some water ! 
 
 Mar. Ah, he is dying! 
 
 Jac. Fos. Now, I 'm ready — 
 
 My eyes swim strangely — where 's the door? 
 
 Mar. Away ! 
 
 Let me support him — my best love ! Oh, God ! 
 How faintly beats this heart — this pulse! 
 
 Jac. Fos. The light! 
 
 Is it the light ? — I am faint. 
 
 [Officer presents him with water. 
 
 Ojffi. He will be better. 
 
 Perhaps, in the air. 
 
 JoA. Fos. I doubt not. Father — wife — 
 
 Your hands ! 
 
 Mar. There 's death in that damp, clammy grasp 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 305 
 
 Oh God I — My Foscari, how fare you? 
 
 Jac.Fos. . Well! 
 
 [He dies. 
 
 Oji, He 's gone ! 
 
 Doge. He's free. 
 
 Mar, No— no, he is not dead ; 
 
 There must be life yet in that heart — he could not 
 Thus leave me. 
 
 Doge. Daughter ! 
 
 Mca: Hold thy peace, old man ! 
 
 I am no daughter now — thou hast no son. 
 Oil, Foscari! 
 
 O^. We must remove the body. 
 
 Mfvr. Touch it not, dungeon miscreants! your base 
 office 
 Ends with his life, and goes not beyond murder, 
 Even by your murderous laws. Leave his remains 
 To tiiose who know to honour them. 
 
 Offi. I must 
 
 Inform the signory, and learn their pleasure. 
 
 Doge. Infer in the signory from me, the Doge, 
 They have no furiher power upon those ashes: 
 While he lived, he was theirs, as fits a subject — 
 Now he is mine — my broken-hearted boy I 
 
 [Exit Officer. 
 
 Mar. And I must live ! 
 
 Doge. Your children live, Marina. 
 
 M<ir. My children! true — they hve, and I must live 
 To bring ihem up to serve the state, and .die 
 As died their father. Oh ! what best of blessings 
 Were barrenness in Venice ! Would my mother 
 Had been so ! 
 
 Doge. My unhappy children! 
 
 Wlocr. What! 
 
 Ymi feel it then at last— ?/om .' — Where is now 
 The stoic of the state ? 
 
 Doge, {throwing Idmself down hy the body.) Here ! 
 
 Mar. Ay, weep on ! 
 
 I thought you had no tears — you hoarded them 
 Umil they are useless ; but weep on ! he never 
 Shall weep more — never, never more. 
 
 Enter Lokedano and Barbarigo. 
 
 Lor. What 's here ! 
 
 Mar. Ah ! the devil come to insult the dead ! Avaunt ! 
 Incarnate Lucifer ! 't is holy ground. 
 A martyr's ashes now lie there, wliich make it 
 A shrine. Get thee back to thy place of torment ! 
 
 Bar. Lady, we knew not of this sad event, 
 But pass'd here merely on our path from council. 
 
 Mar. Pass on. 
 
 Lor. We sought the Doge. 
 
 Mar. {pointing to tJie Doge, xoho is still on the ground 
 by his son''s body.) He 's busy, look, 
 
 About the business yoic provided for him. 
 Are ye content ? 
 
 Bar. We will not interrupt 
 
 A parent's sorrows. 
 
 Mar. No, ye only make them. 
 
 Then leave them. 
 
 Doge, {rising.) Sirs, I am ready. 
 
 Bar. No — not now. 
 
 Lor. Yet 't was important. 
 
 Doge. If 't was so, I can 
 
 Only repeat — I am ready. 
 
 Bar. It shall not be 
 
 Just now, though Venice totter'd o'er the deep 
 Like a frail vessel. I respect your griefs. 
 
 Doge. I thank you. If the tidings which you bring 
 Are evil, you may say them ; nothing further 
 Can touch me more than him thou look'st on there. 
 If they be good, say on ; you need not /ear 
 That they can comfort me. 
 
 Bar. 1 would they could ! 
 
 Doge. I spoke not to you, but to Loredano. 
 20 
 
 He understands me. 
 
 Mar. Ah ! I thought it would be so' 
 
 Doge. What mean you ? 
 
 • Mar. Lo ! there is the blood beginning 
 
 To flow through the dead lips of Foscari— 
 The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. 
 
 [To Loredano 
 Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 
 How death itself bears witness to thy deeds ! 
 
 Doge. My child ! this is a phantasy of grief. 
 Bear hence the body. [To his Attendants.] Signors, 
 
 if it please yoii, 
 Within an hour I '11 hear you. 
 
 [Exeunt Doge, Marina, and Attendants with 
 the body. 
 
 [Manent Loreda>*o and Barbarigo. 
 
 Bar. He must not 
 
 Be troubled now. 
 
 Lor. He said himself that naught 
 
 Could give him trouble farther. 
 
 Bar. These are words ; 
 
 But grief is lonely, and the breaking in 
 Upon it barbarous. 
 
 Lor. Sorrow preys upon 
 
 Its soUtude, and nothing more diverts it 
 From its sad visions of the other world 
 Than calling it at moments back to this. 
 The busy have no time for tears. 
 
 Bur. And therefore 
 
 You would deprive this old man of all business ? 
 
 Lor. The thing 's decreed. The Giunta and " the T«i" 
 Have made it law — who shall oppose that law ? 
 
 Bar. Humanity! 
 
 Lor. Because his son is dead ? 
 
 Bar. And yet miburied. 
 
 Lor. Had we laiown this when 
 
 The act was passmg, it might have suspended 
 lis passage, but impedes it not — once past. 
 
 Bar. I '11 not consent. 
 
 J^' You have consented to 
 
 All that 's esseriuQl—leave the rest to me. 
 
 Bar. Why press hla abdication now? 
 
 -^'■- The feehngs 
 
 Of private passion may not interrupt 
 The public benefit ; and what the state 
 Decides to-day must not give way before 
 To-morrow for a natural accident. 
 
 Bar. You have a son. 
 
 Lor. I have — and had a father. 
 
 Bar. Still so inexorable ? 
 
 Lor. Still. 
 
 Bar. But let him 
 
 Inter his son before we press upon hira 
 This edict. 
 
 Lor. Let him call up into life 
 
 My sire and uncle — I consent. Men may, 
 Even aged men, be, or appear to be. 
 Sires of a hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
 An atom of their ancestors from earth. 
 The victims are not equal : he has seen 
 His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
 My sires by violent and mysterious maladies. 
 I used no poison, bribed no subtle master 
 Of the destructive art of healing, to 
 Shorten the path to the eternal cure. 
 His sons, and he had four, are dead, without 
 My dabbling in vile drugs. 
 
 Bar. And art thou sure 
 
 He dealt b such? 
 
 Lor. Most sure. 
 
 Bar. And yet he seems 
 
 All openness. 
 
 Lor. And so he seem'd not long 
 
 Ago to Carmagnuola. 
 
 Bar. The attainted 
 
306 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARL 
 
 Act V. 
 
 And foreign traitor ? 
 
 Lot. Even so : when Ae, 
 
 After the very night in which " the Ten" 
 (Join'd with the Doge) decided his destruction, 
 Met the great Duke at daybreak with a jest, 
 Demanding whether he should augur him 
 " The good day or good night ?" .his Doge-ship answer'd , 
 " That he in truth had pass'd a night of vigil, 
 In which (he added with a gracious smile) 
 There often has been question about you."* 
 'T was true ; the question was the death resolved 
 Of Carmagnuola, eight months ere he died ; 
 And the old Doge, who knew him doom'd, smiled on him 
 With deadly cozenage, eight long months beforehand — 
 Eight months of such hypocrisy as is 
 Learnt but in eighty years. Brave Carmagnuola 
 Is dead ; so is young Foscari and his brethen — 
 I never smiled on them. 
 
 Bar. Was Carmagnuola 
 
 Your friend ? 
 
 Lor. He was the safeguard of the city. 
 
 In early life its foe, but, in his manhood, 
 Its saviour first, then victim. 
 
 Bar. Ah ! that seems 
 
 The penalty of saving cities. He 
 Whom we now act against not only saved 
 Our own, but added others to her sway, t 
 
 Lor. The Romans (and we ape them) gave a crown 
 To him who took a city : and they gave 
 A crown to him who saved a citizen 
 In battle: the rewards are equal. Now, 
 If we should measure forth tl'ie cities taken 
 By the Doge Foscari, with citizens 
 Destroy'd by him, or through him, the account 
 Were "fearfully against him, although narrow'd 
 To private havoc, such as between him 
 And my dead father. 
 
 Bar. Are you then thus fix'd ? 
 
 Lor. Why, what should change me ? 
 
 Bar. That which changes me : 
 
 But you, I know, are marble to retai" 
 A feud. But when all is acco^plish'd, when 
 The old man is deposed. ^^ name degraded, 
 His sons all dead, bi^ family depress'd, 
 And you airJ yours triumphant, shall you sleep ? 
 
 jyr^ More soundly. 
 
 Bar. That's an error, and you '11 find it 
 
 Ere you sleep with your fathers. 
 
 Lor. They sleep not 
 
 In their accelerated graves, nor will 
 Till Foscari fills his. Each night I see them 
 Stalk frowning round my couch, and, pointing towards 
 The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance. 
 
 Bar. Fancy's distemperature 1 There is no passion 
 More spectral or fantastical than hate ; 
 Not even its opposite, love, so peoples air 
 With phantoms, as this madness of the heart. 
 Enter an OJicer. 
 
 Lor. Where go you, sirrah ? 
 
 OJi. By the ducal order 
 
 To forward the preparatory rites 
 For the late Foscari's interment. 
 
 Bar. Their 
 
 Vault has been often open'd of late years. 
 
 Lor. 'T will be full soon, and may be closed for ever. 
 
 OJi. May I pass on ? 
 
 Lor. You may. 
 
 Bar. How bears the Doge 
 
 This last calamity ? 
 
 OJi. Witli desperate firmness, 
 
 In presence of another he says Uttle, 
 But I perceive his lips move now and then •, 
 
 ' An historical fact. 
 
 And once or twice I heard him, from the adjoining 
 Apartment, mutter forth the words — " My son !" 
 Scarce audibly. I must proceed. 
 
 [ExU Ojker. 
 
 Bar. This stroke 
 
 Will move aU Venice in his favour. 
 
 Lor. Right! 
 
 We must be speedy: let us call together 
 The delegates appointed to convey 
 The council's resolution. 
 
 Bar. I protest 
 
 Against it at this moment. 
 
 /x)r. As you please — 
 
 I 'U take their voices on it ne'ertheless, 
 And see whose most may sway them, yours or mine. 
 [Exeunt Barbarigo and Loredano 
 
 ACT V. 
 Scene I. — The Doge's Apartment. 
 The Doge and Attendants. 
 Att. My lord, the deputation is in waiting ; 
 But add, that if another hour would better 
 Accord with your will, they will make it theirs. 
 
 Doge. To me all hours are like. Let them approach. 
 
 [Exit Attendant. 
 An OJicer. Prince I I have done your bidding. 
 Doge. What command? 
 
 OJi. A melancholy one — to call the attendance 
 
 Of 
 
 Doge. True- — true — true : I crave your pardon. I 
 Begin to fail in apprehension, and 
 Wax very old — old almost as my years. 
 Till now I fought them off, but they begin 
 To overtake me. 
 
 Enter the Deputation^ consisting of six of the Signory, 
 and the Chief of the Ten. 
 
 Noble men, your pleasure ! 
 
 Chief of the Ten. In the first place, the Council doth 
 condole 
 With the Doge on his late and private grief. 
 
 Doge. No more — ^no more of that. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Will not the Duke 
 
 Accept the homage of respect ? 
 
 Doge. I do 
 
 Accept it as 't is given — proceed. 
 
 Chief of theTen. "The Ten," 
 
 With a selected giunta from the senate 
 Of twenty-five of the best bom patricians, 
 Having deliberated on the state 
 Of the republic, and the o'erwhelming cares 
 Which, at this moment, doubly must oppress 
 Your years, so long devoted to your country, 
 Have judged it fitting, with all reverence, 
 Now to solicit from your wisdom, (which 
 Upon reflection must accord in this,) 
 The resignation of the ducal ring, 
 Which you have worn so long and venerably ; 
 And to prove that they are not ungrateful nor 
 Cold to your years and services, they add 
 An appanage of twenty hundred golden 
 Ducats, to make retirement not less splendid 
 Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 
 
 Doge. Did I hear rightly ? 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Need I say again ? 
 
 Doge. No. — Have you done? 
 
 Chief of the Ten. I have spoken. Twenty-four 
 
 Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 
 
 Doge. I shall not need so many seconds. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. We 
 
 Will now retire. 
 
 Doge. Stay I Four and twenty hours 
 
 Will alter nothing which I have to say. 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 307 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Speak ! 
 
 Doge. When I twice before reiterated 
 
 My wish to abdicate, it was refused me ; 
 And not alone refused, but ye exacted 
 An oath from me that I would never more 
 Renew this instance. I have sworn to die 
 In full exertion of the functions, which 
 My country cali'd me here to exercise, 
 According to my honour and my conscience — 
 I cannot break my oath. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Reduce us not 
 
 To the alternative of a decree, 
 Instead of your complia,nce. 
 
 Doge. Providence 
 
 Prolongs my days to prove and chasten me ; 
 But ye have no right to reproach my length 
 Of days, since every hour has been the country's. 
 I am ready to lay down my hfe for her. 
 As I have laid down dearer things than life : 
 But for my dignity — I hold it of 
 The whole republic ; when the general will 
 Is manifest, then you shall all be answer'd. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. We grieve for such an answer ; but 
 it cannot 
 Avail you aught. 
 
 Doge. I can submit to all things, 
 
 But nothing will advance ,• no, not a moment. 
 What you decree — decree. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. With this, then, must we 
 
 Return to those who sent us ? 
 
 Doge. You have heard me. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. With all due reverence we retire, 
 [Exeunt the Deputation^ ^c. 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 Att. 
 
 My lord. 
 
 The noble dame Marina craves an audience. 
 Doge. My time is hers. 
 
 Enter Marina. 
 
 Mar. My lord, if I intrude- 
 
 Perhaps you fain would be alone ? 
 
 Doge. Alone ! 
 
 Alone, come all the world around me, I 
 Am now and evermore. But we will bear it. 
 
 Mar. We will ; and for the sake of those who are, 
 Endeavour Oh my husband! 
 
 Doge. Give it way ; 
 
 I cannot comfort thee. 
 
 Mar. He might have Uved, 
 
 So form'd for gentle privacy of life, 
 So loving, so beloved ; the native of 
 Another land, and who so blest and blessing 
 As my poor Foscari? Nothing was wanting 
 Unto his happiness and mine save not 
 To be Venetian. 
 
 Doge. Or a prince's son. 
 
 Mar. Yes ; all things which conduce to other men's 
 Impeifect happiness or high ambition, 
 By some strange destiny, to him proved deadly. 
 The country and the people whom he loved, 
 The prince of whom he was the elder born. 
 And 
 
 Doge. Soon may be a prince no longer. 
 
 Mar. How ? 
 
 Doge. They have taken my son from me, and now aim 
 At my too long worn diadem and ring. 
 Let them resume the gewgaws ! 
 
 Mar. Oh the tyrants ! 
 
 In such an hour too ! 
 
 Doge. 'T is the fittest time : 
 
 An hour ago I should have felt it. 
 
 Mar. And 
 
 Will you not now resent it ? — Oh for vengeance ! 
 But he, who, had he been enough protected, 
 
 Might have repaid protection in this moment, 
 Cannot assist his father. 
 
 Doge. Nor should do so 
 
 Against his country, had he a thousand lives 
 
 Instead of that 
 
 Mar. They tortured from him. This 
 
 May be pure patriotism. I am a' woman: 
 To me my husband and my children were 
 Country and home. I loved him — how I loved him ! 
 I have seen him pass through such an ordeal as 
 The old martyrs would have shrunk from : he is gone, 
 And I, who would have given my blood for him, 
 Have naught to give but tears ! But could I compass 
 The retribution of his wrongs ! — Well, well ; 
 I have sons, who shall be men. 
 
 Doge. Your grief distracts you. 
 
 Mar. I thought I could have borne it, when I saw him 
 Bow'd down by such oppression; yes, I thought 
 That I would rather look upon his corse 
 Than his prolong'd capti\nty: — I am punish'd 
 For that thought now. Would I were in his grave ! 
 
 Doge. I must look on him once more. 
 
 Mar. Come with me ! 
 
 Doge. Is he 
 
 Mar. Our bridal bed is now his bier. 
 
 Doge. And he is in his shroud ! 
 
 Mar. Come, come, old man! 
 
 [Exeunt the Doge and Marina . 
 
 Enter Bakbarigo and Loredano. 
 
 Bar. {to an Attendant.) Where is the Doge ? 
 
 Att. This instant retired hence 
 
 With the illustrious lady his son's widow. 
 
 Lor. Where? 
 
 -Af-i- To the chamber where the body lies. 
 
 Bar. Let us return, then. 
 
 ■^°'"- You forget, you cannot. 
 
 We have the implicit order of the Giunta 
 To await their coming here, and join them 
 Their office : they 'II be here soon after us. 
 
 Bar. And will tliey press their answer on the Doge ? 
 
 Ijyr. 'T was his own vnsh that all should be done 
 promptly. 
 He answer'd quickly, and must so be t«.swer'd ■ 
 His dignity is look'd to, his estate 
 Cared for — what would he more? 
 
 Bar. Die in his robes: 
 
 He could not have lived long; but I have done 
 My best to save his honours, and opposed 
 This proposition to the last, though vainly. 
 Why would the general vote compel me hither ? 
 
 Lor. 'T was fit that some one of such different thoughts 
 From ours should be a witness, lest false tongues 
 Should whisper that a harsh majority 
 Dreaded to have its acts beheld by others. 
 
 Bar. And not less, I must needs think, for the sake 
 Of humbling me for my vain opposition. 
 You are ingenious, Loredano, in 
 Your modes of vengeance, nay, poetical, 
 A very Ovid in the art of hating ; 
 'T is thus (although a secondary object, 
 Yet hate has microscopic eyes) to you 
 I owe, by way of foil to the more zealous, 
 This undesired association in 
 Your Griunta's duties. 
 
 Lor. How ! — my G iunta ! 
 
 Bar. Yours ! 
 
 They speak your language, watch your nod, approve 
 Your plans, and do your work. Are they not yours ? 
 
 Lor. You talk unwarily. 'T were best they hear not 
 This from you. 
 
 Bar. Oh ! they '11 hear as much one day 
 
 From louder tongues than mine ; they have gone beyond 
 Even their exorbitance of power : and when 
 This happens in the most contemn'd and abject 
 
308 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 States, stung humanity will rise to check it. 
 
 Ijot. You talk but idly. 
 
 Bar. That remains for proof. 
 
 Here come our colleagues. 
 
 Enter the Deputation as before. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Is tlie Duke aware 
 
 We seek his presence ? 
 
 Alt. He shall be inform'd. 
 
 [Eocit Attendant. 
 
 Bar. The Duke is with his son. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. If it be so, 
 
 We will remit him till the rites are over. 
 Let us return. 'T is time enough to-morrow. 
 
 Lor. {aside to Bar.) Now the rich man's hell-fire upon 
 your tongue, 
 Unquench'd, unquenchable! I'll have it torn 
 From its vile babbling roots, till you shall utter 
 •Nothing but sobs through blood, for this ! Sage signors, 
 I pray ye be not hasty. [Aloud to the others. 
 
 Bar. But be human! 
 
 Lor. See, the Duke comes 1 
 
 Enter the Doge. 
 
 Doge. I have obey'd your summons. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. We come once more to urge our 
 past request. 
 
 Doge. And I to answer. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. What? 
 
 Doge. My only answer. 
 
 You have heard it. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Hear you then the last decree. 
 Definitive and absolute ! 
 
 Doge. To the point — 
 
 To the point ! I know of old the forms of office, 
 And gentle preludes to strong acts — Go on ! 
 
 Chief of the Ten. You are no longer Doge ; you are 
 released 
 From your imperial oath as sovereign ; 
 Your ducal robes must be put off; but Cor 
 Your services, the state allots th» appanage 
 Already mention'd in our f-^^mer congress. 
 Three days are left r<"^ to remove from hence, 
 Under the per^^'-Y ^o see confiscated 
 All yf>"« own private fortune. 
 
 JUoge. That last clause, 
 
 I am proud to say, would not enrich the treasury. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Your answer, Duke ! 
 
 Lor. Your answer, Francis Foscari ! 
 
 Doge. If I could have foreseen tliat my old age 
 Was prejudicial to tlie state, the chief 
 Of the republic never would have shown 
 Himself so far ungrateful, as to place 
 His own high dignity before his country; 
 But this life having been so many years 
 JVot useless to that country, I would fain 
 Have consecrated my last moments to her. 
 But the decree being render'd, I obey. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. If you would have the three days 
 named extended, 
 We willingly will lengthen them to eight. 
 As sign of our esteem. 
 
 Doge. Not eight hours, signer, 
 
 Nor even eight minutes — There's the ducal ring, 
 
 [Taking off' his ring and cap. 
 And there the ducal diadem. And so 
 The Adriatic 's free to wed another. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Yet go not forth so quickly. 
 
 Doge. I am old, sir, 
 
 And even to move but slowly must begin 
 To move betimes. Methinks I see among you 
 A face I know not — Senator ! your name. 
 You, by your garb, Chief of the Forty ! 
 
 Mem. Signor, 
 
 I am the son of Marco Memmo. 
 
 Doge. Ah ! 
 
 Your father was my friend. — But sons and fathers l'^ 
 What, ho ! my servants there ! 
 
 Att. My prince! 
 
 Doge. No prince — 
 
 There are the prLices of the prince ! [Pointing to the 
 
 Ten''s dejmtation.] — Prepare 
 To part from hence upon the instant. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Why 
 
 So rashly ? 't will give scandal. 
 
 Doge. Answer that; 
 
 [To the Ten, 
 It is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourselves : 
 
 [To the Servants. 
 There is one burden which I beg you bear 
 With care, although 't is past all farther harm — 
 But I will look to that myself. 
 
 Bar. He means 
 
 The body of his son. 
 
 Doge. And call Marina, 
 
 My daughter! 
 
 Enter Marina. 
 
 Doge. Get tliee ready, we must mourn 
 
 Elsewhere. 
 
 Mar. And every where. 
 
 Doge. True ; but m freedom, 
 
 Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
 Signors, you may depart : what would you more ? 
 We are going : do you fear that we shall bear 
 The palace with us ? Its old walls, ten times 
 As old as I am, and I 'm very old, 
 Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
 Could tell a tale ; but I invoke them not 
 To fall upon you ! else they would, as erst 
 The pillars of stone Dagon's temple on 
 The Israelite and his Philistine foes. 
 Such power I do believe there might exist 
 In such a curse as mine, provoked by such 
 As you ; but I curse not. Adieu, good signors ! 
 May the next duke be better than the present ! 
 
 Lor. The present duke is Paschal Malipiero. 
 
 Doge. Not till I pass the threshold of these doors. 
 
 I^r. Saint Mark's great bell is soon about to toll 
 For his inauguration. 
 
 Doge. Ear«h and heaven! 
 
 Ye will reverberate this peal ; and I 
 Live to hear this I^tlie first doge who e'er heard 
 Such sound for his successor! Happier he. 
 My attainted predecessor, stern Faliero— 
 This insult at the least was spared him. 
 
 Lor. What I 
 
 Do you regret a traitor ? 
 
 Doge. No — I merely 
 
 Envy the dead. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. My lord, if you indeed 
 Are bent upon this rash abandonment 
 Of the state's palace, at the least retire 
 By the private staircase, which conducts you towards 
 The landing-place of the canal. 
 
 Doge. No. I 
 
 Will now descend the stairs by which I mounted 
 To sovereignty — the Giants' Stairs, on whose 
 Broad eminence I was invested duke. 
 My services have call'd me up those steps. 
 The malice of my foes will drive me down them. 
 There five and thirty years ago was I 
 Install'd, and traversed these same halls, from which 
 I never thought to be divorced except 
 A corse^-a corse, it m.ighr be, fighting for them — 
 But not push'd hence by fellow citizens. 
 But come ; my son and I will go together — 
 He to his giave, and I to pray for mine. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. What! thus in public? 
 
 Doge. I was publicly 
 
Act V 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 309 
 
 Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
 Marina ! art thou willing ? 
 
 Mar. Here 's my arm ! 
 
 Doge. And \\QXQmj staff: thus propp'd will I go forth. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. It must not be — the people will 
 perceive it. 
 
 Doge. The people ! — There 's no people, you well 
 know it, 
 Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 
 There is a populace, perhaps, v/hose looks 
 May shame you ; but they dare not groan nor curse 
 
 you, 
 Save v/ith their hearts and eyes. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. You speak in passion. 
 
 Else 
 
 Doge. You have reason. 1 have spoken much 
 More than my wont : it is a foible which 
 Was not of mine, but more excuses you. 
 Inasmuch as it shows that I approach 
 A dotage which may justify this deed 
 Of yours, although the law docs not, nor will. 
 Farewell, sirs ! 
 
 Beer. You shall not depart without 
 
 An escort fitting past and present rank. 
 We will accompany, with due respect, 
 The Doge unto his private palace. Say ! 
 My brethren, will we not ? 
 
 Different voices. Ay ! — Ay ! 
 
 Doge. You shall not 
 
 S'.ir — in my train, at least. I enter'd here 
 As sovereign — I go out as citizen 
 By the same portals, but as citizen. 
 All these vain ceremonies are base insults, 
 Which only ulcerate the heart the more, 
 Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
 Pomp is for princes — I am 7ione ! — That 's false, 
 I am, but only to these gates. — Ah! 
 
 Lor. Hark ! 
 
 [TJie great bell of St. Mark's tolls. 
 
 Bar. The bell! 
 
 Chief of the Tm. St. IMark's, which tolls for the 
 election 
 OfMalipiero. 
 
 Doge. Well I recognize 
 
 The sound ! I heard it once, but once before, 
 And that is five and thirty years ago ; 
 Even then I was not young. 
 
 Bar. Sit down, my lord ! 
 
 You tremble. 
 
 Doge. 'T is the knell of my poor boy ! 
 
 My heart aches bitterly. 
 
 Bar. I pray you sit. 
 
 Doge. No ; my seat here has been a throne till now. 
 Marina ! let us go. 
 
 Mar. Most readily. 
 
 Doge, {walks a few steps, then stops.) I feel athirst — 
 will no one bring me here 
 A cup of water? 
 
 Bar. I 
 
 Mar. And I 
 
 Lm: And I 
 
 [The Doge takes a goblet from the hand 
 
 of LOREDANO. 
 
 Doge. I take yours, Loredano, from the hand 
 Most fit for such an hour as this. 
 
 Lor. Why so ? 
 
 Doge. 'T is said that our Venetian crystal has 
 Such pure antipathy to poisons as 
 To burst, if aught of venom touches it. 
 You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 
 
 Lor. Well, sir ! 
 
 Dogs. Then it is false, or you are true. 
 
 For my own part, I credit neither ; 't is 
 An idle legend. 
 
 3Iar You talk wildly, and 
 
 Had better now be seated, nor as yef 
 
 Depart. Ah ! now you look as look'd my husband! 
 
 Bar. He sinks I — support him ! — quick — a chair — 
 support him ! 
 
 Doge. The bell tolls on ! — let 's hence — my brain 's 
 on fire! 
 
 Bar. I do beseech you, lean upon us ! 
 
 Doge. No ! 
 
 A sovereign should die standing. My poor boy ! 
 Off witli your arms ! — That bell ! 
 
 [The Doge drops down and dies. 
 
 Mar. My God ! My God ! 
 
 Bar. (to Lor.) Behold ! your work 's completed ! 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Is there tlien 
 
 No aid? Call in assistance! 
 
 Att. 'T is all over. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. If it be so, at least his obsequies 
 Shall be such as befits his name and nation. 
 His rank and his devotion to the duties 
 Of the realm, while his age permitted him 
 To do himself and them full justice. Brethren, 
 Say, shall it not be so ? 
 
 Bar. He has not had 
 
 The misery to die a subject where 
 He reign'd: then let his funeral rites be princely. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. We are agreed, then? ■ 
 
 jIU, except Lor. answei; Yes. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Heaven's peace be with him ! 
 
 Mar. Signors, your pardon : this is mockery. 
 Juggle no more with that poor remnant, which, 
 A moment since, while yet it had a soul, 
 (A soul by whom you have increased your empire, 
 And made your power as proud as was his glory,) 
 You banish'd from his palace, and tore down 
 From his high place, with such relentless coldness ; 
 And now, when he can neither know these honours, 
 Nor would accept them if he could, you, signors, 
 Purpose, with idle and superfluous pomp, 
 To make a pageant over what you trampled. 
 A princely funeral will be your reproach, 
 And not his honour. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Lady, v/e revoke not 
 Our purposes so readily. 
 
 Mar. I know U, 
 
 As far as touches torturing the living. 
 I thought the dead had been beyond even you, 
 Though (some, no doubt) consign'd to powers whicV* 
 
 may 
 Resemble that you exercise on earth. 
 Leave him to me ; you would have done so for 
 His dregs of life, which you have kindly shorten'd : 
 It is my last of duties, and may prove 
 A dreary comfort in my desolation. 
 Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead. 
 And the apparel of the grave. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. Do you 
 
 Pretend still to this office ? 
 
 Mar. ■ I do, signor. 
 
 Though his possessions have been all consumed 
 In the state's service, I have still my dowry, 
 Which shall be consecrated to his rites, 
 And those of [She stops vnth agitation. 
 
 Chief -of the Ten. Best retain it for your children. 
 
 Mar. Ay, they are fatherless, I thank you. 
 
 Chief of the Ten. " "' We " 
 
 Cannot comply with your request. His relics 
 Shall be exposed with wonted pomp, and follow'd 
 Unto their home by the new Doge, not clad 
 As Doge, but simply as a senator. 
 
 Mar. I have heard of murderers, who have interr'd 
 Their victims ; but ne'er heard, until this hour. 
 Of so much splendour in hypocrisy 
 O'er those they slew. I 've heard of widows' tears — 
 Alas ! I have shed some — always thanks to you ! 
 I've heard o^ heirs in sables — you have left nono 
 
310 
 
 APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 To the deceased, so you would act the part 
 
 Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done ! as one day 
 
 I trust, Heaven's will be done too ! 
 
 Chief of t/ie Ten. ICnow you, lady, 
 
 To whom ye speak, and perils of such speech ? 
 
 Mar. I know the former better than yourselves ; 
 The latter — like yourselves ; and can face both. 
 Wish you more funerals ? 
 
 Bar. Heed not her rash words ; 
 
 Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. 
 
 Chief of ilie Ten. We will not note them down. 
 
 Bar. {turning to J Mr. who is xonting upon his tablets.^ 
 
 What art thou writing, 
 With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets ? 
 Lor. (pointing to the Doge's body.) That he has paid 
 
 mel* 
 Chief of the Ten. What debt did he owe you? 
 Lor. A long and just one ; Nature's debt and mine. 
 
 [Curtainfalls. 
 
 ' " Uha pagnta." An historical fact. See the history of Venice, by 
 P. Daru, page 411, vol. 2. 
 
 APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 Extrait de VHistoire de la Republique de Venise par 
 P. Daru, de V Academic Fran^aise, torn. II. 
 
 Depuis trente ans, la republique n'avait pas depose 
 les armes. Elle avait acquis les provinces de Brescia, 
 de Bergame, de Creme, et la principaute de Ravenne. 
 
 Mais ces guerres continuelles faisaient beaucoup de 
 malheureux et de mecontents. Le doge Franfois Fos- 
 cari, a qui on ne pouvait pardonner d'en avoir ete le 
 pronioteur, manifesta une seconde fois, en 1442, et pro- 
 bablement avec plus de sincerite que la premiere, I'iu- 
 tention d'abdiquer sa dignite. Le conseil s'y refusa en- 
 core. On avait exige de lui le serment de ne plus quit- 
 ter le dogat. II etait deja avance dans la vieillesse, 
 conservant cependant beaucoup de force de tete et de 
 caractere, et jouissant de la gloire d'avoir vu la repub- 
 lique etendre au loin les Umites de ses domaines pen- 
 dant son administration. 
 
 Au milieu de ces prosperites, de grands chagrins vin- 
 rent mettre a I'epreuve la fermete de son ame. 
 
 Son fils, Jacques Foscari, fut accuse, en 1445, d'avoir 
 re9u des presents de quelques princes ou seigneurs 
 etrangers, notamment, disait-on, du due de Milan, Phi- 
 lippe Visconti. C'etait non seulement une bassesse, 
 mais une infraction des lois positives de la republique. 
 
 Le conseil des dLx traita cette affaire comme s'il se 
 fut agi d'un delit commis par un particulier obscur. 
 L'accuse fut amp^ devant ses juges, devant le doge, 
 qui ne crut pas pouvoir s'abstenir de presider le tribu- 
 nal. ^^5 il fut interroge, applique a la question,* de- 
 clare coupable, et il entendit, de la bouche de sou pere, 
 I'arret qui le condamnait a un bannissement perpetuel, 
 et le releguait a Naples de Romanie, pour y finir ses 
 jours. 
 
 Embarque sur une galere pour se rendre au lieu de 
 son exil, il tomba malade a Trieste. Les sollicitations 
 du doge obtinrent, non sans difficulte, qu'on lui assignat 
 une autre residence. Enfin, le conseil des dix lui per- 
 mit de se retirer a Trevise. en lui imposant I'obligation 
 d'y rester sous peine de mort, et de se presenter tous 
 les jours devant le gouverneur. 
 
 II y etait depuis cinq ans, lorsqu'un des chefs du con- 
 seil des dix assassine. Les soupfons se porterent sur 
 lui : un de ses doraestiques qu'on avait vu a Venise fut 
 arrete et subit la torture. Les bourreaux ne purent 
 lui arracher aucun aveu. Ce terrible tribunal se fit 
 amener le maitre, le soumit aux memes epreuves ; il 
 
 * E datagli la cordo per avere da lui la verita ; chiamato il consislio 
 dedieci collagiiinla, nel quale fuinesser lo doge,fu sentenziato. (Maria 
 Sanuto, Vite de' Duchi. F. Foscari.) 
 
 t E f II tormentato nd mai confessO cosa alcuna, pure parve al consiglio 
 de' dieci di confinarlo in viiaalla Canea (Ibid.) Voici le texte du juge- 
 ment : " Cum Jacobus Foscari per occasionem percussionis et mortis 
 Hermolai Douati fuit relentus et examinatus, et propter siguificationes, 
 festificatioDes, et scripluras quas liabentur contra eum, clare apparet ip- 
 sum esse reum criminis pr;edicti, sed propter incanlationes et verba quae 
 sibi repei-la suat, de quibus existit indictia manifesta, videtur propter 
 obslinatam mentem suam, non esse possibile extrahere ab ipso illam 
 veritatera, qua clara est per scripluras et per testificationes, quoniam iu 
 fune aliquara nee vocem, nee gemitum, sed solum intra denies voces ipse 
 videturet auditur infra se loqui, etc .... Tamcu non est standum iu istis 
 terminis, propter honorera siaus nostri et promultis respectibus, prseser- 
 tim quod regimen nostrum occupatur in hacre, et qui inlerdictum est am- 
 plius progrwiere: vadit pars, quod dictus Jacobus Foscari, propter ea quas 
 habenturde illo, miltatur in confiuium iu civitate Caneae," etc. — Notice 
 
 resista h, tous les tourments, ne cessant d'attester son 
 innocence ;■]■ mais on ne vit dans cette Constance que 
 de ^obstination ; de ce qu'il taisait le fait, on conclut que 
 ce fait existait ; on attribua sa fermete a la magie, et on 
 le relegua a la Canee. De cette terre lointaine, le ban- 
 ni, digno alors de quelque pitie, ne cessait d'ecrire a 
 son pere, a ses amis, pour obtenir quelque adoucisse- 
 ment a sa deportation. N'obtenant rien, et sachant 
 que la tcrreur qu'inspirait le conseil des dix ne lui per- 
 raettait pes d'esperer de trouver dans Venise une seule 
 voix qui s'elevat en sa faveur ; il fit une lettre pour le 
 nouveau due de INIilan, par laquelle, au nom des bons 
 offices que Sforce avait re^us du chef de la republique, 
 il implorait son intervention en faveur d'un innocent, du 
 fils du doge. 
 
 Cette lettre, selon quelques historiens, fut confiee h 
 un niarchand, qui avait promis de la faire parvenir au 
 due ; mais qui, trop averti de ce qu'il avait a craindre 
 en se rendant I'intermediare d'une pareille correspon- 
 dance, se hata, en debarquant a Venise, de la remettre 
 at! chef du tribunal. Une autre version, qui parait plus 
 sure, rapporte que la lettre fut surprise par un espioii, 
 attache au pas de Fexile.* 
 
 Ce fut un nouveau delit dont on cut a punir Jacques 
 Foscari. Reclaraer la protection d'un prince etranger 
 etait un crime, dans un sujet de la repubUque. Une 
 galere partit sur-le-champ pour I'amener dans les prisons 
 de Venise. A son arrivee il fut soumis a I'estrapade.l 
 C'etait une singuliere destinee, pour le citoyer d'une 
 republique et pour le fils dun prince, d'etre trois fois 
 dans sa vie applique a la question. Cette fois la torture 
 etait d'autant plus odieuse, quelle n'avait point d'objet, 
 le fait qu'on avait a lui reprocher, etant incontestable. 
 
 Quand on demanda a l'accuse, dans les intervalles que 
 les bourreaux lui accordaient, pourquoi il avait ecrit la 
 lettre qu'on lui produisait, il repondit que c'etait precise- 
 ment parce qu'il ne doutait pas qu'elle ne tombat entre 
 les mains du tribunal, que toute autre voie lui avait 
 ete fermee pour faire parvenir ses reclamations, qu'il 
 s'attendait bien qu'on le ferait amener a Venise ; mais 
 qu'il avait tout risque pour avoir la consolation de voir 
 sa femme, son pere, et sa mere, encore une fois. 
 
 Sur cette naive declaration, on confirma sa sentence 
 d'exil : mais on I'aggrava, en y ajoutant qu'il serait retenu 
 en prison pendant un an. Cette rigueur, dont on usait 
 envers un malheureux, etait sans doute odieuse ; mais 
 cette politique, qui defendait a tous les citoyens de faire 
 intervenir les etrangers dans les affaires interieures de 
 la republique, etait sage. Elle etait chez eux une max- 
 ime de gouverneraent et une maxime inflexible. L'- 
 historien Paul Morosini 1 a conte que I'empereur Fre- 
 deric III. pendant qu'il etait I'hote des Venitiens, de- 
 manda, comme une laveur particulifere, I'admission d'un 
 
 sur le procSs de Jacques Foscari, dans un volume, intitul6 Raccolta di 
 memorie storiche e anaedole, per formar la Storia dell' eccellentissimo 
 consiglio di X della sua prima instiiuzione sino a' gionii nostri, con la di- 
 verse variazioni e riforme nelle varie epoche successe. (Archives de 
 Venise.) 
 
 * La notice cil§e ci-dessus, qui rapporte les actes de cette procfidure. 
 
 t Kbbe prima per sapere la verita trenta squassi di corda. (Marin 
 Sanuto, Vitede' Duchi. F. Foscari.) 
 
 ■ Historia di Veaezia, lib. 23. 
 
APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 311 
 
 citoyen dans le grand conseil, et la grace d'un ancien 
 gouverneur de Candie, gendre du doge, et banni pour 
 sa mauvaise administration, sans pouvoir obtenir ni 
 Tune ni Tautrc. 
 
 Cependant, on ne put refuser au condamne la per- 
 mission de voir sa fernmejSes enfants, ses parents, qu'il 
 allait quitter pour toujours. Cette derniere entrevue 
 m6me fut accompagnee de cruaute, par la severe cir- 
 conspection, qui retenait les epanchements de la dou- 
 leur paternelle et conjugale. Ce ne fut point dans I'in- 
 terieur de leur appartement, ce fut dans une des 
 grandes salles du palais, qu'une femme, accompagnee de 
 ces quatre fils, vint faire les derniers adieux a son mari, 
 qu'un p6re octogenaire et le dogaressc accablee d'infir- 
 mites, jouirent un moment de la triste consolation de 
 meler leurs larmes a celles de leur exile. II se jeta a 
 leurs genoux en leur tendant des mains disloquees par 
 la torture, pour les supplier de solliciter quelque adou- 
 cissement a la sentence qui venait d'etre prononcee 
 contre lui. Son pere eut le courage de lui repondre : 
 *' Non, nion fils, respectez votre arret, et obeissez sans 
 murmure a la seigneurie."* A ces mots il se separa 
 de I'infortune, qui fut sur-le-champ embarque pour 
 Candie. 
 
 L'antiquite vit avec autant d'horreur que d'admira- 
 tion un p^re condamnant ses fils evidemment coupables. 
 EUe hesita pour qualifier de vertu sublime ou de fero- 
 cite cet effort qui parait au-dessus de la nature hu- 
 maine ;■}■ mais ici, oti la premiere faute n'etait qu'une 
 faiblesse, ou la seconde n etait pas prouvee, ou la troi- 
 si^me n'avait rien dc criminel, comment concevoir la 
 Constance d'un p6re, qui voit torturer trois fois son fils 
 unique, qui I'entend condamner sans preuves, et qui 
 n'eclate pas en plaintes ; qui ne I'aborde que pour lui 
 montrer un visage plus austere qu'attendri, et qui, au 
 moment de s'en separer pour jamais, lui interditles mur- 
 mures et jusqu'a I'esperance? Comment expliquer une 
 si cruelle circonspection, si ce n'est en avouant, a notre 
 honte, que la tyrannic peut obtenir de I'espece hu- 
 maine les memes efforts que la vertu ? La servitude 
 aurait-elle son heroisme comme la liberte ? 
 
 Quelque temps apr^s ce jugement, on decouvrit le 
 veritable auteur de I'assassinat, dont Jacques Foscari 
 portait le peine ; mais il n'etait plus temps de reparer 
 cette atroce injustice, le malheureux etait mort dans 
 sa prison. 
 
 II me reste a raconter la suite des malheurs du p^re. 
 L'histoire les attribue a I'impatience qu'avaient ses en- 
 nen>is et ses rivaux de voir vaquer sa place. EUe ac- 
 cuse formellement Jacques Loredan, I'un des chefs du 
 conseil des dix, de s'etre livre contre ce vieillard aux 
 conseils d'une hai'ne hereditaire, et qui depuis long 
 temps divisait leurs maisons.J 
 
 Francois Foscari avait essaye de le faire cesser, en 
 offrant sa fiUe a Pillustre amiral Pierre Loredan, pour 
 un de ses fils. L'alliance avait ete rejetee, et I'inimitie 
 des deux families s'en etait accrue. Dans tous les con- 
 seils, dans toutes les affaires, le doge trouvait toujours 
 les Loredans prSts a combattre ses propositions ou ses 
 interets. II lui echappa un jour de dire qu'il ne se 
 croirait reellement prince, que lorsque Pierre Loredan 
 aurait cesse de vivre. Cet amiral mourut quelque 
 temps apr^s, d'une incommodite assez prompte qu'on 
 ne put expliquer. II n'en fallut pas davantage aux mal- 
 veillants pour insinuer que Fran9ois Foscari, ayant de- 
 sire cette mort, pouvait bien I'avoir hatee. 
 
 * Marin Sauuto, dans sa chronique, Vite de' Duchi, se sert ici sans en 
 avoir eu I'intention d'vine expression assez 6nergique ; " II doge era vec- 
 ciiio in decrepita elk e caminava con una mazzetta : E quando gli and6 
 parlogli molto constantemente die parea ctie non fosse sue ligliuolo, licet 
 fosse figliuolo unico, e Jacopo disse, messer padre, vi prego clie procuriate 
 per me, acciocch^ io torni a casa mia. 11 doge disse : Jacopo, va e ob- 
 bedisei a quello che vuole la terra, e non cercar piii oltre." 
 
 t Cela fut un acte que Ton ne sc;auroit ny suffissamcnt louer, ny assez 
 blasrner : car, ou c'estoit une excellence de vertu, qui rendoit ainsi son 
 cceur impassible, ou une violence de passion qui le rendoit insensible, 
 dont ne I'une ne I'autre n'est chose petite, ainsi surpassant I'ordinaire 
 d'humaine nature et tenant ou de la divinitfe ou de la bestiality. Mais il 
 est plus raisonnable que le jugement des hommes s'accorde ^ sa gloire, 
 que la foiblesse des jugeans fasse des croire sa vertu. Mais pour lors 
 quand il se fut retire, tout le monde demeura sur la place, comme transy 
 d'horreur et de frayeur, par un long temps sans mot dire, pour avoir veu 
 ce qui avait 6t6 fait. (Plutarque, Valerius Publicola.) 
 
 J .le suis principalement dans ce rScit une relation manuscrite de la dfe- 
 poaition de Frangois Foscari, qui est dans le volume intitule Raccolta di 
 memorie storiche e annedote, per formar la Storia dell' eccellentissimo 
 consiglio di X. (Archives de Venise.) 
 
 Ces bruits s'accrediterent encore lorsqu'on vit aussi 
 perir subitement Marc Loredan, frere de Pierre, et cela 
 dans le moment ou, en sa qualite d'avogador, il in- 
 struisait un procfes contre Andre Donato, gendre du 
 doge, accuse de peculat. On ecrivit sur la tombe de 
 I'amiral qu'il avait ete enleve a la patrie par le poison. 
 
 II n'y avait aucune preuve, aucun indice contre Fran- 
 cois Foscari, aucune raison meme de le soup^onner. 
 Gluand sa vie entiere n'aurait pas dementi une imputa- 
 tion aussi odieuse, il savait que son rang ne lui promet- 
 tait ni I'impunite ni meme I'indulgence. La mort tra- 
 gique de I'un de ses predecesseurs Ten avertissait, et il 
 n'avait que trop d'exemples domestiques du soin que le 
 conseil des dix prenait d'humilier le chef de la re- 
 publique. 
 
 Cependant, Jacques Loredan, fils de Pierre, croyait 
 ou feignait de croire avoir a venger les pertes de sa fa- 
 mille.* Dans ses livres de comptes (car il faisait le 
 commerce, comme a cette epoque presque tous les pa- 
 triciens,) il avait inscrit de sa propre main le doge au 
 nombre de ses debiteurs, pour la mort, y etait-il dit, de 
 mon pere et de mon oncle.| De I'autre cote du registre, 
 il avait laisse une page en blanc, pour y fau-e mention du 
 recouvrement de cette dette, et en effet, apr^s la perte 
 du doge, il ecrivit sur son registre, il me I'a payee — I'ha 
 pagata. 
 
 Jacques Loredan fut elu membre du conseil des dix, 
 en devint un des trois chefs, et se promit bien de pro- 
 fiter de cette occasion pour accompUr la vengeance 
 qu'il meditait. 
 
 Le doge en sortant de la terrible epreuve qu'il venait 
 de subir, pendant le proces de son fils, s'etait retire au 
 fond de son palais, incapable de se livrer aux affaires, 
 consume de chagrins, accable de vieillesse, il ne se mon- 
 trait plus en public, ni meme dans les conseils. Cette 
 retraite, si facile a expliquer dans un vieillard octoge- 
 naire si malheureux, dtiplut aux decemvirs, qui voulu- 
 rent y voir un murmure contre leur arrets. 
 
 Loredan commenca par se plaindre devant ses col- 
 legues du tort que les infirmites du doge, son absence 
 des conseils, apportaient a I'expedition des affaires, il 
 finit par hasarder et reussit a faire agreer la pioposition 
 de le deposer. Ce n'etait pas la premiere fois que Ve- 
 nise avait pour prince un homme dans la caducite ; 
 I'usage et les lois y avaient pourvu ; dans ces circon- 
 stances le doge etait supplee par le plus ancien du con- 
 seil. Ici, cela ne suffisait pas aux ennemis de Foscari. 
 Pour donner plus de solennite k la deliberation, le con- 
 seil des dix demanda une adjonction de vingt-cinq se- 
 nateurs ; mais comme on n'en enoncait pa,^ I'objet, et 
 que le grand conseil etait loin de le soupgonnet, Il se 
 trouva que Marc Foscari, fr6re du doge, leur fut don- 
 ne pour I'un des adjoints. Au heu de I'admettre e la 
 deliberation, ou de reclamer contre ce choix, on enferma 
 ce senateur dans une chambre separee, et on lui fit 
 jurer de ne jamais parler de cette exclusion qu'il eprou- 
 vait, en lui declarant qu'il y allait de sa vie ; ce qui 
 n'empecha pas qu'on n'inscrivit son nom au bas du de- 
 cret comme s'il y eut pris part. J 
 
 Quand on en vint y la deliberation, Loredan la pro- 
 voqua en ces termes:§ " Si I'utiUte publique doit impo- 
 ser silence a tous les interets prives, je ne doute pas 
 que nous ne prenions aujourd'hui une mesure que la 
 patrie reclame que nous lui devons. Les etats ne peu- 
 vent se maintenir dans un ordre de choses immuable ; 
 vous n'avez qu'a voir comme le notre est change, et 
 combien il le serait davantage s'il n'y avait une autorite 
 assez ferme pour y porter remede. J'ai honte de vous 
 faire remarquer la confusion qui regno dans les conseils, 
 le desordre des deliberations, I'encombrement des af- 
 faires, et la legerete avec laquelle les plus importantes 
 sont decidees; la hcence de notre jeunesse, le peu 
 d'assiduite des magistrals, introduction de nouveautes 
 dangereuses. Quel est I'effet de ces desordres ? de 
 compromettre notre consideration. Quelle en est la 
 
 * Hasce tamen injurias quamvis imaginarias non tarn ad animnm revo- 
 caverat Jacobus Lauredanus defunctorum nepos, quam in abecedarium 
 vindictam opportuna. (Palazzi Fasti Ducales.) 
 
 flbid, et I'Histoire "Venitienne de Vianolo. 
 
 jll faut cependant remarquer que dans la notice oii I 'on raeontece fait, 
 la delibferation est rapportfee, que les vingt-cinq adjoints y sont nomm^s 
 et que le nom de Marc Foscari ne s'y trouve pas. 
 
 § Cette harangue se lit dans la notice citfee ci-dessus. 
 
312 
 
 APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 I'absence d'un chef capable de moderer les uns, I ete utile pendant tant d'annees, je voulais lui en con- 
 
 de dinger les autres, de donner Tesemple Ji tous, et de 
 maintenir la force des lois. 
 
 " Ou est le temps ou nos decrets etaient aussitot ex- 
 ecutes que rendus ? Ou Francois Carrare se trouvait 
 investi dans Padoue, avant de pouvoir etre seulement 
 informe que nous voulions lui faire la guerre ? nous 
 avons vu tout le contraire dans la derniere guerre con- 
 tre le due de Milan. Malheureuse la republique qui 
 est sans chef! . , . 
 
 " Je ne vous rappelle pas tous ces inconvenients et 
 leurs suites deplorables, pour vous affliger, pour vous 
 effrayer, mais pour vous faire souvenir que vous etes 
 les rnaitres, les conservateurs de cet etat,fonde parvos 
 peres, et de la hberte que nous devons a leurs travaux, 
 d leurs institutions. Ici, le mal indique le remede. 
 Nous n'avons point de chef, il nous en faut un. Notre 
 prince est notre ouvrage, nous avons done le droit de 
 juger son merile quand il s'agit de I'elire, et son inca- 
 pacite quand elle se manifeste. J'ajouterai que le peu- 
 ple, encore bitn qu'il n'ait pas le droit de prononcer sur 
 les actions de ses mailres, apprendra ee changement 
 avec transport. C'est la providence, je n'en doute pas, 
 qui lui inspire elle-nieme ces dispositions, pour vous 
 avertir que la republique reclame cette resolution, et 
 que le sort de I'etat est en vos mams." 
 
 Ce discours n'eprouva que de timides contradictions ; 
 cependant,la dehberation dura huit jours. L'assemblee, 
 ne se jucreant pas aussi sure de I'approbation universelle 
 que I'orateur voulait le lui faire croire, desirait que le 
 doge donnat lui-meme sa demission. II avait deja 
 proposee deux fois, et on n' avait pas voulu I'accepter. 
 Aucune loi ne portait que le prince fut revocable ; il 
 etait au contraire a vie et les excmples qu'on pouvait 
 citer de plusieurs doges deposes, prouvaient que de 
 telles revolutions avaient toujours ete le resultat d'un 
 mouvement populaire. 
 
 Mais d'ailleurs, si le doge pouvait etre depose, ce 
 n'etait pas assurement par un tribunal compose d'un 
 petit nombre de membres, institue pour punir les crimes, 
 et nullement investi du droit de revoquer ce que le corps 
 souverain.de I'etat avait fait. 
 
 Cependant, le tribunal arreta que les six conseillers 
 de la seigneurie, et les chefs du conseil des dix, se 
 transporteraient auprfes du doge pour lui signifier, que 
 Ir'excellentissime conseil avait juge convenable qu'il 
 abdiquat une dignite dont son age ne Im permettait 
 plus de remplir les foactions. On lui donnait 1500 
 ducats d'or pour son entretien et vingt-quatre heures 
 pour se decider. • 
 
 F<?=cari repondit sur-le-champ avec beaucoup de 
 gravite, que deux fois il avait voulu se demettre de sa 
 charge : qu'au lieu de le lui perraettre, on avait exige 
 de lui le serment de ne plus reiterer cette deraande : 
 que la providence avait prolonge ses jours pour I'e- 
 prouver et pour I'aftliger, que cependant on n'etait pas 
 en droit de reprocher sa longue vie a un homme qui 
 avait employe quatre-vingt-quatre ans au service de la 
 republique ; qu'il etait pret encore a lui sacrifier sa vie ; 
 mais que, pour sa dignite, il la tenait de la repubhque 
 entiere, et qu'il se reservait de repondre sur ce sujet, 
 quand la volonte gene rale se serait legalement mani- 
 festee. 
 
 Le lendemain, a I'heure indiquee, les conseillers et 
 les chefs des dix se presentferent. II ne voulut pas leur 
 donner d'autre reponse. Le conseil s'assembla sur-le- 
 champ, lui en%^oya demander encore une fois sa resolu- 
 tion seance tenante, et, la reponse ayant ete la meme, 
 on prononca que le doge etait releve de son serment et 
 depose de sa dignite, on lui assignait une pension de 
 1500 ducats d'or, en lui enjoignant de sortir du paiais 
 dans huit jours, sous peine de voir tous ses biens con- 
 fisques.f 
 
 Le lendemain, ce decret fut porte au doge, et ce fut 
 Jacques Loredan qui eut la cruelle joie de le lui pre- 
 senter. II repondit: "Si j'avais pu prevoir que ma 
 vieiilesse fut prejudiciable a I'etat, le chef de la repub- 
 lique ne se serait pas montre assez ingrat, pour pre- 
 firer sa dignite a la patrie ; mais cette vie lui ayant 
 
 sacrer jusqu'au dernier moment. Le decret est rendu, 
 je m'y conformerai." Apres avoir parle ainsi, il se de- 
 pouilla des marques de sa dignite, remit I'anneau ducal, 
 qui fut brise en sa presence, et d6s le jour suivant il 
 quitta ce paiais, qu'il avait habite pendant trente-cinq 
 ans, accompagne de son frere, de ses parents, et de ses 
 amis. Un secretaire, qui sc trouva sur le perron, I'in- 
 vita h, descendre par un escalier derobe, afin d'eviter la 
 foule du peuple, qui s'etait rassemble dans les cours, 
 mais il s'y refusa, disant qu'il voulait descendre par ou 
 il etait monte ; et quand il fut au bas de I'escaher des 
 geants, il se retourna, appuye sur la bequille, vers .le 
 paiais en proferant ces paroles: "Mes services m'y 
 avaient appelle, la malice de mes ennemis m'en fait 
 sortir." 
 
 La foule qui s'ouvrait sur son passage, et qui avait 
 peut-6tre desire sa mort, etait emue de respect et d'at- 
 tendrissement.* Rentre dans sa maison, il recommanda 
 a sa famille d'oublier les injures de ses ennemis. Per- 
 sonne dans les divers corps de I'etat ne se crut en droit 
 de s'etonner, qu'un prince inamovible eut ete depose 
 sans qu'on lui reprochat rien: que I'etat eut perdu son 
 chef, a I'msu du senal et du corps souverain lui-meme. 
 Le peuple seul laissa echapper quelques regrets : une 
 proclamation du conseil des dix prescrivit le silence le 
 plus absolu sur cette affaire, sous peine de mort. 
 
 Avant de donner un successeur a Francois Foscari, 
 une nouvelle loi fut rendue, qui defendait au doge 
 d'ouvrir et de lire, autrement qu'en presence de ses 
 conseillers, les depeches des ambassadeurs de la repub- 
 lique, et les lettres des princes etrangers.j 
 
 Les electeurs entrerent au conclave et nomm^rent 
 au dogat Paschal ISIalipier le 30 Octobre, 1457. La 
 cloche de Saint-Marc, qui annoncait a Venise son 
 nouveau prince, vint frapper I'oreille de Francois Fos- 
 cari ; cette fois sa fermete I'abandonna, il eprouva un 
 tel saisissement, qu'il mourut le lendemain. | 
 
 La republique arreta qu'on lui rendrait les memes 
 honneurs fun^bres que s'il fut mort dans I'exercice de 
 sa dignite ; mais lorsqu'on se presenta pour enlever ses 
 restes, sa veuve, qui de son nom etait Marine Nani, de- 
 clara qu'elle ne le souffrirait point ; qu'on ne devait pas 
 traiter en prince apres sa mort celui qui vivant on 
 avait depouille de la couronne, et que, puisqu'il avait 
 consume ses biens au service de I'etat, elle saurait, 
 consacrer sa dot a lui faire rendres les derniers hon- 
 neurs. § On ne tint aucun compte de cette resistance, 
 et malgre les protestations de I'ancienne dogaresse, le 
 corps fut enleve, revStu des ornemens ducaux, expose 
 en public, et les obseques furent celebrees avec la 
 pompe accoutumee. Le nouveau doge assista au 
 convoi en robe de senateur. 
 
 La pitie qu'avait inspiree le malheur de ce vieillard, 
 ne fut pas tojut-a-fait sterile. Un an apres, on osa dire 
 que le conseil des dix avait outrepasse ses pouvoirs, et 
 il lui fut defendu par une loi du grand conseil de s'in- 
 gerer a I'avenir de juger le prince, a moins que ce ne 
 fut pour cause de felonie. |1 
 
 Un acte d'autorite tel que la deposition d'un doge 
 inamovible de sa nature, aurait pu exciter un souleve- 
 ment general, ou au moins occasionner une division 
 dans une republique autrement constituee que Venise. 
 Mais depuis trois ans, il existait dans celle-ci une ma- 
 gistrature, ou plutot une autorite, devant laquelle tout 
 devait se taire. 
 
 * Ce Dfecret est rapportfe teitiiellement dans la notice, 
 t La notice mpporte aussi ce dSeret. 
 
 Extrait de VHistoire des Repuhliques Italiennes du Mo- 
 yen A.ge. Par J. C. L. Simonde de Sismondi^ torn. x. 
 
 Le Doge de Venise, qui avait prevenu par ce traite 
 une guerre non moins dangereuse que celle qu'il avait 
 termmee presque en meme temps par le traite de Lodi, 
 etait alors parvenu a une extr me vieiilesse. Franfois 
 
 " On lit dans la notice ces proprea mots : " Se fosse state 1q loro 
 potere volontieri lo avrebbero restituito." 
 t Hist, di Venetia, di Paolo Morosini, lib. 24. 
 i Hist, di Pietro Justiniani, lib. 8. 
 § Hist. d'Egnatio, liv. 6. cap. 7. 
 II Ce dlcret eat du 5J5 Octobre, 1458. La notice le rapporte. 
 
APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 Foscari occupait cette premiere dignite de I'etat d^s le 
 15 Avnl, 1423. Quoiqu'il fut deja age de plus de 
 cinquante-un ans a I'epoque de son election, il etait 
 cependant le plus jeune des quarante-un electeurs. II 
 avail eu beaucoup de peine a parvenir au rang qu'il 
 convoitait, et son election avail ete conduite avec 
 beaucoup d'addresse. Pendant plusieurs jours de 
 scrutin ses amis les plus zeles s'etaient abstenus de 
 lui donner leur suffrage, pour que les autres ne le con- 
 siderassent pas comme un concurrent redoutable.* Le 
 
 313 
 
 conseil des dix craignait son credit parmi la noblesse 
 pauvre, parce qu'il avait cherche a se la rendre favor- 
 able, tandis^ qu'il etait procurateur de Saint-Marc, en 
 faisant employer plus de trente mille ducats a doter des 
 jeunes filies de bonne maison, ou a etablir de jeunes 
 gentilshommes. On craignoit encore sa nombreuse 
 famille, car alors il etait pere de quatre enfans, et 
 marie de nouveau ; enfin on redoutait son ambition et 
 son gout pour la guerre. L'opinion que ses adversaires 
 s'etaient formee de lui fut verifiee par les evenemens ; 
 pendant trente-quatre ans que Foscari fut a la tete de 
 la republique, elle ne cessa point de combattre. Si les 
 hostilitesetaientsuspendues'durantquelquesmoisjc'etait 
 pour recommencer bientot avec plus de vigueur. Ce 
 fut I'epoque ou Venise etendit son empire sur Brescia, 
 Bergame, Ravenne, et CrSme; ou elle fonda sa do- 
 mination de Lombardie, et parut sans cesse sur le 
 point d'asservir toute cette province. Profond, coura- 
 geux, inebranlable, Foscari communiqua aux conseils 
 son propre caractfere, et ses talens lui firent obtenir plus 
 d'influcnce sur la republique que n'avaient exerce la 
 plupart de ses predecesseurs. Mais si son ambition 
 avait eu pour but I'aggrandissement de sa famille, elle 
 fut cruellement trompee ; trois de ses fils moururent 
 dans les huit annees qui suivirent son election ; le 
 quatrierae, Jacob, par lequel la maison Foscari s'est 
 perpetuee, fut victime de la jalousie du conseil des dix, 
 et empoisonna par ses malheurs les jours de son p^re.j 
 En effet, le conseil des dix, redoublant de defiance 
 envers le chef de I'etat, lorsqu'il le voyoit plus fort par 
 ses talens et sa popularite, veilloit sans cssse sur Fos- 
 cari, pour e punir de son credit, et de sa gloire. Au 
 mois de Fevrier, 1445, Michel Bevilacqua, Florentin, 
 exile a Venise, accusal en secret Jacques Foscari 
 auprfes des inquisiteurs d'etat, d'avoir recu de due Phi- 
 lippe Visconti, des presens d'argent et de joyaux, par 
 les mains des gens de sa maison. Telle etait I'odieuse 
 procedure adoptee a Venise, que sur cette accusation 
 secrete le fils du doge, du representant de la majeste 
 de la republique, fut mis a la torture. On lui arracha 
 par I'estrapade I'aveu, des charges portees contre lui; 
 il fut relegue pour le reste de ses jours a Napoh de 
 Romanic, avec obligation de se presenter chaque matin 
 au commandant de la place.}: Cependant, le vaisseau 
 qui le portait ayant louche a Trieste, Jacob, grieve- 
 ment malade des suites de la torture, et plus encore de 
 I'hurailiation qu'il avait eprouvee, demanda en grace 
 au conseil des dix de n'^tre pas envoye plus loin. II 
 obtint cette faveur, par une deliberation du 28 De- 
 cembre, 1446 ; il ful rappele a Trevise ; et il eut la 
 liberie d'habiter tout le Trevisan indifferemment.§ 
 
 II vivait en paix a Trevise ; et la fille de Leonard 
 Contarini, qu'il avait epousee le 10 Fevrier, 1441, etait 
 venr.e le joindre dans son exil, lorsque le 5 Novembre, 
 1450, Almoro Donato, chef du conseil des dix, fut as- 
 sassine. Les deux autres inquisiteurs d'etat, Triadano 
 Gritti et Antonio Venieri, porlferent leur soupfons sur 
 Jacob Foscari, parce-qu'un domestique a lui, nomme 
 Olivier, avait ete vu ce soir-la meme a Venise, et avait 
 des premiers donne la nouvelle de cet assassinat. Oli- 
 vier fut mis a la torture, mais il nia jusqu'a la fin, avec 
 un courage inebranlable, le crime dont on I'accusait, 
 quoique ses juges eussent la barbaric de lui faire don- 
 ner jusqu'a quatre-vingts tours d'estrapade. Cepen- 
 dant, comme Jacob Foscari avait de puissans motifs 
 d'inimitie contre le conseil des dix, qui 1' avait condamne, 
 et qui temoignait de la ha'ine au doge son pere, on 
 essaya de mettre a son tour Jacob a la torture, et Ton 
 prolongea contre lui ces affreux tourmens, sans reussir 
 
 ' Marin Sanuto, Vite do' Duchi di Venezia, p. 957. 
 1 Ibid. p. 968. t IWd § Ibid. p. 1123. 
 
 2 P 
 
 a en tirer aucune confession. Malgre sa denegation, 
 le conseil des dix le condamna h etre transporte k la 
 Canee, et accorda une recompense a son delateur. 
 Mais les horribles douleurs que Jacob Foscari avait 
 eprouyees avaienl trouble sa raison, ses persecuteurs, 
 touches de ce dernier malheur, permirent qu'on le ra- 
 menat a Venise le 26 Mai, 1451. II embrassa son 
 p6re, il puisa dans ses exhortations quelque courage et 
 quelque calme, et il fut reconduit immediatement a la 
 Canee.*^ Sur ces entrefaites, Nicolas Erizzo, homme 
 deja note pour un precedent crime, confessa, en mou- 
 rant, que c'etail lui qui avait tue Almoro Donato.t 
 
 Le inalheureux doge, Francois Foscari, avail deja 
 cherche a plusieurs reprises, a abdiquer une dignite si 
 funeste a lui-merae et h sa famille. II lui semblail que, 
 redescendu au rang de simple citoyen, comme il n'in- 
 spirerait plus de crainte ou de jalousie, on n'accablerait 
 plus son fils par ces effroyables persecutions. Abattu 
 par la rnort de ses premiers enfans, il avait voulu, d^s 
 le 26 Juin, 1433, deposer une dignite, duranl Pexercice 
 de laquelle sa patrie avait ete tourmentee par la guerre, 
 par la peste, et par des malheurs de tout genre.J II 
 renouvela cette proposition apres les jugenieus rendus 
 contre son fils ; mais le conseil des dix le retenait 
 forcement sur le Irone, comme il retenait son fils dans 
 les fers. 
 
 En vain Jacob Foscari, oblige de se presenter chaquo 
 jourau governeur de la Canee, reclamait contre Fui- 
 justice de sa derniere sentence, sur laquelle la con 
 fession d'Erizzo ne lassait plus de doutes. En vain i'l 
 demandait grace au farouche conseil des dix ; il ne 
 pouvait obtenir aucune reponse. Le desir de revoir 
 son pere et sa mere, arrives tous deux au dernier lerme 
 de la vieillesse, le desir de revoir une patrie donl la 
 cruaute ne meritait pas un si tendre amour, se chan- 
 gerent en lui en une vraie fureur. Ne pouvanl re- 
 tourner a Venise pour y vivre libre, il voulut du moins 
 y aller chercher un supplice. II ecrivit au due de 
 Milan a la fin de Mai, 1456, pour implorer sa protec- 
 tion auprfes du senat: el sachant qu'une telle lettre 
 seroit consideree comme un crime, il I'exposa lui-meme 
 dans un lieu ou il etait sur qu'elle seroit saisie par les 
 espions qui Tentouraient. En effet, la lettre elant de- 
 feree au conseil des dix, on I'envoya chercher aussilot, 
 et il fUt reconduit a Venise le 19 Juillet, 1456.§ 
 
 Jacob Foscari ne ma point sa lettre, il raconta en 
 meme temps dans quel but il I'avait ecrite, et comment 
 il I'avait fait tomber entre les mains de son delateur. 
 Malgre ces aveux, Foscari flit remis a la torture, et on 
 lui donna trente tours d'estrapade, pour voir s'il con- 
 firmerail ensuite ses depositions. Q-uand on le de- 
 tacha de la corde, on le Irouva dechire par ces hor- 
 ribles secousses. Les juges permirent alors a son 
 pere, h sa mere, k. sa femme, et a ses fils, d'aller le voir 
 dans sa prison. Le vieux Foscari, appuye sur un 
 baton, ne se traina qu'avec peine, dans la chambre oii 
 son fils unique etait panse de ses blessures. Ce fils 
 demandait encore la grace de mourir dans sa maison. — 
 " Retourne a ton exil, mon fils, puisque ta patrie I'or- 
 donne," lui dit le doge, " et soumets-toi a sa volonte." 
 Mais enrentrant dans sonpalais, ce malheurcux vieil- 
 lard s'evanouit, epuise par la violence qu'il s'etait faite. 
 Jacob devait encore passer une annee en prison a la 
 Canee, avanl qu'on lui rendit la meme liberie limitee 
 a laquelle il etait reduit avant eel evenement ; mais h. 
 peine fut il debarque sur cette terre d'exil, qu'il y mou- 
 rut de douleur.ll 
 
 D6s-lors, et pendant quinze mois, le vieux doge, 
 accable d'annees el chagrins, ne recouvra plus la force 
 de son corps ou celle de son ame ; il n'assistait plus a 
 aucun des conseils, et il ne pouvait plus remplir aucune 
 des fonctions de sa dignite. II etait entre dans sa 
 quatre-vingt-sixi^me annee, el si le conseil des dix 
 avait ete susceptible de quelque pitie, il aurait attendu 
 en silence la fin, sans doute prochaine, d'une carriere 
 marquee par tant de gloire et tant de malheurs. Mais 
 le chef du conseil des dix etait alors Jacques Loredano, 
 fils de Marc, el neveu de Pierre, le grand amiral, qui 
 
 * Marin Samito, Vife de' Duclii di Venezia, p. 1138.— M. Ant. Sb- 
 tellico, Deca III. L. VI. f. 187. 
 t Marin Sanuto, p. Il.SS. J Ibid. p. 1032. § Ibid. p. 1W3. 
 
 II Ibid. p. 1163.— Navagiero, Stor, Venez. p. 1118. 
 
314 
 
 APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 toute leur vie ete les eniiemis acharnes du vieux doge, 
 lis avaient transmis leur hame a leurs erifans, et cette 
 vieille rancune n'etait pas encore satisfaite.* A I'insti- 
 gation de Loredano, Jerome Barbarigo, inquisiteur 
 d'etat, proposa au conseil des dix, au mois d'Octobre, 
 1457, de soumettre Foscari a une nouvelle humiliation. 
 D^-s que ce magistral ne pouvait plus remplir ses fonc- 
 tions, Barbarigo denianda qu'on nommat un autre doge. 
 Le conseil, qui avait refuse par deux fois I'abdication 
 de Foscari, parce que la constitution ne pouvait la per- 
 mettre, hesita avant de se mettre en contradiction avec 
 ses propres decrets. Les discussions dans le conseil 
 et la junte se prolongerent pendant huit jours, jusque 
 fort avant dans le nuit. Cependant, on fit entrer dans 
 I'assemblee Marco Foscari, procurateur de Saint-Marc, 
 et frere du doge, pour qu'il fut lie par le redoutable 
 serment du secret, et qu'il ne put arreter les menees de 
 ses ennemis. Enfin, le conseilse rendit aupres du doge, 
 et lui demanda d'abdiquer volontairement un empkn 
 qu'il ne pouvait plus exercer. " J'ai jure," repondit le 
 vieillard, " de remplir jusqu'a ma mort, selon mon hon- 
 neur et ma conscience, les fonclions auxquelles ma 
 patrie m'a appele. Je ne puis me delir moi-merne de 
 mon serment ; qu'un ordre des conseils dispose de moi, 
 je m'y soumettrai, mais je ne le devancerai pas." Alors 
 une nouvelle deliberation du conseil delia Francois Fos- 
 cari de son serment ducal, lui assura une pension de 
 deux mille ducats pour le reste de sa vie, et lui ordonna 
 d'evacuer en trois jours le palais, et de deposer les or- 
 nemens de sa dignite. Le doge ayant remarque parmi 
 les conseillers qui lui porterent cet ordre, un chef de la 
 quarante qu'il ne connoissait pas, demanda son nom : 
 " Je suis le fils de Marco Memmo," lui dit le conseiller. 
 — " Ah ! ton pere etait mon ami," lui dit le vieux doge, 
 en soupirant. II donna aussitot des ordres pour qu'on 
 transportat ses efFets dans une maison a lui; et le 
 lendemain 23 Octobre on le vit, se soutenat a peine, et 
 appuye sur son vieux frfere, redescendere ces memes 
 escaliers sur lesquels, trente-quatre ans auparavant, 
 on I'avait vu installe avec tant de pompe, et traverser 
 ces memes salles ou la republique avait re9u ses ser- 
 mons. Le peuple entier parut indigne de tant de 
 durete exercee contre un vieillard qu'il respectait et 
 qu'il aimait; mais le conseil des dix fit publier une de- 
 fense de parler de cette revolution, sous peine d'etre- 
 traduit devant les inquisiteurs d'etat. Le 20 Octobre, 
 Pasqual Malipieri, procurateur de Saint-Marc, fut elu 
 pour successeur de Foscari ; celui-ci n'eut pas nean- 
 moins I'humiliation de vivre sujet, la oil il avait regne. 
 En eJitendant le son des cloches, qui sonnaient en 
 actions de graces pour cette election, il mourut subite- 
 ment d'une hemorrhagie causee par une veinc ,qui 
 s'eclata dans sa poitrine.t 
 
 " Le doge, blesse de trouver constamment un con- 
 tradicteur et un censeur si amer dans son frere, lui dit 
 unjour en plein conseil: " Messire Augustin, vous 
 faites tout votre possible pour hater ma mort ; vous 
 vous flattez de me succeder ; mais, si les autres vous 
 connaissent aussi bien que je vous connais, ils n'auront 
 garde de vous elire." La-dessus il se le leva, emu del 
 colore, rentra dans son appartement, et mourut quel- 
 nues jours apr^s. Ce frere, contre le lequel il s'etait 
 emporte, fut precisementle successeur qu'on lui donna 
 C'etait un merite dont on aimait a tenir compte ; sur 
 tout h un parent, de s'elre mis en opposition avec le chef 
 de la republique."^— Daruj Historie de Venise, vol. ii. 
 sec. xi. p. 533. 
 
 In Lady Morgan's fearless and excellent work upon 
 ' Italy," I perceive the expression of " Rome of the 
 
 * Vettor Sandi Storia civile Veneziana, P. II. L. VIII, p. 71o— a7. 
 
 1 M.-irin Saniito, Vile de' Diichi di Venezia, p. 1164.— Chromcon Eii^- 
 binum, T. XXI. p. 992.— Christoforo da Soldo Istoria Bresciana, 1 . 
 XXI 'p- 891.- Navagiero, .Storio Veneziana, XXI. p. 1120.— M. A. 
 Saliel'liccDecalU.L. VtU.f. 201. ^ v, i • 
 
 t The Venetians appear to liave had a particular turn tor Dreaking 
 the hearts of their Dopes : the above is another instance of the kind in the 
 Doge Marco Barbarigo ; he was succeeded by his brother Agostino 
 Barbarigo, whose chief merit is above mentioned. 
 
 Ocean" applied to Venice. The same phrase occurs in 
 the " Two Foscari." My publisher can vouch for me 
 that the tragedy was written and sent to England some 
 time before I had seen Lady Morgan's work, which 1 
 only received on the 16ih of August. I hasten, how- 
 ever, to notice the coincidence, and to yield the origi- 
 nality of the phrase to her who first placed it before the 
 public. I am the more anxious to do this, as I am in- 
 formed (for I have seen but few of the specimens, and 
 those accidentally) that there have been lately brought 
 against me charges of plagiarism. I have also had an 
 anonymous sort of threatening intimation of the same 
 kind, apparently with the intent of extorting money. 
 To such charges I have no answer to make. One of 
 them is ludicrous enough. I am reproached for having 
 formed the description of a shipwreck in verse from the 
 narratives of many ac^waZ shipwrecks in /)ro.<te, selecting 
 such materials as were most striking. Gibbon makes 
 it a merit in Tasso " to have copied the minutest details 
 of the Siege of Jerusalem from the Chronicles." In 
 me it may be a demerit, I presume : let it remain so. 
 Whilst I have been occupied in defending Pope^s cha- 
 racter, the lov.er orders of Grub-street appear to have 
 been assailing mine : this is as it should be, both in 
 them and in me. One of the accusations in the name- 
 less epistle alluded to is still more laughable : it stales 
 seriously that I "received five hundred pounds for 
 writing "^advertisements for Day and Martin's patent 
 blacking 1" This is the highest compliment to my 
 literary powers which I ever received. Il states also 
 " that a person has been trying to make acquaintance 
 with Mr. Townsend, a gentleman of the law, who was 
 with me on business in Venice three years ago, for the 
 purpose of obtaining any defamatory particulars of my 
 life from this occasional visiter." Mr. Townsend is 
 welcome to say what he knows. I mention these 
 particulars merely to show the world in general what 
 the literary lower world contains, and their way of set- 
 ting to work. Another charge made, I am told, in the 
 "Literary Gazette" is, that I wrote the notes to 
 " Queen Mab 5" a work which I never saw till some 
 time after its publication, and which I recollect showing 
 to Mr. Sotheby as a poem of great power and imagi- 
 nation. I never wrote a Ime of the notes, nor ever 
 saw them except in their published form. No one 
 knows better than their real author, that his opinions 
 and mine differ materially upon the metaphysical por- 
 tion of that work ; though, in common with ail who 
 are not Winded by baseness and bigotry, I highly ad- 
 mire the poetry of that and his other publications. 
 
 Mr. Southey, loo, in his pious preface to a poem 
 whose blasphemy is as harmless as the sedition of 
 Wat Tyler, because it is equally absurd with that sin- 
 cere production, calls upon the " legislature to look to 
 it," as the toleration of such writings led to the French 
 Revolution : not such writings as Wat Tyler, but as 
 those of the " Satanic School." This is not true, and 
 Mr. Southey knows it to be not true. Every French 
 writer of any freedom was persecuted ; Voltaire and 
 Rousseau were exiles, Marmontel and Diderot were 
 sent to the Bastile, and a perpetual war was waged 
 with the whole class by the existing despotism. In the 
 next 'place the French Revolution was not occasioned 
 by any writings whatsoever, but must have occurred 
 had no such writers ever existed. It is the fashion to 
 attribute every thing to the French Revolution, and the 
 French Revolution to every thing but ils real cause. 
 That cause is obvious — the government exacted too 
 much, and the people could neither give nor bear more. 
 Without this, the Encyclopedists might have written 
 their fingers off without the occurrence of a single al- 
 teration. And the English Revolution — (the first, I 
 mean) — what was it occasioned by? The puritans 
 were surely as pious and moral as Wesley or his bio- 
 grapher ? Acts — acts on the part of government, and 
 not writings against them, have caused the past con- 
 vulsions, and are tending to the future. 
 
 I look upon such as inevitable, though no revolution- 
 ist ; I wish to see the English constitution restored and 
 not destroyed. Born an aristocrat, and naturally one 
 by temper, with the greater part of my present properly 
 in the funds, what have / to gain by a revolution ? 
 
WERNER. 
 
 816 
 
 Perhaps I have more to lose in every way than Mr. 
 Southey, with all his places and presents for panegy- 
 rics and abuse into the bargain. But that a revolution 
 is inevitable, I repeat. The government may exult 
 over the repression of petty tumults ; these are but the 
 receding waves repulsed and broken for a moment on 
 the shore, while the great tide is still rolling on and 
 gaining ground with every breaker. Mr. Southey ac- 
 cuses us of attacking the religion of the country; and 
 is he abetting it by writing lives of Wesley 1 One 
 mode of worship is merely destroyed by another. 
 There never was, nor ever will be, a country without 
 a religion. We shall be told of France again : but it 
 was only Paris and a frantic party, which for a moment 
 upheld their dogmatic nonsense of theophilanthropy. 
 The church of England, if overthrown, will be swept 
 away by the sectarians, and not by the skeptics. Peo- 
 ple are too wise, too well-informed, too certain of their 
 own immense importance in the realms of space, ever to 
 submit to the impiety of doubt. There may be a few 
 such diffident speculators, like water in the pale sun- 
 beam of human reason, but they are very few : and 
 their opinions, without enthusiam or appeal to the pas- 
 sions, can never gain proselytes — unless, indeed, they 
 are persecuted — that, to be sure, will increase any 
 thing. 
 
 Mr. S. with a cowardly ferocity, exults over the an- 
 ticipated " death-bed repentance" of the objects of his 
 dislike ; and indulges himself in a pleasant "Vision of 
 Judgment," in prose as well as verse, full of impious 
 impudence. What Mr. S.'s sensations or ours may 
 be in the awful moment of leaving this state of exis- 
 tence neither he nor we can pretend to decide. In 
 common, I presume, with most men of any reflection, 
 / have not waited for a " death-bed" to repent of many 
 of my actions, notwithstanding the "diabolical pride" 
 which this pitiful regenado in his rancour would im- 
 pute to those who scorn him. Whether upon the 
 whole the good or evil of my deeds may preponderate 
 is not for me to ascertain ; but, as my means and op- 
 
 portunities have been greater, I shall limit my present 
 defence to an assertion, (easily proved, if necessary,) 
 that I, " in my degree," have done more real good in 
 any one given year, since I was twenty, than Mr. 
 Southey in the whole course of his shifting and turn- 
 coat existence. There are several actions to which I 
 can look back with an honest pride, not to be damped 
 by the calumnies of a hireling. There are others to 
 which I recur with sorrow and repentance ; but the 
 only- act of my life of which Mr, Southey can have any 
 real knowledge, as it was one which brought me in 
 contact with a near connexion of his own, did no dis- 
 honour to that connexion nor to me. 
 
 I am not ignorant of Mr. Southey's calumnies on a 
 different occasion, knowing them to be such, which he 
 scattered abroad on his return from Switzerland against 
 me and others : they have done him no good in this 
 v.'orld, and, if his creed be the right one, they will do 
 less in the next. What his " death-bed" may be, it is 
 not my province to predicate : let him settle it with his 
 Maker, as I must do with mine. There is something 
 at once ludicrous and blasphemous in this arrogant 
 scribbler of all work sitting down to deal damnation 
 and destruction upon his fellow-creatures, with Wat 
 Tyler, the Apotheosis of George the Third, and the 
 Elegy on Martin the regicide, all shuffled together in 
 his writing-desk. One of his consolations appears to 
 be a Latin note from a work of a Mr. Landor, the 
 author of" Gebir," whose friendship for Robert South- 
 ey will, it seems, " be an honour to him when the ephe- 
 meral disputes and ephemeral reputations of the day 
 are forgotten." I for one neither envy him " the friend- 
 ship," nor the glory in reversion which is to accrue 
 from it, like Mr. Thelusson's fortune in the third and 
 fourth generation. This friendship will probably be as 
 memorable as his own epics, which (as I quoted to 
 him ten or twelve years ago m " English Bards") Per- 
 son said "would be remembered when Homer and 
 Virgil are forgotten, and not till then." For the present, 
 I leave him. 
 
 WERNER; OR, THE INHERITANCE. 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 
 
 BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS, 
 THIS TRAGEDY IS DEDICATED. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The following drama is taken entirely from the " Ger- 
 man's Tale, Kruitzner^^ published many years ago in Lee^s 
 Canterbury Tales ; written (I believe) by two sisters, of 
 whom one furnished only this story and another, both of 
 which are considered superior to the remamder of the col- 
 lection. I have adopted the characters, plan, and even 
 the language, of many parts of this story. Some of the 
 characters are modified or altered, a few of the names 
 changed, and one character (Ida of Stralenheim) added 
 by myself: but in the rest the original is chiefly followed. 
 When I was young (about fourteen, I think) I first read 
 this tale, which made a deep impression upon me ; and 
 may, indeed, be said to contain the germ of much that I 
 have since written. I am not sure that it ever was very 
 popular ; or, at any rate, its popularity has since been 
 eclipsed by that of other great writers in the same de- 
 
 partment. But I have generally found that those who had 
 read it, agreed with me m their estimate of the singular 
 power of mind and conception which it developes. I 
 should also add conception, rather than execution ; for the 
 story might, perhaps, have been developed with greater 
 advantage. Among those whose opinions agreed with 
 mine upon this story, 1 could mention some very high 
 names ; but it is not necessary, nor indeed of any use , 
 for every one must judge according to his own feelings. I 
 merely refer the reader to the original story, that he may 
 see to what extent I have borrowed from it : and am not 
 unwilling that he should find much greater pleasure in 
 perusing it than the drama which is founded upon its 
 contents. 
 
 I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 1815, 
 (the first I ever attempted, except one at thirteen years old, 
 called " Ulric and Ilvinal^ which I had sense enough to 
 burn,) and had nearly completed an act, when I was inter- 
 
316 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 ruptcd by cirrumstances. This is somewhere among my 
 papers in England ; but as it has not been found, I have 
 rewritten the first, and added the subsequent acts. 
 
 The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape adapted, 
 for the stage. 
 
 Feb. 1822. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 
 MEN. 
 Werner. 
 
 Ulric. 
 
 Stralenheim. 
 
 Idenstein. 
 
 Gabor. 
 
 Fritz. 
 
 Henrick. 
 Eric. 
 Arnheim. 
 Meister. 
 
 RODOLPH. 
 LUDWIG. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 .tosephine. 
 
 Ida Stralenheim. 
 
 Scene — Partly on the Frontier of Silesia, and partly in 
 Siegendorf Castle, near Prague. 
 
 Time — tlie Close of the Thirty Years' War. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — The Hall of a decayed Palace near a small 
 Town on the Northern Frontier of Silesia — the JVight 
 tempestuous. 
 
 Werner and Josephine his wife. 
 
 Jos. My love, be calmer ! 
 
 Wer. I am calm. 
 
 Jos. To me — 
 
 Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried, 
 And no one walks a chamber like to ours 
 With steps lilte thine when his heart is at rest. 
 Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy, 
 And stepping with the bee from flower to flower ; 
 But here ! 
 
 Wer. 'T is chill ; the tapestry lets through 
 The wind to which it waves : my blood is frozen. 
 
 Jos. Ah, no ! 
 
 JVer. (smiling.) Why ! wouldst thou have it so 7 
 
 Jos. I would 
 
 Have it a healthful current. 
 
 Wer. Let it flow 
 
 Until 'tis spilt or check'd — how soon, I care not. 
 
 Jos. And am I nothing in thy heart ? 
 
 Wer. All— all. 
 
 Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which must breali 
 mine ? 
 
 Wer. (approaching her sloivly.) But for thee I had 
 been — no matter what, 
 But much of good and evil ; what I am, 
 Thou knowest ; what I might or should have been, 
 Thou knowest not : but still I love thee, nor 
 Shall aught divide us. 
 
 [Werner walks on abruptly, and then approaches 
 Josephine. 
 
 The storm of the night, 
 Perhaps, afl^ects me ; I'm a thing of feelings, 
 And have of late been sickly, as, alas ! 
 Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my love ! 
 In watching me. 
 
 Jos. To see thee well is much — • 
 To see thee happy 
 
 Wer. Where hast thou seen such ? 
 
 Let me be wretched with the rest ! 
 
 Jos. But think 
 
 How many in this hour of tempest shiver 
 Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain, 
 \N''hose every drop bows them down nearer earth, 
 
 Which hath no chamber for them save beneath 
 Her surface. 
 
 Wer. And that 's not the worst : who cares 
 
 For chambers? rest is all. The wretches whom 
 Thou namest — ay, the wind howls round them, and 
 The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones 
 The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier, 
 A hunter, and a traveller, and am 
 A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of. 
 
 Jos. And art thou not now shelter'd from them all ? 
 
 Wer. Yes. And from these alone. 
 
 Jos. And that is something. 
 
 Wer. True — to a peasant. 
 
 Jos. Should the nobly born 
 
 Be thankless for that refuge which their habits 
 Of early delicacy render more 
 Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb 
 Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life ? 
 
 Wer. It is not that, thou know'st it is not ; we 
 Have borne all this, I '11 not say patiently. 
 Except in thee — but we have borne it. 
 
 Jos. Well ? 
 
 Wer. Something beyond our outward sufferings 
 (though 
 These were enough to gnaw into our souls) 
 Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now. 
 When, but for this untoward sickness, which 
 Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and 
 Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means, 
 And leaves us — no ! this is beyond me ! — ^but 
 For this I had been happy — thou been happy — 
 The splendour of my rank sustain'd — my name — 
 My father's name — been still upheld; and, more 
 Than those 
 
 Jos. {abruptly.) I\Iy son — our son — our Ukic, 
 Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms. 
 And all a mother's hunger satisfied. 
 Twelve years ! he was but eight then ; — beautiful 
 He was, and beautiful he must be now. 
 My Ulric ! my adored ! 
 
 Wer. I have been full oft 
 
 The chase of Fortune ; now she hath o'ertaken 
 My spirit where it cannot turn at bay, — 
 Sick, poor, and lonely. 
 
 Jos. Lonely ! my dear husband ? 
 
 Wer. Or worse — involving all I love, in this 
 Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died. 
 And all been over in a nameless grave. 
 
 Jos. And I had not outlived thee ; but pray take 
 Comfort ! We have struggled long; and they who strive 
 With fortune win or weary her at last, 
 So that they find the goal or cease to feel 
 Further. Take comfort, — we shall find our boy. 
 
 Wer. We were in sight of him, of every thing 
 Which could bring compensation for past son-ow— 
 And to be baffled thus ! 
 
 Jos. We are not baffled. 
 
 Wer. Are we not pcnnyless ? 
 
 Jos. We ne'er were wealthy. 
 
 Wer. But I was bom to wealth, and rank, and 
 power ; 
 Enjoy'd them, love them, and, alas ! abused them. 
 And forfeited them by my father's wrath, 
 In my o'er-fervent youth ; but for the abuse 
 Long sufferings have atoned. My father's death 
 Left the path open, yet not without snares. 
 This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long 
 Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon 
 The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me 
 Become the master of my rights, and lord 
 Of that which hfts him up to princes m 
 Dominion and domain. 
 
 Jos. Who knows ? our son 
 
 May have return'd back to his grandsire, and 
 Even now uphold thy rights for thee ? 
 
Act I. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 317 
 
 Wer. 'T is hopeless. 
 
 Since his strange disappearance from my father's, 
 Entailing, as it were, my sins upon 
 HimselfJ no tidings have reveal'd his course. 
 I parted with him to his grandsire, on 
 The promise that his anger would stop short 
 Of the third generation ; but Heaven seems 
 To claim her stern prerogative, and visit 
 Upon my boy his father's faults and follies. 
 
 Jos. I must hope better still, — at least we have yet 
 Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim. 
 
 Wer. We should have done, but for this fatal sick- 
 ness ; 
 More fatal than a mortal malady, 
 Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace ; 
 Even now I feel my spii-it girt about 
 By the snares of this avaricious fiend ; — 
 How do I know he hath not track'd us here ? 
 
 Jos. He does not know thy person ; and his spies, 
 Who so long watch'd thee, have been left at Hamburgh. 
 Our unexpected journey, and this change 
 Of name, leaves all discovery far behind : 
 None hold us here for aught save what we seem. 
 Wer. Save what we seem ! save what we are — sick 
 beggars, 
 Even to our very hopes. — Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Jos. Alas ! 
 
 That bitter laugh ! 
 
 Wer. Who would read in this form 
 
 The high soul of the son of a long line ? 
 Who, in this garb, the heir of princely lands ? 
 Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 
 Of rank and ancestry ? in this worn cheek 
 And famine-hoUow'd brow, the lord of halls 
 Which daily feast a thousand vassals ? 
 
 Jos. You 
 
 Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things, 
 My Werner ! when you deign'd to choose for bride 
 The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 
 
 Wer. An exile's daughter with an outcast son 
 Were a fit marriage ; but I still had hopes 
 To lift thee to the state we both were born for. 
 Your father's house was noble, though decay'd ; 
 And worthy by its birth to match with ours. 
 
 Jos. Your father did not think so, though 't was noble ; 
 But had my birth been all my claim to match 
 With thee, I should have deem'd it what it is. 
 Wer. And what is that in thine eyes ? 
 Jos. All which it 
 
 Has done in our behalfj — nothing. 
 
 Wer. How, — nothing ? 
 
 Jos. Or worse ; for it has been a canker in 
 Thy heart from the beginning : but for this. 
 We had not felt our poverty but as 
 Millions of myriads feel it, cheerfully ; 
 But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers, 
 Thou mightst have earn'd thy bread, as thousands 
 
 earn it ; 
 Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce, 
 Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes. 
 
 Wer. (ironically.) And been an Hanseatic burgher ? 
 
 Excellent ! 
 Jos. Whate'er thou mightst have been, to me thou 
 art 
 What no state high or low can ever change, 
 My heart's first choice ; — which chose thee, knowing 
 
 neither 
 Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride ; naught, save thy 
 
 sorrows : 
 While they last, let me comfort or divide them ; 
 When they end, let mine end with them, or thee ! 
 
 Wer. My better angel ! such I have ever found thee ; 
 This rashness, or this weakness of my temper, 
 Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine. 
 Thou didst not mar my fortunes : my own nature 
 
 In youth was such as to unmake an empire. 
 Had such been my inheritance ; but now, 
 Chasten'd, subdued, out-worn, and taught to know 
 Myself, — to lose this for our son and thee ! 
 Trust me, when, in my tvvo-and-twentieth spring, 
 My father barr'd me from my father's house 
 The last sole scion of a thousand sires, 
 (For I was then the last,) it hurt me less 
 Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother 
 Excluded in their innocence from what 
 My faults deserved— exclusion ; although then 
 My passions were all living serpents, and 
 Twined like the gorgon's round me. 
 
 [-4 loud knocking is heard. 
 Jos. Hark! 
 
 Wer. A knocking' 
 
 Jos. Who can it be at this lone hour ? We have 
 Few visiters. 
 
 Wer. And poverty hath none. 
 
 Save those who come to make it poorer still. 
 Well, I am prepared. 
 
 [Werner puts his hand into his bosom, as if to 
 search for some weapon. 
 Jos. Oh ! do not look so. I 
 
 Will to the door. It cannot be of import 
 In this lone spot of wintry desolation : — 
 The very desert saves man from mankind. 
 
 [She goes to the door. 
 
 Enter Idensteiw. 
 Iden. A fair good evening to my fairer hostess 
 
 And worthy What's your name, my friend ? 
 
 Wer. Are you 
 
 Not afraid to demand it? 
 
 Iden. Not afraid? 
 
 Egad! I am afraid. You look as if 
 I asked for something better than your name, 
 By the face you put on it. 
 
 Wer. Better, sir! 
 
 Iden. Better or worse, hke matrimony : what 
 Shall I say more? You have been a guest this month 
 Here in the prince's palace— (to be sure. 
 His highness had resign'd it to the ghosts 
 And rats these twelve years — but 'tis still a palace) — 
 I say you have been our lodger, and as yet 
 We do not know your name. 
 
 Wer. My name is Werner. 
 
 Iden. A goodly name, a very worthy name 
 As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board: 
 I have a cousin in the lazaretto 
 Of Hamburgh, who has got a ^vife who bore 
 The same. He is an officer of trust. 
 Surgeon's assistant, (hoping to be surgeon,) 
 And has done miracles i' the way of business. 
 Perhaps you are related to my relative ? 
 Wer. To yours ? 
 
 Jos. Oh, yes ; we are, but distantly. 
 
 Cannot you humour the dull gossip till [Aside to Wer. 
 We learn his purpose ? 
 
 Iden. Well, I 'm glad of that ; 
 
 I thought so all along, such natural yearnmgs 
 Play'd round my heart : — blood is not water, cousin 
 And so let 's have some wine, and drink unto 
 Our better acquaintance : relatives should be 
 Friends. 
 
 Wer. You appear to have drank enough akeady ; 
 And if ypu had not, I 've no wine to offer. 
 Else it were yours: but this you know, or should know; 
 You see I am poor, and sick, and will not see 
 That I would be alone ; but to your business ! 
 What brings you here ? 
 Iden. Why, what should bring me here? 
 
 Wer. I know not, though I think that I could guess 
 That which will send you hence. 
 Jos. {aside.) Patience, dear Werner! 
 
318 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Iden. You do n't know what has happen'd, then ? 
 
 Jos. How should we? 
 
 Iden. The river has o'erflow'd, 
 
 Jos. Alas ! we have known 
 
 That to our sorrow for these five days ; since 
 It keeps us here. 
 
 Iden. But what you do n't know is, 
 
 That a great personage, who fain would cross 
 Against the stream and three postilions' wishes, 
 Is drpwn'd below the ford, witli five post-horses, 
 A monkey, and a mastiff', and a valet. 
 
 Jos. Poor creatures ! are you sure ? 
 
 Iden. Yes, of the monkey, 
 
 And the valet, and the cattle ; but as yet 
 We know not if his excellency 's dead - 
 Or no ; your noblemen are hard to drown, 
 As it is fit that men in office should be ; 
 But what is certain is, that he has swallow'd 
 Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants ; 
 And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller, 
 Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him from 
 The whirhng river, have sent on to crave 
 A lodging, or a grave, according as 
 It may turn out with the live or dead body. 
 
 Jos. And where will you receive him ? here, I hope, 
 If we can be of service — say the word. 
 
 Iden. Here ? no ; but in the prince's own apartment, 
 As fits a noble guest : — 't is damp, no doubt. 
 Not having been inhabited these twelve years ; 
 But then he comes from a much damper place, 
 So scarcely will catch cold in't, if he be 
 Slill liable to cold — and if not, why 
 He '11 be worse lodged to-morrow : ne'ertheless, 
 I have order'd fire and all appliances 
 To be got ready for the worst — that is, 
 In case he should survive. 
 
 Jos, Poor gentleman ! 
 
 I hope he will with all my heart. 
 
 Wer. Intendant, 
 
 Have you not learn'd his name ? My Josephine, 
 
 [Aside to his wife. 
 Retire: I'll sift this fool. [Exit Josephine. 
 
 Iden. His name? oh Lord! 
 
 Who knows if he hath now a name or no ? 
 'T is time enough to ask it when he 's able 
 To give an answer ; or if not, to put 
 His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought 
 Just now you chid me for demanding names ? 
 
 IVer. True, true, I did so ; you say well and wisely. 
 
 Enter Gab or. 
 
 Gab. If I intrude, I crave 
 
 Iden. Ohj no intrusion ! 
 
 This is the palace ; this a stranger like 
 Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home : 
 But where 's his excellency, and how fares he ? 
 
 Gab. Wetly and wearily, but out of peril : 
 He paused to change his garments in a cottage, 
 (Where I doff'd mine for these, and came on hither,) 
 And has almost recover'd from his drenching. 
 He will be here anon. 
 
 Iden. What ho, there ! bustle ! 
 
 Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad ! 
 
 [Gives directions to different servants who enter. 
 A nobleman sleeps here to-night — see that 
 All is in order in the damask chamber — 
 Keep up the stove — I will myself to the cellar — 
 And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger) 
 Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel ; for, 
 To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this 
 Within the palace precincts, since his highness 
 Left it some dozen years ago. And then 
 His excellency will sup, doubtless ? 
 
 Gab. ' Faith! 
 
 1 cannot tell : but I should think the pillow 
 
 Would please him better than the table after 
 His soaking in your river : but for fear 
 Your viands should be thrown away, I mean 
 To sup myself^ and have a friend without 
 Who will do honour to your good cheer with 
 A traveller's appetite. 
 
 Iden. But are you sure i 
 
 His excellency But his name : what is it ? • 
 
 Gab. I do not know. 
 
 Iden. And yet you saved his life. 
 
 Gab. I help'd my friend to do so. 
 
 Iden. Well, that 's strange 
 
 To save a man's life whom you do not know. 
 
 Gab. Not so ; for there are some I know so well, 
 I scarce should give myself the trouble. 
 
 Iden. Pray, 
 
 Good friend, and who may you be ? 
 
 Gab. By my family, 
 
 Hungarian. 
 
 Iden. Which is call'd? 
 
 Gab. It matters little. 
 
 Iden. (aside.) I think that all the world are grown 
 anonymous. 
 Since no one cares to tell me what he 's call'd ! 
 Pray, has his excellency a large suite ? 
 
 Gab. Sufficient. 
 
 Idea, How many ? 
 
 Gab. I did not count them. 
 
 We came up by mere accident, and just 
 In time to drag him through his carriage window. 
 
 Iden. Well, what would I give to save a great man! 
 No doubt you '11 have a swmging sum as recompense. 
 
 Gab. Perhaps. 
 
 Iden. Now, how much do you reckon on ? 
 
 Gab. I have not yet put up myself to sale : 
 In the meantime, my best reward would be 
 A glass of your Hockcheimer — a green glass, 
 Wreath'd with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices, 
 O'erflowing with the oldest of your vintage ; 
 For wMch I promise you, in case you e'er 
 Run hazard of being drown'd, (although I ovm 
 It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you,) 
 I '11 pull you out for nothing. Q^uick, my friend, 
 And think, for every bumper I shall quaff, 
 A wave the less may roll above your head. 
 
 Iden. (aside.) I do n't much like this fellow— close 
 and dry 
 He seems, two things which suit me not ; however. 
 Wine he shall have ; if that unlocks him not, 
 I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. 
 
 [Exit Idenstein. 
 
 Gab. (to Werner.) This master of the ceremonies is 
 The intendant of the palace, I presume : 
 'T is a fine building, but decay'd. 
 
 Wer. The apartment 
 
 Design'd for him you rescued will be foimd 
 In fitter order for a sickly guest. 
 
 Gab. I wonder tlien you occupied it not, 
 For you seem delicate in health. 
 
 Wer. (quickly.) Sir ! 
 
 Gab. Pray 
 
 Excuse me : have I said aught to offend you ? 
 
 Wer. Nothing : but we are strangers to each other. 
 
 Gab. And that 's the reason I would have us less so : 
 I thought our bustling guest without had said 
 You were a chance and passing guest, the counterpart 
 Of me and my companions. 
 
 Wer. Very true. 
 
 Gab. Then, as we never met before, and never, 
 It may be, may again encounter, why, 
 I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here 
 (At least to me) by asking you to share 
 The fare of my companions and myself. 
 
 Wer. Pray, pardon me ; my health 
 
 Gab. Even as you please^ 
 
Act I. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 319 
 
 I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 
 In bearing. 
 
 IVcr. 1 have also served, and can 
 Requite a soldier's greeting. 
 
 Gab. In what service ? 
 
 The Imperial? 
 Wer. {quickly, and then interrupting himself.) I com- 
 manded — no — I mean 
 I served ; but it is many years ago, 
 When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst 
 The Austrian. 
 
 Graft. Well, that's over now, and peace 
 
 Has tum'd some thousand gallant hearts adrift 
 To live as they best nmy ; and, to say truth, 
 Some take the shortest. 
 
 IVer. What is that? 
 
 Gab. Whate'er 
 
 They lay then- hands on. All Silesia and 
 Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands 
 .Of the late troops, who levy on the country 
 Their maintenance ; the Chatelains must keep 
 Their castle walls — beyond them 't is but doubtful 
 Travel for your rich count or full-blown baron. 
 My comfort is that, wander where I may, 
 I Ve little left to lose now. 
 
 Wer. And I — ^nothing. 
 
 Gab. That's harder still. You say you were a soldier. 
 Wer. I was. 
 
 Gab. You look one still. All soldiers are 
 
 Or should be comrades, even though enemies. 
 Our swords when drawn must cross, our engines aim 
 (While levell'd) at each other's hearts ; but when 
 A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 
 The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 
 The spark which lights the matchlock, we are brethren. 
 You are poor and sickly — I am not rich but healthy ; 
 I want for nothing which I cannot want ; 
 You seem devoid of this — wilt share it ? 
 
 (Gab OR puUs out his purse. 
 Wer. Who 
 
 Told you I was a beggar ? 
 
 Gab. You yourself 
 
 In saying you were a soldier during peace-time. 
 
 Wer. {looking at him with su^icion.) You know me 
 
 not? 
 Gab. I know no man, not even 
 
 Myself: how should I then know one I ne'er 
 Beheld till half an hour since ? 
 
 Wer. Sir, I thank you. 
 
 Your offer's noble were it to a friend, 
 And not unkind as to an unknown stranger, 
 Though scarcely prudent ; but no less I thank you. 
 I am a beggar in all save his trade ; 
 And when I beg of any one it shall be 
 Of him who was the first to offer what 
 Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. [JExit Wer. 
 Gab. {solus.) A goodly fellow by his looks, though 
 worn. 
 As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure, 
 Which tear life out of us before our time ; 
 I scarce know which most quickly : but he seems 
 To have seen better days, as who has not 
 Who has seen yesterday ? — But here approaches 
 Our sage intendant, with the wine : however, 
 For the cup's sake I '11 bear the cupbearer. 
 
 Enter Idenstein. 
 
 Iden. 'T is here ! the supernaculum ! twenty years 
 Of age, if 't is a day. 
 
 Gab. Which epoch makes 
 
 Young women and old wine ; and 't is great pity, 
 Of two such excellent things, increase of years. 
 Which still improves the one, should spoil the other. 
 Fill full — Here 'a to our hostesa ! — your fair wife ! 
 
 Takes the glass 
 
 Iden. Fair ! — Well, I trust your taste in wine is equal 
 To that you show for beauty ; but I pledge you 
 Nevertheless. 
 
 Gab. Is not the lovely woman 
 
 I met in the adjacent hall, vvho, with 
 An air, and port, and eye, which would have better.. 
 Beseem'd this palace in its brightest days, 
 (Though in a garb adapted to its present 
 Abandonment,) return'd my salutation — 
 Is not the same your spouse ? 
 
 Iden. I would she were ! 
 
 But you 're mistaken : — that 's the stranger's wife. 
 
 Gab. And by her aspect she might be a prince's : 
 Though time hath touch'd her too, she still retains 
 Much beauty, and more majesty. 
 
 Iden. And that 
 
 Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein, 
 At least m beauty : as for majesty, 
 She has some of its properties which might 
 Be spared — but never mind ! 
 
 Gab. I do n't. But who 
 
 May be this stranger? He too hath a bearing 
 Above his outward fortunes. 
 
 Iden. There I differ. 
 
 He 's poor as Job, and not so patient ; but 
 Who he may be, or what, or aught of him. 
 Except his name, (and that I only learn'd 
 To-night,) I knov/ not. 
 
 Gab. But hoAv came he here ? 
 
 Iden. In a most miserable old caleche. 
 About a month since, and immediately 
 Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died. 
 Gab. Tender and true !— but why ? 
 Iden. Why, v/hat is life 
 
 Without a living? He has not a stiver. 
 
 Gab. In that case, I much wonder that a person 
 Of your apparent prudence should admit 
 Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion. 
 
 Iden. That 's true ; but pity, as you know, does make 
 One's heart commit these follies ; and besides, 
 They had some valuables left at that time. 
 Which paid their way up to the present hour ; . 
 And so I thought they might as well be lodged 
 Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them 
 The run of some of the oldest palace rooms. 
 They served to air them, at the least as long 
 As they could pay for fire-wood. 
 
 Gab. Poor souls ! 
 
 Iden. Ay, 
 
 Exceeding poor. 
 
 Gab. And yet unused to poverty, 
 
 If I mistake not. Whither were they going? 
 
 Iden. Oh! Heaven knows where, unless to heaven 
 itself. 
 Some days ago that look'd the likeliest journey 
 For Werner. 
 
 Gab. Werner ! I have heard the name : 
 
 But it may be a feign'd one. 
 
 Iden. Like enough ! 
 
 But hark ! a noise of wheels and voices, and 
 A blaze of torches from without. As sure 
 As destiny, his excellency 's come. 
 I must be at my post : will you not join me, 
 To help him from his carriage, and present 
 Your humble duty at the door ? 
 
 Gab. I dragg'd him 
 
 From out that carriage when he would have given 
 His barony or county to repel 
 The rushing river from his gurgling throat. 
 He has valets now enough : they stood aloof then. 
 Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore, 
 All roaring, " Help !" but offering none ; and as 
 For duty (as you call it) — I did mine then, 
 Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him here' 
 Iden. I cringe ! — but I shall lose the opportunity- 
 
320 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Plague take it 
 
 he '11 be here, and I not there ! 
 
 [Exit Idenstein hastily. 
 
 Re-enter Werner. 
 
 Wer. (to himself.) I heard a noise of wheels and 
 voices. How 
 All sounds now jar me ! 
 
 Still here ! Is he not [Perceiving Gabor. 
 
 A spy of my pursuer's ? His frank offer 
 So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore 
 The aspect of a secret enemy ; 
 For friends are slow at such. 
 
 GaA. Sir, you seem rapt ; 
 
 And yet the time is not akin to thought. 
 These old walls will be noisy soon. The baron, 
 Or count, (or whatsoe'er this half-drown'd noble 
 May be,) for whom this desolate village and 
 Its lone inhabitants show more respect 
 Than did the elements, is come. 
 
 Iden. (without.) This way — 
 
 This way, your excellency : — have a care, 
 The staircase is a little gloomy, and 
 Somewhat decay'd ; but if we had expected 
 So high a guest — Pray take my arm, my lord! 
 
 Enter Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants — 
 
 partly his own, and partly retainers of the domain of 
 
 which Idenstein is Intendant. 
 
 Stral. I '11 rest me here a moment. 
 
 Iden. (to the sei'vants.) Ho! a chair! 
 
 instantly, knaves ! [Stralenheim sits down. 
 
 Wer. (aside.) 'Tishe! 
 
 Stral. I 'm better now. 
 
 Who are these strangers? 
 
 Iden. Please you, my good lord, 
 
 One says he is no stranger. 
 
 Wer. (aloud and hastily.) Who says that? 
 
 [They look at him with surprise. 
 
 Iden. Why, no one spoke of you, or to you I — but 
 Here 's one his excellency may be pleased 
 To recognise. [Pointing to Gabor. 
 
 Gab. I seek not to disturb 
 
 His noble memory. 
 
 Stral. I apprehend 
 
 This is one of the strangers to whose aid 
 I owe my rescue. Is not that the other ? 
 
 [Pointing to Werner. 
 My state when I was succour'd must excuse 
 My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 
 
 Iden. He ! — no, my lord ! he rather wants for rescue 
 Than can afford it. 'T is a poor sick man, 
 Travel-tired, and latel.y risen from a bed 
 From whence he never dream'd to rise, 
 
 Stral. Methought 
 
 That there were two. 
 
 Gab. There were, in company ; 
 
 But, in the service render'd to your lordship, 
 I needs must say but one, and he is absent. 
 The chief part of whatever aid was render'd 
 Was his: it was his fortune to be first. 
 My will was not inferior, but liis strengtli 
 And youth outstripp'd me ; therefore do not waste 
 Your thanks on me. I was but a glad second 
 Unto a nobler principal. 
 
 Stral. Where is he ? 
 
 An Alien. My lord, he tarried in the cottage where 
 Your excellency rested for an hour, 
 And said he would be here to-morrow. 
 
 Stral. Till 
 
 That hour arrives, I can but offer thanks, 
 And then 
 
 Gab. I seek no more, and scarce deserve 
 
 So much. My comrade may speak for himself. 
 
 Stral. (fixing his eyes upon Werner: then aside.) 
 It cannot be ! and vet he must be look'd to. 
 
 'T is twenty years since I beheld him with 
 
 These eyes ; and, though my agents still have 
 
 Theirs on him, policy has held aloof 
 
 My own from his, not to alarm him into 
 
 Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 
 
 At Hamburgh those who would have made assurance 
 
 If this be he or no ? I thought, ere now. 
 
 To have been lord of Sigendorf, and parted 
 
 In haste, though even the elements appear 
 
 To fight against me, and this sudden flood 
 
 May keep me prisoner here till 
 
 [He pauses, and looks at Werner ; tlien resumes. 
 This man must 
 Be watch'd. If it is he, he is so changed, 
 His father, rising from his grave again, 
 Would pass him by unknown. I must be wary: 
 An error would spoil all. 
 
 Iden. Your lordship seems 
 
 Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on ? 
 
 Stral. 'T is past fatigue which gives my weigh'd-dowr. 
 spirit 
 An outward show of thought. I will to rest. 
 
 Iden. The prince's chamber is prepared, with all 
 The very furniture the prince used when 
 Last here, in its full splendour. 
 
 (Aside.) Somewhat tatter'd. 
 And devilish damp, but fine enough by torchlight; 
 And that 's enough for your right noble blood 
 Of twenty quarterings upon a hatchment ; 
 So let their bearer sleep 'neath something like one 
 Now, as he one day will for ever Ue. 
 
 Stral. (rising and turning to Ga:bor.) Good night, good 
 people ! Sir, I trust to-morrow 
 Will find me apter to requite your semce. 
 In the meantime I crave your company 
 A moment in my chamber. 
 
 Gab. I attend you. 
 
 Stral. (after a few steps, pauses, and caUs Werner.) 
 
 Friend! 
 Wer. Sir ! 
 
 Iden. Sir ! Lord — oh Lord ! Why do n't you say 
 His lordship, or his excellency ? Pray, 
 My lord, excuse this poor man's want of breeding : 
 He hath not been accustom'd to admission 
 To such a presence. 
 Stral. (to Idenstein.) Peace, intendant 
 Iden. Oh ! 
 
 I am dumb. 
 Stral. (to Werner.) Have you been long here ? 
 Wer. Long? 
 Stral. I sought 
 
 An answer, not an echo. 
 
 Wer. You may seek 
 Both from the walls. I am not used to answer 
 Those whom I know not. 
 
 Stral. Indeed ! Ne'er the less, 
 
 You might reply with courtesy to what 
 Is ask'd in kindness. 
 
 Wer. When I know it such, 
 
 I will requite — that is, reply — in unison. 
 
 Stral. The intendant said, you had been detam'd by 
 sickness — 
 If I could aid you— journeying the same way ? 
 
 Wer. (quickly.) I am not journeying the same way 
 Stral. How know ye 
 
 That, ere you know my route ? 
 
 Wer. Because there is 
 
 But one way that the rich and poor must tread 
 Together. You diverged from that dread path 
 Some hours ago, and I some days : henceforth 
 Our roads must lie asunder, though they tend 
 All to one home. 
 
 Stral. Your language is above 
 
 Your station. 
 
 Wer. (bitterly.) Is it? 
 
Act L 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 321 
 
 Strcd. Or, at least, beyond 
 
 Your garb. 
 
 JVer. 'T is well that it is not beneath it, 
 
 As sometimes happens to the better clad. 
 But, in a word, what would you with me ? 
 
 Stral. (startled.) I? 
 
 Wer. Yes — you ! You know me not, and question me. 
 And wonder that I answer not — not knowing 
 My inquisitor. Explain what you would have, 
 And then I '11 satisfy yourself, or me. 
 
 Stral. I knew not that you had reasons for reserve. 
 
 JVer. Many have such: — Have you none? 
 
 Stral. None which can 
 
 Interest a mere stranger. 
 
 fVer. Then forgive 
 
 The same unknown and humble stranger, if 
 He wishes to remain so to the man 
 Who can have naught in common with him. 
 
 Stral. Sir, 
 
 I will not balk your humour, though untoward : 
 I only meant you service — but good night ! 
 Intendant, show the way ! {to Gabor.) Sir, you will 
 with me ? 
 [Exeunt StiIalenheim and Attendants ; Idew stein 
 and Gabor. 
 
 Wer. (solus.) 'T is he ! I am taken in the toils. Before 
 I quitted Hamburgh, Giulio, his late steward, 
 Inform'd me that he had obtain'd an order 
 From Brandenburgh's elector, for the arrest 
 Of I^xuitzner (such the name I then bore) when 
 I came upon the frontier ; the free city 
 Alone preserved my freedom — till I left 
 Its walls — fool that I was to quit them ! But 
 I deem'd this hurnble garb, and route obscure, 
 Had baffled the slow hounds in their pursuit. 
 What 's to be done ? He knows me not by person ; 
 Nor could aught, save the eye of apprehension, 
 Have recognised him^ after twenty years, 
 We met so rarely and so coldly in 
 Our youth. But those about him ! Now I can 
 Divine the frankness of the Hungarian, who 
 No doubt is a more tool and spy of Stralenheim's, 
 To sound and to secure me. Without means ! 
 Sick, poor — ^begirt too with the flooding rivers, 
 Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
 All the appliances which purchase modes 
 Of overpowering peril with men's lives, — 
 How can I hope ? An hour ago methought 
 My state beyond despair ; and now, 't is such, 
 The past seems paradise. Another day, 
 And I 'm detected, — on the very eve 
 Of honours, rights, and my inheritance. 
 When a few drops of gold might save me still 
 In favouring an escape. 
 
 Enter Idji'Sstein and'pRiTZ, in conversation. 
 
 Fritz. Immediately. 
 
 Iden. I tell you, 'tis impossible. 
 
 FVitz. It must 
 
 Be tried, however ; and if one express 
 Fail, you must send on others, till the answer 
 Arrives from Frankfort, from the commandant. 
 
 Iden. I will do what I can. 
 
 FVitz. And recollect 
 
 To spare no trouble ; you will be repaid 
 Tenfold. 
 
 Iden. The baron is retired to rest ? 
 
 Fritz. He hath thrown himself into an easy chair 
 Beside the fire, and slumbers ; and has order'd 
 He may not be disturb'd until eleven, 
 When he will take himself to bed. 
 
 Iden. Before 
 
 An hour is past I'll do my best to serve him. 
 
 Fritz. Remember ! [Eodt Fritz. 
 
 Iden, The devil take these great men ! they 
 
 20, 
 
 Think all things made for them. Now here must I 
 Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
 From their scant pallets, and, at peril of 
 Their lives, despatch them o'er the river towards 
 Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own experience 
 Some hours ago might teach him fellow-feeling: 
 But no, "it must,'^ and there 's an end. How now? 
 Are you there, Mynheer Werner ? 
 
 fVer. You have left 
 
 Your noble guest right quickly. 
 
 Iden. Yes — he 's dozing, 
 
 And seems to like that none should sleep besides. 
 Here is a packet for the commandant 
 Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses ; 
 But I must not lose time: Good night! [Exit Iden. 
 
 Wer. « To Frankfort !" 
 
 So, so, it thickens ! Ay, " the commandant.'' 
 This tallies well with all the prior steps 
 Of this cool, calculating fiend, who walks 
 Between me and my father's Jiouse. No doubt 
 He writes for a detachment to convey me 
 Into some secret fortress. — Sooner than 
 
 This 
 
 [Werner looks around j and snatches up a knife 
 lying on a table in a recess. 
 
 Now I am master of myself at least. 
 Hark, — footsteps ! How do I know that Stralenheira 
 Will wait for even the shov/ of that authority 
 Which is to overshadow usurpation ? 
 That he suspects me's certain. I'm alone; 
 He with a numerous train. I weak; he strong 
 In gold, in numbers, rank, authorily. 
 I nameless, or involving in my name 
 Destruciion, till I reach my own domain ; 
 He full-blown with his titles, which impose 
 Still further on these obscure petty burghers 
 Than they could do elsev/here. Hark 1 nearer still! 
 1 'II to the secret passage, which communicates 
 
 With the No ! all is silent — 't was my fancy ! — 
 
 Still as the breathless interval between 
 
 The flash and thunder : — I must hush my soul 
 
 Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire, 
 
 To see if still be unexplored the passage 
 
 I wot of: it will serve me as a den 
 
 Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst. 
 
 [Werner draws a pannel, and exit, doting ti 
 after him. 
 
 Enter Gabor and Josephine. 
 
 Gab. Where is your husband? 
 
 Jos. Here, I thought r I left him 
 
 Not long since in his chamber. But these rooms 
 Have many outlets, and he may be gone 
 To accompany the intendant. 
 
 Gab. Baron Stralenheim 
 
 Put many questions to the intendant on 
 The subject of your lord, and, to be plaiiiy 
 I have my doubts if he means well. 
 
 Jos. Alas r 
 
 What can there be in common with the proud 
 And wealthy baron and the unknown Werner? 
 
 Gab. That you know best. 
 
 Jos. Or, if it were so, how 
 
 Come you to stir yourself in his behalf, 
 Rather than that of him whose Ufe you saved ? 
 
 Gab. I help'd to save him, as in peril ; bat 
 I did not pledge myself to serve him in 
 Oppression. I know well these nobles, and 
 Their thousand modes of trampling on the poor. 
 I have proved them ; and my spirit boils up when 
 I find them practising against the weak : — 
 This is my only motive. 
 
 Jos. It would be 
 
 Not easy to persuade my oonsort of 
 Your good intentions. 
 
322 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act 11. 
 
 Qaib, Is he so suspicious ? 
 
 Jos. He was not once ; but time and troubles have 
 Made him what you beheld. 
 
 Gab. I 'm sorry for it. 
 
 Suspicion is a heav7 armour, and 
 With its own weight impedes more than protects. 
 Good night ! I trust to meet with him at daybreak. 
 
 [Eocit Gab OR. 
 
 Re-enter Idenstein and some Peasants, Josephine 
 retires up the Hall. 
 
 First Peasant. But if I 'm drovWd ? 
 
 Iden. Why, you will be well paid for 't, 
 And have risk'd more than drowning for as much, 
 I doubt not. 
 
 Second Peasant. But our wives and families ? 
 
 Iden. Cannot be worse off than they are, and may 
 Be better. 
 
 Third Peasant. I have neither, and will venture. 
 
 Iden. That's right. A gallant carle, and fit to be 
 A soldier. I '11 promote you to the ranks 
 In the prince's body-guard — if you succeed; 
 And you shall have besides in sparkUng coin 
 Two thalers. 
 
 Third Peasant. No more ! 
 
 Iden. Out upon your avarice ! 
 
 Can that low vice alloy so much ambition ? 
 I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in 
 Small change will subdivide into a treasure. 
 Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 
 Risk lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler? 
 When had you half the sum ? 
 
 Third Peasant. Never— but ne'er 
 
 The less I must have three. 
 
 Iden. Have you forgot 
 
 Whose vassal you were bom, knave ? 
 
 Third Peasant. No — the prince's. 
 
 And not the stranger's. 
 
 Iden. Sirrah ! in the prince's 
 
 Absence, I 'm sovereign ; and the baron is 
 My intimate connexion : — " Cousin Idenstein 
 (duoth he) you '11 order out a dozen villains." 
 And so, you villains ! troop — march — march, I say : 
 And if a single dog's-ear of this packet 
 Be sprinkled by the Oder — look to it I 
 For every page of paper, shall a hide 
 Of yours be stretch'd as parchment on a drum, 
 Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 
 Refractory vassals, who can not effect 
 Impossibilities — away, ye earth-worms ! 
 
 [Eait, driving them out. 
 
 Jos. {coming forward.) I fain would shun these 
 scenes, too oft repeated. 
 Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims ; 
 I cannot aid, and will not witness such. 
 Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot, 
 The dimmest in the district's map, exist 
 The insolence of wealth in poverty 
 O'er something poorer still — the pride of rank 
 In servitude, o'er something still more servile ; 
 And vice in misery affecting still 
 A tatter'd splendour. What a state of being ! 
 In Tuscany, my own dear sunny land, 
 Our nobles were but citizens and merchants. 
 Like Cosmo, We had evils, but not such 
 As these ; and our all-ripe and gushing valleys 
 Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb 
 Was in itself a meal, and every vine 
 Rain'd, as it were, the beverage which makes glad 
 The heart of man ; and the ne'er unfelt sun 
 (But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leaving 
 His warmth behind in memory of his beams) 
 Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less 
 Oppressive than an emperor's jewell'd purple. 
 But, here ! tlie despots of the north appear 
 
 To imitate the ice-wind of their clime. 
 
 Searching the shivering vassal through his rags, 
 
 To wring his soul — as the bleak elements 
 
 His form. And 'tis to be among these sovereigns 
 
 My husband pajits ! and such his pride of birth — 
 
 That twenty years of usage, such as no 
 
 Father born in a humble state could nerve 
 
 His soul to persecute a son withal. 
 
 Hath changed no atom of his early nature ; 
 
 But I, born nobly also, from my father's 
 
 Kindness was taught a different lesson. Father ! 
 
 May thy long-tried and now rewarded spirit 
 
 Look down on us and our so long desired 
 
 Ulric ! 1 love my son, as thou didst me ! 
 
 What 's that ? Thou, Werner ! can it be ? and thus ? 
 
 Enter Werner hastily^ with the hnife in his hand, by the 
 secret pannel, which he closes hurriedly after him. 
 
 IVer. {not at Jirst recognising her.) Disco ver'd ! then 
 I '11 stab— — {recognising her.) 
 
 Ah! Josephine, 
 Why art thou not at rest 1 
 
 Jos. What rest ? My God ! 
 
 What doth this mean ? 
 
 Wer. {showing a roideau.) Here 's gold — gold, Jose- 
 phine, 
 Will rescue us from this detested dungeon. 
 
 Jos. And how obtain'd ? — that knife ! 
 
 Wer. 'T is bloodless — yet. 
 
 Away — we must to our chamber. 
 
 Jos. But whence comest thou ? 
 
 Wer. Ask not ! but let us think where we shall go— 
 This — this will make us way — {showing the gold.) — I '11 
 fit them now. 
 
 Jos. I dare not think thee guilty of dishonour. 
 
 Wer. Dishonour! 
 
 Jos. I have said it. 
 
 Wer. Let us hence : 
 
 'T is the last night, I trust, that we need pass here. 
 
 Jos. And not the worst, I hope. 
 
 Wer. Hope ! I make sure. 
 
 But let us to our chamber. 
 
 Jos. Yet one question — 
 
 What hast thou done ? 
 
 Wer. {fiercely.) Left one thing undone, which 
 
 Had made all well : let me not think of it! 
 Away ! 
 
 Jos. Alas, that I should doubt of tliee ! [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 Scene I. — A Hall in the same Palace. 
 Enter Idenstein and Others. 
 
 Iden. Fine doings ! goodly doings ! honest doings ! 
 A baron pillaged in a prince's palace ! 
 "Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er was heard of. 
 
 Fritz. It hardly could, unless the rats despoil'd 
 The mice of a few shreds of tapestry. 
 
 Iden. Oh ! that I e'er should Uve to see this day ! 
 The honour of our city 's gone for ever. 
 
 Fitz. Well, but now to discover the delinquent 
 The baron is determined not to lose 
 This sum without a search. 
 
 Iden. And so am I. 
 
 Fritz. But whom do you suspect ? 
 
 Iden. Suspect ! all people 
 
 Without — within — above — ^below — Heaven help me ! 
 
 Fritz, Is there no other entrance to the chamber ? 
 
 Iden. None whatsoever. 
 
 Fritz. Are you sure of that ? 
 
 Iden. Certain. I have lived and served here 
 my birth, 
 
Act II. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 323 
 
 And if there were such, must have heard of such, 
 Or seen it. 
 
 Fritz. Then it must be some one who 
 Had access to the antechamber. 
 
 Iden. Doubtless, 
 
 Fritz. The man calVd Werner 'spoor! 
 
 Iden. Poor as a miser, 
 
 But lodged so far offj in the other %vin?, 
 By which there 's no communication with 
 The baron's chamber, that it can't be he. 
 Besides, I bade him. "good night" in the hall, 
 Almost a mile off. and which only leads 
 To his own apartment, about the same time 
 When this burglarious, larcenous felony 
 Appears to have been committed. 
 
 Fritz. There 's another, 
 
 The stranger 
 
 Iden. The Hungarian ? 
 
 Fritz. He who help'd 
 
 To fish the baron from the Oder. 
 
 Iden. Not 
 
 Unlikely. But, hold — might it not have been 
 One of the suite '? 
 
 Fritz. How? n^e, Sir! 
 
 Idm. No — not you, 
 
 But some of the inferior knaves. You say 
 The baron was asleep in the great chair — 
 The velvet chair — in his embroider'd night-gown ; 
 His toilet spread before him, and upon it 
 A cabinet with letters, papers, and 
 Several rouleaux of gold : of which one only 
 Has disappear'd: — the door unbolted, with 
 No difficult access to any. 
 
 Fritz. Good sir, 
 
 Be not so quick ; the honour of the corps 
 Which forms the baron's household 's unimpeach'd 
 From steward to sculhon, save in the fair way 
 Of peculation ; such as in accompts. 
 Weights, measures, larder, cellar, buttery. 
 Where all men take their prey ; as also in 
 Postage of letters, gathering of rents. 
 Purveying feasts, and understanding with 
 The honest trades who furnish noble masters: 
 But for your petty, picking, downright thievery. 
 We scorn it as we do board-wages. Then 
 Had one of our folks done it, he would not 
 Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard 
 His neck for one rouleau, but have swoop'd all ; 
 Also the cabinet, if portable. 
 
 Idm. There is some sense in that 
 
 Fritz. No, sir, be sure 
 
 'T was none of our corps ; but some petty, trivial 
 Picker and stealer, without art or genius. 
 The only question is — Who else could have 
 Access, save the Hungarian and yourself? 
 
 Iden. You don't mean me ? 
 
 Fritz. No, sir ; I honour more 
 
 Your talents 
 
 Idm. And my principles, I hope. 
 
 Fritz. Of course. But to the point : What 's to be 
 done? 
 
 Iden. Nothing — but there 's a good deal to be said. 
 We '11 offer a reward ; move heaven and earth. 
 And the police, (though there 's none nearer than 
 Frankfort ;) post notices in manuscript, 
 (For we 've no printer;) and set by my clerk 
 To read them , (for few can, save he and I.) 
 We '11 send out villains to strip beggars, and 
 Search empty pockets ; also, to arrest 
 All gipsies, and ill-clothed and sallow people. 
 Prisoners we 'II have at least, if not the culprit ; 
 And for the baron's gold — if 't is not found. 
 At least he shall have the full satisfaction 
 Of melting twice its substance in the raising 
 The ghost of this rouleau. Here 's alchymy 
 
 For your lord's losses ! 
 
 Fritz. He hath found a better. 
 
 Iden. Where ? 
 
 Fritz. In a most immense inheritance. 
 
 The late Count Siegendoi-^ his distant kinsman. 
 Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and ray lord 
 Is on his way to take possession. 
 
 Iden. Was there 
 
 No heir? 
 
 Fritz. Oh, yes ; but he has disappear'd 
 Long from the world's eye, and perhaps the world. 
 A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban 
 For the last twenty years ; for whom his sire 
 Refused to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore, 
 If living, he must chew the husks still. But 
 The baron would find means to silence him, 
 Were he to reappear : he 's politic. 
 And has much influence with a certain court. 
 
 Iden. He 's fortunate, 
 
 Fritz. 'T is true, there is a grandson, 
 
 Whom the late count reclaim'd from his son's hands, 
 And educated as his heir; but then 
 His birth is doubtful. 
 
 Iden. How so ? 
 
 Fritz. His sire made 
 
 A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage, 
 With an ItaUan exile's dark-eyed daughter: 
 Noble, they say, too ; but no match for such 
 A house as Siegendorfs, The grandsire ill 
 Could brook the alliance ; and could ne'er be brought 
 To see the parents, though he took the son. 
 
 Iden. If he's a lad of mettle, he may yet 
 Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may 
 Puzzle your baron to unravel. 
 
 Fritz. Why, 
 
 For mettle, he has quite enough : they say. 
 He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
 And grandsire's qualities, — impetuous as 
 The former, and deep as the latter ; but 
 The strangest is, that he too disappear'd 
 Some months ago, 
 
 Iden. The devil he did ! 
 
 Fritz. Why, yes : 
 
 It must have been at his suggestion, at 
 An hour so critical as was the eve 
 Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken by it. 
 
 Iden. Was there no cause assign'd? 
 
 Fritz. Plenty, no doubt, 
 
 And none perhaps the true one. Some averr'd 
 It was to seek his parents ; some because 
 The old man held his spirit in so strictly, 
 (But that could scarce be, for he doted on him;) 
 A third believed he wish'd to serve in war, 
 But peace being made soon after his departure, 
 He might have since retum'd, were that the motive ; 
 A fourth set charitably have surmised. 
 As there was something strange and mystic in him, 
 That in the wild exuberance of his nature 
 He had join'd the black bands, who lay waste Lusatia, 
 The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia, 
 Since the last years of war had dwindled into 
 A kind of general condottiero system 
 Of bandit warfare ; each troop with its chief, 
 And all against mankind. 
 
 Iden. That cannot be 
 
 A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury. 
 To risk his life and honours with disbanded 
 Soldiers and desperadoes! 
 
 Fritz. Heaven best knows ! 
 
 But there are human natures so alhed 
 Unto the savage love of enterprise. 
 That they will seek for peril as a pleasure. 
 I 've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian, 
 Or tame the tiger, though their infancy 
 Were fed on milk and honey. After all, 
 
324 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act IL 
 
 Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus, 
 Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar, 
 Were but the same thing upon a grand scale ; 
 And now that they are gone, and peace proclaim'd, 
 They who would follow the same pastime must 
 Pursue it on their own account. Here comes 
 The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
 Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape, 
 But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 
 Until this morning. 
 
 Enter Stralenheim and Ulric. 
 
 Sired. Since you have refused 
 All compensation, gentle stranger, save 
 Inadequate thanks, you almost check even them, 
 Maliing me feel tlie worthlessness of words, 
 And blush at my own barren gratitude, 
 Thej' seem so niggardly compared with what 
 Your courteous courage did in my behalf 
 
 Ulr. I pray you press the theme no further. 
 
 Stral. But 
 
 Can I not serve you ? You are young, and of 
 That mould which throws out heroes : fair in favour ; 
 Brave, I know, by my living now to say so ; 
 And doubtlessly, with such a form and heart, 
 Would look into the fiery eyes of war, 
 As ardently for glory as you dared 
 An obscure death to save an unknown stranger 
 In an as perilous, but opposite element. 
 You are made for the service : I have served ; 
 Have rank by birth and soldiership, and friends, 
 Who shall be yours. 'T is true this pause of peace 
 Favours such views at present scantily ; 
 But 't will not last, men's spirits are too stirring ; 
 And, after thirty years of conflict, peace 
 Is but a petty war, as the times show us 
 In every forest, or a mere arm'd truce. 
 War will reclaim his own ; and, in the meantime, 
 You might obtain a post, which would ensure 
 A higher soon, and, by my influence, fail not 
 To rise. I speak of Brandenburg, wherein 
 I stand well with the elector; in Bohemia, 
 Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now 
 Upon its frontier. 
 
 Ulr. You perceive my garb 
 
 Is Saxon, and of course my service due 
 To my own sovereign. If I must decline 
 Your offer, 't is with the same feeling which 
 Induced it. 
 
 Stral. Why, this is mere usury ! 
 
 I owe my life to you, and you refuse 
 The acquittance of the interest of the debt, 
 To heap more obligations on me, till 
 I bow beneath them. 
 
 Ulr. You shall say so when 
 
 I claim the payment. 
 
 Stral, Well, sir, since you will not — 
 
 You are nobly born? 
 
 Ulr. I have heard my kinsmen say so. 
 
 Stral. Your actions show it. Might I ask your name ? 
 
 Ulr. Ulric. 
 
 Stral. Your house's ? 
 
 Ulr. When I 'm worthy of it, 
 
 I'll answer you. 
 
 Stral. (itside.) Most probably an Austrian, 
 Whom these unsettled times forbid to boast 
 His Uneage on these wild and dangerous frontiers, 
 Where the name of his country is abhorr'd. 
 
 [Aloud to Fritz and Idenstejn. 
 So, sirs! how havfi ye sped in your researches ? 
 
 Jden. Indifferent well, your excellency. 
 
 Stral. Then 
 
 I am to deem the plunderer is caught ? 
 
 /dew. Humph 1— not exactly. 
 
 Stral. Or at least suspected? 
 
 Jden. Oh ! for that matter, very much suspected. 
 
 Stral. Who may he be ? 
 
 Iden. Why, do n't you know, my lord? 
 
 Stral. How should I? I was fa^st asleep. 
 
 Iden. And so 
 
 Was I, and that 's the cause I know no more 
 Than does your excellency. 
 
 Stral. ' Dolt ! 
 
 Iden. Why, if 
 
 Your lordship, being robb'd, don't recognise 
 The rogue ; how should I, not being robb'd, identify 
 The thief among so many ? In the crowd, 
 May it please your excellency, your thief looks 
 Exactly like the rest, or rather better : 
 'T is only at the bar and in the dungeon 
 That wise men know your felon by his features; 
 But I '11 engage, that if seen there but once, 
 Whether he be found criminal or no, 
 His face shall be so. 
 
 Stral. {to Fritz.) Prithee, Fritz, inform me 
 What hath been done to trace the fellow ? 
 
 Fritz. Faith ! 
 
 My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture. 
 
 Stral. Besides the loss (which, I must own, affects 
 me 
 Just now materially) I needs would find 
 The villain out of public motives ; for 
 So dexterous a spoiler, who could creep 
 Through my attendants, and so many peopled 
 And lighted chambers, on my rest, and snatch 
 The gold before my scarce-closed eyes, would soon 
 Leave bare your borough. Sir Intendant ! 
 
 Iden. True ; 
 
 If there were aught to carry off, my lord. 
 
 Ulr. What is all this? 
 
 Stral. You join'd us but this morning, 
 
 And have not heard that I was robb'd last night. 
 
 Ulr. Some rumour of it reach'd me as I pass'd 
 The outer chambers of the palace, but 
 I know no further. 
 
 Stral. It is a strange business ; 
 
 The intendant can inform you of the facts. 
 
 Iden. Most willingly. You see 
 
 Stral. (impatiently.) Defer your tale, 
 
 Till certain of tlie hearer's patience. 
 
 Iden. That 
 Can only be approved by proofs. You see 
 
 Stral. (again inteirupting him, and addressing Ulric.) 
 In short, I was asleep upon a chair, 
 My cabinet before me, with some gold 
 Upon it, (more than I much like to lose, 
 Though in part only:) some ingenious person 
 Contrived to glide through all my own attendants, 
 Besides those of the place, and bore away 
 A hundred golden ducats, which to find 
 I would be fain, and there 's an end. Perhaps 
 You (as I still am rather faint) would add 
 To yesterday's great obligation, this. 
 Though slighter, not yet slights to aid these men 
 (Who seem but lukewarm) in recovering it? 
 
 Ulr. Most willingly, and without loss of time — 
 (To Idenstein.) Come hither, mynheer! 
 
 Iden. But so much haste bodes 
 
 Right little speed, and 
 
 Ulr. Standing motionless 
 
 None ; so let 's march : we '11 talk as we go on. 
 
 Iden. But^— 
 
 Ulr. Show the spot, and then I '11 answer you. 
 
 Fritz. I will, sir, with his excellency's leave. 
 
 Stral. Do so, and take yon old ass with you. 
 
 Fritz. Hence ! 
 
 Ulr. Come on, old oracle, expound thy riddle ! 
 
 [Exit with Idenstein and Fritz. 
 
 Stral. (solus.) A stalwart, active, soIdierJooking 
 stripling, 
 
Acr II. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 325 
 
 Handsome as Hercules ere his first labour, 
 
 And with a brow of thought beyond his years 
 
 When in repose, till his eye kindles up 
 
 In answering yours. I wish I could engage hira : 
 
 I have need of some such spirits near me now, 
 
 For this inheritance is worth a struggle. 
 
 And though I am not the man to yield without one. 
 
 Neither are they who now rise up between me 
 
 And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold one ; 
 
 But he hath pla^d the truant in some hour 
 
 Of freakish folly, leaving fortune to 
 
 Champion his claims. That 's well. The father, whom 
 
 For years I Ve track'd, as does the blood-hound, never 
 
 In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me 
 
 To fault ; but here 1 have him, and that 's better. 
 
 It must be he ! All circumstance proclaims it ; 
 
 And careless voices, knowing not the cause 
 
 Of my inquiries, still confirm it — Yes! 
 
 The man, his bearing, and the mystery 
 
 Of his arrival, and the time ; the account, too, 
 
 The intendant gave (for I have not beheld her) 
 
 Of his wife's dignified but foreign aspect ; 
 
 Besides the antipathy with which we met, 
 
 As snakes and lions shrink back from each other 
 
 By secret instinct that both must be foes 
 
 Deadly, without being natural prey to either ; 
 
 All — all — confirm it to my mind. However, 
 
 We '11 grapple, ne'ertheless. In a few hours 
 
 The order comes from Frankfort, if these waters 
 
 Rise not the higher, (and the weather favours 
 
 Their quick abatement,) and I '11 have him safe 
 
 Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 
 
 His real estate and name ; and there ' s no harm done, 
 
 Should he prove other than I deem. This robbery 
 
 (Save for the actual loss) is lucky also : 
 
 He 's poor, and that 's suspicious — he 's unknown, 
 
 And that 's defenceless. — True, we have no proofs 
 
 Of guilt, but what hath he of innocence ? 
 
 Were he a man indifferent to my prospects, 
 
 In other bearings, I should rather lay 
 
 The inculpation on the Hungarian, who 
 
 Hath something which I lil^e not ; and alone 
 
 Of all around, except the intendant, and 
 
 The prince's household and my own, had ingress 
 
 Familiar to the chamber. 
 
 Enter Gabor. 
 
 Friend, how fare you ? 
 
 Gab. As those who fare well everywhere, when they 
 Have supp'd and slumber'd, no great matter how — 
 And you, my lord ? 
 
 Stral. Better in rest than purse : 
 
 Mine inn is like to cost me dear. 
 
 Gab. I heard 
 
 Of your late loss ; but 't is a trifle to 
 One of your order. 
 
 Stral. You would hardly think so, 
 
 Were the loss yours. 
 
 Gab. I never had so much 
 
 (At once) in my whole life, and therefore am not 
 Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you. 
 Your couriers are turn'd back — I have outstrip! them, 
 In my return. 
 
 Stral. You!— Why? 
 
 Gab. I went at daybreak, 
 
 To watch for the abatement of the river, 
 As being artxious to resume my journey. 
 Your messengers were all check'd like myself; 
 And, seeing the case hopeless, I await 
 The current's pleasure. 
 
 Stral. Would the dogs were in it ! 
 
 Why did they not, at least, attempt the passage ? 
 I order'd this at all risks. 
 
 Gab. Could you order 
 
 The Oder to divide, as Moses did 
 
 The Red Sea, (scarcely redder than the flood 
 Of the swoln stream,) and be obey'd, perhaps 
 They might have ventured. 
 
 Stral. I must see to it: 
 
 The knaves ! the slaves ! — but they shall smart for this, 
 [Exit Stralenhein. 
 
 Gab. (solics.) There goes my noble, feudal, self- 
 wili'd baron ! 
 Epitom6 of what brave chivalry 
 The preux chevaliers of the good old times 
 Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 
 His lands, (if he hath any,) and, still dearer. 
 His sixteen quarterings, for as much fresh air 
 As would have fiU'd a bladder, while he lay 
 Gurgling and foaming halfway through the window 
 Of his o'erset and water-logg'd conveyance; 
 And now he storms at half a dozen wretches 
 Because they love their lives too ! Yet, he 's right: 
 'T is strange they should, when such as he may put them 
 To hazard at his pleasure. Oh ! thou world ! 
 Thou art indeed a melancholy jest ! [Exit Gabor. 
 
 ScEBTE II. — T%e Apartment of Werner, in the Palace. 
 Enter Josephine and Ulric. 
 
 Jos. Stand back, and let me look on thee again ! 
 My Ulric ! — my beloved ! — can it be — 
 After twelve years ? 
 
 Ulr. My dearest mother ! 
 
 Jos. Yes ! 
 
 My dream is realized — how beautiful! — 
 How more than all I sigh'd for! Heaven receive 
 A mother's thanks ! — a mother's tears of joy ! 
 This is indeed thy work ! — At such an hour, too, 
 He comes not only as a son, but saviour. 
 
 Ulr. If such a joy await me, it must double 
 What I now feel, and lighten from my heart 
 A part of the long debt of duty, not 
 Of love (for that was ne'er withheld) — forgive me , 
 This long delay was not my fault. 
 
 Jos. I know it, 
 
 But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt 
 If I e'er felt it, 't is so dazzled from 
 My memory, by this oblivious transport ! — 
 My son ! 
 
 Enter Werner. 
 
 Wer. What have we here, more strangers ? 
 
 Jos. No ! 
 
 Look upon him ! What do you see ? 
 
 Wer. A stripling, 
 
 For tlie first time 
 
 Ulr. (kneeling.) For twelve long years, my father! 
 
 Wer. Oh, God ! 
 
 Jos. He faints ! 
 
 Wer. No — I am better now — 
 
 Ulric! (Embraces, him.) 
 
 Ulr. My father, Siegendorf ! 
 
 Wer. (starting.) Hush ! boy — 
 
 The walls may hear that name ! 
 
 Ulr. " What then ? 
 
 Wer. Why, then— 
 
 But we will talk of that anon. Remember, 
 I must be known here but as Werner. Come ! 
 Come to my arms again ! Why, thou look'st all 
 I should have been, and was not. Josephine ! 
 Sure 't is no father's fondness dazzles me ; 
 But had I seen that form amid ten thousand 
 Youth of the choicest, my heart would have chosen 
 This for my son ! 
 
 Ulr. And yet you knew me not! 
 
 Wer. Alas ! I have had that upon my soul 
 Which makes me look on all men with an eye 
 That only knows the evil at first glance. 
 
 Ulr. My memory served me far more fondly : I 
 Have not forgotten aught ; and ofttimes in 
 
326 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 The proud and princely halls of— (I '11 not name them, 
 
 As you say that 't is perilous) — but i' the pomp 
 
 Of your sire's feudal mansion, I look'd back 
 
 To the Bohemian mountains many a sunset, 
 
 And wept to see another day go down 
 
 O'er thee and me, with those huge hills between us. 
 
 They shall not part us more. 
 
 JVer. I know not that. 
 
 Are you aware my father is no more ? 
 
 Ulr. Oh heavens I I left him in a green old age, 
 And looking like the oak, worn, but still steady 
 Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees 
 Fell fast around him. 'T was scarce three months since. 
 
 Wer. Why did you leave him ? 
 Jos. {embracing Ulric.) Can you ask that question? 
 Is he not here ? 
 
 JVer. True ; he hath sought his parents. 
 
 And found them ; but, oh ! how, and in what state ! 
 
 Ulr. All shall be better'd. What we have to do 
 [s to proceed, and to assert our rights, 
 Or rather yours ; for I waive all, unless 
 Your father has disposed in such a sort 
 Of his broad lands as to make mine the foremost, 
 So that I must prefer my claim for form : 
 But I trust better, and that all is yours. 
 
 Wer. Have you not heard of Stralenheim ? 
 
 Ulr. I saved 
 
 His life but yesterday : he 's here. 
 
 Wer. You saved 
 
 The serpent who wUl sting us all ! 
 
 Ulr. You speak 
 
 Riddles : what is this Stralenheim to us ? 
 
 Wer. Every thing. One who claims our father's 
 lands : 
 Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. 
 
 Ulr. I never heard his name till now. The count, 
 Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, who, 
 [f his own line should fail, might be remotely 
 Involved in the succession ; but his titles 
 Were never named before me — and what then ? 
 His right must yield to ours. 
 
 Wer. Ay, if at Prague : 
 
 But here he is all-powerful ; and has spread 
 Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto 
 He hath escaped them, is by fortune, not 
 By favour. 
 
 Ulr. Doth he personally know you ? 
 
 Wer. No ; but he guesses shrewdly at my person, 
 As he betray'd last night; and I, perhaps. 
 But owe my temporary liberty 
 To his uncertamty. 
 
 Ulr. I think you \vrong him, 
 
 (Excuse me for the phrase ;) but Stralenheim 
 Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so. 
 He owes me something both for past and present. 
 I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me. 
 He hath been plunder'd too, since he came hither: 
 Is sick ; a stranger ; and as such not now 
 Able to trace the villain who hath robb'd him: 
 I have pledged myself to do so ; and the business 
 Which brought me here was chiefly that : but I 
 Have found, in searching for another's dross. 
 My own whole treasure — ^you, my parents ! 
 
 Wer. {agitatedly.) Who 
 
 Taught you to mouth that name of " villain ?" 
 
 Ulr. What 
 
 More noble name belongs to common thieves ? 
 
 Wer. Who taught you thus to brand an unlmo^vn 
 being 
 With an infernal stigma ? 
 
 Ulr. My own feelings 
 
 Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds. 
 
 Wer. Who taught you, long-sought and ill-found 
 boy ! that 
 It would be safe for my own son to insult me*^ 
 
 Ulr. I named a villain. What is there in common 
 With such a being and my father ? 
 
 Wer. Every thing ! 
 
 That ruffian is thy father ! 
 
 Jos. Oh, my son! 
 Believe him not — and yet! {her mice falters.) 
 
 Ulr. {starts, looks earnestly at Werner, and then 
 says slowly) And you avow it? 
 
 Wer. Ulric, before you dare despise your father, 
 Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, 
 Rash, new to life, and rear'd in luxury's lap. 
 Is it for you to measure passion's force, 
 Or misery's temptation? Wait — (not long. 
 It Cometh like the night, and quickly) — Wait !— 
 Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted — till . 
 Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin 
 Famine and poverty your guests at table ; 
 Despair your bedfellow — then rise, but not 
 From sleep, and judge ! should that day e'er arrive— 
 Should you see then the serpent, who hath coil'd 
 Himself around all that is dear and noble 
 Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path, 
 With but his folds between your steps and happiness, 
 When he, who lives but to tear from you name, 
 Lands, life itself^ lies at your mercy, with 
 Chance your conductor ; midnight for your mantle ; 
 The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep, 
 Even to your deadliest foe; and he as 'twere 
 Inviting death, by looking like it, while 
 His death alone can save you : — Thank your God ! 
 If then, like me, content widi petty plunder. 
 You turn aside 1 did so. 
 
 Ulr. But 
 
 Wer. {abruptly.) Hear me! 
 
 I will not brook a human voice — scarce dare 
 Listen to my own (if that be human still) — 
 Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do. 
 He's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
 Deem yourself safe, as young and brave ; but learn 
 None are secure from desperation, few 
 From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
 Housed in a prince's palace, couch'd within 
 A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! 
 An instant — a mere motion — ^the least impulse — 
 Had swept him and all fears of mine from earth. 
 He was within my power — my knife was raised — 
 Withdrawn — and I 'm in his : — are you not so ? 
 Who tells you that he knows you not 7 Who says 
 He hath not lured you here to end you ? or 
 To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon? 
 
 \IIe 'pauses. 
 
 Ulr. Proceed — -proceed ! 
 
 Wer. Me he hath ever known, 
 
 And hunted through each change of time — name — 
 
 fortune — 
 And why not you7 Are you more versed in men? 
 He wound snares round me ; flung along my path 
 Reptiles, whom, in my youth. I would have spum'd 
 Even from my presence ; but, in spurning now, 
 Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be 
 More patient? Ulric! — Ulric! — there are crimes 
 Made venial by the occasion, and temptations 
 Which nature cannot master or forbear. 
 
 Ulr. {looks first at him, and then at Josephine.) 
 My mother ! 
 
 Wer. Ay ! I thought so : you have now 
 
 Only one parent. I have lost alike 
 Father and son, and stand alone. 
 
 Ulr. But stay ! 
 
 [Werner rushes out of the chamber. 
 
 Jos. {to Ulric.) Follow him not until this storm of 
 passion 
 Abates. Think'st thou, that were it well for him, 
 I had not foUow'd ? 
 
 Ulr. I obey you, mother. 
 
Act II. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 327 
 
 Although reluctantly. My first act shall not 
 Be one of disobedience. 
 
 Jos. Oh ! he is good ! 
 
 Condemn him not from his own mouth, but trust 
 To me, who have borne so much with him, and for him. 
 That tliis is but the surface of his soul, 
 And that the depth is rich in better tilings. 
 
 Ulr. These then are but my father's principles ? 
 My mother thinks not with him ? 
 
 Jos. Nor doth he 
 
 Think as he speaks. Alas ! long years of grief 
 Have made him sometimes thus. 
 
 Ulr. Explain to me 
 
 More clearly, then, these claims of Stralenheim. 
 That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
 I may prepare to face him, or at least 
 To extricate you from your present perils. 
 I pledge myself to accomplish this — but would 
 I had arrived a few hours sooner ! 
 
 Jos. Ay ! 
 
 Hadst Utiou but done so ! 
 
 Enter Gabor and Idenstein, with Attendunts. 
 
 Gab. {to Ulric.) I have sought you, comrade. 
 
 So this is my reward ! 
 
 Ulr. What do you mean ? 
 
 Gab. 'Sdeath ! have I lived to these years, and for 
 tliis! 
 ( To Idenstein.) But for your age and folly, I would 
 
 Ide7i. Help ! 
 
 Hands off! Touch an mtendant! 
 
 Gab. Do not think 
 
 I '11 honour you so much as save your throat 
 From the Ravenstone* by choking you myself. 
 
 Iden. I thank you for the respite ; but there are 
 Those who have greater need of it than I. 
 
 Ulr. Unriddle this vile wrangling, or 
 
 Gab. At once, then, 
 
 The baron has been robb'd, and upon me 
 This worthy personage has deign'd to fix 
 His kind suspicions — me ! whom he ne'er saw 
 Till yester evening, 
 
 Iden. Wouldst have me suspect 
 
 My oviTi acquaintances ? You have to learn 
 That I keep better company. 
 
 Gab. You shall 
 
 Keep the best shortly, and the last for all men, 
 The worms ! you hound of malice ! 
 
 [Gabor seizes on him. 
 
 Ulr. {interfering.) Nay, no violence : 
 
 He 's old, unarm'd — be temperate, Gabor ! 
 
 Gab. {letting go Idensteij?.) True: 
 
 I am a fool to lose myself because 
 Fools deem me knave : it is their homage. 
 
 Ulr. {to Idenstein.) How 
 
 Fare you? 
 
 Iden. Help! 
 
 Ulr. I have help'd you. 
 
 Iden. Kill him ! then 
 
 I '11 say so. 
 
 Gab. I am calm — ^live on! 
 
 Iden. That's more 
 
 Than you shall do, if there be judge or judgment 
 In Germany. The baron shall decide ! 
 
 Gab. Does he abet you in your accusation ? 
 
 Iden. Does he not? 
 
 Gitb. Then next time let him go sink 
 
 Ere I go hang for snatching him from drovFning. 
 But here he comes ! 
 
 Enter Stralenheim. 
 Gab. {goes up to him.) My noble lord, I'm here! 
 
 * The Ravensloue, " Ravenstein," ia the stone gibbet of Germany, 
 bnd so calkd from Uie ravens perching on it. 
 
 Stral. Well, sir ! 
 
 Gab. Have you aught with me ? 
 
 Stral. What should I 
 
 Have with you ? 
 
 Gab. You know best, if yesterday's 
 
 Flood has not vvash'd avvay your memory ; 
 But that 's a trifle. I stand here accused. 
 In phrases not equivocal, by yon 
 Intendant, of the pillage of your- person 
 Or chamber : — is the charge your own or his ? 
 
 Stral. I accuse no man. 
 
 Gab. Then you acquit me, baron ? 
 
 Stral. I know not whom to accuse, or to acquit, 
 Or scarcely to suspect. 
 
 Gab. But you at least 
 
 Should know whom not to suspect. I am insulted — 
 Oppress'd here by these menials, and I look 
 To you for remedy — teach them their duty I 
 To look for thieves at home were part of it, 
 If duly taught ; but, in one word, if 1 
 Have an accuser, let it be a man 
 Worthy to be so of a man like me. 
 I am your equal. 
 
 Stral. You ! 
 
 Gab. Ay, sir ; and, for 
 
 Aught that you know, superior; but proceed — 
 I do not ask for hints, and surmises. 
 And circumstance, and proofs ; I know enough 
 Of what I have done for you, and what you owe me, 
 To have at least waited your payment rather 
 Than paid mysellj had I been eager of 
 Your gold. I also know that were I even 
 The villain I am deem'd, the service render'd 
 So recently would not permit you to 
 Pursue me to the death, except through shame, 
 Such as would leave your scutcheon but a blank. 
 But this is nothing : I demand of you 
 Justice upon your unjust servants, and 
 From your own hps a disavowal of 
 All sanction of their insolence : thus much 
 You owe to the imknowTi, who asks no more. 
 And never thought to have ask'd so much. 
 
 Stral. This tone 
 
 May be of innocence. 
 
 Gab. 'Sdeath! who dare doubt it, 
 
 Except such villains as ne'er had it? 
 
 Stral. You 
 
 Are hot, sir. 
 
 Gab. Must I turn an icicle 
 
 Before the breath of menials, and their master? 
 
 Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ; I found him in 
 Your company. 
 
 Gab. We found you in the Oder 
 
 Would we had left you there ! 
 
 Stral. I give you thanks, sir. 
 
 Gab. I've eam'd them; but might have eam'd more 
 from others. 
 Perchance, if I had lefi; you to your fate. 
 
 Stral. Uhic ! you know this man ? 
 
 Gab. No more than you do, 
 
 If he avouches not my honour. 
 
 Ulr. I 
 
 Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my 
 Own brief connexion led me, honour. 
 
 Stral. Then 
 
 I 'm satisfied. 
 
 Gab. {ironically.) Right easily, methinks. 
 What is the spell in his asseveration 
 More than in mine? 
 
 Stral. I merely said that J 
 
 Was satisfied — not that you are absolved. 
 
 Gab. Again ! Am I accused or no ? 
 
 Stral. Goto! 
 
 You wax too insolent. If circumstance 
 And general suspicion be against you. 
 
328 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Is the fault mine ? Is 't not enough that I 
 Decline all question of your guilt or innocence ? 
 
 Gab. IVIy lord, my lord, this is mere cozenage, 
 A vile equivocation ; you well know 
 Your doubts are certainties to all around you — 
 Your looks a voice — your frov\-ns a sentence ; you 
 Are practising your power on me — because 
 You have it ; but beware ! you know not whcwn 
 You strive to tread on. 
 
 Stral. Threat'st thou ? 
 
 Gab. Not so much 
 
 As you accuse. You hint the basest injury, 
 And I retort it with an open warning. 
 
 Stral. As you have said, 't is true I owe you some- 
 thing, 
 For which you seem disposed to pay yourself. 
 
 Gab. Not with your gold. 
 
 Stral. With bootless insolence. 
 
 [To Ms Attenda-nts and Idexsteix. 
 You need not further to molest this man. 
 But let him go his N'v-ay. Ulric, good morrow! 
 
 {Eocit Strai.enheim:, Idexsteik, and Attendants. 
 
 Gab. (following.) I '11 after him and 
 
 Ulr. (stopping him.) Not a step. 
 
 Gab. Who shaU 
 
 Oppose me ? 
 
 VJr. Your own reason, with a moment's 
 
 Thouglit. 
 
 Gab. Must I bear this? 
 
 Ulr. Pshaw ! we all must bear 
 
 The arrogance of something higher than 
 Ourselves — the highest cannot temper Satan, 
 N'or tlie lowest his \-icegerents upon earth. 
 t 've seen you brave the elements, and bear 
 Things which had made this silkworm cast his skin — 
 And shrink you from a few sharp sneers and words ? 
 
 Gab. JNIust I bear to be deem'd a thief? If 't were 
 A bandit of the woods, I could have borne it — 
 There 's something daring in it ; — but to steal 
 The moneys of a slumbering man I — 
 
 Ulr. It seems, then, 
 
 STou are rwt guilty ? 
 
 Gab. Do I hear aright? 
 
 Vou too ! 
 
 Ulr. I merely ask'd a simple question. 
 
 Gab. If the judge ask'd me, I would answer " No" — 
 To you I answer thus. (He draws.) 
 
 Ulr. (drawing.) With all my heart ! 
 
 Jos. Without there ! Ho ! help ! help !— Oh God ! 
 here 's murder ! [Exit Josephik^e, shrieking. 
 
 Gabor and Ulric ^ght. Gabor is disarmed just as 
 Stralenheim, Josephine, LoEWsxEia^, ^c. re-enter. 
 
 Jos. Oh ! glorious heaven ! He 's safe \ 
 
 Stral. (to JosEPHiifE.) WTio 's safe? 
 
 Jos. My 
 
 Ulr. (interrupting her with a stem look^ and turning 
 afterwards to SxRALEXHEiii.) Both ! 
 
 Here's no great harm done. 
 
 Stral. What hath caused all this ? 
 
 Ulr. You, baron, I believe ; but as the effect 
 Is harmless, let it not disturb you. — Gabor ! 
 There is your sword; and when you bare it next, 
 Let it not be against your friends. 
 
 [Ulric proTiounces the last words slowly and empho' 
 
 tically in a low voice to Gab ok. 
 Gab. 1 thank you 
 
 Less for my life than for your counsel. 
 
 Stral. These 
 
 Brawls must end here. 
 
 Gab. (taking his sword.) They shall. You have 
 wrong'd me, Uhic, 
 More with your imkind thoughts than sword: I would 
 The last were in my bosom rather than 
 
 The first in yours. I could have borne yon noble's 
 
 Absurd insinuations — ignorance 
 
 And dull suspicion ai-e a part of his 
 
 Intail will last him longer than his lands. — 
 
 But I may fit him yet : — you have vanquish'd me. 
 
 I was the fool of passion to conceive 
 
 That I could cope with you, whom I had seen 
 
 Already proved by greater perils than 
 
 Rest in this arm. We may meet by and by, 
 
 However — but in fiiendship. [Exit Gabgr. 
 
 Stral. 1 will brook 
 
 No more ! This outrage following up his insults, 
 Perhaps his guilt, has cancelFd all the Uttle 
 I owed him heretofore for the so-vaunted 
 Aid which he added to your abler succour. 
 Ulric; you are not hurt ? — 
 
 Ulr. Not even by a scratch. 
 
 Stral. (to Idexsteln .) Intendant 1 take your measures 
 to secure 
 Yon fellow : I revoke my former lenity. 
 He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort 
 The instant that the waters have abated. 
 
 Iden. Secure him ! He hath got his sword again — 
 And seems to know the use on 't ; 't is his trade, 
 Belike ; — I 'm a ci\Than. 
 
 Stral. Fool ! are not 
 
 Yon score of vassals dogging at your heels 
 Enough to seize a dozen such ? Hence ! after him ! 
 Ulr. Baron, I do beseech you ! 
 Stral. I must be 
 
 Obey'd. No words ! 
 
 Iden, Well, if it must be so— 
 
 March, vassals ! I *m your leader, and will bring 
 The rear up : a wise general never should 
 Expose his precious life-^n which all rests. 
 I like that article of war. 
 
 [Eait Ideitstein omd Aitendants. 
 Stral. Come hither, 
 
 Ulric : what does that woman here ? Oh ! now 
 I recognise her, 't is the strcinger's wife 
 Whom they name " Werner." 
 
 Ulr. 'T is his name. 
 
 Stral. Indeed ! 
 
 Is not your husband visible, fair dame ? — 
 Jos. Who seeks him ? 
 
 Stral. No one — for the present : but 
 
 I fain would parley, Ulric, with yourself 
 Alone. 
 
 Ulr. I will retire with you. 
 Jos. Not so: 
 
 You are the latest stranger, and command 
 All places here. 
 (Aside to Ulric as she goes out.) O Ulric ! have a 
 
 care — 
 Remember what depends on a rash word ! 
 
 Ulr. (to JosEPHiXE.) Fear not! — 
 
 [Exit Josephine. 
 Stral. Ulric, I think that I may trust you : 
 You saved my life — and acts like these beget 
 Unbounded confidence. 
 
 Ulr. Say on. 
 
 Stral. Mysterious 
 
 And long-engender'd circumstances (not 
 To be now fully enter'd on) have made 
 This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to me. 
 Ulr. Who ? Gabor, the Hungarian? 
 Stral. No — this « Werner"— 
 
 With the false name and habit. 
 
 Ulr. How can this be ? 
 
 He is the poorest of the poor — and yellow 
 Sickness sits cavem'd in his hollow eye : 
 The man is helpless. 
 
 Stral. He is — 't is no matter ; — 
 
 But if he be the man I deem (and that 
 He \s so, all around us here — and much 
 
Act III. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 a29 
 
 That is not here — confirm my apprehension) 
 
 He must be made secure ere twelve hours further. 
 
 Ulr. And what have I to do with this ? 
 
 Stral. I have sent 
 
 To Frankfort, to the governor, my friend, 
 (I have the authority to do so by 
 An order of the house of Brandenburg,) 
 For a fit escort — but this cursed flood 
 Bars all access, and may do for some hours. 
 
 Uir. It is abating. 
 
 Stral. That is well. 
 
 Ulr. But how 
 
 Am I concern'd ? 
 
 Stral. As one who did so much 
 
 For me, you cannot be indifferent to 
 That which is of more import to me than 
 The life you rescued. — Keep your eye on him! 
 The man avoids me, knows that I now know him. — 
 Watch him ! — as you would watch the wild boar when 
 He makes against you in the hunter's gap — 
 Like him he must be spear'd. 
 
 Ulr. Why so ? 
 
 Stral. He stands 
 
 Between rne and a brave inheritance! 
 Oh ! could you see it ! But you shall. 
 
 Ulr. I hope so. 
 
 Stral. It is the richest of the rich Bohemia, 
 Unscathed by scorching war. It Ues so near 
 The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword 
 Have skimm'd it lightly : so that now, besides 
 Its own exuberance, it bears double value 
 Confronted with whole realms far and near 
 Made deserts. 
 
 Ulr. You describe it faithfully. 
 
 Stral. Ay — could you see it, you would say so — 
 but, 
 As I have said, you shall. 
 
 Ulr. I accept the omen. 
 
 Stral. Then claim a recompense from it and me, 
 Such as both may make worthy your acceptance 
 And services to me and mine for ever. 
 
 Ulr. And this sole, sick, and miserable wretch — 
 This way-worn stranger — stands between you and 
 This Paradise ? — (As Adam did between 
 The devil and his)— [Aside.] 
 
 Stral. He doth. 
 
 Ulr. Hath he no right ? 
 
 Stral. Right! none. A disinherited prodigal, 
 Who for these twenty years disgraced his lineage 
 In all his acts — but chiefly by his marriage, 
 And living amidst commerce-fetching burghers, 
 And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews. 
 
 Ulr. He has a wife, then ? 
 
 Stral. You 'd be sorry to 
 
 Call such your mother. You have seen the woman 
 He calls his wife. 
 
 Ulr. Is she not so ? 
 
 Stral. No more 
 
 Then he 's your father : — an ItaUan girl, 
 The daughter of a banish'd man, who lives 
 On love and poverty with this same Werner. 
 
 Ulr. They are childless, then ? 
 
 Stral. There is or was a bastard, 
 
 Whom the old man — the grandsire (as old age 
 Is ever doting) took to warm his bosom, 
 As it went chilly downward to the grave : 
 But the imp stands not in my path — he has fledj 
 No one knows whither ; and if he had not. 
 His claims alone were too contemptible 
 To stand. Why do you smile 1 
 
 Ulr. At your vain fears : 
 
 A poor man almost in his grasp — a child 
 Of doubtful binh — can startle a grandee ! 
 
 Stral. All 's to be fear'd, where all is to be gain'd. 
 
 Ulr. True : and aught done to save or to obtain it, 
 2R 
 
 Stral. You have harp'd the very string next to my 
 heart. 
 I may depend upon you ? 
 
 tJlr. 'T were too late 
 
 To doubt it. 
 
 Stral. Let no foolish pity shake 
 
 Your bosom (for the appearance of the man 
 Is pitiful)— he is a wretch, as likely 
 To have robb'd me as the fellow more suspected, 
 Except that circumstance is less against him ; 
 He being lodged far off", and in a chamber 
 Without approach to mine : and, to say truth, 
 I think too well of blood allied to mine, 
 To deem he would descend to such an act : 
 Besides he was a soldier, and a brave one 
 Once — though too rash. 
 
 Ulr- And they, my lord, we know 
 
 By our experience never plunder till 
 They knock the brains out first — which makes thera 
 
 heirs. 
 Not thieves. The dead, who feel naught, can lose 
 
 nothing, 
 Nor e'er be robb'd : their spoils are a bequest- 
 No more. 
 
 Stral. Go to ! you are a wag. But say 
 I may be sure you 'il keep an eye on this man, 
 And let me know Iris slightest movement towards. 
 Concealment or escape ? 
 
 Ulr. You may be sure 
 
 You yourself could not watch him more than I 
 Will be his sentinel. 
 
 Stral. By this you make me 
 
 Yours, and for ever. 
 
 Ulr, Such is my intention. [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — A hall in the same Palace, from whence the 
 secret Passage leads. 
 
 Enter Werner and Gabor. 
 
 Gab. Sir, I have told my tale : if it so please you 
 To give me refoge for a few hours, well — 
 If not, I 'il try my fortune elsewhere. 
 
 Wer. How 
 
 Can I, so wretched, give to misery 
 A shelter ? — wanting such myself as much 
 As e'er the hunted deer a covert 
 
 Gab. Or 
 
 The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinks 
 You rather look like one would turn at bay, 
 And rip the hunter's entrails. 
 
 Wer, Ah? 
 
 Gab. I care not 
 
 If it be so, being much disposed to do 
 The same rsyself But will you shelter me ? 
 I am oppress'd like you — and poor like you— 
 Disgraced 
 
 JVer. (abruptly.) Who told you that I was disgraced? 
 
 Gab. No one ; nor did I say you were so : with 
 Your poverty my likeness ended; but 
 I said I was so — and would add, with truth, 
 As undeservedly as you. 
 
 TVer. Again \ 
 
 As I'] 
 
 Gab. Or any other honest man. 
 AVhat the devil would you have ? You do n't believe me 
 Guilty of this base theft ? 
 
 Wer. No, no — I cannot. 
 
 Gab. Why that's my heart of honour! yon young 
 gallant— 
 Your miserly intendant and dense noble — 
 All — all suspected me ; and why ? because 
 
330 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 I am the worst-clothed, and least named among them ; 
 
 Although, were Momus' lattice in our breasts, 
 
 My soul might brook to open it more widely 
 
 Than theirs : but thus it is — you poor and helpless — 
 
 Both still more than myself. 
 
 Wer. How know you that ? 
 
 Gab. You 're right : I ask for shelter at the hand 
 Which I call helpless ; if you now deny it, 
 I were well paid. But you, who seem to have proved 
 The wholesome bitterness of life, know well. 
 By sympathy, that all the outspread gold 
 Of the New World the Spaniard boasts about 
 Could never tempt the man who knows its worth, 
 Weigh'd at its proper value in the balance. 
 Save in such guise (and there I grant its power, 
 Because I feel it) as may leave no nightmare 
 Upon his heart o' nights. 
 
 Wer. What do you mean ? 
 
 Gab. Just what I say; I thought my speech was 
 plain : 
 You are no thief— nor I — and, as true men. 
 Should aid each other. 
 
 Wer. It is a damn'd world, sir. 
 
 Gab. So is the nearest of the two next, as 
 The priests say, (and no doubt they should know 
 
 best,) 
 Therefore I '11 stick by this — as being loth 
 To suffer martyrdom, at least with such 
 An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb. 
 It is but a night's lodging which I crave ; 
 To-morrow I will try the waters, as 
 The dove did, trusting that they have abated. 
 
 Wer. Abated ? Is there hope of that ? 
 
 Gab. There was 
 
 At noontide. 
 
 Wer. Then we may be safe. 
 
 Gab. Are you 
 
 In peril ? 
 
 PVer. Poverty is ever so. 
 
 Gab. That I know by long practice. Will you not 
 Promise to make mine less ? 
 
 Wei: Your poverty ? 
 
 Gab. No — you do n't look a leech for that disorder ; 
 I meant my peril only : you 've a roo^ 
 And I have none ; I merely seek a covert. 
 
 Wer. Rightly ; for how should such a wretch as I 
 Have gold? 
 
 Gab. Scarce honestly, to say the truth on 't, 
 
 Although I almost wish you had the baron's. 
 
 Wer. Dare you insinuate? 
 
 Gab. What ? 
 
 Wer. Are you aware 
 
 To whom you speak? 
 
 Gab. No ; and I am not used 
 
 Greatly to care. {A noise heard without.) But hark! 
 they come ! 
 
 Wer. Who come ? 
 
 Gab. The intendant and his man-hounds after me; 
 I 'd face them — but it were in vain to expect 
 Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I go? 
 But show me any place. I do assure you. 
 If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless : 
 Think if it were your own case ! 
 
 Wer. {Aside.) Oh, just God ! 
 
 Thy hell is not hereafter ! Am I dust still ? 
 
 Gab. I see you 're moved ; and it shows well in you : 
 I may live to requite it. 
 
 Wer. Are you not 
 
 A spy of Stralenheim's? 
 
 Gab. Not I ! and if 
 
 I were, what is there to espy in you? 
 Although I recollect his frequent question 
 About you and your spouse might lead to some 
 Suspicion ; but you best know — what — and why. 
 I am his deadhest foe. 
 
 Wer. You? 
 
 Gab. After such 
 
 A treatment for the service which in part 
 I render'd him, I am his enemy : 
 If you are not his friend, you will assist me. 
 
 Wer. I will. 
 
 Gab. But how? 
 
 Wer. {showing the pannel.) There is a secret spring: 
 Remember, I discover'd it by chance. 
 And used it but for safety. 
 
 Gab. Open it. 
 
 And I will use it for the same. 
 
 Wer. I found it, 
 
 As I have said : it leads through winding walls, 
 (So thick as to bear paths within their ribs, 
 Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness,) 
 And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
 I know not whither ; you must not advance : 
 Give me your word. 
 
 Gab. It is unnecessary : 
 
 How should I make my way in darkness through 
 A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings ? 
 
 Wer. Yes, but who knows to what place it may 
 lead? 
 / know not — (mark you!) — but who knows it might not 
 Lead even into the chamber of your foe ? 
 So strangely were contrived these galleries 
 By our Teutonic fathers in old days, 
 When man built less against the elements 
 Than his next neighbour. You must not advance 
 Beyond the two first windings ; if you do, 
 (Albeit I never pass'd them,) I '11 not answer 
 For what you may be led to. 
 
 Gab. But I will. 
 
 A thousand thanks ! 
 
 Wer. You '11 find the spring more obvious 
 
 On the other side ; and, when you would return, 
 It yields to the least touch. 
 
 Gab. I 'II in— farewell ! 
 
 [Gabor goes in by the secret panel. 
 
 Wer. {solus.) What have I done ? Alas ! what had 
 I done 
 Before to make this fearful? Let it be 
 Still some atonement that I save the man. 
 Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my own — 
 They come ! to seek elsewhere what is before them ! 
 
 Enter Idenstein and Others. 
 
 Iden, Is he not here ? He must have vanish'd then 
 Through the dim gothic glass by pious aid 
 Of pictured saints upon the red and yellow 
 Casements, through which the sunset streams like sun- 
 rise 
 On long pearl-colour'd beards and crimson crosses, 
 And gilded crosiers, and cross'd arms, and cowls, 
 And helms, and twisted armour, and long swords, 
 All the fantastic furniture of windows 
 Dim uith brave knights and holy hermits, whose 
 Likeness and fame alike rest in some panes 
 Of crystal, which each rattling wind proclaims 
 As frail as any other life or glory. 
 He's gone, however. 
 
 Wer. Whom do you seek? 
 
 Iden. A villain 
 
 Wer. Why need you come so far, then ? 
 
 Iden. In the search 
 
 Of him who robb'd the baron. 
 
 Wer. Are you sure 
 
 You have divined the man? 
 
 Iden. As sure as you 
 
 Stand there : but where 's he gone ? 
 
 Wer. Who? 
 
 Id-en. He we sought. 
 
 Wer. You see he is not here. 
 
 Iden. And yet we traced him 
 
Act III. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 331 
 
 Up to this hall. Are you accomplices 7 
 Or deal you in the black art ? 
 
 Wer. I deal plainly, 
 
 To many men the blackest. 
 
 Iden. It may be 
 
 I have a question or two for yourself 
 Hereafter ; but we must continue now 
 Our search for t'other. 
 
 Wer. You had best begin 
 
 Your inquisition now: I may not be 
 So patient always. 
 
 Iden. I should like to know, 
 
 In good sooth, if you really are the man 
 That Stralenheim 's in quest of. 
 
 Wer. Insolent ! 
 
 Said you not that he was not here ? 
 
 Iden. Yes, one; 
 
 But there 's another whom he tracks more keenly, 
 And soon, it may be, with authority 
 Both paramount to his and mine. But, come ! 
 Bustle, my boys ! we are at fault. 
 
 [Exit Idenstein and Attendants. 
 Wer. In what 
 
 A maze hath my dim destiny involved me ! 
 And one base sin hath done me less ill than 
 The leaving undone one far greater. Down, 
 Thou busy devil, rising in my heart ! 
 Thou ai-t too late ! I '11 naught to do with blood. 
 
 Enter Ulric. 
 
 JJlr. I sought you, father. 
 
 Wer. Is 't not dangerous ? 
 
 Ulr. No ; Stralenheim is ignorant of all 
 Or any of the ties between us : more — 
 He sends me here a spy upon your actions. 
 Deeming rae wholly his. 
 
 Wer. I cannot think it : 
 
 'T is but a snare he winds about us both, 
 To swoop the sire and son at once. 
 
 Ulr. I cannot 
 
 Pause in each petty fear, and stumble at 
 The doubts that rise like briers in our path, 
 But must break through them, as an unarm'd carle 
 Would, though with naked limbs, were the wolf rustling 
 In the same thicket where he hew'd for bread. 
 Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so: 
 We '11 overfly or rend them. 
 
 Wer. Show me how? 
 
 Ulr. Can you not guess? 
 
 Wer, I cannot. 
 
 Ulr. That is strange. 
 
 Came the thought ne'er into your mind last night ? 
 
 Wer. I understand you not. 
 
 Ulr. Then we shall never 
 
 More understand each other. But to change 
 The topic ■ 
 
 Wer. You mean to pursue it, as 
 
 'T is of our safety. 
 
 Ulr. Right ,• I stand corrected. 
 
 I see the subject now more clearly, and 
 Our general situation in its bearings. 
 The waters are abating ; a few hours 
 Will bring his summon'd myrmidons from Frankfort, 
 When you Avill be a prisoner, perhaps worse. 
 And I an outcast, bastardized by practice 
 Of this same baron to make way for him. 
 
 Wer. And now your remedy ! I thought to escape 
 By means of this accursed gold ; but now 
 I dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it. 
 Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt 
 For motto, not the mintage of the state ; 
 And, for the sovereign's head, my own begirt 
 With hissing snakes, which curl around my temples, 
 And cry to all beholders, Lo ! a villain 1 
 
 Ulr. Yon must not use it, at least now ; but take 
 This ring. [He gives Werner a jewel. 
 
 Wer. A gem ! It was my father's ! 
 Ulr. And 
 
 As such is now your o\ra. With this you must 
 Bribe the intendant for his old caleche 
 And horses to pursue your route at sunrise. 
 Together with my mother. 
 
 Wer. And leave you. 
 
 So lately found, in peril too ? 
 
 C/?r. Fear nothing ! 
 
 The only fear were if we fled together, 
 For that would make our ties beyond all doubt. 
 The waters only lie in flood between 
 This burgh and Frankfort ; so far 's in our favour. 
 The route on to Bohemia, though encumber'd, 
 Is not impassable ; and when you gain 
 A few hours' start, the difficulties will be 
 The same to your pursuers. Once beyond 
 The frontier, and you 're safe. 
 
 Wer. My noble boy ! 
 
 Ulr. Hush I hush ! no transports : we '11 indulge in 
 In Castle Siegendorf ! Display no gold: [them 
 
 Show Idenstein the gem, (1 know the man. 
 And have look'd through him :) it will answer thus 
 A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold — 
 JVo jewel: therefore it could not be his; 
 And then the man who was possest of this 
 Can hardly be suspected of abstracting 
 The baron's coin, when he could thus convert 
 This ring to more than Stralenheim has lost 
 By his last night's slumber. Be not over timid 
 In your address, nor yet too arrogant, 
 And Idenstein will serve you. 
 
 Wer. I wUl follow 
 
 In all things your direction. 
 
 Ulr. I would have 
 
 Spared you the trouble ; but had I appear'd 
 To take an interest in you, and still more 
 By dabbling with a jewel in your favour. 
 All had been known at once. 
 
 Wer. My guardian angel ! 
 
 This overpays the past. But how wilt thou 
 Fare in our absence ? 
 
 Ulr. Stralenheim knows nothing 
 
 Of me as aught of kindred with yourself. 
 I will but wait a day or two with him 
 To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father. 
 Wer. To part no more ! 
 
 Ulr. I know not that; but at 
 
 The least v/e '11 meet again once more. 
 
 Wer. My boy ! 
 
 My friend ! my only child, and sole preserver ! 
 Oh, do not hate me ! 
 
 Ulr. Hate my father ! 
 
 Wer. Ay, 
 
 My father hated me. Why not my son ? 
 Ulr. Your father knew you not as I do. 
 Wer. Scorpions 
 
 Are in thy words ! Thou know me ? in this guise 
 Thou canst not Imow me, I am not myself; 
 Yet (hate me not) I will be soon. 
 
 Ulr. I^Hwaii! 
 
 In the mean time be sure that all a son 
 Can do for parents shall be done for mine. 
 Wer. I see it, and I feel it ; yet I feel 
 Further — that you despise me. 
 
 Ulr. Wherefore should I 
 
 We)'. Must I repeat my humiliation? 
 Ulr. No! 
 
 I have fathom'd it and you. But let us talk 
 Of this no more. Or if it must be ever. 
 Not now. Your error has redoubled all 
 The present difficulties of our house, 
 At secret war with that Stralenheim : 
 
332 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act Iir. 
 
 All we have now To lliink of is to baffle 
 Him. I have shown one way. 
 
 TVer. The only one, 
 
 And I embrace it, as I did my son, 
 Who show'd himself and father's safety in 
 One day. 
 
 Utr. Yon shall be safe ; let that suffice. 
 Would Stralenheim's appearance in Bohemia 
 Disturb your right, or mine, if once we were 
 Admitted to our lands ? 
 
 TVer. Assuredly, 
 
 Situate as we are now, although the first 
 Possessor might, as usual, prove the strongest, 
 Especially the next in blood. 
 
 Ulr. Blood! 'tis 
 
 A word of many meanings ; in the veins 
 And out of them, it is a different thing — 
 And so it should be, when the same in blood 
 (As it is call'd) are aliens to each other, 
 Like Theban brethren : when a part is bad, 
 A few spilt ounces purify the rest. 
 
 JVer. I do not apprehend you. 
 
 Ulr. That may be— 
 
 And should, perhaps — and yet but get ye ready ; 
 
 You and my mother must away to-night. 
 
 Here comes the intendant: sound him with the gem; 
 
 'T will sink into his venal soul like lead 
 
 Into the deep, and bring up slime and mud. 
 
 And ooze too, from the bottom, as the lead doth 
 
 With its greased understratum ; but no less 
 
 Will serve to warn our vessels through these shoals. 
 
 The freight is rich, so heave the line in time ! 
 
 Farewell ! I scarce have time, but yet your hand. 
 
 My father! 
 
 Wer. Let me embrace thee ! 
 
 Ulr. We may be 
 
 Observed : subdue your nature to the hour ! 
 Keep off from me as from your foe ! 
 
 TVer. Accursed 
 
 Be he who is the stifling cause which smothers 
 The best and sweetest feeling of our hearts; 
 At such an hour too ! 
 
 Ulr. Yes, curse — it will ease you ! 
 
 Here is the intendant. 
 
 Eiiter Idenstein 
 
 Master Idenstein, 
 How fare you in your purpose ? Have you caught 
 The rogue ? 
 
 Iden. No, faithi 
 
 Ulr. Well, there are plenty more : 
 
 You may liave better luck another chase. 
 Where is the baron ? 
 
 Iden. Gone back to his chamber : 
 
 And now I think on 't, asking after you 
 With nobly-born impatience. 
 
 Ulr. Your great men 
 
 Must be answer'd on the instant, as the bound 
 Of the stung steed replies unto the spur : 
 'T is well they have horses, too ; for if they had not, 
 I fear that men must draw their chariots, as 
 They say kings did Sesostris. 
 
 Iden. Who was he ? 
 
 Ulr. An old Bohemian — an imperial gipsy. 
 
 Iden. A gipsy or Bohemian, \is the same. 
 For they pass by both names. And was he one ? 
 
 Ulr. I 've heard so; but I must take leave. In- 
 tendant, 
 Your servant ! — Werner, {to Werner sUghfly,) if that 
 
 be your name, 
 Yours. [Exit Ulric. 
 
 Iden. A well-spoken, pretty-faced young man ! 
 And prettily behaved ! He knows his station, 
 You see, sir : how he gave to each his due 
 Precedence ! 
 
 TT^er. I f>ei ceived if, and applaud 
 
 His just discernment and your own. 
 
 Iden. That 's well- 
 
 That 's very well. You also know your place, too; 
 And yet, I do n't know that I know your place. 
 
 TVer. (shotving the ring.) Would this assist your 
 
 laiowledge ? 
 Iden. How !— What !— Eh ! 
 
 A jewel ! 
 
 TVer. 'T is your own on one condition. 
 Id€7i. Mine ! — Name it ! 
 
 TT'^er. That hereafter you permit me 
 
 At thrice its value to redeem it : 't is 
 A family ring. 
 
 Iden. A family \— yours ! — a gem ! 
 
 I 'm breathless ! 
 
 TVer. You must also furnish me 
 
 An hour ere daybreak with all means to quit 
 This place. 
 
 Iden. But is it real ? Let me look on it : 
 
 Diamond, by all that 's glorious ! 
 
 TVer. Come, I 'U trust you ; 
 
 You have guess'd, no doubt, that I was bom above 
 My present seeming. 
 
 Iden. I can 't say I did, 
 
 Though this looks like it: this is the true breeding 
 Of gentle blood ! 
 
 TVer. I have important reasons 
 
 For wishing to continue privily 
 My journey hence. 
 
 Iden. So then you are the man 
 
 Whom Stralenheim 's in quest of.? 
 
 TVer. I am not ; 
 
 But being taken for him might conduct 
 To much embarrassment to me just now, 
 And to the baron's self hereafter — 't is 
 To spare both that I would avoid all bustle. 
 
 Iden. Be you the man or no, 't is not my business ; 
 Besides, t never should obtain the half 
 From this proud, niggardly noble, who would raise 
 The country for some missing bits of coin, 
 And never offer a precise reward — 
 But this! — another look! 
 
 TT^er. Gaze on it freely ; 
 
 At day-dawn it is yours. 
 
 Iden. Oh, thou sweet sparkler ! 
 
 Thou more than stone of the philosopher ! 
 Thou touchstone of Philosophy herself! 
 Thou bright eye of the Mine ! thou loadstar of 
 The soul ! the true magnetic Pole to which 
 All heai'ts point duly north, like trembling needles! 
 Thou flaming Spirit of the Earth ! which, sitting 
 High on the monarch's diadem, attractest 
 More worship than the majesty who sweats 
 Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, like 
 Millions of hearts which bleed to lend it lustre ! 
 Shalt thou be mine ? I am, melhinks, already 
 A little king, a lucky alchymist ! — 
 A wise m.agician, who has bound the devil 
 Without the forfeit of his soul. But come, 
 Werner, or what else? 
 
 TVer. Call me Werner still ; 
 
 You may yet know me by a loftier title. 
 
 Iden. I do believe in thee ! thou art the spirit 
 Of whom I Jong have dream'd in a low garb.— 
 But come, I '11 serve thee ; thou shalt be as free 
 As air, despite the waters ; let us hence ; 
 I '11 show thee I am honest — (oh, thou jewel !) 
 Thou shalt be furnish'd, Werner, with such means 
 Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds 
 Should overtake thee. — Let me gaze again ! 
 I have a foster-brother in the mart 
 Of Hamburgh skill'd in precious stones. How many 
 Carats may it weigh ? — Come, Werner I will wing thee. 
 
 lEiveunt. 
 
Act in. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 333 
 
 Scene II. — Stralenheim's Chamber. 
 Stralenheim and Fritz. 
 
 Fritz. All 's ready, my good lord ! 
 
 Stral. I am not sleepy, 
 
 And yet I must to bed ; I fain would say 
 To rest, but something heavy on my spirit. 
 Too dull for wakefulness, too quick for slumber, 
 Sits on me as a cloud along the sky, 
 Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet 
 Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself 
 "Twlvt earth and heaven, Uke envy between man 
 And man, an everlasting mist ; — I will 
 Unto my pillow. 
 
 Fritz. May you rest there well ! 
 
 Stral. I feel, and fear, I shall. 
 
 Fritz. And wherefore fear ? 
 
 Stral. I know not why, and therefore do fear more. 
 
 Because an undescribable but 't is 
 
 All folly. Were the locks (as I desired) 
 Changed, to-day, of this chamber? for last night's 
 Adventure makes it needful. 
 
 Fritz. Certainly, 
 
 According to your order, and beneath 
 The inspection of myself and the youncf Saxon 
 Who saved your Ufe. I think they call him " Ulric." 
 
 Stral. You think ! you supercilious slave ! what right 
 Have you to tax your memory, which should be 
 duick, proud, and happy to retain the 7iame 
 Of him who saved your master, as a litany 
 Whose daily repetition marks your duty. — 
 Got hence ! " You think,^' indeed ! you who stood still 
 Howhng and drippling on the bank, whilst I 
 Lay dying, and the stranger dash'd aside 
 The roaring torrent, and restored me to 
 Thank him — and despise you. " You think .'" and scarce 
 Can recollect his name ! I will not waste 
 More words on you. Call me betimes. 
 
 Fritz. Good night ! 
 
 I trust to-morrow will restore your lordship 
 To renovated strength and temper. 
 
 [7^ scene closes. 
 
 Scene III. — The secret Passage. 
 
 Gab. (solus.) Four — 
 
 Five — sLx hours have I counted, like the guard 
 Of outposts on the never- merry clock: 
 That hollow tongue of time, which, even when 
 It sounds for joy, takes something from enjoyment 
 With every clang. 'T is a perpetual knell. 
 Though for a marriage-feast it rings : each stroke 
 Peals for a hope the less ; the funeral note 
 Of Love deeji-buried without resurrection 
 In the grave of Possession ; while the knoll 
 Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
 To triple Time in the son's ear. 
 
 I 'm cold — 
 I 'm dark ; — I Ve blown my fingers — number'd o'er 
 And o'er my steps — and knock'd my head against 
 Some fifty buttresses — and roused the rats 
 And bats in general insurrection, till 
 Their cursed pattering feet and whirUng wings 
 Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. 
 A hght I It is at distance, (if I can 
 Measure in darkness distance :) but it blinks 
 As through a crevice or a keyhole, in 
 The inhibited direction : 1 must on, 
 Nevertheless, from- curiosity. 
 A distant lamp-light is an incident 
 In such a den as this. Pray Heaven it lead me 
 To nothing that may tempt me ! Else — ^Heaven aid me 
 To obtain or to escape it! Shining still! 
 Were it the star of Lucifer himself, 
 Or he himself girt with its beams, I could 
 
 Contain no longer. Soflly ! mighty well ! 
 
 That corner 's turn'd — so — ah ! no ; — right ! it draws 
 
 Nearer. Here is a darksome angle- — so 
 
 That's weather'd. — Let me pause. — Suppose it lead 
 
 Into some greater danger than that which 
 
 I have escaped — no matter, 't is a new one 5 
 
 And novel perils, like fresh mistresses, 
 
 Vv'ear more magnetic aspects : — I will on, 
 
 And be it where it may — I have my dagger, 
 
 Which may protect me at a pinch. — Burn still, 
 
 Thou little light ! Thou art my ignis fatuus I 
 
 My stationaiy WiU-o'the-wisp ! — So ! so ! 
 
 He hears my invocation, and fails not. 
 
 [The scene doses. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Garden. 
 
 Enter Werner, 
 I could not sleep — and now the hour 's at hand ; 
 All 's ready. Idenstein has kept his word ; 
 And station'd in the outskirts of the town, 
 Upon the forest's edge, the vehicle 
 Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars begin 
 To pale in heaven ; and for the last time I 
 Look on these horrible walls. Oh ! never, never 
 Shall I forget them. Here I came most poor, 
 But not dishonour 'd: and I leave them with 
 A stain, — if not upon my name, yet in 
 My heart! — a never-dying canker-worm, 
 Which all the coming splendour of the lands, 
 And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf 
 Can scarely lull a moment. I must find 
 Some means of restitution, which would ease 
 My soul in part; but how witliout discovery? — 
 It must be done, however ; and I '11 pause 
 Upon the method the first hour of safety. 
 The madness of my misery led to this 
 Base infamy; repentance must retrieve it: 
 I will have naught of Stralenheim's upon • 
 My spirit, though he would grasp all of mine ; 
 Lands, freedom, life, — and yet he sleeps ! as soundly, 
 Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains 
 Spread for his canopy, o'er silken pillows. 
 
 Such as when ^Hark ! what noise is that ? Again ! 
 
 The branches shake ; and some loose stones have fallen 
 From yonder terrace. 
 
 [Ulric leaps down from the terrace. 
 Ulric ! ever welcome ! 
 Thrice welcome now ! this filial 
 
 Ulr. Stop! Before 
 
 We approach, tell me 
 
 Wer. Why look you so ? 
 
 Ulr. Do I 
 
 Behold my father, or 
 
 Wer. Wliat? 
 
 Ulr. An assassin? 
 
 Wer. Insane or insolent! 
 
 Ulr. Reply, sir, as 
 
 You prize your life, or mine ! 
 
 Wer. To what must I 
 
 Answer ? 
 
 Ulr. Are you or are you not the assassin 
 OfStralenheim? 
 
 Wer. I never was as yet 
 
 The murderer of any man. What mean you? 
 
 Ulr. Did not you this night (as the night before) 
 Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not 
 
 Again revisit Stralenheim's chamber ? and 
 
 [Ulric pauses, 
 
 Wer. Proceed. 
 
 Ulr. Died he not by your hand ? 
 
 Wer. Great God! 
 
 Ulr. You are innocent, then ! my father's innocent! 
 Embrace me ! Yes, — your tone — your look — yes, ya?, — 
 Yet say so. 
 
334 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Yet 
 
 Ah 
 
 f'Ver. If I e'er, in heart or mind, 
 
 Conceived deliberately such a thought, 
 But rather strove to trample back to hell 
 Such thoughts — if e'er they glared a moment through 
 The irritation of my oppressed spirit — 
 May heaven be shut for ever from my hopes 
 As from mine eyes ! 
 
 Ulr. But Stralenheim is dead. 
 
 Wer. 'Tis horrible! 'tis hideous, as 'tis hateful!— 
 But what have I to do with this ? 
 
 Ulr. No bolt 
 
 Is forced : no violence can be detected, 
 Save on his body. Part of his own household 
 Have been alarm'd ; but as the intendant is 
 Absent, I took upon myself the care 
 Of mustering the police. His chamber has, 
 Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse me, 
 If nature 
 
 IVer. Oh, my boy ! what unknown woes 
 
 Of dark fatality, hke clouds, are gathering 
 Above our house ! 
 
 Ulr. My father! I acquit you! 
 
 But will the world do so ? will even the judge, 
 If But you must away this instant. 
 
 Wei: No ! 
 
 I '11 face it. Who shall dare suspect me ? 
 
 Ulr. 
 You had no guests — no visiters — no life 
 Breathing around you, save my mother's ? 
 
 Wer. 
 The Hungarian ! 
 
 Ulr. He is gone ! he disappear'd 
 
 Ere sunset. 
 
 TVer. No ; I hid him in that very 
 Conceal'd and fatal gallery. 
 
 Ulr. There 1 11 find him 
 
 [Ulric is going. 
 
 f'Ver. It is too late : he had left the palace ere 
 I quitted it. I found the secret panel 
 Open, and the doors which lead from that hall 
 Which masks it : I but thought he had snatch'd the 
 
 silent 
 And favourable moment to escape 
 The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were 
 Dogging him yester-even. 
 
 Ulr. You reclosed 
 
 The panel ? 
 
 TVer. Yes ; and not without reproach 
 
 (And inner trembling for the avoided peril) 
 At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus 
 His shelterer's asylum to the risk 
 Of a discovery. 
 
 Ulr. You are sure you closed it? 
 
 TVer. Certain. 
 
 Ulr. That 's well ; but had been better, if 
 You ne'er had turn'd it to a den for [He pauses. 
 
 Wer. Thieves ! 
 
 Thou wouldst say : I must bear it and deserve it ; 
 But not 
 
 Ulr. No, father ; do not speak of this : 
 
 This is no hour to tliink of petty crimes, 
 But to prevent the consequence of great ones. 
 Why would you shelter this man ? 
 
 Wer. Could I shun it? 
 
 A man pursued by my chief foe ; disgraced 
 For my own crime ; a victim to my safety, 
 Imploring a few hours' concealment from 
 The very wretch who was the cause he needed 
 Such refiige. Had he been a wolf, I could not 
 Have 111 such circumstances thrust him forth. 
 
 Ulr. And hke the wolf he hath repaid you. But 
 It is too late to ponder thus : — you must 
 Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 
 Trace the murderer, if 't is possible. 
 
 IVer. Bat this my sudden flight will give the Moloch 
 
 Suspicion : two new victims in the lieu 
 Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 
 
 Who seems the culprit, and 
 
 Ulr. Who seems? Who elBQ 
 
 Can be so? 
 
 Wer. Not /, though just now you doubted — 
 
 You, my son! — doubted 
 
 Ulr. And do you doubt of him 
 
 The fugitive ? 
 
 Wer. Boy ! since I fell into 
 
 The abyss of crime, (though not of such crime,) 
 I, having seen the innocent oppress'd for me. 
 May doubt even of the guilty's guilt. Your heart 
 Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse 
 Appearances ; and views a criminal 
 In Innocence's shadow, it may be, 
 Because 'tis dusky. 
 
 Ulr. And if I do so, 
 
 What will mankind, who know you not, or knew 
 But to oppress ? You must not stand the hazard. 
 Away ! — I '11 make all easy. Idenstein 
 Will for his own sake and his jewel's hold 
 His peace — he also is a partner in 
 
 Your flight — moreover 
 
 Wer. Fly ! and leave my name 
 
 Link'd with the Hungarian's, or preferr'd as poorest. 
 To bear the brand of bloodshed ? 
 
 Ulr. Pshaw ! leave anything 
 
 Except our father's sovereignty and castles, 
 For which you have so long panted and in vain! 
 What name 7 You have no name, since that you bear 
 Is feign'd. 
 
 Wer. Most true ; but still I would not have it 
 Engraved in crimson in men's memories. 
 
 Though in this most obscure abode of men 
 
 Besides, the search 
 
 Ulr. I will provide against 
 
 Aught that can touch you. No one knows you here 
 As heir of Siegendorf : if Idenstein 
 Suspects, 't is but suspicion, and he is 
 A fool : his folly shall have such employment, 
 Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way 
 To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e'er 
 Laws reach'd this village) are all in abeyance 
 With the late general war of thirty years, 
 Or crush'd; or rising slowly from the dust, 
 To which the march of armies trampled thera. 
 Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded 
 Here, save as such — without lands, influence. 
 Save what hath perish'd ^^■ith him. Few prolong 
 A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 
 O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest 
 Is roused : such is not here the case ; he died 
 Alone, unknown, — a solitary grave. 
 Obscure as his deserts, without a scutcheon, 
 Is all he '11 have, or wants. If / discover 
 The assassin, 't will be well — if not, beheve me 
 None else ; though all the full-fed train of menials 
 May howl above his ashes (as they did 
 Around him in his danger on the Oder) 
 Will no more stir a finger now than then. 
 Hence I hence ! I must not hear your answer. — Look! 
 The stars are almost faded, and the gray 
 Begins to grizzle the black hair of night. 
 You shall not ansv>'er — Pardon me that I 
 Am peremptory ; 't is your son that speaks, 
 Your long-lost, late-found son. — Let 's call my mother 
 Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest 
 To me : I '11 answer for the event as far 
 As regards you, and that is the chief point, 
 As my first duty, which shall be observed. 
 We '11 meet in Castle Siegendorf — once more 
 Our banners shall be glorious ! Think of that 
 Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me. 
 Whose youth may better battle with them. — Hence 
 
 I 
 
Act IV. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 335 
 
 And may your age be happy !— I will kiss 
 
 My mother once more, then Heaven's speed be with you ! 
 
 Wer. This counsel 's safe — but is it honourable ? 
 
 Ulr. To save a father i« a child's chief honour. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I.— A Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf. 
 near Prague. 
 
 Enter Eric and Henrick, retainers of the Count. 
 
 Eric. So better times are come at last ; to these 
 Old walls new masters and high wassail — both 
 A long desideratum. 
 
 Hen. Yes, for masters, 
 
 It might be unto those who long for novelty, 
 Though made by a new grave : but as for wassail, 
 Methinks the old Count Siegendorf maintain'd 
 His feudal hospitality as high 
 As e'er another prince of the empire. 
 
 Eric. Why, 
 
 For the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt 
 Fared passing well ; but as for merriment 
 And sport, without which salt and sauces season 
 The cheer but scantily, our sizings were 
 Even of the narrowest. 
 
 Hen. The old count loved not 
 
 The roar of revel ; are you sure that this does ? 
 Eric. As yet he hath been courteous as he 's boun- 
 teous, 
 And we all love him 
 
 Hen. His reign is as yet 
 
 Hardly a year o'erpast its honey-moon, 
 And the first year of sovereigns is bridal 
 Anon, we shall perceive his real sway 
 And moods of mind. 
 
 Eric. Pray heaven he keep the present ! 
 
 Then his brave son. Count Ulric — there's a knight! 
 Pity the wars are o'er ! 
 Hen. Why so? 
 
 Eric. Look on him! 
 
 And answer that yourself. 
 
 Hen. He 's very youthful,' 
 
 And strong and beautiful as a young tiger. 
 Eric. That's not a faithful vassal's Ukeness. 
 Hen. But 
 
 Perhaps a true one, 
 
 Eric. Pity, as I said, 
 
 The wars are over : in the hall, who like 
 Count Ulric for a well-supported pride. 
 Which awes, but yet offends not ? in the field, 
 Who like him with his spear in hand, when, gnashing 
 His tusks, and ripping up from right to left 
 The howling hounds, the boar makes for the thicket ? 
 Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears 
 A sword like him 7 Whose plume nods knighther ? 
 Hen. No one's, I grant you. Do not fear, if war 
 Be long m coming, he is of that kind 
 Will make it for himself, if he hath not 
 Already done as much. 
 Eric. What do you mean ? 
 
 Hen. You can't deny his train of followers 
 (But few our native fellow vassals born 
 On the domain) are such a sort of knaves 
 
 As (Pauses.) 
 
 Eric. What ? 
 
 Hen. The war (you love so much) leaves living. 
 Like other parents, she spoils her 'worst children. 
 
 Eric. Nonsense! they are all brave iron-visaged 
 fellows, 
 Such as old Tilly loved. 
 
 Hen. And who loved Tilly ? 
 
 Ask that at Magdebourg — or for that matter 
 
 Wallenstein either ; — they are gone to 
 
 £^ric. Rest ; 
 
 But what beyond 't is not ours to pronounce. 
 
 Hen. I wish they had left us something of their rest 
 The country (nominally now at peace) 
 Is overrun with — God knows who : they fly 
 By night, and disappear with sunrise ; but 
 Leave us no less desolation, nay, even more. 
 Than the most open warfare. 
 
 Erice. But Count Ulric — 
 
 What has all this to do with him ? 
 
 Hen. With him! 
 
 He might prevent it. As you say he 's fond 
 
 Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders ? 
 
 Eric. You 'd better ask himself? 
 
 Hen. I would as soon 
 
 Ask the lion why he laps not milk. 
 
 Eric. And here he comes ! 
 
 Hen. The devil ! you '11 hold your tongue ? 
 
 'T is nothing — but 
 
 Eric. Why do you turn so 
 
 He7i. 
 Be silent. 
 
 Eric. I will upon what you have said. 
 
 Hen. I assure you I meant nothing, — a mere sport 
 Of words, no more ; besides, had it been otherwise, 
 He is to espouse the gentle baroness 
 Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress ; 
 And she no doubt will soften whatsoever 
 Of fierceness tlie late long intestine wars 
 Have given all natures, and most unto those 
 Who were born in them, and bred up upon 
 The keees of Homicide ; sprinkled, as it were. 
 With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, peace 
 On all that I have said! 
 
 Enter Ulric and Rodolph. 
 
 Good morrow, count. 
 
 Ulr. Good morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric, is 
 All ready for the chase ? 
 
 Eric. The dogs are order'd 
 
 Down to the forest, and the vassals out 
 To beat the bushes, and the day looks promising. 
 Shall I call forth your excellency's suite ? 
 What courser will you please to mount ? 
 
 Ulr. The dun, 
 
 Walstein. 
 
 Eiic. I fear he scarcely has recover'd 
 The toils of Monday : 't was a noble chase : 
 You spear'd ybur with your own hand, 
 
 Ulr. True, good Eric ; 
 
 I had forgotten — ^let it be the gray, then. 
 Old Ziska : he has not been out this fortnight, 
 
 Eric. He shall be straight caparison'd. How many 
 Of your immediate retainers shall 
 Escort you? 
 
 Ulr. I leave that to Weilburgh, our 
 
 Master of the horse. [Emt Eric, 
 
 Rodolph! 
 
 Rod. My lord ! 
 
 Ulr. The nevt's 
 
 Is awkward from the — (Rodolph points to Henrick) 
 How now, Henrick ? why 
 Loiter you here ? 
 
 Hen. For your commands, my lord. 
 
 Ulr. Go to my father, and present my duty, j 
 And learn if he would aught with me before 
 I mount. [Eait Henricjk 
 
 Rodolph, our friends have had a check 
 Upon the frontiers of Franconia, and 
 'T is rumour'd that the column sent against them 
 Is to be strengthen'd. I must join them soon. 
 
 Rod. Best wait for further and more sure advices. 
 
 Ulr. I mean it — and indeed it could not well 
 Have fallen out at a time more opposite 
 To all ray plans. 
 
336 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act IV 
 
 Rod. It will be difficult 
 
 To excuse your absence to the count your father. 
 Ulr. Yes, but the unsettled state of our domain 
 In high Silesia will permit and cover 
 My journey. In the mean time, when we are 
 Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men 
 Whom Wolffe leads — keep the forest on your route : 
 You know it well ? 
 
 Rod. As well as on that night 
 
 When we 
 
 Ulr. We will not speak of that until 
 
 We can repeat the same with like success : 
 And when you have join'd, give Rosenberg this letter. 
 
 [Gives a letter. 
 Add further, that I have sent this slight addition 
 To our force with you and Wolffe, as herald of 
 My coming, though I could but spare them ill 
 At this time, as my father loves to keep 
 Full numbers of retainers round the castle, 
 Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries, 
 Are rung out with its peal of nupiial nonsense. 
 
 Rod. 1 thought you loved the lady Ida ? 
 
 Ulr. Why, 
 
 I do so — but it follows not from that 
 I would bind in my youth and glorious years, 
 So brief and burning, with a lady's zone. 
 Although 't were that of Venus ; — but I love her, 
 As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 
 
 Rod. And constantly ? 
 
 Ulr. I think so ; for I love 
 
 Naught else. — But I have not the time to pause 
 Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things 
 We have to do ere long. Speed ! speed ! good Rodolph ! 
 
 Rod. On my retui-n, however, I shall find 
 The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegendorf ? 
 
 Ulr. Perhaps — my father wishes it ; and sooth 
 'T is no bad policy : this union with 
 The last bud of the rival branch at once 
 Unites the fature and destroys the past. 
 
 Rod. Adieu. 
 
 Ulr. Yet hold — we had better keep together 
 
 Until the chase begins ; then draw thou off, 
 And do as I have said. 
 
 Rod. I will. But to 
 
 Return — t was a most kind act in the count 
 Your father to send up to Konigsberg 
 For this fair orphan of tlie baron, and 
 To hail her as his daughter. 
 
 Ulr. Wondrous kind ! 
 
 Especially as little kindness till 
 Then grew between them. 
 
 Rod. The late baron died 
 
 Of a fever, did he not ? 
 
 Ulr. How should I know ? 
 
 Rod. I have heard it whisper'd there was something 
 strange 
 About his death — and even the place of it 
 Is scarcely knovra. 
 
 Ulr. Some obscure village on 
 
 The Saxon or Silesian frontier. 
 
 Rod. He 
 
 Has left no testament — no farewell words ? 
 
 Ulr. I am neither confessor nor notary, 
 So cannot say. 
 
 Rod. Ah ! here 's the lady Ida. 
 
 Enter Ida Stralenheim. 
 
 Ulr. You are early, my sweet cousin! 
 
 Ida. Not too early. 
 
 Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
 Why do you call me " cousin ?" 
 
 Ulr. (smiling.) Are we not so ? 
 
 Ida. Yes, but I do not like the name ; methinks 
 It sounds so cold, as if you thought upon 
 
 Our pedigree, and only weigh'd our blood. 
 
 Ulr. {starting.) Blood! 
 
 Ida. Why does vours start from your cheeks ? 
 Ulr. ■' Ay! doth it? 
 
 Ida. It doth — but no ! it rushes hke a torrent 
 Even to your brow again. 
 
 Ulr. {recovering himself.) And if it fled, 
 It only was because your presence sent it 
 Back to my heart, which beats for you, sweet cousin ! 
 Ida. " Cousin" again. 
 
 Ulr. Nay, then I '11 call you sister. 
 
 Ida. I like that name still worse. — Would we had 
 ne'er 
 Been aught of kindred ! 
 
 Ulr. {gloomily.) Would we never had 
 
 Ida. Oh heavens ! and can you wish that ? 
 Ulr. Dearest Ida ! 
 
 Did I not echo your own wish ? 
 
 Ida. Yes, Ulric, 
 
 But then I wish'd it not with such a glance, 
 And scarce knew what I said ; but let me be 
 Sister, or cousin, what you will, so that 
 I still to you am something. 
 
 Ulr. You shall be 
 
 AU— all 
 
 Ida. And you to me are so already ; 
 
 But I can wait. 
 
 Ulr. Dear Ida ! 
 
 Ida. Call me Ida, 
 
 Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else's — 
 Indeed I have none else left, since my poor father — 
 
 [She pauses. 
 Ulr. You have mine — you have me. 
 Ida. Dear Ulric, how I wish 
 
 My father could but view my happiness. 
 Which wants but this ! 
 
 Ulr. Indeed ! 
 
 Ida. You would have loved him, 
 
 He you ; for the brave ever love each other : 
 His manner was a little cold, his spirit 
 Proud, (as is birth's prerogative ;) but under 
 
 This grave exterior Would you had known each 
 
 other ! 
 Had such as you been near him on his journey 
 He had not died without a friend to sooth 
 His last and lonely moments. 
 
 Ulr. ' Who says that 
 
 Ida. What? 
 
 Ulr. That he died alone. 
 
 Ida. The general rumour 
 
 And disappearance of his servants, who 
 Have ne'er return'd : that fever was most deadly 
 Which swept them all away. 
 
 Ulr. If they were near him. 
 
 He could not die neglected or alone. 
 
 Ida. Alas ! what is a menial to a death-bed, 
 When the dim eye rolls vainly round for what 
 It loves ? — They say he died of a fever. 
 
 Ulr. Say .' 
 
 It was so. 
 Ida. I sometimes dream otherwise. 
 Ulr. All dreams are false. 
 
 Ida. And yet I see him as 
 
 I see you. 
 
 Ulr. Where 7 
 
 Ida. In sleep — I see him lie 
 
 Pale, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife 
 Beside him. 
 
 Ulr. But you do not see his /ace .^ 
 
 Ida. {looking at him.) No ! Oh, my God ! do you ? 
 Ulr. Why do you ask ? 
 
 Ida. Because you look as if you saw a murderer ! 
 Ulr. {agitatedly.) Ida, this is mere childishness J 
 your weakness 
 Infects me, to my shame j but as all feelings 
 
Act IV. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 337 
 
 of Yoars are common to me, it affects me. 
 Prithee, sweet child, change 
 
 Ida. Child, indeed ! I have 
 
 Full fifteen summers I [^A bugle sounds. 
 
 Rod. Hark, my lord, the bugle I 
 
 Ida. (peevishly to Rodolph.) Why need you tell 
 him that? Can he not hear it 
 Without your echo ? 
 
 Rod. Pardon me, fair baroness! 
 
 Ida. I will not pardon you, unless you earn it 
 By aiding me in my dissuasion of 
 Count Ulric from the chase to-day 
 
 Rod. You will not, 
 
 Lady, need aid of mine. 
 
 Zflr. I must not now 
 
 Forego it. 
 
 Ida. But you shall ! 
 
 Ulr. Shall ! 
 
 Ida. Yes, or be 
 
 No true knight. — Come, dear Ulric ! yield to me 
 In this, for this one day : the day looks heavy, 
 And you are turn'd so pale and ill. 
 
 Ulr. You jest. 
 
 Ida. Indeed I do not : — ask of Rodolph. 
 
 Rod. Truly, 
 
 My lord, within this quarter of an hour 
 You have changed more than e'er I saw you change 
 In years. 
 
 IJlr. 'T is nothing ; but if 't were, the air 
 Would soon restore me. I'm the true chameleon. 
 And live but on the atmosphere : your feasts 
 In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not 
 My spirit — I 'm a forester and breather 
 Of tlie steep mountain-tops, where I love all 
 The eagle loves. 
 
 Ida. Except his prey, I hope. 
 
 Ulr. Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I 
 WiU bring you six boars' heads for trophies home. 
 
 Ida. And will you not stay, then ? You shall not go ! 
 Come ! I will sing to you. 
 
 Ulr. Ida, you scarcely 
 
 Will make a soldier's wife. 
 
 Ida. I do not wish 
 
 To be so ; for I trust these wars are over, 
 And you will live in peace on your domains. 
 
 Enter Werner as Count Siegendorf. 
 
 Ulr. My father, I salute you, and it grieves me 
 With such brief greeting. — You have heard our bugle ; 
 The vassals wait. 
 
 Sieg. So let them. — You forget 
 
 To-morrow is the appointed festival 
 In Prague for peace restored. You are apt to follow 
 The chase with such an ardour as will scarce 
 Permit you to return to-day, or if 
 Return'd, too much fatigued to join to-morrow 
 The nobles in our marshall'd ranks. 
 
 Ulr. You, count. 
 
 Will well supply the place of both — I am not 
 A lover of these pageantries. 
 
 Sieg. No, Ulric : 
 
 It were not well that you alone of all 
 Our young nobility 
 
 Ida. And far the noblest 
 
 In aspect and demeanour. 
 
 Sieg. {to Ida.) True, dear child, 
 
 Though somewhat frankly said for a fair damsel. — 
 But, Ulric, recoUecl too our position. 
 So lately reinstated in our honours. 
 Believe me, 't would be mark'd in any house. 
 But most in ours, that one should be found wanting 
 At such a time and place. Besides, the Heaven 
 Which gave us back our own, in the same moment 
 It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims 
 On us for tiianksgiving : first, for our country \ 
 2 S 
 
 And next, that we are here to share its blessings. 
 
 Ulr. {aside.) Devout, too ! Well, sir, I obey at once. 
 
 {Then aloud to a Servant.) 
 
 Ludwig, dismiss the train without ! [Eadi Ludwig. 
 
 Ida. And so 
 
 You yield at once to him what I for hours 
 Might supplicate in vain. 
 
 Sieg. (s^miling.) You are not jealous 
 
 Of me, I t.'-ust, my pretty rebel! who 
 Would sanction disobedience against all 
 Except thyself? But fear not; thou shalt rule him 
 Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 
 
 Ida. But I should like to govern now. 
 
 Sieg. You shall, 
 
 Your harp, which by the way awaits you with 
 The countess in her chamber. She complains 
 That you are a sad truant to your music : 
 She attends you. 
 
 Ida. Then good morrow, my kind kinsmen ! 
 
 Ulric, you '11 come and hear me ? 
 
 Ulr. By and by. 
 
 Ida. Be sure I 'il sound it better than your bugles ; 
 Then pray 3'ou bs as punctual to its notes : 
 I '11 play you King Gustavus' march. 
 
 Ulr. And why not 
 
 Old Tilly's ? 
 
 Ida. Not that monster's ! I should think 
 
 My harp-strings rang with groans, and not with music, 
 Gould aught of his sound on it : — but come quickly ; 
 Your mother will be eager to receive you. [Exit Ida. 
 
 Sieg. Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone. 
 
 Ulr. My time 's your vassal. — 
 {Aside to Rodolph.) Rodolph, hence ! and do 
 As I directed : and by his best speed 
 And readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 
 
 Rod. Count Siegendorf, command you aught ? I am 
 bound 
 Upon a journey past the frontier. 
 
 Sieg. {starts.) Ah !— 
 
 Where ? on whcd frontier ? 
 
 Rod. The Silesian, on 
 
 My way — {Aside to Ulric) — Where shall I say ? 
 
 Ulr. {aside to Rodolph.) To Hamburgh. 
 
 {Asidt to himself.) That 
 Word will I think put a firm padlock on 
 His flirther inquisition. 
 
 Rod. Count, to Hamburgh. 
 
 Sieg. {agitated.) Hamburgh ! No, I have naught to 
 do there, nor' 
 Am aught connected with that city. Then 
 God speed you ! 
 
 Rod. Fare ye well, Count Siegendorf! 
 
 [Exit Rodolph. 
 
 Sieg. Ulric, this man, who has just departed, is 
 One of those strange companions whom I fain 
 Would reason with you on. 
 
 Ulr. My lord, he is 
 
 Noble by birlh, of one of the first houses 
 In Saxony. 
 
 Sieg. I talk not of his birth, 
 But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him. 
 
 Ulr. So they will do of most men. Even the monarch 
 Is not fenced fiom his chamberlain's slander, or 
 The sneer of the last courtier whom he has made 
 Great and ungrateful. 
 
 Sieg. If I must be plain. 
 
 The world speaks more than Ughtly of this Rodolph : 
 They say he is leagued with the "black bands" who still 
 Ravage the fi-ontier. 
 
 Ulr. And will you beUeve 
 
 The world ? 
 
 Sieg. In this case — yes. 
 
 Ulr. In any case, 
 
 I thought you knew it better than to talie 
 An accusation for a sentence. 
 
338 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act IV 
 
 Sieg. Son ! 
 
 I understand you : you refer to but 
 
 My Destiny has so involved about me 
 
 Her spider web, that I can only flutter 
 
 Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed, 
 
 Uh-ic ; you have seen to v.hat the passions led mo : 
 
 Twenty long years of misery and famine 
 
 duench'd them not — twenty thousand more, perchance, 
 
 Hereafter (or even here in moments which 
 
 Might date for years, did Anguish make tlie dial) 
 
 May not obliterate or expiate 
 
 The madness and dishonour of an instant. 
 
 Ulric, be warn'd by a father ! — I was not 
 
 By mine, and you behold me ! 
 
 Ulr. I behold 
 
 The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf, 
 Lord of a prince's appanage, and honour'd 
 Bv those he rules and those he ranks with. 
 
 ^Sieg. Ah ! 
 
 Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear 
 For tliee ? Beloved, when thou lovest me not 1 
 All hearts but one may beat in kindness for me — 
 But if my son's is cold ! 
 
 Ulr. Who dare say that ? 
 
 Sieg. None else but I, who see it — feel it — keener 
 Than would your adversary', who dared say so, 
 Your sabre in his heart ! But mine survives 
 The wound. 
 
 Ulr. You err. My nature is not given 
 
 To outward fondling ; how should it be so. 
 After tv/elve years' divorcement from my parents ? 
 
 Sieg. And did not / too pass those twelve torn years 
 In a like absence ? But 't is vain to urge you — 
 Nature was never call'd back by remonstrance. 
 Let 's change the theme. I wish you to consider 
 That these young violent nobles of high name, 
 But dark deeds, (ay, the darkest, if all Rumour 
 Reports be true,) with whom thou consortestj 
 Will lead thee 
 
 Ulr. {iiTvpatiently .) I '11 be led by no man. 
 
 Sieg. Nor 
 
 Be leader of such, I would hope : at once 
 To wean thee from the perils of thy youth 
 And haughty spirit, I have thought it well 
 That thou shouldst wed the lady Ida — more 
 As thou appear'st to love her. 
 
 Ulr. I have said 
 
 I vidll obey your orders, were they to 
 Unite with Hecate — can a son say more ? 
 
 Sieg. He says too much in saying this. It is not 
 The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood. 
 Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly, 
 Or act so carelessly, in that which is 
 The bloom or blight of all men's happiness^ 
 (For Glory's pillow is but restless if 
 Love lay not down his cheek there :) some strong bias, 
 Some master fiend is in thy service to 
 . Misrule the mortal who beUeves him slave, 
 And mak;es his every thought subservient ; else 
 Thou 'dst say at once — " I love young Ida, and 
 Will wed her ;" or, " I love her not, and all 
 The powers of earth shall never make me." — So 
 Would I have answer'd. 
 
 Ulr. Sir, you wed for love. 
 
 Sieg. I did, and it has been my only refuge 
 In many miseries. 
 
 f/Zr. Which miseries 
 
 Had never been but for this love-match. 
 
 Sieg. Still 
 
 Against your age and nature ! Who at twenty 
 E'er answer'd thus till now ? 
 
 Ulr. Did you not warn me 
 
 Against your own example ? 
 
 Sieg. Boyish sophist I 
 
 In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida ? 
 
 Ulr. What matters it, if I am ready to 
 Obey you in espousing her ? 
 
 Sieg. As far 
 As you feel, nothing, but all life for her. 
 She 's young — all beautiful — adores you — is 
 Endow'd with qualities to give happiness, 
 Such as rounds common life into a dream 
 Of something which your poets cannot paint, 
 And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue) 
 For which Philosophy might barter Wisdom ; 
 And giving so much happiness, deserves 
 A little in return. I would not have her 
 Break her heart for a man who has none to break ; 
 Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose 
 Deserted by the bird she thought a nightingale, 
 According to the Orient tale. She is 
 
 Ulr. The daughter of dead Stralenheim, your foe : 
 I 'U wed her, ne'ertheless ; though, to say truth, 
 Just now I am not violently transported 
 In favour of such unions. 
 
 Sieg. But she loves you. 
 
 Ulr. And I love her, and therefore would think twice. 
 
 Sieg. Alas ! Love never did so. 
 
 Ulr. Then 'tis time 
 
 He should begin, and take the bandage from 
 His eyes, and look before he leaps : till now 
 He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark. 
 
 Sieg. But you consent ? 
 
 Ulr. I did and do. 
 
 Sieg. Then fix the day. 
 
 Ulr. 'T is usual, 
 
 And certes courteous, to leave that to the lady. 
 
 Sieg. I will engage for her. 
 
 Ulr. So will not / 
 
 For any woman ; and as what I fix, 
 I fain would see tmshaken, when she gives 
 Her answer, I '11 give mine. 
 
 Sieg. But 't is your office 
 
 To woo. 
 
 Ulr. Count, 't is a marriage of your making, 
 So be it of your wooing ; but to please you 
 I will now pay my duty to my mother. 
 With whom, you know, the lady Ida is. — 
 What would you have ? You have forbid my stirring 
 For manly sports beyond the castle walls. 
 And I obey ; you bid me turn a chamberer, 
 To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting-needles. 
 And list to songs and tunes, and w^atch for smUes, 
 And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
 The eyes of feminie, as though they were 
 The stars receding early to our \vish 
 Upon the dawn of a world-winning battle — 
 What can a son or man do more? [Exit Ulric. 
 
 Sieg. (solus.) Too much! — 
 
 Too much of duty and too little love ! 
 He pays me in the coin he owes me not: 
 For such hath been my wayward fate, I could not 
 Fulfil a parent's duties by his side 
 Till now ; but love he owes me, for my thoughts 
 Ne'er left liim, nor my eyes long'd without tears 
 To see my child again, and now I have foimd him ! 
 But how ! — obedient, but wth coldness ; duteous 
 In my sight, but with carelessness ; mysterious, 
 Abstracted— distant — much given to long absence, 
 And where — none know — in league with the most riotous 
 Of our young nobles ; though, to do him justice. 
 He never stoops down to their vulgar pleasures 
 Yet there 's some tie between them wliich I cannot 
 Unravel. They look up to him — consult him — 
 Throng round him as a leader : but with me 
 He hath no confidence ! Ah I can I hope it 
 After — what ! doth my father's curse descend 
 Even to my child ? Or is the Hungarian near 
 To shed more blood ? or— oh ! if it should be ! 
 Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these walls 
 
Act IV. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 339 
 
 To wither him and his — who, though they slew not, 
 Unlatch'd the door of death for thee ? 'T was not 
 Our fault, nor is our sin: thou wert our foe, 
 And yet 1 spared thee when my own destruction 
 Slept with thee, to awake with thine awakening ! 
 And only took — Accursed gold ! thou liest 
 Lilie poison in my hands ; I dare not use thee, 
 Nor part from thee ; thou earnest in such a guise, 
 Methinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands 
 Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for thee. 
 Thou villanous gold ! and thy dead master's doom. 
 Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
 As if he were my brother ! I have ta'en 
 His orphan Ida — cherish'd her as one 
 Who will be mine. 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 Att. The abbot, if it please 
 
 Your excellency, whom you sent for, waits 
 Upon you. [Exit Attendant. 
 
 Enter the Prior Albert. 
 
 Prior. Peace be with these walls, and all 
 Within them ! 
 
 Sieg. Welcome, welcome, holy father ! 
 And may thy prayer be heard ! — all men have need 
 Of such, and I 
 
 Prior. Have the first claim to all 
 
 The prayers of our community. Our convent, 
 Erected by your ancestors, is still 
 Protected by their children. 
 
 Sieg. Yes, good father ; 
 
 Continue dally orisons for us 
 In these dim days of heresies and blood. 
 Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
 Gone home. 
 
 Prior. To the endless home of unbelievers, 
 
 Where there is everlasting wail and wo, 
 Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire 
 Eternal, and the worm which dieth not ! 
 
 Sieg. True, father : and to avert those pangs from one, 
 Who, though of our most fauUless holy church. 
 Yet died without its last and dearest offices, 
 Which smooth the soul through purgatorial pains, 
 I have to offer humbly this donation 
 In masses for his spirit. 
 
 [SiEGENDORF oj^ers the gold which he had taken 
 from Stralenheim. 
 
 Prior. Count, if I 
 
 Receive it, 'tis because I know too well 
 Refusal would offend you. Be assured 
 The largess shall be only dealt in alms, 
 And every mass no less sung for the dead. 
 Our house needs no donations, thanks to yours. 
 Which has of old endow'd it ; but from you 
 And yours in all meet things 't is fit we obey. 
 For whom shall mass be said 7 
 
 Sieg. (faltering.) For — for — the dead. 
 
 Prior. His name? 
 
 Sieg. 'T is from a soul, and not a name, 
 
 I would avert perdition. 
 
 Prior. I meant not 
 
 To pry into your secret. We will pray 
 For one unknown, the same as for the proudest. 
 
 Sieg. Secret! I have none; but, father, he who's 
 gone 
 Might have one ; or, in short, he did bequeath — 
 No, not bequeath — But I bestow this sura 
 For pious purposes. 
 
 Prior. A proper deed 
 
 In the behalf of our departed friends. 
 
 Sieg. But he who 's gone was not my friend, but foe, 
 The deadliest and the stanchest. 
 
 Prior. Better still ! 
 
 To employ our means to obtain heaven for the souls 
 
 Of our dead enemies is worthy those 
 Who can forgive them living. 
 
 Sieg. But I did not 
 
 Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last, 
 As he did me. I do not love him now. 
 
 But 
 
 Piior. Best of all ! for this is pure religion 
 You fain would rescue him you hate from hell 
 An evangelical compassion — with 
 Your own gold too ! 
 
 Sieg. Father, 'tis not my gold. 
 
 Prior. Whose then ? You said it was no legacy. 
 Sieg. No matter whose — of this be sure, that he 
 Who own'd it never more will need it, save 
 In that which it may purchase from your altars : 
 'T is yours, or theirs. 
 
 Prior. Is there no blood upon it? 
 
 Sieg. No; but there's worse than blood — eternal 
 
 shame ! 
 Prior. Did he who own'd it die in his bed 7 
 Sieg. Alas ! 
 
 He did. 
 
 Prior. Son ! you relapse into revenge, 
 If you regret your enemy's bloodless death. 
 
 Sieg. His death was fathomlessly deep in blood. 
 Prior. You said he died in his bed, not battle. 
 Sieg. He 
 
 Died, I scarce know — but — he was stabb'd i' the dark, 
 And now you have it — perish'd on his pillow 
 By a cut-throat ! — Ay ! — you may look upon me ! 
 / am not the man. I '11 meet your eye on that point 
 As I can one day God's. 
 
 Prior. Nor did he die. 
 
 By means, or men, or instrument of yours ? 
 Sieg No ! by the God who sees and strikes ! 
 Prior. JS[or know you 
 
 Who slew him? 
 
 Sieg. I could only guess at one, 
 
 And he to me a stranger, unconnected. 
 As unemploy'd. Except by one day's knowledge 
 I never saw the man who was suspected. 
 Prior. Then you are free from guilt. 
 Sieg. {eagerly.) Oh! am I?— say I 
 
 Prior. You have said so, and know best. 
 Sieg. Father! I have spoken 
 
 The truth, and naught but truth, if not the whole : 
 Yet say I am not guilty ! for the blood 
 Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it. 
 Though, by the Power who abhorreth human blood. 
 I did not ! — nay, once spared it, when I might 
 And could — ay, perhaps, should (if our self-safety 
 Be e'er excusable in such defences 
 Against the attack of over-potent foes :) 
 But pray for him, for me, and all my house ; 
 For, as I said, though I be innocent, 
 I know not why, a like remorse is on me. 
 As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray for me. 
 Father ! I have pray'd myself in vain. 
 
 Prior. I will. 
 
 Be comforted ! You are innocent, and should 
 Be calm as innocence. 
 
 Sieg. But calmness is not 
 
 Always the attribute of innocence. 
 I feel it is not. 
 
 Prior. But it will be so. 
 
 When the mind gathers up its truth within it. 
 Remember the great festival to-morrow, 
 In which you rank amidst our cliiefest nobles. 
 As well as your brave son; and smooth your aspect; 
 Nor in the general orison of thanks 
 For bloodshed stopt, let blood you shed not rise 
 A cloud upon your thoughts. This were to be 
 Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 
 Such things, and leave remorse unto the guilty. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
340 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act V 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — A large ami magnijicent Gothic Hall in the 
 Castle of Siegendorf, decorated imih Trophies, Ban- 
 nei-s, and Arms of that Family. 
 
 Enter Arnheim and Meister, Attendants of Count 
 Siegendorf. 
 
 Am. Be quick ! the count will soon return: the ladies 
 Already are at the portal. Have you sent 
 The messengers in search of him he seeks for ? 
 
 3Ieis. I have, in all directions, over Prague, 
 As far as the man's dress and figure could 
 By your description track him. The devil take 
 These revels and processions ! All the pleasure 
 (If such there be) must fall to the spectators. 
 I 'm sure none doth to us who make the show. 
 
 Arn. Go to! my lady countess comes. 
 
 3Ieis. I 'd rather 
 
 Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade, 
 Than follow in the train of a great man 
 In these dull pageantries. 
 
 Am. Begone! and rail 
 
 Within. [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter the Countess Josephine Siegendorf and Ida 
 Stralenheim. 
 
 Jos. Well, Heaven be praised, the show is over ! 
 Ida. How can you say so ! never have I dreamt 
 Of aught so beautiful. The flowers, the boughs. 
 The banners, and the nobles, and the knights, 
 The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy faces, 
 The coursers, and the incense, and the sun 
 Streaming through the stain'd windows, even the tombs, 
 Which look'd so calm, and the celestial hymns, 
 Which seem'd as if they rather came from heaven 
 Than mount, d there. The bursting organ's peal 
 Rolling on high like an harmonious thunder ; 
 The white robes and the lifted eyes; the world 
 At peace! and all at peace ^vith one another! 
 Oh, my sweet mother! [Embracing Josephine. 
 
 Jos. My beloved child ! 
 
 For such, I trust, thou shalt be shortly. 
 
 Ida. Oh! 
 
 I am so already. Feel how my heart beats ! 
 
 Jos. It does, my love ; and never may it throb 
 With aught more bitter. 
 
 Ida. Never shall it do so! 
 
 How should it ? What should make us grieve ? I hate 
 To hear of sorrow : how can we be sad, 
 Who love each other so entirely ? You, 
 The count, and Ulric, and your daughter Ida. 
 
 Jos. Poor child! 
 
 Ida. Do you pity me ? 
 
 Jos. No; I but env}', 
 
 And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense 
 Of the universal vice, if one vice be 
 More general than another. 
 
 Ida. I '11 not hear 
 
 A word against a world which still contains 
 You and my Ulric. Did you ever see 
 Aught Uke him ? How he tower'd among them all ! 
 How all eyes follow'd him ! The flowers fell faster — 
 Rain'd from each lattice at his feet, methought, 
 Than before all the rest ; and where he trod 
 I dare be sworn that they grow still, nor e'er 
 Will wither. 
 
 Jos. You will spoil him, little flatterer, 
 
 If he should hear you. 
 
 Ida. But he never will. 
 
 I dare not say so much to him — I fear bira. 
 
 Jos. Why so? he loves you well. 
 
 Ida. But T can never 
 
 Shape my thoughts of him into words to him. 
 Besides, he sometimes friorhtens me. 
 
 .Tos. How so? 
 
 Ida. A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes suddenly, 
 Yet he says nothing. 
 
 .Tos. It is nothing : all men. 
 
 Especially in these dark troublous times. 
 Have much to think of. 
 
 Ida. But I cannot think 
 
 Of aught save him. 
 
 Jos. Yet there are other men, 
 
 In the world's eye, as goodly. There 's, for instance, 
 The young Count Waldorf, who scarce once withdrew 
 His eyes from yours to-day. 
 
 Ida. I did not see him, 
 
 But Ulric. Did you not see at the moment 
 When all knelt, and I wept : and yet methought, 
 Through my fast tears, though they were thick 
 
 warm, 
 I saw him smiling on me. 
 
 Jos. I could not 
 
 See aught save heaven, to which my eyes were raised 
 Together with the people's. 
 
 Ida. I thought too 
 
 Of heaven, although I look'd on Ulric. 
 
 Jos. Come, 
 
 Let us retire ; they will be here anon 
 Expectant of the banquet. We will lay 
 Aside these nodding plumes and dragging trains. 
 
 Ida. And, above all, these stiff and heavy jewels, 
 Which make my head and heart ache, as both throb 
 Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and zone. 
 Dear mother, I am with you. [Exeunt. 
 
 and 
 
 Enter Count Siegendorf, in /uZZ dress, from the solem- 
 nity, and LuDwiG. 
 
 Sieg. Is he not found ? 
 
 End. Strict search is making every where ; and if 
 The man be in Prague, be sure he will be found. 
 
 Sieg. Where 's Ulric ? 
 
 Lud. He rode round the other way 
 
 With some young nobles : but he left them soon ; 
 And, if I err not, not a minute since 
 I heard his excellency, with his train, 
 Gallop o'er the west drawbridge. 
 
 Enter Ulric, splendidly dressed. 
 
 Sieg. (to LuDwiG.) See they cease not 
 
 Their quest of him I have described. {Exit LuDWio.) 
 
 Oh, Ulric ! 
 How have I long'd for thee ! 
 
 Ulr. Your wish is granted — 
 
 Behold me ! 
 
 Sieg. I have seen the murderer. 
 
 Ulr. Whom? Where? 
 
 Sieg. The Hungarian, who slew Stralenheim. 
 
 Ulr. You dream. 
 
 Sieg. I live ! and as I live, I saw him — 
 
 Heard him ! he dared to utter even my name. 
 
 Ulr. What name ? 
 
 Sieg. Werner ! f ' was mine. 
 
 Ulr. It must be so 
 
 No more : forget it. 
 
 Sieg. Never! never! all 
 
 My destinies were w^oven in that name: 
 It will not be engraved upon my tomb, 
 But it may lead me there. 
 
 Ulr. To the point — the Hungarian ? 
 
 Sieg. Listen ! — The church was throng'd ; the hymn 
 was raised ; 
 " Te Deum" peal'd from nations, rather than 
 From choirs, in one great cry of " God be praised" 
 For one day's peace, after thrice ten dread years. 
 Each bloodier than the former : I arose. 
 With all the nobles, and as I look'd down 
 Along the lines of lified faces, — from 
 Our banner'd and escutcheon'd gallery, I 
 
Act V. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 341 
 
 Saw, like a flash of lightning, (for I saw 
 A moment and no more,) what struck me sightless 
 To all else — the Hungarian's face '. I grew 
 Sick ; and when I recover'd from the mist 
 "Which curl'd about my senses, and again 
 Look'd down, I saw him not. The thanksgiving 
 Was over, and we march'd back in procession. 
 Ulr. Continue. 
 
 Sieg. When we reach'd the Muldau's bridge. 
 
 The joyous crowd above, the numberless 
 Barks mann'd with revellers in their best garbs. 
 Which shot along the glancing tide below, 
 The decorated street, the long array. 
 The clashing music, and the thundering 
 Of far artillery, which seem'd to bid 
 A long and loud farewell to its great doings, 
 The standards o'er me, and the tramplings round. 
 The roar of rushing thousands, — all — all could not 
 Chase this man from my mind, although my senses 
 No longer held him palpable. 
 
 Ulr. You saw him 
 
 No more, then ? 
 
 Sieg. I look'd, as a dying soldier 
 
 Looks at a draught of water, for this man ; 
 But still I saw him not ; but in his stead — 
 
 Ulr. What in his stead ? 
 
 Sieg. My eye for ever fell 
 
 Upon your dancing crest ; the loftiest. 
 As on the loftiest and the loveliest head 
 It rose the highest of the stream of plumes. 
 Which overflow'd the glittering streets of Prague. 
 
 Ulr. What's this to the Hungarian? 
 
 Sieg. Much ; for I 
 
 Had almost then forgot him in my son ; 
 When just as the artillery ceased, and paused 
 The music, and the crowd embraced in heu 
 Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice, 
 Distinct and keener far upon my ear 
 Than the late cannon's volume, this word — ^^ Werner ."' 
 
 Ulr. Uttered by 
 
 Sieg. Him ! I turn'd — and saw — and fell. 
 
 Ulr. And wherefore ? Were you seen ? 
 
 Sieg. The officious care 
 
 Of those around me dragg'd me from the spot, 
 Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause ; 
 You, too, were too remote in the procession 
 (The old nobles being divided from their children) 
 To aid me. 
 
 Ulr. But I '11 aid you now. 
 
 Sieg. In what? 
 
 Ulr. In searching for this man, or When he's 
 
 found. 
 What shall we do Avith him? 
 
 Sieg. I know not that. 
 
 Ulr. Then wherefore seek? 
 
 Si 
 
 eg- 
 
 Because I cannot rest 
 
 Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim s, 
 And ours, seem intert%visted ! nor can be 
 Unravell'd, till 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 Att. A stranger to wait on 
 
 Your excellency. 
 
 Sieg. Who? 
 
 Att. He gave no name. 
 
 Sieg. Admit him, ne'ertheless. 
 
 [The Attendant introduces Gabor, and aftervjards 
 exit. 
 
 Ah! 
 Gab. 'T is, then, Werner ! 
 
 Sieg. {haughtily.) The same you knew, sir, by that 
 
 name ; and you ! 
 Gab. {looking round.) I recognize you both : father 
 and son, 
 
 It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or yours, 
 Have lately been in search of me : I am here. 
 
 Sieg. I have sought you, and have found you : you 
 are charged 
 (Your own heart may inform you why) with such 
 A crime as [He pauses. 
 
 Gab. Give it utterance, and then 
 
 I '11 meet the consequences. 
 
 Sieg. You shall do so — 
 
 Unless 
 
 Gab. First, who accuses me ? 
 
 Sieg. All things, 
 
 If not all men : the universal rumour — 
 My own presence on the spot — the place — the time— 
 And every speck of circumstance unite 
 To fix the blot on you. 
 
 Gab. And on me only 7 
 
 Pause ere you answer : is no other name, 
 Save mine, stain'd in this business ? 
 
 Sieg. Trifling villain ! 
 
 Who play'st with thine own guilt ! Of all that breathe 
 Thou best dost know the innocence of him 
 'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody slander. 
 But I will talk no further with a wretch. 
 Further than justice asks. Answer at once, 
 And without quibbling, to my charge. 
 
 Gab. 'T is false ! 
 
 Sieg. Who says so? 
 
 Gab. I. 
 
 Sieg. And how disprove it? 
 
 Gab. By 
 
 The presence of the murderer. 
 
 Sieg. Name him ! 
 
 Gab. He 
 
 May have more names than one. Your lordship had so 
 Once on a time. 
 
 Sieg. If you mean mc, I dare 
 
 Your utmost. 
 
 Gab. You may do so, and in safety; 
 
 I know the assassin. 
 
 Sieg. Where is he ? 
 
 Gci). {pointing to Vl.-ric.) Beside you! 
 
 [Ulric rushes forward to attach Gabor ; Siegen- 
 DORF interposes. 
 
 Sieg. Liar and fiend ! but you shall not be slain ; 
 These walls are mine, and you are safe within them. 
 
 [He turns to Ulric. 
 Ulric, repel this calumny, as I 
 Will do. I avow it is a growth so monstrous, 
 I could not deem it earth-born : but be calm ; 
 It will refute itself. But touch him not. 
 
 [Ulric endeavours to compose himself. 
 
 Gab. Look at him^ count, and then hear me. 
 
 Sieg. {first to Gabor, and then looking at Ulric.) 
 
 I hear thee. 
 Mv God ! you look 
 
 mr. How ? 
 
 Sieg. As on that dread night 
 
 When we met in the garden. 
 
 Ulr. {composes himself.) It is nothing 
 
 Gab. Count, you are bound to hear me. I came 
 hither 
 Not seeking you, but sought. When I knelt down 
 Amidst the people in the church, I dream'd not 
 To find the beggar'd Werner in the seat 
 Of senators and princes ; but you have call'd me, 
 And we have met. 
 
 Sieg. Go on, sir. 
 
 Gab. Ere I do so, 
 
 Allow me to inquire who profited 
 By Stralenheim's death ? Was 't I— as poor as ever ; 
 And poorer by suspicion on my name ! 
 The baron lost in that last outrage neither 
 Jewels nor gold; his life alone was sought, — 
 
342 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 A life which stood between the claims of others 
 To honours and estates scai-ce less than princely. 
 
 Steg. These hints, as vague as vain, attach no less 
 To me llian to my son. 
 
 Gab. I can't help that. 
 
 But let the consequence alight on him 
 Who feels himself the guilty one among us. 
 1 speak to you, Count Siegendorf, because 
 I know you innocent, and deem you just. 
 But ere I can proceed — dare you protect me ? 
 Dare you command me ? 
 
 f Siegendorf 7?rsi looks at the Hungarian, and then 
 
 at Ulric, who has unbuckled his sabre and is 
 
 drawing lines with it on the floor — still in its 
 
 sheath. 
 
 . Ulr. {looks at his father and says) Let the man go on ! 
 
 Gab. I am unarm'd, count — ^bid your son lay down 
 His sabre. 
 
 Ulr. {offers it to him contemptuously.) Take it. 
 
 Gab. No, sir, 'tis enough 
 
 That we are both unarm'd — I would not choose 
 To wear a steel wliich may be stain'd with more 
 Blood than came there in battle. 
 
 Ulr. {casts the sabre from him in contempt.) It — or 
 some 
 Such other weapon, in my hands — spared yours 
 Once when disarm'd and at my mercy . 
 
 Gab. True— 
 
 I have not forgotten it : you spared me for 
 Your own especial purpose — to sustain 
 An ignominy not my own. 
 
 Ulr. Proceed. 
 
 The tale is doubdess worthy the relater. 
 But is it of my father to hear further? 
 
 [To Siegendorf. 
 
 Sieg. {takes his son by the hand.) My son ! I know 
 my own innocence, and doubt not 
 Of yours — but I have promised this man patience ; 
 Let him continue. 
 
 Gab. I will not detain you 
 
 By speaking of myself much ; I began 
 Life early — and am what the world has made me. 
 At Frankfort on the Oder, where I pass'd 
 A winter in obscurity, it was 
 My chance at several places of resort 
 (Which I frequented sometimes, but not often) 
 To hear related a strange circumstance 
 In February last. A martial force, 
 Sent by the state, had after strong resistance 
 Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 
 Maraudei-s from the hostile camp. — They proved, 
 However, not to be so — but banditti. 
 Whom either accident or enterprise 
 Had carried from their usual haunt — the forests 
 Which skirt Bohemia — even into Lusatia. 
 Many among them were reported of 
 High rank — and martial law slept for a time. 
 At last they were escorted o'er the frontiers, 
 And placed beneath the civil.jurisdiction 
 Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their fate, 
 I know no more. 
 
 Sieg. And what is this to TJlric ? 
 
 Gab. Among them there was said to be one man 
 Of wonderful endowments : — birth and fortune, 
 Youth, strength, and beauty, almost superhuman. 
 And courage as unrivall'd, were proclaim'd 
 His by the public rumour ; and his sway 
 Not only over his associates, but 
 His judges, was attributed to witchcraft. 
 Such was his influence: — I have no great faith 
 In any magic save that of the mine — 
 I therefore deem'd him wealthy. — But my soul 
 Was roused with various feelings to seek out 
 This prodig)-, if only to behold him. 
 
 Sieg. And did you so? 
 
 Gab. You '11 hear. Chance favour'd me 
 
 A popular aiTray in the public square 
 Drew crowds together — it was one of those 
 Occasions where men's souls look out of them. 
 And show them as they are — even in their faces : 
 The moment my eye met his, I exclaim'd, 
 " This is the man !" though he was then, as since. 
 With the nobles of the city. I felt sure 
 I had not err'd. and watch'd him long and nearly : 
 I noted down his form — his gesture — features, 
 Stature, and bearing — and amidst them all, 
 Midst every natural and acquired distinction, 
 I could discern, methoiight, the assassin's eye 
 And gladiator's heart. 
 
 Ulr. {smiling.) The tale sounds well. 
 
 Gab. And may soimd better. — He appear'd to me 
 One of those beings to whom Fortune bends 
 As she doth to the daring — and on whom 
 The fates of others oft depend ; besides, 
 An indescribable sensation drew me 
 Near to this man, as if my point of fortune 
 Was to be fix'd by him. — There I was wrong. 
 
 Sieg. And may not be right now. 
 
 Gab. I folio w'd him. 
 
 Solicited his notice — and obtained it — 
 Though not his friendship : — it was his intention 
 To leave the city privately — we left it 
 Together — and together we arrived 
 In the poor town where Werner was conceal'd, 
 
 And Stralenheim was succour'd Now we are on 
 
 The verge — dare you hear further ? 
 
 Sieg. 1 must do so — 
 
 Or I have heard too much. 
 
 Gab. I saw in you 
 
 A man above his station — and if not 
 So high, as now 1 find you, in my then 
 Conceptions, 't was that I had rarely seen 
 Men such as you appear'd in height of mind 
 In the most high of worldly rank ; you were 
 Poor, even to all save rags : I would have shared 
 My purse, though slender, with you — you refused it. 
 
 Sieg. Doth my refusal make a debt to you, 
 That thus you urge it ? 
 
 Gab. Still you owe me something, 
 
 Though not for tliat ; and I owed you my safety, 
 At least my seeming safety, when the slaves 
 Of Stralenheim pursued me on the grounds 
 That / had robb'd him. 
 
 Sieg. / conceal'd you — I, 
 
 Whom and whose house you arraign, reviving viper ! 
 
 Gab. I accuse no man — save in my defence. 
 You, count, have made yourself accuser— judge : 
 Your hall 's my court, your heart is my tribunal. 
 Be just, and / '11 be merciful ! 
 
 Sieg. You merciful 
 
 You ! Base calumniator ! 
 
 Gab. I. 'TwiUrest 
 
 With me at last to be so. You conceal'd rae — 
 In secret passages known to yourselfj 
 You said, and to none else. At dead of night, 
 Weary with watchbg in the dark, and dubious 
 Of tracing back my way, I saw a glimmer. 
 Through distant crannies, of a twinkling light : 
 I foUow'd it, and reach'd a door — a secret 
 Portal — which open'd to the chamber, where. 
 With cautious hand and slow, having first undone 
 As much as made a crevice of the fastening, 
 I look'd through and beheld a purple bed, 
 And on it Stralenheim ! — 
 
 Sieg. Asleep 1 And yet 
 
 You slew him ! — Wretch ! 
 
 Gab. He was already slain, 
 
 And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own 
 Blood became ice. 
 
Act V. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 343 
 
 Sieg. But he was all alone ! 
 
 You saw none else ? You did not see the — — 
 
 [He pauses from agitation 
 
 Gab. No, 
 
 .BTe, whom you dare not name, nor even I 
 Scarce dare to recollect, was not then in 
 The chamber. 
 
 Sieg. {to Ulric.) Then, my boy! tliou art guiUless 
 still— 
 Thou bad'st me say / was so once — Oh ! now 
 Do thou as much ! 
 
 Gab. Be patient I I can not 
 
 Recede now, though it shake the very walls 
 ■\Vhich frown above us. You remember, — or 
 If not, your son does, — tliat the locks were changed 
 Beneath his chief inspection on tJie morn 
 Which led to this same night : how he had enter'd 
 He best knows — but within an antechamber, 
 The door of which was half ajar, I saw 
 A man who wash'd his bloody hands, and oft 
 With stern and anxious glance gazed back upon 
 The bleeding body — but it moved no more. 
 
 Sieg. Oh ! God of fathers ! 
 
 Gab. I beheld his features 
 
 As I see yours — but yours they were not, though 
 Resembling them — ^behold them in Count Ulric's ! 
 Distinct, as I beheld them, though the expression 
 Is not now what it then was ; — ^but it was so 
 When I first charged him with the crime — so lately. 
 
 Sieg. This is so 
 
 Gab. (interrupting him.) Nay — ^but hear me to the 
 end ! 
 iVbto you must do so. — I conceived myself 
 Beiray'd by you and him (for now I saw 
 There was some tie between you) into this 
 Pretended den of refuge, to become 
 The victim of your guilt ; and my first thought 
 Was vengeance : but though arm'd with a short poniard 
 (Havmg left my sword without) I was no match 
 For him at any time, as had been proved 
 That morning — either in address or force. 
 I turn'd, and fled — i' the dark : chance rather than 
 Skill made me gain the secret door of the hall. 
 And thence the chamber where you slept : if I 
 Had found you waking, Heaven alone can tell 
 What vengeance and suspicion might have prompted ; 
 But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night. 
 
 Sieg. And yet I had horrid dreams ! and such brief 
 sleep, 
 The stars had not gone down when I awoke. 
 Why didst thou spare me ? I dreamt of my father — 
 And now my dream is out ! 
 
 Gab. 'T is not my fault, 
 
 If I have read it. — ^Well ! I fled and hid me — 
 Chance led me here after so many moons — 
 And show'd me Werner in Count Siegendorf ! 
 Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain. 
 Inhabited the palace of a sovereign ! 
 You sought me and have found me — now you know 
 My secret, and may weigh its worth. 
 
 Sieg. {after a pause.) Indeed ! 
 
 Gab. Is it revenge or justice which inspires 
 Your meditation ? 
 
 Sieg. Neither — I was weighing 
 
 The value of your secret. 
 
 Gab. You shall know it 
 
 At once : — When you were poor, and I, though poor, 
 Rich enough to relieve such poverty 
 As might have envied mine, I offer'd you 
 My purse — you would not share it : — I '11 be fi-anker 
 With you : you are wealthy, noble, trusted by 
 The imperial powers — you understand me ? 
 
 Sieg. Yes.~ 
 
 Gab. Not quite. You think me venal, and scarce 
 true : 
 
 'T is no less true, however, that my fortunes 
 
 Have made me both at present. You shall aid me : 
 
 I would have aided you — and also have 
 
 Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 
 
 Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I have said. 
 
 Sieg. Dare you await the event of a few minutes' 
 Deliberation ? 
 
 Gab. {casts his eyes on Ulric, who is leaning against 
 a pillar.) If I should do so ? 
 
 Sieg. I pledge my hfe for yours. Withdraw into 
 This tower. [Opens a turret door. 
 
 Gab. {hesitatingly.) This is the second safe asylum 
 You have offer'd me. 
 
 Sieg. And was not the first so? 
 
 Gab. I know not that even now — but will approve 
 The second. I have still a further shield. — 
 I did not enter Prague alone ; and should I 
 Be put to rest with Stralenheim, there are 
 Some tongues without will wag in my behalf. 
 Be brief in your decision ! 
 
 Sieg. I will be so. — 
 
 My word is sacred and irrevocable 
 Within these walls, but it extends no further 
 
 Gab. I '11 take it for so much. 
 
 Sieg. {points to Ulric's sabre still upon the ground.) 
 Take also that — 
 I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
 Distrustfully. 
 
 Gab. {takes up the sabre.) I will; and so provide 
 To sell my life — not cheaply. 
 
 [GrABOR goes into the turret^ which Siegendorf 
 closes. 
 
 Sieg. {advances to Ulric.) Now', Count Ulric ! 
 For son I dare not call thee — What say'st thou ? 
 
 Ulr. His tale is true. 
 
 Sieg. True, monster ! 
 
 Ulr. Most true, father ! 
 
 And you did well to listen to it: what 
 We know, we can provide against. He must 
 Be silenced. 
 
 Sieg. Ay, with half of my domains ; 
 
 And with the othe-r half, could he and thou 
 Unsay this villany. 
 
 Ulr. It is no time 
 
 For trifling or dissembling. I have said 
 His story 's true ; and he too must be silenced. 
 
 Sieg. How so? 
 
 Ulr. As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull 
 
 As never to have hit on this before ? 
 When we met in the garden, what except 
 Discovery in the act could make me know 
 His death ? Or had the prince's household been 
 Then summon'd, would the cry for the police 
 Been left to such a stranger ? Or should I 
 Have loiter'd on the way ? Or could you, Werner 
 The object of the baron's hate and fears. 
 Have fled; unless by many an hour before 
 Suspicion woke ? I sought and fathom'd you. 
 Doubting if you were false or feeble : I 
 Perceived you were the latter ; and yet so 
 Confiding have I found you, that I doubted 
 At times your weakness. 
 
 Sieg. 
 
 Parricide ! no less 
 
 Than common stabber ! What deed of my life, 
 Or thought of mine, could make you deem me fit 
 For your accompUce ? 
 
 Ulr. Father, do not raise 
 
 The devil you cannot lay between us. This 
 Is time for union and for action, not 
 For family disputes. While you were tortured. 
 Could / be calm ? Think you that I have heard 
 This fellow's tale without some feeling ? — you 
 Have taught me feeling for you and myself; 
 For whom or what else did you ever teach it ? 
 
 Sieg. Oh ! my dead father's cwse ! 't is working now. 
 
344 
 
 WERNER. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 Ulr. Let it work on ! the giave will keep it down ! 
 Ashes are feeble foes : it is more easy 
 To baffle such, than countermine a mole, 
 Which winds its blind but living path beneath you. 
 Yet hear me still ! — If you condemn me, yet 
 Remember who halh taught me once too often 
 To listen to him! Who proclaim'd to me 
 That there were crimes made venial by the occasion I 
 That passion was our nature? that the goods 
 Of Heaven waited on the goods of fortune ? 
 J'Vho show'd me his humanity secured 
 By his nerves only ? Who deprived me of 
 All power to vindicate myself and race 
 In open day? By his disgrace which stamp'd 
 (It might be) bastardy on me, and on 
 Himself — a. felon's brand! The man who is 
 At once both warm and weak imates to deeds 
 He longs to do, but dare not. Is it strange 
 That I should act what you could think ? We have done 
 With right and wrong ; and now must only ponder 
 Upon effects, not causes. Stralenheim, 
 Whose life I saved from impulse, as, unknown^ 
 I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I slew 
 Known as our foe — but not from vengeance. He 
 Was a rock in our way which I cut through, 
 As doth the bolt, because it stood between us 
 And our true destination — but not idly. 
 As stranger I preserved him, and he owed me 
 His life: when due, I but resumed the debt. 
 He, you, and I stood o'er a gulf wherein 
 I have plunged our enemy. You kindled first 
 The torch — you show'd the path ; now trace me that 
 Of safety — or let me ! 
 
 Sieg. I have done with life ! 
 
 XJlr. Let us have done with that which cankers 
 life- 
 Familiar feuds and vain recriminations 
 Of things which cannot be undone. We have 
 No more to learn or hide : I loiow no fear, 
 And have within these very walls men whom 
 (Although you know them not) dare venture all things. 
 You stand high with the state ; what passes here 
 Will not excite her too great curiosity : 
 Keep your ovra secret, keep a steady eye, 
 Stir not, and speak not ;— leave the rest to me ; 
 We must have no third babblers thrust between us. 
 
 \Eodt Ulric. 
 Sieg. (solus.) Am I awake ? are these my father's 
 halls ? 
 And yon — my son ? 3Iy son ! mine ! who have ever 
 Abhorr'd both mystery and blood, and yet 
 Am plunged into the deepest hell of both ! 
 I must be speedy, or more will be shed — 
 The Hungarian's! — Ulric — he hath partisans, 
 It seems: I might have guess'd as much. Oh fool ! 
 Wolves prowl in company. He hath the key 
 (As I too) of the opposite door which leads 
 Into the turret. Now then! or once more 
 To be the father of fresh crimes, no less 
 Than of the criminal ! Ho ! Gabor ! Gabor ! 
 
 [Exit into the turret, closing the door after him. 
 
 Scene II. — The Interior of the Turret. 
 
 Gabor and Siegendorf. 
 
 Gab. Who calls ? 
 
 Sieg. I— Siegendorf! Take these, and fly! 
 
 Lose not a moment ! 
 
 [Tears off' a diamond star and other jewels, and 
 thrusts them into Gabor's hand. 
 
 Gab. What am I to do 
 
 With these ? 
 
 Sieg. Whate'er you will : sell thera, or hoard, 
 
 And prosper ; but delay not, or you are lost ! 
 
 Gab. You pledged your honour for my safety ! 
 
 Sieg. And 
 
 Must thus redeem it. Fly! I am not mastci, 
 It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
 Retainers — nay, even of these very walls, 
 Or I would bid them fall and crush me ! Fly ! 
 Or you will be slain by 
 
 Gab. Is it even so ? 
 
 Farewell, then ! Recollect, however, count, 
 You sought this fatal interview ! 
 
 Sieg. I did : 
 
 Let it not be more fatal still ! — Begone ! 
 
 Gab. By the same path I enter'd ? 
 
 Sieg. Yes ; that 's safe still : 
 
 But loiter not in Prague ;— you do not know 
 With whom you have to deal. 
 
 Gab. I know too well — 
 
 And knew it ere yourself, unhappy sire I 
 Farewell ! [Exit Gabor. 
 
 Sieg. (solus and listening.) He hath clear'd the 
 staircase. Ah ! I hear 
 The door sound loud behind him ! He is safe ! 
 
 Safe ! — Oh, my father's spirit ! — I am faint 
 
 [He leans down upon a stone seat, near the wall 
 of the tower, in a drooping posture. 
 
 Enter Ulric, with others armed, and with v^eapons drawn. 
 
 Ulr. Despatch ! — he 's there ! 
 
 Lud. The count, my lord! 
 
 IJlr. (recog-mzmg- Siegendorf.) Fo?/ here, sir ! 
 
 Sieg. Yes: if you want another victim, strike! 
 
 Ulr. (seeing him stnpt of his jeioels.) Where is the 
 ruffian who hath plunder'd you ? 
 Vassals, despatch in search of him! You see 
 'T was as I said — the wretch hath stript my father 
 Of jewels which might form a prince's heirloom! 
 Away ! I'll follow you forthwith. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Siegendorf and Ulric. 
 What 's this ? 
 Where is the villain ? 
 
 Sieg. There are too, sir : which 
 
 Are you in quest of? 
 
 Ulr. Let us hear no more 
 
 Of this: he must be found. You have not let him 
 Escape ? 
 
 Sieg. He's gone. 
 
 Ulr. With your connivance ? 
 
 Sieg. With 
 
 My fullest, freest aid. 
 
 Ulr. Then fare you well ! 
 
 [Ulric is goiufc. 
 
 Sieg. Stop I I command — entreat — implore ! Oh, 
 Ulric ! 
 Will you then leave me? 
 
 Ulr. What ! remain to be 
 
 Denounced — dragg'd, it may be, in chains ; and all 
 By your inherent wealuiess, half-humanity. 
 Selfish remorse, and temporising pity, 
 That sacrifices your whole race to save 
 A wretch to profit by our ruin ! No, count, 
 Henceforth you have no son ! 
 
 Sieg. I never had one ; 
 
 And would you ne'er had borne the useless name ! 
 Where will you go ? I would not send you forth 
 Without protection. 
 
 Ulr. Leave that unto me. 
 
 I am not alone ; nor merely the vain heir 
 Of your domains ; a thousand, ay, ten thousand 
 Swords, hearts, and hands, are mine. 
 
 Sieg. The foresters ! 
 
 With whom the Hungarian found you first at Frankfort ? 
 
 Ulr. Yes — men — who are worthy of the name ! Go tell 
 Your senators that they look well to Prague ; 
 Their feast of peace was early for the times ; 
 There are more spirits abroad than have been laid 
 With Wallenstein ! 
 
 \ 
 
THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 345 
 
 Enter Josephink and lux. 
 
 Jos. What is 't we hear ? My Siegendoif ! 
 
 Thank Heav'n, I see you safe ! 
 
 Sieg. Safe ! 
 
 Ida. Yes, dear father ! 
 
 Sieg. No, no ; I have no children : never more 
 Call me by that worst name of parent. 
 
 Jos. What 
 
 Means my good lord ? 
 
 Sieg. That you have given birth 
 
 To a demon ! 
 
 Ida. {taking Ulricas hand.) Who shall dare say this 
 of Ulric ? 
 
 Sieg. Ida, beware ! there 's blood upon that hand ! 
 
 Ida. {stooping to kiss it.) I 'd kiss it off, though it were 
 
 mine ! 
 Sieg. It is so ! 
 
 Ulr. Away ! it is your father's ! [Exit Ulric. 
 
 Jda. Oh, great God! 
 
 And I have loved this man ! 
 
 [Ida falls senseless — Josephine stands speechless 
 with horror. 
 Sieg. The wretch hath slain 
 
 Them both! — My Josephine! we are now alone ! 
 Would we had ever been so ! — ^All is over 
 For me ! — Now open wide, my sire, thy grave ; 
 Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son 
 In mine ! — The race of Siegendorf is past ! 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 
 
 A DRAMA. 
 
 [This production is founded partly on the story of a 
 novel called The Three Brothers, published many years 
 ago, from which M. G. Lewis' TVood Demon was also 
 taken — and partly on the Faust of the great Goethe. 
 The present publication contains the two first Parts only, 
 and the opening chorus of the thii-d. The rest may per- 
 haps appear hereafter.] 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 MEN. 
 . Stranger, afterwards C^sar. 
 Arnold. 
 Bourbon. 
 Philibert. 
 Cellini. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 Bertha. 
 Olimpia. 
 
 Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, Priests, Peasants fyc. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Scene I. — A Forest. 
 
 Enter Arnold and his mother Bertha. 
 
 Bert. Out, hunchback ! 
 
 Arn. I was born so, mother ! 
 
 Bert. Out, 
 
 Thou incubus ! Thou nightmare ! Of seven sons 
 The sole abortion ! 
 
 Am. Would that I had been so, 
 
 And never seen the light ! 
 
 Bert. I would so too ! 
 
 But as thou hast — hence, hence — and do thy best ! 
 That back of thine may bear its burden ; 't is 
 More high, if not so broad as that of others. 
 
 Arn. It bears its burden ; — ^but, my heart ! Will it 
 Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother ? 
 I love, or, at the least, 1 loved you : nothing 
 Save you, in nature, can love aught like me. 
 You nursed me — do not kill me ! 
 
 Bert. Yes — I nursed thee. 
 
 Because thou wert my first-bom, and I knew not 
 2T 
 
 If there would be another unlike thee. 
 
 That monstrous sport of nature. But get hence, 
 
 And gather wood ! 
 
 Arn. I v.-ill : but when I bring it, 
 
 Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are 
 So beautiful and lusty, and as free 
 As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me : 
 Our milk has been the same. 
 
 Bert. As is the hedgehog's, 
 
 Which sucks at midnight from the v^'holesome dam 
 Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds 
 The nipple next day sore and udder dry. 
 Call not thy brothers brethren! Call me not 
 Mother ; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
 As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by 
 Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out 
 
 [Exit Bertha. 
 
 Ar7i. {solus.) Oh mother ! She 's gone, and 1 
 
 must do 
 Her bidding ; — wearily but willingly 
 I would fulfil it, could I only hope 
 A kind word in return. What shall I do? 
 
 [Arnold begins to cut wood: in doing this he 
 wounds one of his hands. 
 My labour for the day is over now. 
 Accursed be this blood that flows so fast ; 
 For double curses will be my meed now 
 At home. — What home? I have no home, no kin, 
 No kind — not made like other creatures, or 
 To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed too 
 Like them ? Oh that each drop which falls to earth 
 Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have stung me! 
 Or that the devil, to whom they liken me. 
 Would aid his likeness ! If I must partake 
 His form, why not his power ? Is it because 
 I have not his will too? For one kind word 
 From her who bore me would still reconcile me 
 Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
 The wound. 
 
 [Arnold goes to a spring, and stoops to wash his 
 hand: he starts back. 
 They are right ; and Nature's mirror shows me 
 What she hath made me. I will not look on it 
 Again, and scarce dare think on 't. Hideous wretch 
 That I am ! The very waters mock me with 
 My horrid shadow — like a demon placed 
 Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle 
 From drinking therein. [He pauses. 
 
346 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 And shall I live on, 
 A burden to the earth, myself, cind shame 
 Unto what brought me into life ? Thou blood, 
 Which fiowest so freely from a scratch, let me 
 Try if Lliou wilt not in a fuller stream 
 Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself 
 On earth, to which I will restore at once 
 This hateful compound of her atoms, and 
 Resolve back to her elements, and take 
 The shape of any reptile save myself. 
 And make a world for myriads of new worms ! 
 This knife ! now let me prove if it \\-ill sever 
 This wither'd slip of nature's nightshade — my 
 "Vile form — from the creation, as it hath 
 The green bough from the forest. 
 
 [Arnold places the knife in the ground, vith the 
 point upwards. 
 
 Now 't is set, 
 And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance 
 On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like 
 Myself, and the sweet sun, which warm'd me, but 
 In vain. The birds— how joyously they sing! 
 So let them, for I would not be lamented : 
 But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell ; 
 The fallen leaves my monument; the murmur 
 Of the near fountain my sole elegy. 
 Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall ! 
 
 [As he rusJies to throw himself upon the knife, his 
 eye is suddenly caught by tlie fountain, which 
 seems in motion. 
 The fountam moves without a wind : but shall 
 The ripple of a spring change my resolve ? 
 No. Yet it moves again ! The waters stir, 
 Not as with air, but by some subterrane 
 And rocking power of the internal world. 
 What 's here ? A mist ! No more ? — 
 
 [A cloud comes from the fountain. He stands 
 gazing upon it : it is dispelled, and a tall black 
 man comes towards him. 
 
 Am. What would you ? Speak ! 
 
 Spirit or man ? 
 
 Stran. As man is both, why not 
 
 Say both in one ? 
 
 Am. Your form is man's, and yet 
 
 You may be devil. 
 
 Stran. So many men are that 
 
 Which is so called or thought, that you may add me 
 To which you please, without much wrong to either. 
 But come : you wish to kill yourself; — pursue 
 Your purpose. 
 
 Am. You have interrupted me. 
 
 Stran. What is that resolution which cEUi e'er 
 Be interrupted ? If I be the devil 
 You deem, a single moment would have made you 
 Mine, and for ever, by your suicide ; 
 And yet my coming saves you. 
 
 Am. I said not 
 
 You v}ere the demon, but that your approach 
 Was like one. 
 
 Stran. Unless you keep company 
 
 With him (and you seem scarce used to such high 
 Society) you can't tell how he approaches ; 
 And for his aspect, look upon the fountain, 
 And then on me, and judge which of us twain 
 Look hkest what the boors believe to be 
 Their cloven-footed terror. 
 
 Am. Do you — dare you 
 
 To taunt me with my born deformity ? 
 
 Stran. Were I to taunt a buffalo with this 
 Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary 
 With thy sublime of humps, the animals 
 Would revel in the compliment. And yet 
 Both beings are more swift, more strong, more mighty 
 In action and endurance than thyself, 
 
 And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 
 With ihee. Thy form is natural : 't was only 
 Nature's mistaken largess to bestow 
 The gifts which are of others upon man. 
 
 Arn. Give me the strength then of the buffalo's foot. 
 When he spurns hi£;h the dust, beholding his 
 Near enemy ; or let me have the long 
 And patient swiftness of the desert-ship, 
 The helmless dromedary ; — and I '11 bear 
 Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. 
 
 Stran. 1 will. 
 
 Arn. {with surprise.) Thou canst? 
 
 Stran. Perhaps. Would you aught else ? 
 
 Arn. Thou mockest me. 
 
 Stran. Not I. Why should I mock 
 
 What all are mocking? That's poor sport, methinks. 
 To talk to thee in human language (for 
 Thou canst not yet speak mine) the forester 
 Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar, 
 Or wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
 To petty burghers, who leave once a year 
 Their walls, to fill their household caldrons with 
 Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee, — 
 Now / can mock the mightiest. 
 
 Arn. Then waste not 
 
 Thy time on me : I seek thee not. 
 
 Stran. Your thoughts 
 
 Are not far from me. Do not send me back: 
 I am not so easily recall'd to do 
 Good service. 
 
 Am. W^hat wilt thou do for me ? 
 
 Stran. Change 
 
 Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you ; 
 Or form j^pu to your \\ish in any shape. 
 
 Arn. Oh ! then you are indeed the demon, for 
 Naught else would wittingly wear mine. 
 
 Stran. I '11 show thee 
 
 The brightest which tlie world e'er bore, and give thee 
 Thy choice. 
 
 Am. On what condition ? 
 
 Strati. There 's a question ! 
 
 An hour ago you would have given your soul 
 To look like other men, and now you pause 
 To wear the forip of heroes. 
 
 Arn. No ; I will not. 
 
 1 must not compromise my soul. 
 
 Stran. What soul. 
 
 Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcass ? 
 
 Am. 'T is an aspiring one, whate'er tlie tenement 
 In which it is mislodged. But name your compact: 
 Must it be sign'd in blood ? 
 
 Stran. Not in your own. 
 
 Arn. Whose blood then? 
 
 Stran. We v?ill talk of that hereafter 
 
 But I '11 be moderate with you, for I see 
 Great things within you. Y'ou shall have no bond 
 But your owti will, no contract save your deeds. 
 Are you content ? 
 
 Am. I take thee at thy word. 
 
 Stran. Now then! — 
 
 [T%e Stranger approaches the fountain, and turns to 
 Arnold. 
 
 A little of your blood. 
 
 Am. For what ? 
 
 Stran. To mingle with the magic of the waters, 
 And make the charm effective. 
 
 Am. (holding out his wounded arm.) Take it all. 
 
 Stran. Not now. A few drops will suffice for this. 
 [TVie Stranger takes some o/ Arnold's blood in his 
 hand, and casts it into the fountain. 
 
 Stran. Shadows of beauty ! 
 Shadows of power I 
 Rise to your duty — 
 This is the hour ! 
 
Paut r. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 347 
 
 Walk lovely and pliant 
 
 From the depth of this fountain, 
 As the cloud-shapen giant 
 
 Bestrides the Hartz mountain.* 
 Come as ye were, 
 
 That our eyes may behold 
 The model in air 
 
 Of the form I will mould, 
 Bright as the Iris 
 
 When ether is spann'd ; — 
 Such his desire is, [Pointing to Arnold. 
 
 Such my command! 
 Demons heroic — 
 
 Demons who wore 
 The form of the stoic 
 Or sophist of yore — 
 Or the shape of each victor, 
 
 From Macedon's boy 
 To each high Roman's picture, 
 
 Who breath'd to destroy — 
 Shadows of beauty ! 
 
 Shadows of power ! 
 Up to your duty — 
 This is the hour! 
 [ [Various Phantoms arise from the waters, and pass 
 in succession before the Stranger and Arnold. 
 Am. What do I see? 
 
 Stran. The black-eyed Roman, with 
 
 The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er 
 Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along 
 The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became 
 His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name. 
 Am. The phantom 's bald ; my quest is beauty. 
 Could I 
 Inherit but his fame with his defects ! 
 
 Stran. His brow was girt with laurels more than 
 hairs. 
 You see his aspect — choose it, or reject. 
 I can but promise you his form ; his fame 
 Must be long sought and fought for. 
 
 Arn. I will fight too, 
 
 But not as a mock Ctesar. Let him pass ; 
 His aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 
 
 Stran. Then you are far more difficult to please 
 Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus' mother, 
 Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age 
 When love is not less in the eye than heart. 
 But be it so ! Shadow, pass on ! 
 
 [The phantom of Julius CcBsar disappears. 
 Arn. And can it 
 
 Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone, 
 And left no footstep ? 
 
 Stran. There you err. His substance 
 
 Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame 
 More than enough to track his memory ; 
 But for his shadow, 't is no more than yours, 
 Except a little longer and less crooked 
 I' the sun. Behold another! 
 
 [A second phantom passes. 
 Arn. Who is he? 
 
 Stran. He was the fairest and the bravest of 
 Athenians. Look upon him well. 
 
 Arn. He is 
 
 More lovely than the last. How beautiful ! 
 
 Stran. Such was the curled son of Clinias ; — wouldst 
 thou 
 Invest thee with his form? 
 
 Arn. Would that I had 
 
 Been born with it! But since I may choose further, 
 I will look further. 
 
 [The shade of Alcibiades disappears. 
 
 * This is a well-known German superstition — a gigantic shadow pro- 
 duced by reflection on the Brocken. 
 
 Stran. Lo ! behold again ! 
 
 Am. What! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round- 
 eyed satyr, 
 With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect, 
 The splay feet and low stature ! I had better 
 Remain that which I am. 
 
 Stran. And yet he was 
 
 The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, 
 And personification of all virtue. 
 But you reject him ? 
 
 ■^rn. If his form could bring me 
 
 That which redeem'd it — no. 
 
 Stran. I have no power 
 
 To promise that ; but you may try, and find it 
 Easier in such a form, or in your own. 
 
 Arn. No. I was not born for philosophy. 
 Though I have that about me wliich has need on 't. 
 Let him fleet on. 
 
 Stran. Be air, thou hemlock-drinker ! 
 
 [The shadow of Socrates disappears: another rises. 
 
 Arn. What 's here ? whose broad brow and whose 
 curly beard 
 And manly aspect look like Hercules, 
 Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus 
 Than the sad purger of the infernal world, 
 Leaning dejected on his club of conquest, 
 As if he knew the worthlessness of those 
 For whom he bad fought. 
 
 Stran. It was the man who lost 
 
 The ancient world for love. 
 
 Arn. I cannot blame him, 
 
 Since I have risk'd my soul because I find not 
 That which he exchang'd the earth for. 
 
 Stran. Since so far 
 
 You seem congenial, will you wear his features? 
 
 Arn. No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult, 
 If but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
 Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
 Whence they float back before us. 
 
 Stran. Hence, triumvir! 
 
 Thy Cleopatra 's waiting. 
 
 [The shade of Antony disappears: another rises. 
 
 Arn. Who is this ? 
 
 Who truly looketh like a demigod, 
 Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature. 
 If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
 In all that nameless bearing of his limbs. 
 Which he wears as the sun his rays — a something 
 Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing 
 Emanation of a thing more glorious still. 
 Was he eW human only ? 
 
 Stran. Let the earth speak, 
 
 If there be atoms of him lefl, or even 
 Of the more solid gold that form'd his urn. 
 
 Arn. Who was this glory of mankind? 
 
 Stran. The shame 
 
 Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war — 
 Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
 Taker of cities. 
 
 Arn. Yet one shadow more. 
 
 Stran. (addressing the shadow.) Get thee to Lamia's 
 lap! 
 [The shade of Demetrius Poliocetes vanishes: 
 another rises. 
 
 I '11 fit you still. 
 Fear not, my hunchback. If the shadows of 
 That which existed please not your nice taste, 
 I '11 animate the ideal marble, till 
 Your soul be reconciled to her new garment. 
 
 Arn. Content ! I will fix here. 
 
 Stran. I must commend 
 
 Your choice. The godlike son of the sea-goddess, 
 The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks 
 As beautiful and clear as the amber waves 
 Of rich Pactolus, roU'd o 'er sands of gold. 
 
348 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 Soften'd by intervening crystal, and 
 
 Rippled like flowing waters by the wind, 
 
 All vow'd to Sperchius as they were — ^behold them ! 
 
 And Imn — as he stood by Polixena, 
 
 With sanction'd and with soften'd love, before 
 
 The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride, 
 
 With some remorse within for Hector slain 
 
 And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion 
 
 For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand 
 
 Trembled in his who slew her brother. So 
 
 He stood i' the temple ! Look upon him as 
 
 Greece looked her last upon her best, the instant 
 
 Ere Paris' arrow flew. 
 
 Am. I gaze upon him 
 
 As if I were his sou], whose form shall soon 
 Envelop mine. 
 
 Stran. You have done well. The greatest 
 
 Deformity should only barter whh 
 The extremest beauty, if the proverb 's true 
 Of mortals, that extremes meet. 
 
 Aril. Come! Be quick! 
 
 I am impatient. 
 
 Stran. As a youthful beauty 
 
 Before her glass. You both see what is not, 
 But dream it is what must be. 
 
 Am. Must I wait 7 
 
 Stran. No ; that were a pity. But a word or two : 
 His stature is twelve cubits ; would you so far 
 Outstep these times, and be a Titan? Or 
 (To talk canonically) wax a son 
 Of Anak ? 
 
 Arn. Why not? 
 
 Stran. Glorious ambition! 
 
 I love thee most in dwarfs ! A mortal of 
 Philistine stature would have gladly pared 
 His own Goliath down to a slight David : 
 But thou, my manikin, v.-ouldst soar a show 
 Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged, 
 If such be thy desire ; and yet, by being 
 A little less removed from present men 
 In figure, thou canst sway them more ; for all 
 Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt 
 A new-found mammoth ; and their cursed engines, 
 Their culverins, and so forth, would find way 
 Through our friend's armour there, with greater ease 
 Than the addterer's arrow through his heel, 
 Which Thetis had forgotten to baptize 
 In St^TC. 
 
 Arn. Then let it be as thou deem'st best. 
 
 Stran. Thou shalt be beauteous as the thing thou 
 seest. 
 And strong as what it was, and — 
 
 -4771. I ask not 
 
 For valour, since deformity is daring. 
 It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 
 By heart and soul, and make itself the equal — 
 Ay, the saperior of the rest. There is 
 A spur in its halt movements, to become 
 All that the others cannot, in such things 
 As still are free to both, to compensate 
 For stepdame Nature's avarice at first. 
 They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortune, 
 And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar, win them. 
 
 Stran. Well spoken ! And thou doubtless Nvilt remain 
 Form'd as thou art. I may dismiss the mould 
 Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to incase 
 This daring soul, which could achieve no less 
 Without it ? 
 
 Arn. Had no power presented me 
 
 The possibility of change, I would 
 Have done the best which spirit may to make 
 Its way, with all deformity's dull, deadly. 
 Discouraging v.eight upon me, like a mountain. 
 In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders— 
 An liatefijl and unsightly molehill to 
 
 The eyes of happier man. I would have look'd 
 On beauty in ihat sex which is the type 
 Of all we know or dream of beautiful 
 Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh — 
 Not of love, but despair ; nor sought to win, 
 Though to a heart all love, what could not love me 
 In turn, because of this vile crooked clog, 
 Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have borne 
 It all, had not my mother spurn'd me from her. 
 The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort 
 Of shape ; — my dam beheld my shape was hopeless 
 Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere 
 I knew the passionate part of life, I had 
 Been a clod of the valley, — happier nothing 
 Than what I am. But even thus, the lowest, 
 Ugliest, and meanest of mankind, what courage 
 And perseverance could have done, perchance 
 Had made me something — as it has made heroes 
 Of the same mould as mine. You lately saw me 
 Master of my own life, and quick to quit it ; 
 And he who is so is the master of 
 Whatever dreads to die. 
 
 Stran. Decide between 
 
 What you have been, or will be. 
 
 Arn. I hare done so. 
 
 You have open'd brighter prospects to my eyes, 
 And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, 
 I might be fear'd, admired, respected, Toved 
 Of all save those next to me, of whom I 
 Would be beloved. As thou showest me 
 A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
 Haste ! haste ! 
 
 Stran. And what shall / wear ? 
 
 Am. Surely he 
 
 Who can command all forms will choose the highest, 
 Something superior even to that which was 
 Pelides now before us. Perhaps his 
 Who slew him, that of Paris : or — still higher — 
 The poet's god; clothed in such limbs as are 
 Themselves a poetry. 
 
 Stran. Less will content me ; 
 
 For I, too, love a change. 
 
 Am. Your aspect is 
 
 Dusky, but not uncomely. 
 
 Stran. If 1 chose, 
 
 I might be whiter ; but I have a penchant 
 For black — it is so honest, and besides 
 Can neither blush with shame nor pale with fear : 
 But 1 have v/orn it long enough of late, 
 And now I '11 take your figure. 
 
 Am. JMii'ie ! 
 
 Stran. Yfs. You 
 
 Shall change with Thetis' son, and I with Bertha, 
 Your mother's offspring. People have their tastes ; 
 You have yours — I mine. 
 
 Arn. Despatch! despatch! 
 
 Stran. Even so. 
 
 [The Stranger talies some earth and moulds it along 
 the turf, and then addresses the phantom oj 
 Achilles. 
 Beautiful shadow 
 
 Of Thetis's boy ! 
 Who sleeps in the meadow 
 
 Whose grass grows o'er Troy : 
 From the red earth, like Adam,* 
 
 Thy likeness I shape. 
 As the being who made liim, 
 
 Whose actions I ape. 
 Thou clay, be all glowing, 
 
 Till the rose in his cheek 
 
 Be as fair as, when b!ov>ing. 
 
 It wears its first streak ! 
 
 Adam means "red earth," from which the first man wr3 formed. 
 
Part I. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 
 
 349 
 
 Ye violets, I scatter, 
 
 Now turn into eyes ! 
 And thou sunshiny water. 
 
 Of blood take the guise ! 
 Let these hyacinth boughs 
 
 Be his long flowing hair, 
 And wave o'er his brows, 
 
 As thou wavest in air! 
 Let his heart be this marble 
 
 I tear from the rock I 
 But his voice as the warble 
 
 Of birds on yon oak ! 
 Let his flesh be the purest 
 
 Of mould, in which grew 
 The lily-root surest, 
 
 And drank the best dew! 
 Let his limbs bo the lightest 
 
 Which clay can compound, 
 And his aspect tlie brightest 
 
 On earth to be found ! 
 Elements, near me, 
 
 Be mingled and stirr'd, 
 Know me, and hear me. 
 
 And leap to my word ! 
 Sunbeams, awaken 
 
 This eartli's animation! 
 'T is done ! He hath taken 
 
 His stand in creation ! 
 
 [Arnold falls senseless ; his soul passes into the 
 shape of Achilles, which rises from the ground; 
 while the phantom has disappeared, part by part, 
 as the figure was formed from the earth. 
 
 Arn. {in his new form.) I love, and I shall be 
 beloved ! Oh life ! 
 At last I feel thee ! Glorious spirit ! 
 
 Stran. Stop ! 
 
 What shall become of your abandon'd garment, 
 Your hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness, 
 Which late you wore, or were ? 
 
 Arn. Who cares ? Let wolves 
 
 And vultures take it, if they will. 
 
 Stran. And if 
 
 They do, and are not scared by it, you '11 say 
 It must be peace-time, and no better fare 
 Abroad i' the fields. 
 
 Am. Let us but leave it there; 
 
 No matter what becomes on 't, 
 
 Stran. That 's ungracious, 
 
 If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be. 
 It hath sustain d your soul full many a day. 
 
 Am. Ay, as the dunghill may conceal a gem 
 Which is now set in gold, as jewels should be. 
 
 Stran. But if I give another form, it must be 
 By fair exchange, not robbery. For they 
 Who make men without women's aid have long 
 Had patents for the same, and do not love 
 Your interlopers. The devil may take men, 
 Not make them, — though he reap the benefit 
 Of the original workmanship: — and therefore 
 Some one must be found to assume the shape 
 You have quitted. 
 
 Am. Who would do so? 
 
 Stran. That I know not. 
 
 And therefore I must. 
 
 Arn. You! 
 
 Stran. I said it ere 
 
 You mhabited your present dome of beauty. 
 
 Arn. True. I forget all things in the new joy 
 Of this immortal change. 
 
 Stran. In a few moments 
 
 I will be as you were, and you shall see 
 Yourself for ever by you, as your shadow. 
 
 Ar7i. I would be spared this. 
 
 Stran. But it cannot be. 
 
 What ! shrink already, being what you are, 
 From seeing what you were ? 
 Arn. Do as thou wilt. 
 
 Stran. {to the late form of Arnold, extended on the 
 earth.) 
 
 Clay I not dead, but soul-less ! 
 
 Though no man would choose thee 
 An immortal no less 
 
 Deigns not to refuse thee. 
 Clay thou art ; and unto' spirit 
 All clay is of equal merit. 
 Fire ! without which naught can live ; 
 Fire ! but in which naught can live, 
 Save the fabled salamander. 
 Or immortal souls, which wander, 
 Praying what doth not forgive. 
 Howling for a drop of water. 
 
 Burning in a quenchless lot. 
 Fire ! the only element 
 
 Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm, 
 
 Save the worm which dieth not, 
 Can preserve a moment's form, 
 But must with thyself be blent : 
 Fire ! man's safeguard and his slaughter : 
 Fire ! Creation's first-born daughter. 
 And Destruction's threaten'd son. 
 When heaven with the ^Yorld hath done : 
 Fire ! assist me to renew 
 Life in what lies in my view 
 
 Stiff and cold ! 
 His resurrection rests with me and you ! 
 One little, marshy spark of flame — 
 And he again shall seem the same ; 
 But I his spirit's place shall hold ! 
 [An ignis fatuus flits through the wood, and rests 
 on the brow of the body. The Stranger dis- 
 appears : the body rises. 
 Am. {in his new form.) Oh ! horrible ! 
 Stran. {in Arnold's late shape.) '^^'Tiat! tremblest 
 
 thou ? 
 ^rn. i-^ot so— 
 
 I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 
 Thou lately worest? 
 
 Stran. To the world of shadoAvs. 
 
 But let us thread the present. Whither wilt thou? 
 Arn. Must thou be my co.mpanion ? 
 Stran. Wherefore not ? 
 
 Your betters keep worse company. 
 
 ^rn. My betters ! 
 
 Stran. Oh! you wax proud, I see, of your new 
 form : 
 I 'm glad of that. Ungrateful too ! That 's well ; 
 You improve apace : — two changes in an inatant, 
 And you are old in the world's ways already. 
 But bear with me: indeed you '11 find me useful 
 Upon your pilgrimage. Bat come, pronounce 
 Where shall we now be errant ? 
 
 ■Arn. Where the world 
 
 Is thickest, that I may behold it in 
 Its workings. 
 
 Stran. That's to say, where there is war 
 
 And woman in activity. Let's see ! 
 Spain — Italy — the new Atlantic world — 
 Afric, with all its Moors. In very truth, 
 There is small choice : the whole race are just now 
 Tuggmg as usual at each other's hearts. 
 Arn. I have heard great things of Rome. 
 Stran. A goodly choice — 
 
 And scarce a better to be found on earth, 
 Since Sodom was put out. The field is wide too ; 
 For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish scion 
 Of the old Vandals, are at play along 
 The sunny shores of the world's garden. 
 
 Arn. How 
 
 Shall we proceed ? 
 
350 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 Part L 
 
 Stran. Like gallants, on good coursers. 
 
 What ho ! my chargers ! Never yet were better, 
 Since Phaeton was upset into the Po. 
 Our pages too ! 
 
 Enter two Pages with four coal-black horses. 
 
 Am. A noble sight : 
 
 Stran. And of 
 
 A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 
 Or your Kochlini race of Araby, 
 With these ! 
 
 Arn. The mighty steam, which volumes high 
 
 From their proud nostrils, burns the very air : 
 And sparks of fiame, like dancing fire-fhesj wheel 
 Around their manes, as common insects swarm 
 Round common steeds towards sunset. 
 
 Stran. Mount, my lord : 
 
 They and 1 are your servitors. 
 
 Am. And these 
 
 Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their names ? 
 Slran. You shall baptize them. 
 
 Am. What ! m holy water ? 
 
 Stran. Why not ? The deeper sinner, better saint. 
 Am. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be demons. 
 Stran. True ; the devil 's always ugly ; and your 
 beauty 
 Is never diabolical. 
 
 Arn. I '11 call him 
 
 Who bears the golden horn, and wears such bright 
 And blooming aspect, Huon ; for he looks 
 Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest. 
 And never found till now. And for the other 
 And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not, 
 But looks as serious though serene as night, 
 He shall be Memnon., from the Ethiop king 
 Vv^hose statue turns a harper once a day. 
 And you ? 
 
 Stran. I have ten thousand names, and twice 
 As many attributes ; but as I wear 
 A human shape, will take a human name. 
 
 Arn. More human than the shape (though it was 
 mine once) 
 I trust. 
 
 Stran. Then call me Czesar. 
 Arn. Why, that name 
 
 Belongs to empires, and has been but borne 
 By the world's lords. 
 
 Stran. And therefore fittest for 
 
 The devil in disguise — since so you deem me, 
 Unless you call me pope instead. 
 
 Arn. Well, then, 
 
 Caesar thou shalt be. For myself, my name 
 Shall be plain Arnold still. 
 
 Caes. We '11 atid a title— 
 
 " Count Arnold :" it hath no ungracious sound, 
 And will look well upon a billet-doux. 
 Arn. Or in an order for a battle-field. 
 CcBS. (sings.) To horse! to horse! my coal-black steed 
 Paws the ground and snuffs the air J 
 There 's not a foal of Arab's breed 
 
 More knows whom he must bear ; 
 On the hill he will not tire. 
 Swifter as it waxes higher ; 
 In the marsh he will not slacken, 
 On the plain be overtaken ; 
 In the wave he will not sink, 
 Nor pause at the brook's side to drink; 
 In the race he will not pant, 
 In the combat he '11 not faint ; 
 On the stones he will not stumble, 
 Time nor toil shall make him humble ; 
 In the stall he will not stiffen. 
 But be winged as a griffin, 
 Only flying with his feet ; 
 And will not such a voyage be sweet? 
 
 Merrily 1 merrily ! never unsound, 
 Shall our bonny black horses skim over the ground ! 
 From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly ! 
 For we '11 leave them behbd in the glance of an eye. 
 [They mount their horses, and disappear. 
 
 Scene IT. — A Camp before the Walls of Rome. 
 Arnold and CjESAR. 
 
 C(BS. You are well entered now. 
 Arn. Ay ; but my path 
 
 Has been o'er carcasses : mine eyes are full 
 Of blood. 
 
 CoES. Then wipe them, and see clearly. Why ! 
 Thou art a conqueror ; the chosen knight 
 And free companion of the gallant Bourbon, 
 Late constable of France: and now to be 
 Lord of the city which hath been earth's lord 
 Under its emperors, and — changing sex, 
 Not sceptre, an hermaphrodite of empire — 
 Lady of the old world. 
 
 Arn. How old ? What ! are there 
 
 New worlds? 
 
 Caes. To you. You'll find there are such shortly, 
 By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold ; 
 From one half of the world named a whole new one, 
 Because you know no better than the dull 
 And dubious notice of your eyes and ears. 
 Arn. I '11 trust them. 
 
 CcBS. Do ! They will deceive you sweetly, 
 
 And that is better than the bitter truth. 
 Arn. Dog ! 
 CcBS. Man ! 
 
 Arn. Devil I 
 
 Caes. Your obedient humble servant. 
 
 ^771. Say master rather. Thou hast lured me on, 
 Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 
 C<BS. And where wouldst thou be ? 
 Arn. Oh, at peace — in peace ! 
 
 Cgbs. And where is that which is so? From the star 
 To the winding worm, all life is motion ; and 
 In life commotion is the extremest point 
 Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes 
 A comet, and destroying as it sweeps 
 The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its way. 
 Living upon the death of other things. 
 But still, like them, must five and die, the subject 
 Of something which has made it live and die. 
 You must obey what all obey, the rule 
 Of fix'd necessity : against her edict 
 Rebellion prospers not. 
 
 Arn. And when it prospers 
 
 C(BS. 'T is no rebellion. 
 
 Am. Will it prosper now? 
 
 Co&s. The Bourbon hath given orders for the assault, 
 And by the dawn there will be work. 
 
 Arn. Alas ! 
 
 And shall the city yield ? I see the giant 
 Abode of the true God, and his true saint, 
 Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into 
 That sky whence Christ ascended from the cross. 
 Which his blood made a badge of glory and 
 Of joy, (as once of torture unto him, 
 God and God's Son, man's sole and only refuge.) 
 Coes. 'Tis there, and shall be. 
 Am. What ? 
 
 C<ES. The crucifix 
 
 Above, and many altar shrines below. 
 Also some culverins upon the walls, 
 And hai-quebusses, and what not ; besides 
 The men who are to kindle them to death 
 Of other men. 
 
 Am. And those scarce mortal arches, 
 
 Pile above pile of everlasting wall. 
 
Part I. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 351 
 
 The theatre where emperors and their subjects 
 
 (Those subjects Romans) stood at gaze upon 
 
 j?he battles of the monarciis of the wild 
 
 And wood, the lion and his tusky rebels 
 
 Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust 
 
 In the arena, (as right well they might, 
 
 When they had left no human foe unconquer'd ;) 
 
 Made even the forest pay its tribute of 
 
 Life to their amphitheatre, as well 
 
 As Dacia men to die the eternal death 
 
 For a sole instant's pastime, and "Pass on, 
 
 To a new gladiator !" — Must it fall ? 
 Caes. The city, or the amphitheatre? 
 
 The church, or one, or all ? for you confound 
 
 Both them and me. 
 Arn. To-morrow sounds the assault 
 
 With the first cock-crow. 
 
 CcBS. Which, if it end witli 
 
 The evening's first nightingale, will be 
 
 Something new in the annals of great sieges ; 
 
 For men must have their prey after long toil. 
 Arn. The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 
 
 More beautifully, than he did on Rome 
 
 On the day Remus leapt her wall. 
 
 Caes. I saw him. 
 
 Arn. You ! 
 
 C«s. Yes, sir. You forget I am or was 
 
 Spirit, till 1 took up with your cast shape 
 And a worse name. I 'm Caesar and a hunchback 
 Now. Well! the first of Caesars was a bald-head, 
 And loved his laurels better as a wig 
 
 (So history says) than as a glory. Thus 
 
 The world runs on, but we '11 be merry still. 
 
 I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 
 
 Slay his own twin, quick-born of the same womb, 
 
 Because he leapt a ditch, ('t was then no wall, 
 
 Whate'er it now be;) and Rome's earliest cement 
 
 Was brother's blood ; and if its native blood 
 
 Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red 
 
 As e'er 't was yellow, it will never wear 
 
 The deep hue of the ocean and the earth, 
 
 Which the great robber sons of fratricide 
 
 Have made their never-ceasing scene of slaughter 
 
 For ages. 
 
 Arn. But what have these done, their far 
 
 Remote descendants, who have lived in peace, 
 The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 
 Piety? 
 
 CcBS. And what had they done, whom the old 
 Romans o'ersw ept ? — Hark ! 
 
 Am. They are soldiers singing 
 
 A reckless roundelay, upon the eve 
 Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 
 
 Cces. And why should they not sing as well as swans? 
 They are black ones, to be sure. 
 
 Arn. So, you are leam'd,^ 
 
 I see, too? 
 
 Cobs. In my grammar, certes. 1 
 
 Was educated for a monk of all times, 
 And once I was well versed in the forgotten 
 Etruscan letters, and— were I so minded — 
 Could maKe tneir hieroglyphics plainer than 
 Your alphabet. 
 
 Arn. And wherefore do you not? 
 
 C(BS. It answers better to resolve the alphabet 
 Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman, 
 And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchymist, 
 Philosopher, and what not, they have built 
 More Babels, without new dispersion, than 
 The siammenng young ones of the flood's dull ooze, 
 Who fail'd and fled each other. Why? why, marry, 
 Because no man could understand his neighbour. 
 They are wiser now, and will not separate 
 For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood, 
 Their Shibboleth, their Koran, Talmud, their 
 
 Cabala; their best brick-work, wherewithal 
 They build more — 
 
 Arn. {interrupting him.) Oh, thou everlasting sneerer > 
 Be silent! How the soldier's rough strain seems 
 Soften'd by distance to a hymn-like cadence ! 
 Listen ! 
 
 C(BS. Yes. I have heard the angels sing. 
 
 Arn. And demons howl. 
 
 C^<2«' And man too. Let us listen 
 
 I love all music. 
 
 Song of the Soldiers within. 
 The black bands came over 
 The Alps and their snow ; 
 With Bourbon, the rover, 
 
 They pass'd the broad Po. 
 We have beaten all foemen, 
 We have captured a king, 
 We have turn'd back on no men, 
 
 And so let us sing! 
 Here 's the Bourbon for ever ! 
 
 Though pennyless all. 
 We '11 have one more endeavour 
 
 At yonder old wall. 
 With the Bourbon we'll gather 
 
 At day-dawn before 
 The gates, and together 
 
 Or break or climb o'er 
 The wall: on the ladder 
 
 As mounts each firm foot. 
 Our shouts shall grow gladder. 
 
 And death only be mute. 
 With the Bourbon we '11 mount o'er 
 
 The walls of old Rome, 
 And who then shall count o'er 
 
 The spoils of each dome ? 
 Up ! up with the lily ! 
 
 And down with the keys ! 
 In old Rome, the seven-hilly, 
 
 We'll revel at ease. 
 Her streets shall be gory, 
 
 Her Tiber all red, 
 And her temples so hoary 
 
 Shall clang with our tread. 
 Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon ! 
 
 The Bourbon for aye ! 
 Of our song bear the burden! 
 
 And fire, fire away ! 
 With Spain for the vanguard, 
 
 Our varied host comes ; 
 And next to the Spaniard 
 
 Beat Germany's drums ; 
 And Italy's lances 
 
 Are couch'd at their mother ; 
 But our leader from France is. 
 
 Who warr'd with his brother. 
 Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon I 
 
 Sans country or home. 
 We '11 follow the Bourbon, 
 
 To plunder old Rome. 
 
 Cobs. An indifferent song 
 
 For those within the walls, methinks, to hear. 
 
 Arn, Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But here 
 comes 
 The general with his chiefs and men of trust. 
 A goodly rebel ! 
 
 Enter the Constable Bourbon, " cum suis,^^ ^c, ^c. 
 
 Phil. How now, noble prince. 
 
 You are not cheerful ? 
 
 Bourb. Why should I be so ? 
 
 Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such as ourSy 
 Most men would be so. 
 
 Bourb. If I were secure ! 
 
352 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 Phil. Doubt not our soldiers. Weie the walls of 
 adamant, 
 They 'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. 
 
 Bourb. That they will falter is my least of fears. 
 That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for 
 Their chief, and all their kindled appetites 
 To marshal them on — were those hoary walls 
 Mountains, and those who guard them like the gods 
 Of the old fables, I would trust my Titans; — 
 But now — 
 
 Phil, They are but men who war with mortals. 
 
 Bourb. True ; but those walls have girded in great 
 And sent forth mighty sph-its. The past eai-th [ages. 
 And present phantom of imperious Rome 
 Is peopled wifh those warriors ; and methinks 
 They flit along the eternal city's rampart, 
 And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands, 
 And beckon me away ! 
 
 Phil. So let them ! Wilt thou 
 
 Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows ? 
 
 Bourb. They do not menace me. I could have faced, 
 Methinks, a Sylla's menace ; but they clasp 
 And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands, 
 And with their thin aspen faces and fixed eves 
 Fascinate mine. Look there ! 
 
 Phil, I look upon 
 
 A lofty battlement. 
 
 Bourb. And there! 
 
 Phil. Not even 
 
 A guard in sight ; they wisely keep below, 
 Sheltered by the gray parapet from some 
 Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 
 Practice in the cool twilight. 
 
 Bourb. You are blind, 
 
 Phil. If seeing nothing more than may be seen 
 Be so. 
 
 Bourb. A thousand years have mann'd the walls 
 With all their heroes, — the lastCato stands 
 And tears his bowels, rather than survive 
 The liberty of that I would enslave. 
 And the first Caesar with his triumphs flits 
 From battlement to battlement 
 
 Phil. Then conquer 
 
 The walls for which he conquer'd, and be greater ! 
 
 Bourb. True : so I will, or perish. 
 
 Phil. You can not. 
 
 In such an enterprise to die. is rather 
 The dawn of an eternal day, than death. 
 
 [Count Arnold and Cjesar advance. 
 
 CcBS. And the mere men— do they too sweat beneath 
 The noon of this same ever-scorching glory ? 
 
 Bourb. Ah ! 
 
 Welcome the bitter hunchback ! and his master, 
 The beauty of our host, and brave as beauteous, 
 And generous as lovely. We shall find 
 Work for you both ere morning. 
 
 CcBS. You will find, 
 
 So please your highness, no less for yourself. 
 
 Bourb. And if I do, there will not be a labourer 
 More forward, hunchback ! 
 
 CcBs. You may well say so, 
 
 For you have seen that back — as general, 
 Placed in the rear in action — but your foes 
 Have never seen it. 
 
 Bourb. That 's a fair retort, 
 
 For I provoked it : — but the Bourbon's breast 
 Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 
 In danger's face as yours, were you the devil. 
 
 C<£s. And if I were, I might have saved myself 
 The toil of coming here. 
 
 Phil. Why so? 
 
 C(BS. One half 
 
 Of your brave bands of then- own bold accord 
 Will go to him, the other half be sent, 
 More swiftly, not less surely. 
 
 Bourb. Arnold, your 
 
 Slight crook'd friend 's as snake-like in his words 
 As his deeds. 
 
 Cobs. Your highness much mistakes me. 
 
 The first snake was a flatterer — I am none ; 
 And for my deeds, T only sting when stung. 
 
 Bourb. You are brave, and that 's enough for nie , 
 and quick 
 In speech as sharp in action — and that 's more. 
 I am not alone a soldier, but the soldiers' 
 Comrade. 
 
 CcBS. They are but bad company, your highness ; 
 And worse even for their friends than foes, as being 
 More permanent acquaintance. 
 
 Phil. How now, fellow ! 
 
 Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege 
 Of a buffoon. 
 
 CcBs. You mean I speak the truth. 
 
 I '11 lie — it is as easy : then you '11 praise me 
 For calling you a hero. 
 
 Bourb. Philibert ! 
 
 Let him alone; he 's brave, and ever has 
 Been first, with that swart face and mountain shoulder, 
 In field or storm, and patient in starvation ; 
 And for his tongue, the camp is full of licence, 
 And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
 Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
 The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration 
 Of a mere famish'd, sullen, grumbling slave. 
 Whom nothing can convince save a full meal, 
 And wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis, 
 With which he deems him rich. 
 
 CcBS. It would be well 
 
 If the earth's princes ask'd no more. 
 
 Bourb. Be silent ! 
 
 CcBS. Ay, but not idle. Work yourself with words ! 
 You have few to speak. 
 
 Phil. What means the audacious prater ? 
 
 CcBs. To prate, hke other prophets. 
 
 Bourb. Philibert ! 
 
 Why vdll you vex him ? Have we not enough 
 To think on ? Arnold ! I will lead the attack 
 To-morrow. 
 
 Arn. I have heard as much, my lord. 
 
 Bourb. And you will follow ? 
 
 Arn. Since I must not lead. 
 
 Bourb. 'T is necessary for the further daring 
 Of our too needy army, that their chief 
 Plant the first foot upon the foremost ladder's 
 First step. 
 
 CcES. Upon its topmost, let us hope : 
 
 So shall he have his full deserts. 
 
 Bourb. The world's 
 
 Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow. 
 Through every change the seven-hill'd city hath 
 Retain'd her sway o'er nations, and the Caesars 
 But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics 
 Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest. 
 Still the world's masters ! Civilized, barbarian, 
 Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus 
 Have been the circus of an empire. Well! 
 'T was their turn — now 't is ours ; and let us hope 
 That we will fight as weU, and rule much better. 
 ■ CcBs. No doubt, the camp 's the school of civic 
 
 rights. 
 What would you make of Rome ? 
 
 £ourb. That which it was. 
 
 Cces. In Alaric's time 7 
 
 Bourb. No, slave ! in the first Caesar's, 
 Whose name you bear like other curs 
 
 C«s. And kings ! 
 
 'T is a great name for bloodhounds. 
 
 Bourb. There 's a demon 
 
 In that fierce rattlesnalte thy tongue. Wilt never 
 Be serious ? 
 
Part II, 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 353 
 
 Cces. On the eve of battle, no :, — 
 
 That were not soldier-hke. 'T is for the general 
 To be more pensive : we adventurers 
 Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should wo think ? 
 Our tutelar deity, in a leader's shape. 
 Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts ! 
 If the loiaves take to thinking, you will have 
 To crack those walls alone. 
 
 Bourb. You may sneer, since 
 
 'T is lucky for you that you fight no worse for 't. 
 
 CcBS. I thank you for the freedom ; 't is the only 
 Pay I have taken in your highness' service. 
 
 Bourb. Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay yourself. 
 Look on those towers ; they hold my treasury : 
 But, Philibert, we '11 in to council. Arnold, 
 We would request your presence. 
 
 ■Arn. Prince ! my service 
 
 Is yours, as in the field. 
 
 Bourb. In both we prize it. 
 
 And yours will be a post of trust at daybreak. 
 
 CoES. And mine ? 
 
 Bourb. To follow glory with the Bourbon. 
 
 Good night ! 
 
 Arn. {to C^SAR.) Prepare our armour for the assault, 
 And wait within my tent. 
 
 [Exeunt Bourbon, Arnold, Philibert, ^-c. 
 
 CcBS. {solus.) Within thy tent I 
 
 Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my presence ? 
 Or that this crook'd cotfer, which contain'd 
 Thy principle of life, is auglit to me 
 Except a mask ? And these are men, forsooth ! 
 Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's ba.stards! 
 This is the consequence of giving matter 
 The power of thought. It is a stubborn substance, 
 And thinks chaotically, as it acts. 
 Ever relapsing into its first elements. 
 Well I I must play with these poor puppets : 't is 
 The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 
 When I grow weary of it, I have business 
 Among the stars, wliich these poor creatures deem 
 Were made for them to look at. 'T were a jest now 
 To bring one down among them, and set fire 
 Unto their anthill : how the pismires then 
 Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, ceasing 
 Prom tearing down each other's nests, pipe forth 
 Oiie universal orison ! Hal ha! [Exit Cjesar. 
 
 PART n 
 
 Scene I. — Before the walls of Rome. — Tlie Assault : 
 the army in motion, with, ladders to scale the walls; 
 Bourbon, with a white scarf over his armour, furemost. 
 
 Chorus of Spirits in the air. 
 1. 
 'T is the morn, but dim and dark. 
 Whither flies the silent lark ? 
 Whither shrinks the clouded sim ? 
 Is the day indeed begun ? 
 Nature's eye is melancholy 
 O'er the city high and holy: 
 But without there is a din 
 Should arouse the saints wthin, 
 And revive the heroic ashes 
 Round which yellow Tiber dashes* 
 Oh ye seven hills! awaken, 
 Ere your very base be shaken I 
 
 Hearken to the steady stamp ! 
 Mars is in their every tramp I 
 Not a step is out of tune. 
 As the tides obey the moon ! 
 2U 
 
 On they march, though to self-slaughter, 
 Regular as roUing water, 
 Whose high waves oersweep the border 
 " Of huge moles, but keep their order, 
 Breaking only rank by rank. 
 Hearken to the armour's clank! 
 Look down o'er each frowning warrior, 
 How he glares upon the barrier : 
 L(K)k oa each step of each ladder, 
 As the stripes that streak an adder. 
 
 S, 
 Look upon the bristling wall, 
 Mann'd without an interval ! 
 Round and round, and tier on tier. 
 Cannon's black mouth, shining spear, 
 Lit match, bell-mouth'd musquetoon, 
 Gaping to be murderous soon. 
 All the warlike gear of old, 
 Mird with what we now behold. 
 In this strife 'twLxt old and new. 
 Gather liiie a locusts' crew. 
 Shade of Remus ! 'tis a time ! 
 Awfijl as thy brother's crime! 
 Christians war against Christ's shrine : — 
 Must its lot be like to thine ? 
 
 4. 
 Near — and near— and nearer still. 
 As the earthquake saps the hill, 
 First with trembling, hollow motion. 
 Like a scarce-awaken'd ocean, 
 Then with stronger shock and louder. 
 Till the rocks are crush'd to powder, — 
 Onward sweeps the rolling host I 
 Heroes of the immortal boast! 
 Mighty chiefs ! eternal shadows ! 
 First flowers of the bloody meadows 
 Which encompass Rome, tht mother 
 Of a people without brother! 
 Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 
 Plough the root up of your laurels? 
 Ye who wept o'er Carthage burning, 
 Weep not— strike! for Rome is mourning!* 
 
 5. 
 
 Onward sweep the varied nations ! 
 Famine long hath dealt their rations. 
 To the wall, with hate and huncror, 
 Numerous as wolves, and stronger. 
 On they sweep. Oh ! glorious city, 
 Must thou be a theme for pity ? 
 Fight, like your first sire, each Roman ! 
 Alaric was a gentle f jeman, 
 Match'd with Bourbon's black banditti! 
 Rouse thee, thou eternal city ; 
 Rouse thee ! Rather give the torch 
 With thy own hand to thy porch, 
 Than behold such hosts pollute 
 Your worst dwelling with their foot, 
 
 6. 
 
 Ah ! behold yon bleeding spectre ! 
 Ilion's children find no Hector; 
 Priam's offspnng loved their brother ; 
 Rome's sire forgot his mother, 
 When he slew his gallant twin. 
 With inexpiable sin. 
 See the giant shadow stride 
 O'er the ramparts high and wide ! 
 When the first o'erleapt thy wall, 
 Its foundation mourn'd thy iall. 
 
 • Scipio, the second Africaji.is, is said to , have repeated a ver»i- of 
 Homer, and wept over the buuing of Carthage. He had bellei h»ve 
 grauted it a capitulation. 
 
354 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 Pakt II. 
 
 Now, though towering hke a Babel, 
 Who to stop his steps are able ? 
 Stalking o'er thy highest dome, 
 Remus claims his vengeance, Rome! 
 
 Now they reach thee in their anger: 
 Fire ajid smoke and hellish clangour 
 Are around thse, thou world's wonder ! 
 Death is in thy walls and under. 
 Now the meeting steel first clashes, 
 Dow^nward then the ladder crashes, 
 With its iron load all gleaming, 
 Lying at its foot blaspheming ! 
 Up again! for every warrior 
 Slain, another chmbs the barrier 
 Thicker grows the strife : thy ditches 
 Europe's mingling gore enriches. 
 Rome ! although Ihy wall may perish, 
 Such manure thy fields will cherish. 
 Making gay the harvest-home ; 
 But thy hearths, alas ! oh, Rome ! — 
 Yet be Rome amid thine anguish. 
 Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish ! 
 
 Yet once more, ye old Penates ! 
 
 Let not your quench'd hearths be Ate's! 
 
 Yet aoain, ye shadowy heroes, 
 
 Yield not to these stranger Neros ! 
 
 Though the son who slew his mother 
 
 Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother : 
 
 'T was the Roman curb'd the Roman ; — 
 
 Brennus was a baffled foeman. 
 
 Yet again, ye saints and martyrs, 
 
 Rise ! for yours are holier charters! 
 
 Mighty gods of temples falling, 
 
 Yet in ruin still appalling ! 
 
 Mightier founders of those altars, 
 
 True and Christian, — strilce the assaulters I 
 
 Tiber! Tiber! let thy torrent 
 
 Show even nature's self abhorrent. 
 
 Let each breathing heart dilated 
 
 Turn, as doth the lion baited I 
 
 Rome be crush'd to one wide tomb, 
 
 But be still the Roman's Rome! 
 
 BouKBOX, Arnold, Cjesar, and others, arrive at the 
 
 foot of the wall. Arnold is about to plant his ladder 
 
 Bourb. Hold, Arnold ! I am first. 
 
 Arn. Not so, my lord 
 
 Bourb. Hold, sir, I charge you ! Follow ! I am proud 
 Of such a follower, but wUl brook no leader. 
 
 [Bourbon plants his ladder, and begins to mount 
 Now, boys ! On ! on ! 
 
 [A shot strikes him, and Bourbon falls 
 
 CcBs. And off! 
 
 Am. Eternal powers ! 
 
 The host will be appall'd, — but vengeance ! vengeance ! 
 
 Bourb. 'T is nothing — lend me your hand. 
 
 [Bourbon takes Arnold by the hand and rises; 
 but as he puts his foot on the step, falls again. 
 
 Bourb. Arnold ! I am sped. 
 
 Conceal my fall — all vpill go well — conceal it! 
 Fling my cloak o'er what will be dust anon ; 
 Let not the soldiers see it. 
 
 Am You must be 
 
 Removed ; the aid of — 
 
 Bourb. No, my gallant boy ; 
 
 Death is upon me. But what is one hfe ? 
 The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still. 
 Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clay, 
 Till tliey are conquerors — then do as you may. 
 
 CoES. Would not your highness choose to kiss the 
 cross? 
 
 We have no priest here, but the hilt of sword 
 May serve instead : — it did the same for Bayard. 
 
 Bourb. Thou bitter slave ! to name him at this time ! 
 But I deserve it. 
 
 Arn. {to C^sar.) Villain, hold your peace ! 
 
 CcBS. What, when a Christian dies ? Shall I not 
 offer 
 A Christian " Vade in pace ?" 
 
 Am. Silence! Oh! 
 
 Those eyes are glazing which o'erlook'd the world, 
 And saw no equal. 
 
 Bourb Arnold, should'st thou see 
 
 France But hark ! hark ! the assault grows warmer — 
 
 Oh! 
 For but an hour, a minute more of life 
 To die within the wall ! Hence, Arnold, hence ! 
 You lose time — they will conquer Rome without thee. 
 
 Am. And without thee ! 
 
 Bourb. Not so ; I '11 lead them still 
 
 In spirit. Cover up ray dust, and breathe not 
 That I have ceased to breathe. Away ! and be 
 Victorious ! 
 
 Arn. But I must not leave thee thus. 
 
 Bourb. You must — farewell — Up ! up ! the world is 
 winning. [Bourbon dies. 
 
 CcBs. {to Arnold.) Come, count, to business. 
 
 Arn. True. I'll weep hereafter. 
 
 [Arnold covers Bourbon's body with a mantle, 
 and mounts the ladder, crying 
 The Bourbon ! Bourbon ! On, boys ! Rome is ours ! 
 
 Cces. Good night, lord constable ! thou wert a man. 
 [C^SAR folloivs Arnold ; they reach the battle- 
 ment; Arnold and Gjesab. are struck down. 
 
 Cces. A precious somerset ! Is your countship injured? 
 
 Arn. No. [Remounts the ladder, 
 
 C(BS. A rare blood-hound, when his own is heated ! 
 And 't is no boy's play. Now he strikes them down ! 
 His hand is on the battlement — he grasps it 
 As though it were an altar ; now his foot 
 
 Is on it, and What have we here ? — a Roman ? 
 
 [A man falls. 
 The first bird of the covey ! he has fallen 
 On the outside of the nest. Why, how now, fellow? 
 
 Wounded Man. A drop of water ! 
 
 CcBS. Blood 's the only liquid 
 
 Nearer than Tiber. 
 Wounded Blan. I have died for Rome. [Dies. 
 
 Cass. And so did Bourbon, in another sense. 
 Oh these immortal men! and their great motives ! 
 But I must after my young charge. He is 
 By this time i' the forum. Charge ! charge ! 
 
 [CiESAR mounts the ladder ; the scene closes. 
 
 Scene II. — The city. — Combats between the Besiegers 
 and Besieged in the streets. Inhabitants flying in con- 
 fusion. 
 
 Enter C^sar. 
 
 Cces. I cannot find my hero ; he is mtx'd 
 With the heroic crowd that now pursue 
 The fugitives, or battle with the desperate. 
 What have we here ? A cardinal or two 
 That do not seem in love with martyrdom. 
 How the old red-shanks scamper ! Could they doff 
 Their hose as they have doff 'd their hats, 't would be 
 A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder. 
 But let them fly ; the crimson kennels now 
 Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire 
 Is of the self-same purple hue. 
 
 Enier a party ■ fighting — Arnold at the head of the 
 Besiegers. 
 
 He comes, 
 
 Hand in hand with the mild twins — Gore and Glory. 
 Holloa ! hold, count ! 
 
 I 
 
Part II. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 ■^rn. Away ! they must not rally. 
 
 CcBs. I tell thee, be not rash ; a golden bridge 
 Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee 
 A form of beauty, and an 
 Exemption from some maladies of body. 
 But not of mind, which is not mine to give. 
 But though I gave the form of Thetis' son, 
 I dipt thee not in Styx ; and 'gainst a foe 
 I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 
 More than Pelides' heel ; why then, be cautious, 
 And know thyself a mortal stiil. 
 
 ^rn. And who 
 
 With aught of soul would combat if he were 
 Invulnerable ? That were pretty sport. 
 Think'st thou I beat for hares when lions roar ? 
 
 [Arnold rushes into the combat. 
 Cces. A precious sample of humanity ! 
 Well, his blood 's up ; and if a little 's shed, 
 'T will serve to curb his fever. 
 
 [Arnold engages with a Roman, wJio retires 
 towards a portico. 
 Am. Yield thee, slave ! 
 
 I promise quarter. 
 Rom. That 's soon said. 
 
 Am. And done — 
 
 My word is known. 
 Rom. So shall be my deeds. 
 
 [They re-engage. C^sar comes forward 
 Cces. Why, Arnold ! hold thine own : thou hast k 
 hand 
 A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor ; 
 Also a dealer hi the sword and dagger. 
 Not so, my musqueteer; 'twas he who slew 
 The Bourbon from the wall. 
 
 Arn. Ay, did he so ? 
 
 Then he hath carved his monument. 
 
 Rom. I yet 
 
 May live to carve your betters. 
 
 Cces. Well said, my man of marble I Benvenuto, 
 Thou hast some practice in both ways ; and he 
 Who slays Cellini will have work'd as hard 
 As e'er thou didst upon Carrai-a's blocks. 
 
 [Arnold disarms and wounds Cellini, but slightly; 
 the latter draws a pistol, and fires ; then retires, 
 and disappears through the portico. 
 Cces. How farest thou ? Thou hast a taste, methinks. 
 Of red Bellona's banquet. 
 
 Arn. (staggers.) 'T is a scratch. 
 
 Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me thus. 
 Cobs. Where is it ? 
 
 Arn. In the shoulder, not the sword arm — 
 
 And that's enough. I am thirsty: would I had 
 A helm of water ! 
 
 Cces. That 's a hquid now 
 
 In requisition, but by no means easiest 
 To come at. 
 
 Arn. And my thu-st increases ; — but 
 
 I '11 find a way to quench it. 
 
 Cces. Or be quench'd 
 
 Thyself? 
 
 Am. The chance is even ; we will throw 
 The dice thereon. But 1 loose time in prating ; 
 Prithee be quick. [C^sar binds on the scarf. 
 
 And what dost thou so idly ? 
 Why dost not strike ? 
 
 Cobs. Your old philosophers 
 
 Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
 The Olympic games. When I behold a pnze 
 Worth wrestling for, I may be found a Miio. 
 Arn. Ay, 'gainst an oak. 
 
 CcBS. A forest, when it suits me. 
 
 I combat with a mass, or not at all. 
 Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine ; 
 Which is just now to gaze, since all these labourers 
 Will reap my harvest gratis. 
 
 355 
 
 Am. Thou art still 
 
 A fiend ! 
 
 C«s. And thou — a man. 
 Am. Why, such I fain would show me. 
 ^^^- True — as men are. 
 
 Am. And what is that? 
 
 ^««- Thou feelest and thou see'st. 
 
 [Exit Arnold, joining in the combat which still 
 
 continues betvjeen detached parties. The scene 
 
 closes. 
 
 Scene 111.— St Peter's— The Interior of the Church— 
 The Pope at the Altar— Priests, ^-c. a-owding in con- 
 fusion, and Citizens flying far refuge, pursued by 
 Soldiery. 
 
 Enter CjEsar. 
 
 A Spanish Soldier. Down with them, comrades ! seize 
 upon those lamps ! 
 Cleave yon bald-pated shaveling to the chine ! 
 His rosary 's of gold ! 
 
 Luf her an Soldier. Revenge! revenge! 
 Plunder hereafter, but for vengeance now — 
 Yonder stands Anti-Christ ! 
 
 CcBS. [interposing.) Hov^ now, schismatic! 
 
 What would'st thou ? 
 
 Luth. Sol. In the holy name of Christ, 
 
 Destroy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Christian. 
 
 CcBS. Yea, a disciple that would make the founder 
 Of your belief renounce it, could he see 
 Such proselytes. Best stint thyself to plunder. 
 Luth. Sol. I say he is the devil, 
 C«s- Hush ! keep that secret, 
 
 Lest he should recognise you for his own. 
 
 Luth. Sol. Why would you save him ? I repeat he is 
 The devil, or the devil's vicar upon earth. 
 
 Caes. And that 's the reason : would you make a 
 quarrel 
 With your best friends ? You had far best be quiet; 
 His hour is not yet come. 
 
 Luth. Sol. That shall be seen ' 
 
 [The Lutheran Soldier rushes forivard ; a shot strike.'* 
 him from one of the Pope's Guards, and he falls 
 at the foot of the Altar. 
 CcBs. (to the Lutheran.) I told you so. 
 Luth. Sol. And will you not avenge me ? 
 
 CcBS. Not I ! You know that " Vengeance is tha 
 Lord's :" 
 You see he loves no interlopers. 
 
 Luth. Sol. (dying.) Oh! 
 
 Had I but slain him, I had gone on high, 
 Crown'd with eternal glory ! Heaven, forgive 
 My feebleness of arm that reach'd him not, 
 And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'T is 
 A glorious triumph still ; proud Babylon 's 
 No more ; the Harlot of the Seven Hills 
 Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth 
 And ashes ! [The Lutheran dies. 
 
 Cces. Yes, thine own amid the rest. 
 
 Well done, old Babel ! 
 
 [The Chiards defend themselves desperately, while th6 
 Pontiff escapes, by a private passage, to the Vatican 
 and the Castle of St. Angela. 
 Cces. Ha ! right nobly battled ! 
 
 Now, priest ! now, soldier ! the two great professions, 
 Together by the ears and hearts ! I have not seen 
 A more comic pantomime since Titus 
 Took Jewry. But the Romans had the best then ; 
 Now they must take their turn. 
 
 Soldiers. He hath escaped! 
 
 FoUow ! 
 
 Another Sol. They have barr'd the narrow passage up, 
 And it is clogg'd with dead even to the door. 
 
 Cces. I am glad he hath escaped : he may thank me 
 for 't 
 
356 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 
 
 Part If. 
 
 Tn part. I would not have liis bulls «bolish''d — 
 
 'Twere worth one half our empire: his indulgences 
 
 Demand some in return ; — no. no, he must not 
 
 Fall ; — and besides, his now escape may furnish 
 
 A future miracle, in future proof 
 
 Of his infallibility. [To the Spanish Soldiery. 
 
 Well, cut-throats ! 
 What do you pause for ? If you make not haste, 
 There will not be a hnk of pious gold left. 
 And you too, Catholics ! Would ye return 
 From such a pilgrimage without a relic? 
 The very Lutherans have more true devotion ; 
 See how they strip the shrines ! 
 
 Soldiers. By holy Peter ! 
 
 He speaks the truth ; the heretics will bear 
 The best away. 
 
 C(BS. And that were shame ! Go to ! 
 
 Assist in their conversion. 
 
 [The Soldiers disperse ; many quit the Church, 
 others enter. 
 
 CcES. They are gone, 
 
 And others come ; so flows the wave on wave 
 Of what these creatures call eternity, 
 Deeming themselves the breakers of the ocean, 
 While they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
 That foam is their foundation. So, another ! 
 
 Enter Ol,im¥i A, Jlying from the pursuit — Slie springs 
 upon the Altar. 
 
 Sol. She 's mine 
 
 Another Sol. (opposing the former.) You lie, I track'd 
 her first ; and, were she 
 The Pope's niece, I'll not yield her. [They fight, 
 
 ^d Sol. {advancing towards Olimpia.) You may 
 settle 
 Your claims; 111 make mine good. 
 
 Olimp. Infernal slave! 
 
 You touch me not alive. 
 3d Sol. Alive or dead ! 
 
 Olimp. (embracing a massive crucifix.) Respect your 
 
 God! 
 Sd Sol. Yes, when he shines in gold. 
 
 Girl, vou but grasp your dowry. 
 
 [As he advances, Olimpia, with a strong and sudden 
 effmi, casts down the crucifix : it strikes the Soldier, 
 who falls. 
 Sd Sol. Oh, great God ! 
 
 Olimp. Ah I now you recognise him. 
 3d Sol. My brain 's crush'd ! 
 
 Comrades, help, ho ! All 's darkness ! [He dies. 
 
 Other Soldiers, (coming up.) Slay her, although she 
 had a thousand lives : 
 She hath kill'd our comrade. 
 
 Olimp. Welcome such a death ! 
 
 You have no life to give, which the worst slave 
 Would take. Great God ! through thy redeeming Son. 
 And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 
 I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, 
 And thee ! 
 
 Enter Arnold. 
 
 Am. What do J see ? Accursed jackals.! 
 Forbear ! 
 
 CcBS. (aside, and laughing.) Ha! ha! here's equity! 
 The dogs 
 Have as much right as he. But to the issue 1 
 
 Soldiers. Count, she hath slain our comrade. 
 
 Arn. With what weapon? 
 
 Sol. The cross, beneath which he is crush'd ; behold 
 him 
 Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she cast it 
 Upon his head. 
 
 Am. Even so ; there is a woman 
 
 Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such, 
 Y» would hav« honour'd her. But get ye hence, 
 
 And thank your meanness, olher God you have none, 
 For your existence. Had you touched a hair 
 Of those dishevell'd locks, I would have thinn'd 
 Your ranks more than the enerny. Away! 
 Ye jackals ! gnaw the bones the lion leaves, 
 But not even these till h« permits. 
 
 A Sol. (murmuring.) The lion 
 
 Might conquer for himself then. 
 
 Arn. (cuts him down.) Mutineer ! 
 
 Rebel in hell — you shall obey on earth ! 
 
 [The Soldiers assault Arwold, 
 Am. Come on! I'm glad on 't! I will show you, 
 slaves. 
 How you should be commanded, and who led you 
 First o'er the wall you were as shy to scale, 
 Until I waved m.y banners from its height, 
 As you are bold within it. 
 
 [Arnold mows doivn the foremost ; the rest throw 
 dmon their arms. 
 Soldiers. Mercy ! mercy ! 
 
 Arn. Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you who 
 Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements? 
 
 Soldiers. We saw it, and we know it ; yet forgive 
 A moment's error in the heat of conquest — 
 The conquest which you led to. 
 
 Am. Get you hence! 
 
 Hence to your quarters ! you will find them fix'd 
 In the Colonna palace. 
 
 Olimp. (aside.) In my father's 
 
 House ! 
 
 Arn. (to the Soldiers.) Leave your arms; ye have no 
 further need 
 Of such : the city 's render'd. And mark well 
 You keep your bands clean, or I '11 find a stream. 
 As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 
 
 Soldiers, (deposing their arms and departing.) We- 
 
 cbeyl 
 Arn. (to Olimpia.) Lady, you are safe. 
 Olimp. I should be so, 
 
 Had I a knife even ; but it matters not — 
 Death hath a thousand gates; and on the marble, 
 Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 
 Upon destruction, shall my head be dash'd, 
 Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man! 
 
 Arn. I wish to merit his forgiveness, and 
 Thine owti, although I have not injured thee. 
 
 Olimp. No ! thou hast only sack'd my native land,— 
 No injurx' ! — and made ray father's house 
 A den of thieves ! No injury ! — this temple — 
 Slippery with Roman and w-ith holy gore. 
 No injury! And now thou wouldst preserve me, 
 To be — but that shall never be ! 
 
 [She raises her eyes to Heaven, folds her robe round 
 her, and prepares to drish herself doum on the side 
 of the Ahar opposite to that where Arnold stands. 
 Am. Hold : hold ! 
 
 I swear. 
 
 Olimp. Spare thine already forfeit soul 
 A perjury for which even hell would loathe thee. 
 I know thee. 
 
 Am. No, thou know'st me not ; I am not 
 
 Of these men, though — 
 
 Olimp. 1 judge thee, by thy matea ; 
 
 It is for God to judge thee as thou art. 
 I see thee purple with the blood of Rome ; 
 Take mine, 't is all thou e'er shalt have of me ! 
 And here, upon the marble of this temple. 
 Where the baptismal font baptised me God's, 
 I offer him a blood less holy 
 But not less pure (pure as it left me then, 
 A redeem'd infant) than tJie holy water 
 The saints have sanctified ! 
 
 [Olimpia uxives her hand to Arnold wth diida>nt 
 and dashes herself on the pavement from tfu 
 Altar. 
 
Part III. 
 
 THE DEFORMED TRylNSPORMED. 
 
 357 
 
 ^'•w- Eternal God ! 
 
 I feel thee now ! Help ! help ! She 's gone. 
 
 C<BS. {approaches.) ' i am here. 
 
 Am. Thou! but oh, save her ! 
 
 Cces. {assisting him to raise Olimpia.) She hath done 
 it well ! 
 The leap was serious. 
 
 Arn. Oh ! she is lifeless ! 
 
 Cces. If 
 
 She be so, I have naught to do with that ; 
 The resurrection is beyond me. 
 
 Arn. Slave ! 
 
 Cass. Ay, slave or master, 't is all one : methinks 
 Good words, however, are as well at times. 
 
 Arn. Words! — Canst thou aid her? 
 
 CcBS. I will try. A sprinkling 
 
 Of that same holy water may be useful. 
 
 [He brings some in his helmet from the font. 
 
 Arn. 'T is mix'd with blood. 
 
 C<BS. There is no cleaner now 
 
 In Rome. 
 
 Am. How pale ! how beautiful ! how lifeless ! 
 Alive or dead, thou essence of all beauty, 
 I love but thee ! 
 
 Cces. Even so AchiUes loved 
 
 Penthesilea : with his form it seems 
 You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one. 
 
 Am. She breathes ! But no, 't was nothing, or the last 
 Faint flutter life disputes with death. 
 
 Cces. She breathes. 
 
 Arn. Thou say'st it ? Then 'tis truth. 
 
 CcBS. You do me right — 
 
 The devil speaks truth much oftener than he 's deem'd : 
 He hath an ignorant audience. 
 
 Arn. {withotU attending to him.) Yes ! her heart beats. 
 Alas ! that the first beat of the only heart 
 1 ever wish'd to beat with mine should vibrate 
 To an assassin's pulse. 
 
 CcBS. A sage reflection, 
 
 But somewhat late i' the day. Where shall we bear 
 
 her? 
 I say she lives. 
 
 Arn. And will she Uve ? 
 
 CcBS, As much 
 
 As dust can. 
 
 Am. Then she is dead ! 
 
 CcBS. Bah ! bah ! You are so, 
 
 And do not know it. She will come to Ufe— 
 Such as you think so, such as you now are ; 
 But we must work by human means. 
 
 Am. We will 
 
 Convey her unto the Colonna palace, 
 Where T have pitch'd my banner. 
 
 Cces. Come then! raise her up 1 
 
 Am. Sofrly! 
 
 Cces. As softly as they bear the dead. 
 
 Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 
 
 Arn. But doth she live indeed ? 
 
 CcBS. Nay, never fear ! 
 
 But, if you rue it after, blame not me. 
 
 Arn. Let her but live ! 
 
 Cces. The spirit of her hfe 
 
 Is yet within her breast, and may revive. 
 Count ! count ! I am your servant in all things, 
 And this is a new office : — ^"t is not oft 
 I am employ'd in such ; but you perceive 
 How stanch a friend is what you call a fiend. 
 On earth you have often only fiends for friends ; 
 Now I desert not mine. Soft ! bear her hence, 
 The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit ! 
 I am almost enamour'd of her, as 
 Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 
 
 Am. Thou ! 
 
 CcBS. I ! But fear not. 1 11 not be your rival. 
 
 Am. Rival! 
 
 Cces. I could be one right formidable • 
 
 But since I slew the seven husbands of 
 Tobias' future bride, (and after all 
 'T was suck'd out by some incense,) I have laid 
 Aside intrigue: 'tis rarely worth tlie trouble 
 Of gaining, or — what is more difficult — 
 Getting rid of your prize again; for there 'a 
 The rub ! at least to mortals. 
 
 Am. Prithee, peace ! 
 
 Softly ! methinlcs her lips move, her eyes open ! 
 
 C(BS. Like stars, no doubt ; for that 's a metaphor 
 For Lucifer and Venus. 
 
 ■^rn. To the palace 
 
 Colonna, as 1 told you ! 
 
 Cces. Oh ! I know 
 
 My way through Rome. 
 
 ■Arn. Now onward, onward ! Gently 
 
 [Exeunt, bearing Olimpia. — The scene closes 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Scene I. — A Castle in the Apennines, surrounded by a 
 wild but smiling country. Chorus of Peasants singing 
 before the Gates. 
 
 1. 
 
 The wars are over, 
 
 The spring is come , 
 The bride and her lover 
 Have sought their home: 
 They are h-appy, we rejoice ; 
 Let their hearts have an echo in every voice ! 
 
 2. 
 The spring is come ; the violet 's gone, 
 The first-born child of the early sun : 
 With us she is but a winter's flower. 
 The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, 
 And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 
 To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 
 
 3. 
 
 And when the spring comes with her host 
 Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
 Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse 
 Her heavenly odour and virgin hues. 
 
 Pluck the others, but still remember 
 Their herald out of dim December — 
 The morning star of all the flowers, 
 The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd hours ; 
 Nor, mid the roses, e'er forget 
 The virgin, virgin violet. 
 
 Enter C^sar. 
 C(£3. {singing.) The wars are all over, 
 
 Our swords are all idle. 
 
 The steed bites the bridle, 
 The casque 's on the wall. 
 There 's rest for the rover ; 
 
 But his armour is rusty, 
 
 And the veteran grows crusty, 
 As he yawns in the hall. 
 
 He drinks — but what's drinking ? 
 
 A mere pause from thinking ! 
 No bugle awakes him with life-and-death calL 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 But the hound bayeth loudly, 
 
 The boar 's in the wood, 
 And the falcon longs proudly 
 
 To spring fronv her hood : 
 
358 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 On the wrist of tl\e noble 
 
 She sits like a crest, 
 And the air is in trouble 
 
 With birds from their nest. 
 
 C<BS. Oh ! shadow of glory ! 
 Dim image of war ! 
 
 But the chase hath no story, 
 Her hero no star, 
 
 Since Nimrod the founder 
 Of empire and chase, 
 
 Who made the woods wonder 
 And quake for their race. 
 
 When the lion was young, 
 In the pride of his might, 
 
 Then 't was sport for the strong 
 To embrace him in fight ; 
 
 To go forth, with a pine 
 
 For a spear 'gainst the mammoth, 
 Or strike through the ravine 
 
 At the foaming behemoth ; 
 While man was in stature 
 
 As towers in our time. 
 The first-born of nature, 
 
 And, like her, sublime ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 But the wars are over, 
 The spring is come ; 
 The bride and her lover 
 Have sought their home : 
 They are happy, and we rejoice ; 
 Let their hearts have an echo from every voice ! 
 
 [Exeunt the Peasantry, singing. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH 
 
 A MYSTERY, 
 
 FOUNDED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS, CHAP. VI. 
 
 " And it came to pass .... that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair ; and th»jr 
 took them wires of all which they chose." 
 
 And woman wailingfor her demon lover."— Coleridge. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 ANGELS. 
 Samiasa. 
 
 AZAZIEL. 
 
 Raphael the Archangel. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Noah and his Sons. 
 
 Irad. 
 
 Japhet. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 Anah. 
 Aholibamah. 
 
 Chorus of Spirits of tJie Earth. — Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Scene I. — A woody and mountainous district near 
 Mount Ararat. — Time, midnight. 
 
 Enter Anah and Aholibamah. 
 
 Anah. Our father sleeps : it is the hour when they 
 Who love us are accustom'd to descend 
 Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat: — 
 How my heart beats ! 
 
 Aho. Let us proceed upon 
 
 Our invocation. 
 
 Anah. But the stars are hidden. 
 
 I tremble. 
 
 Aho. So do I, but not with fear 
 Of aught save their delay. 
 
 Anah. My sister, though 
 
 I love Azaziel more than oh, too much ! 
 
 What was I going to say ? my heart grows 
 Aho. And where is the impiety of lovinc 
 Celestial natures ? 
 
 Anah. But, Aholibamah, 
 
 I love our God less since his angel loved me : 
 This cannot be of good ; and though I Itnow not 
 That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
 Which are not ominous of right. 
 
 Aho. Then wed thee 
 
 Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin ! 
 There 's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee long ; 
 Marry, and bring forth dust ! 
 
 Anah. I should have loved 
 
 Azaziel not less were he mortal ; yet 
 I am glad he is not. I can not outlive him. 
 And when I think that his immortal wings 
 Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre 
 Of the poor child of clay which so adored him, 
 As he adores the Highest, death becomes 
 Less terrible ; but yet I pity him: 
 His grief will be of ages, or at least 
 Mine would be such for him, were I the seraph, 
 And he the perishable. 
 
 Aho. Rather say, 
 
 That he will single forth some other daughter 
 Of Earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 
 
 Anah. And if it should be so, and she loved him, 
 Better thus than that he should weep for me. 
 
 Aho. If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, 
 All seraph as he is, I 'd spurn him from me. 
 But to our invocation ! 'T is the hour. 
 
 Anah. Seraph ! 
 
 From thy sphere! 
 
 Whatever star contain thy glory ; 
 
 In the eternal depths of heaven 
 
Part 1. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 359 
 
 Albeit thou watchest with "the seven"* 
 Though, through space infinite and hoary 
 Before thy bright wings worlds be driven. 
 Yet hear 1 
 Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear! 
 
 And though she nothing is to thee, 
 Yet think that thou art all to her. 
 Thou canst not tell, — and never be 
 Such pangs decreed to aught save me, — 
 The bitterness of tears. 
 Eternity is in thy years. 
 Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes ; 
 With me thou canst not sympathize. 
 Except in love, and there thou must 
 Acknowledge that more lovmg dust 
 Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 
 Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st 
 
 The face of him who made thee great, 
 As he hath made me of the least 
 Of those cast out from Eden's gate : 
 Yet, Seraph dear! 
 Oh hear ! 
 For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
 Until I know what I must die in knowing, 
 That thou forget'st in thine eternity 
 Her whose heart death could not keep from o'er- 
 flowing 
 For thee, immortal essence as thou art ! 
 Great is their love who love in sin and fear ; 
 And such, I feel, are waging in my heart 
 A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
 Forgive, my Seraph ! that such thoughts appear, 
 For sorrow is our element ; 
 Delight 
 An Eden kept afar from sight. 
 
 Though sometimes with our visions blent. 
 The hour is near 
 Which tells me we are not abandon'd quite.— 
 Appear ! Appear! 
 Seraph ! 
 My own Azaziel I be but here. 
 And leave the stars to their own light. 
 Aho. Samiasa ! 
 
 Wheresoe'er 
 Thou rulest in the upper air — 
 Or warring with the spirits who may dare 
 Dispute with him 
 Who made all empires, empire ; or recalling 
 Some wandering star, which shoots through the abyss, 
 Whose tenants dying, while their world is falling, 
 Share the dim destiny of clay in this ; 
 Or joining with the inferior cherubim, 
 Thou deignest to partake their hymn — 
 Samiasa ! 
 I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 
 
 Many may worship thee, that will I not : 
 If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee, 
 Descend and share my lot ! 
 
 Though I be form'd of clay, 
 
 And thou of beams 
 More bright than those of day 
 On Eden's streams, 
 Thine immortality can not repay 
 
 With love more warm than mine 
 My love. There is a ray 
 In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine, 
 I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
 It may be hidden long : death and decay 
 
 Our mother Eve bequeath'd us — ^but my heart 
 Defies it : though this life must pass away, 
 Is that a cause for thee and me to part? 
 Thou art immortal — so am I : I feel — 
 I feel my immortality o'ersweep 
 
 ' The archangels said to be aeren in number. 
 
 All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal, 
 
 Like the eternal thunders of the deep. 
 Into my ears this truth — " thou liv'st for ever 1" 
 But if it be in joy 
 
 I know not, nor would know ; 
 That secret rests with the Almighty giver 
 
 Who folds in clouds the fonts of bliss and wo. 
 But thee and me he never can destroy ; 
 
 Change us he may, but not o'erwhelm; we are 
 
 Of as eternal essence, and must war 
 
 With him if he will war with us : with thee 
 
 I can share all things, even immortal sorrow ; ^ 
 
 For thou hast ventured to share life with me, 
 
 And shall / shrink from thine eternity ? 
 
 No ! though the serpent's sting should pierce me 
 thorough. 
 
 And thou thyself wert like the serpent coil 
 
 Around me still ! and I will smile 
 And curse thee not ; but hold 
 Thee in as warm a fold 
 
 As but descend; and prove 
 
 A mortal's love 
 For an immortal. If the skies contain 
 More joy than thou canst give and take, remain ! 
 
 Anah. Sister ! sister ! I view them winging 
 Their bright way through the parted night. 
 
 Aho. The clouds from off their pinions flinging, 
 As though they bore to-morrow's light. 
 
 Anah. But if our father see the sight! 
 
 Aho. He would but deem it was the moon 
 Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
 An hour too soon. 
 
 Anah. They come ! he comes ! — Azaziel ! 
 
 Aho. Haste 
 
 To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear 
 My spirit, while they hover there. 
 To Samiasa's breast! 
 
 Anah. Lo ! they have kindled all the west, 
 Like a returning sunset ; — lo ! 
 
 On Ararat's late secret crest 
 A mild and many-colour'd bow, 
 The remnant of their flashing path, 
 Now shines ! and now, behold ! it hath 
 Return'd to night, as ripphng foam. 
 
 Which the leviathan hath lash'd 
 From his unfathomable home. 
 When sporting on the face of the calm deep, 
 
 Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd 
 Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains sleep. 
 
 Aho. They have touch'd earth! Samiasa! 
 
 Anah. My Azaziel! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Enier Ikad and Japhet. 
 
 Irad. Despond not: wherefore wilt thou wander thus 
 To add thy silence to the silent night. 
 And lift thy tearful eye unto the stars ? 
 They carmot aid thee. 
 
 jfaph. But they sooth me — ^now 
 
 Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
 Methinks a being that is beautiful 
 Becometh more so as it looks on beauty. 
 The eternal beauty of undying things. 
 Oh, Anah ! 
 
 Irad. But she loves thee not. 
 
 Japh. Alas ! 
 
 Irad. And proud Aholibamah spurns me also. 
 
 Japh. I feel for thee too. 
 
 Irad. Let her keep her pride, 
 
 Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn : 
 It may be, time too will avenge it. 
 
 Japh. Canst thou 
 
 Find joy in such a thought ? 
 
 Irad. Nor joy nor sorrow. 
 
360 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 Pakt I. 
 
 I loved her well ; I would have loved her better, 
 Had love been met with love: as 'lis, I leave her 
 To brighter destinies, if so she deems them. 
 Japh. What destinies ? 
 
 [rad. I have some cause to tliiuk 
 
 She loves another. 
 
 Japh. Anah ! 
 
 Irad. No ; her sister. 
 
 Japh. What other ? 
 
 Irad. That I know not ; but her air. 
 
 If not her words, tells me she loves another. 
 
 Japh. Ay, but not Anah: she but loves her God. 
 Irad. Whate'er she loveth, so she loves thee not, 
 What can it profit thee ? 
 
 Japh. True, nothing ; but 
 
 I love. 
 
 Irad. And so did I. 
 
 Japh. And now thou lov'st not, 
 
 Or think'st thou lov'st not, art thou happier ? 
 
 Irad. Yes. 
 
 Japh. I pity tliee. 
 Irad. Me ! why ? 
 
 Japh. For being happy, 
 
 Deprived of that which makes my misery. 
 
 Irad. I take thy taunt as part of thy distemper. 
 And would not feel as thou dost for more shekels 
 Than all our father's herds would bring if weigh'd 
 Against the metal of the sons of Cain — 
 The yellow dust they try to barter with us, 
 As if such useless and discolour'd trash. 
 The refuse of the earth, could be received 
 For milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, and all 
 Our flocks and wilderness afford. — Go, Japhet, 
 Sigh to the stars as wolves howl to the moon — 
 I must back to my rest. 
 
 Japh. And so would I 
 
 If 1 could rest. 
 
 Irad. Thou wilt not to our tents then ? 
 
 Japh. No, Irad ; I wll to the cavern, whose 
 Mouth they say opens from the internal world 
 To let the inner spirits of the earth 
 Forth when they walk its surface. 
 
 Irad. Wherefore so ? 
 
 What would'st thou there ? 
 
 Japh. Sooth further my sad spirit 
 
 With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot, 
 And I am hopeless. 
 
 Irad. But 't is dangerous ; 
 
 Strange sounds and sights have peopled it with terrors. 
 I must go with thee. 
 
 Japh. Irad, no : believe me 
 
 I feel no evil thought, and fear no evil. 
 
 Irad. But evil things will be thy foe the more 
 As not being of them : turn thy steps aside. 
 Or let mine be with thine. 
 
 Japh. No, neither, Irad ; 
 
 I must proceed alone. 
 Irad. Then peace be with thee ! 
 
 [Exit Irad. 
 Japh. (solus.) Peace! I have sought it where it 
 should be found. 
 In love — with love, too, which perhaps deserved it ; 
 And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart — 
 A weakness of the spirit — listless days. 
 And nights inexorable to sweet sleep — 
 Have come upon me. Peace ! what peace ? the calm 
 Of desolation, and the stillness of 
 The untrodden forest, only broken by 
 The sweeping tempest through its groaning boughs ; 
 Such is the sullen or the fitful state 
 Of my mind overworn. The earth 's grown wicked, 
 And many signs and portents have proclaim'd 
 A change at hand, and an o'erwhelming doom 
 To perishable beings. Qh, ray Anah ! 
 When the dread hour denounced shall open wide 
 
 The fountains of the deep, how mightest thou 
 
 Have lain within this bosom, folded from 
 
 The elements ; this bosom, which in vain 
 
 Hath beat for thee, and then vail beat more vainly, 
 
 While thine Oh, God ! at least remit to her 
 
 Thy wTath ! for she is pure amid the failing 
 
 As a star in the clouds, which cannot quench. 
 
 Although they obscure it for an hour. My Anah ! 
 
 How would I have adored thee, but thou wouldst not; 
 
 And still would I redeem thee — see thee live 
 
 When ocean is earth's grave, and, unopposed 
 
 By rock or shallow, the leviathan, 
 
 Lord of the shoreless sea and watery world, 
 
 Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. 
 
 [Earit Japhet. 
 
 Enter Noah and Shem. 
 
 JVoah. Where is thy brother Japhet ? 
 
 Shem. He went forth 
 
 According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
 He said ; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
 Towards Anah's tents, round which he hovers nightly 
 Lilce a dove round and round its pillaged nest ; 
 Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
 Which opens to the heart of Ararat. 
 
 Noah. What doth he there? It is an evil spot 
 Upon an earth all evil ; for things worse 
 Than even wicked men resort there : he 
 Still loves this daughter of a fated race. 
 Although he could not wed her if she loved him, 
 And that she doth not. Oh, the unhappy hearts 
 Of men ! that one of my blood, knowing well 
 The destiny and evil of these days,- 
 And that the hour approacheth, should indulge 
 In such forbidden yearnings ! Lead the way ; 
 He must be sought for ! 
 
 Shem. Go not forward, father: 
 
 [vill seek Japhet. 
 
 Noah. Do not fear for me : 
 
 All evil things are powerless on the man 
 Selected by Jehovah — let us on. 
 
 Shem. To the tents of the father of the sisters ? 
 
 Noah. No; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 
 
 [Exeunt Noah and Shem. 
 
 Scene HI. — The Mountains. — A Cavern, and the Rocka 
 of Caucasus. 
 
 Japh. (solus.) Ye wilds, that look eternal; and tliou 
 cave. 
 Which seem'st unfathomable ; and ye mountains, 
 So varied and so terrible in beauty ; 
 Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks 
 And toppling trees that twine their roots with stone 
 In perpendicular places, where the foot 
 Of man would tremble, could he reach them— yes. 
 Ye look eternal ! Yet, in a few days. 
 Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, rent, hurl'd 
 Before the mass of waters ; and yon cave. 
 Which seems to lead into a lower world. 
 Shall have its depth search'd by the sweeping wave, 
 And dolphins gambol in the lion's den ! 
 
 And man Oh, men ! my fellow-beings ! Who 
 
 Shall weep above your universal grave. 
 
 Save I ? Who shall be left to weep ? My kinsmen, 
 
 Alas ! what am I better than ye are. 
 
 That I must live beyond ye? Where shall be? 
 
 The pleasant places where I thought of Anah 
 
 While I had hope ? or the more savage haunts, 
 
 Scarce less beloved, where I despair'd for her? 
 
 And can it be ! — Shall yon exulting peak. 
 
 Whose glittering top is like a distant star, 
 
 Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep ? 
 
 No more to have the morning sun break fbrth| 
 
 And scatter back the mists in floating folds 
 
Pakt I. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 361 
 
 From its tremendous brow? no more to have 
 
 Day's broad orb drop behind its head at even, 
 
 Leaving it with a crown of many hues ? 
 
 No more to be the beacon of the world, 
 
 For angels to alight on, as the spot 
 
 Nearest the stars ? And can those words " no more" 
 
 Be meant for thee, for all things, save for us. 
 
 And the predestined creeping things reserved 
 
 By my sire to Jehovah's loidding ? May 
 
 He preserve them, and I not have the power 
 
 To snatch the loveliest of earth's daughters from 
 
 A doom which even some serpent, with his mate, 
 
 Shall 'scape to save his kind to be prolong'd, 
 
 To hiss and sting through some emerging world, 
 
 Recking and dank from out the slime, whose ooze 
 
 Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this until 
 
 The salt morass subside into a sphere 
 
 Beneath the sun, and be the monument, 
 
 The sole and undistinguish'd sepulchre, 
 
 Of yet quick myriads of all life ? How much 
 
 Breath will be still'd at once! All beauteous world! 
 
 So young, so rnark'd out for destruction, I 
 
 With a cleft heart look on thee day by day, 
 
 And night by night, thy nuraber'd days and nights. 
 
 I cannot save thee, cannot save even her 
 
 Whose love had made me love thee more ; but as 
 
 A portion of thy dust, I cannot think 
 
 Upon thy coming doom without a feeling 
 
 Such as — Oh God! and canst thou [He pauses. 
 
 ul rushing sound from the cavern is heard, and shouts 
 of laughter — afterwards a Spirit passes. 
 Japh. In the name 
 
 Of the Most High, what art thou ? 
 
 Spirit, (laughs.) Ha! Ha! Ha! 
 
 Japh. By all that earth holds holiest, speak ! 
 Spirit, {laughs.) Ha! Ha! 
 
 Japh. By the approaching deluge! by the earth 
 Which will be strangled by the ocean ! by 
 The deep which will lay open all her fountains ! 
 The heaven which will convert her clouds to seas. 
 And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes ! 
 Thou unknown, terrible, and indistinct, 
 Yet awful Thing of Shadows, speak to me ! 
 Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh? 
 
 Spirit. Why weep'st thou ? 
 
 Japh. For earth and all her children. 
 Spirit. Ha! Ha! Ha! 
 
 [Spirit vanishes. 
 Japh. How the fiend mocks the tortures of a world, 
 The coming desolation of an orb. 
 On which the sun shall rise and warm no life ! 
 How the earth sleeps ! and all that in it is 
 Sleep too upon the very eve of death! 
 Why should they wake to meet it? What is here. 
 Which look like death in life, and speak like things 
 Born ere this dying world ? They come like clouds ! 
 
 [Various Spirits pass from the cavern. 
 Spirit. Rejoice ! 
 The abhorred race 
 Which could not keep in Eden their high place. 
 
 But listen'd to the voice 
 Of knowledge without power, 
 Are nigh the hour 
 Of death ! 
 Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor sorrow. 
 
 Nor years, nor heart-break, nor time's sapping 
 motion, 
 Shall they drop oif. Behold their last to-morrow ! 
 Earth shall be ocean ! 
 And no breath, 
 Save of the winds, be on the unbounded wave ! 
 Angels shall tire their wings, but find no spot : 
 Not even a rock from out the Hquid grave 
 Shall lift its point to save. 
 2V 
 
 Or show the place where strong despair hath died. 
 After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
 For the expected ebb which cometh not ; 
 All shall be void, 
 Destroy'd ! 
 Another element shall be the lord 
 
 Of life, and the abhorr'd 
 Children of dust be quench'd ; and of each hue 
 Of earth naught left but the unbroken blue ; 
 And of the variegated mountain 
 Sliall naught remain 
 Unchanged, nor of the level plain ; 
 Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in vain: 
 All merged within the universal fountain, 
 Man, earth, and fire, shall die, 
 And sea and sky 
 Look vast and lifeless in the eternal eye. 
 Upon the foam 
 Who shall erect a home ? 
 Japh. (coming forward.) My sire! 
 Earth's seed shall not expire ; 
 Only the evil shall be put away 
 
 From day. 
 Avaunt ! ye exulting demons of the waste 1 
 Who howl your hideous joy 
 Wlien God destroys whom you dare not destroy ; 
 Hence ! haste ■ 
 Back to your inner caves J 
 Until the waves 
 Shall search you in your secret place. 
 And drive your sullen race 
 Forth, to be roll'd upon the tossing vdnds 
 In restless wretchedness along all space ; 
 Spirit. Son of the saved ! 
 
 When thou and thine have braved 
 The wide and warring element ; 
 When the great barrier of the deep is rent. 
 Shall thou and thine be good or happy ! — No ! 
 Thy new world and new race shall be of wo — 
 Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
 Less than the glorious giants, who 
 Yet walk the world in pride. 
 The Sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
 Thine shall be nothing of the past, save tears. 
 And art thou not ashamed 
 
 Thus to survive. 
 And eat, and drink, and wive ? 
 With a base heart so far subdued and tamed. 
 As even to hear this wide destruction named, 
 Without such grief and courage, as should rather 
 
 Bid thee await the world-dissolving wave. 
 Than seek a shelter with thy favour'd father. 
 And build thy city o'er the drown'd earth's grave ? 
 Who would outlive their kind. 
 Except the base and blind ? 
 Mine 
 Hateth thine 
 As of a different order in the sphere. 
 But not our own. 
 There is not one who hath not left a throne 
 
 Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here 
 Rather than see his mates endure alone. 
 
 Go, wretch ! and give 
 A life lilie thine to other wretches — live ! 
 And when the annihilating waters roar 
 
 Above what they have donCj 
 Envy the giant patriarchs then no more. 
 And scorn thy sire as the surviving one ! 
 Thyself for being his son ! 
 
 Chorus of Spirits issuing from the cavem^ 
 
 Rejoice ! 
 No more the human voice 
 Shall vex our joys in middle air 
 With prayer ; 
 
362 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 Part 
 
 No more 
 Shall they adore ; 
 And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 
 
 The prayer-exacting Lord, 
 To whom the omission of a sacrifice 
 Is vice ; 
 We, we shall view the deep's salt sources pour'd 
 Until one element shall do the work 
 Of all in chaos ; until they, 
 The creatures proud of their poor clay, 
 Shall perish, and their bleached bones shall lurk 
 In caves, in dens, in clefis of mountains, where 
 The deep shall follow to their latest lair; 
 
 Where even the brutes, in their despair. 
 Shall cease to prey on man and on each other, 
 
 And the striped tiger shall lie down to die 
 Beside the lamb, as though he were his brother ; 
 Till all things shall be as they were, 
 Silent and uncreated, save the sky : 
 "While a brief truce 
 Is made with Death, who shall forbear 
 The little remnant of the past creation, 
 To generate new nations for his use; 
 This remnant, floating o'er the undulation 
 Of the subsiding deluge, from its slime. 
 When the hot sun hath baked the reeking soil 
 Into a world, shall give again to time 
 New beings — years — diseases — sorrow — crime — ■ 
 With all companionship of hate and toU, 
 
 Until 
 
 Japh. {interrupting them.) The eternal will 
 Shall deign to expound this dream 
 Of good and evil; and redeem 
 
 Unto himself all times, all things ; 
 And, gather'd under his almighty wings. 
 Abolish hell ! 
 And to the expiated Earth 
 Restore the beauty of her birth. 
 Her Eden in an endless paradise, 
 Where man no more can fall as once he fell, 
 And even the very demons shall do well ! 
 Spirits. And when shall take effect this wondrous 
 
 spell ? 
 Jnph. When the Redeemer cometh ; first in pain, 
 
 And then in glory. 
 Spirit. Meantime still struggle in the mortal chain. 
 Till earth wax hoary ; 
 War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in vain, 
 
 Until the clouds look gory 
 With the blood reeking from each battle plain ; 
 New times, new climes, new arts, new men ; but still 
 The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill, 
 Shall be among your race in different forms ; 
 But the same moral storms 
 Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 
 In a few hours the glorious giant's graves.* 
 
 Chorus of Spirits. 
 Brethren, rejoice ! 
 Mortal, farewell ! 
 Hark ! hark ! already we can hear the voice 
 Of growing ocean's gloomy swell ; 
 
 The winds, too, plume their piercing wings ! 
 The clouds have nearly fiU'd their springs ; 
 The fountains of the great deep shall be broken. 
 
 And heaven set wide her windows ; while mankind 
 View, unacknowledged, each tremendous token — 
 Still, as they were from the beginning, blind. 
 We hear the sound they cannot hear, 
 The mustering thunders of the threatening sphere ; 
 Yet a few hours their coming is delay'd ; 
 Their flashing banners, folded still on high. 
 
 * " And there were giants in those days, and after ; mighty men, 
 which were of old rneo of renown."— Gen««». 
 
 Yet undisplay'd, 
 Save to the Spirit's all-pervading eye. 
 
 Howl ! howl ! oh Earth ! 
 Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth : 
 Tremble, ye mountains, soon to shrink below 
 
 The ocean's overflow ! 
 The wave shall break upon your cliffs ; and shells, 
 
 The little shells, of ocean's least things be 
 Deposed where now the eagle's offspring dwells — 
 How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless sea ! 
 And call his nestlings up with fruitless yell, 
 Unanswer'd, save by the encroaching swell ; — 
 While man shall long in vain for his broad wings. 
 
 The wings which could not save : — 
 Where could he rest them, while the whole space brings 
 Naught to his eye beyond the deep, his grave ? 
 Brethren, rejoice ! 
 And loudly lift each superhuman voice — 
 All die, 
 Save the slight remnant of Seth's seed — 
 
 The seed of Seth, 
 Exempt for future sorrow's sake from death. 
 But of the sons of Cain 
 None shall remain ; 
 And all his goodly daughters 
 Must lie beneath the desolating waters ; 
 Or, floating upward, with their long hair laid 
 Along the wave, the cruel Heaven upbraid. 
 Which would not spare 
 Beings even in death so fair. 
 It is decreed, 
 All die ! 
 And to the universal human cry 
 The universal silence shall succeed! 
 Fly, brethren, fly ! 
 But still rejoice I 
 We fell ! 
 They fall ! 
 So perish all 
 These petty foes of Heaven who shrink from hell ! 
 
 [The Spirits disajjpear, soaiing upwards. 
 Japh. (solus.) God hath proclaim'd the destiny of 
 earth ; 
 My father's ark of safety hath announced it ; 
 The very demons shriek it from their caves ; 
 The scroll* of Enoch prophesied it long 
 In silent books, which, in their silence, say 
 More to die mind than thunder to the ear : 
 And yet men listen'd not, nor listen ; but 
 Walk darkling to their doom ; which, though so nigh. 
 Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief, 
 Than their last cries shall shake the Almighty purpose, 
 Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfils it. 
 No sign yet hangs its banner in the air ; 
 The clouds are few, and of their wonted texture ; 
 The sun will rise upon the eartli's last day 
 As on the fourth day of creation, when 
 God said unto him, " Shine !" and he broke forth 
 Into the dawTi, which lighted not the yet 
 Unform'd forefather of mankind — but roused 
 Before the human orison the earlier 
 Made and far sweeter voices of the birds, 
 'V\Tiich in the open firmament of heaven 
 Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
 Heaven first each day before the Adamites: 
 Their matins now draw nigh — the east is kindling — 
 And they will sing ! and day wUl break ! Both near, 
 So near the awful close ! For these must drop 
 Their outworn pinions on the deep ; and day. 
 After the bright course of a few brief morrows, — 
 Ay, day will rise ; but upon what ? — a chaos. 
 Which was ere day ; and which, renew'd, makes time 
 
 The book of Enoch, preserved by the Ethiopians, la said by them to 
 be anterior to the flood. 
 
Part I. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH, 
 
 363 
 
 Nothing ! for, without life, what are the hours ? 
 
 No more to dust than is eternity 
 
 Unto Jehovah, who created both. 
 
 Without hira, even eternity would be 
 
 A void : without man, time, as made for man, 
 
 Dies with man, and is swallow'd in that deep 
 
 Which has no fountain; as his race will be 
 
 Devour'd by that which drowns his infant world. — 
 
 What have we here ? Shapes of both earth and air ? 
 
 No — all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 
 
 I cannot trace their features ; but their forms, 
 
 How lovelily they move sXona the side 
 
 Of the gray mountain, scattering its mist ! 
 
 And after the swart savage spirits, whose 
 
 Infernal immortality pour'd forth 
 
 Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 
 
 Welcome as Eden. It may be they com.e 
 
 To tell me the reprieve of our young world, 
 
 For which I have so often pray'd — They come ! 
 
 Anah ! oh, God ! and with her 
 
 Enter Samiasa, Azaziel, Anah, and Aholibamah. 
 
 Anah, Japhet ! 
 
 Sam. ' Lo! 
 
 A son of Adam : 
 
 Aza. What doth the earthborn here, 
 
 While all his race are slumbering? 
 
 Japh. Angel 1 what 
 
 Dost thou on earth when thou should'st be on high ? 
 
 Aza. Know'st thou not, or forge t'st thou, that a part 
 Of our great function is to guard thine earth? 
 
 Japh. But all good angels have forsaken earth. 
 Which is condemn'd ; nay, even the evil fly 
 The approaching chaos. Anah! Anah! my 
 In vain, and long, and still to be beloved! 
 Why walk'st thou v^^ith this spirit, in those hours 
 When no good spirit longer lights below ? 
 
 Anah. Japhet, I cannot answer thee ; yet, yet 
 Forgive me 
 
 Japh. May the Heaven, which soon no more 
 
 Will pardon, do so I for thou art greatly tempted. 
 
 Aho. Back to thy tents, insulting son of Noah ! 
 We know thee not. 
 
 Japh. The hour may come when thou 
 
 May'st know me better ; and thy sister know 
 Me still the same which I have ever been. 
 
 Sam. Son of the patriarch, who hath ever been 
 Upright before his God, whate'er thy gifts, 
 And thy words seem of sorrow, mix'd with wrath, 
 How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on thee 
 Wrong? 
 
 Japh. Wrong ! the greatest of all wrongs ; but thou 
 Say'st well, though she be dust, I did not, could not. 
 Deserve her. Farewell, Anali ! I have said 
 That word so often ! but now say it, ne'er 
 To be repeated, xlngel ! or whate'er 
 Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the power 
 To save this beautiful — these beautiful 
 Children of Cain? 
 
 Aza. From what? 
 
 Japh. And is it so. 
 
 That ye too know not? Angels! angels! ye 
 Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, now must 
 Partake his punishment ; or at the least 
 My sorrow. 
 
 Sam. Sorrow ! I ne'er thought till now 
 
 To hear an Adamite speak riddles to me. 
 
 Japh. And hath not the Most High expounded them? 
 Then ye are lost, as they are lost. 
 
 Aho. So be it ! 
 
 If they love as they are loved, they will not shrink 
 More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
 An immortaUty of agonies 
 With Samiasa! 
 
 Sister ! sister ! speak not 
 
 Anah. 
 Thus. 
 
 Aza. Fearest thou, my Anah ? 
 
 Anah. Yes, for thee; 
 
 I would resign the greater remnant of 
 This little life of mine, before one hour 
 Of thine eternity should know a pang. 
 
 Japh. It is for him^ then ! for the seraph thou 
 Hast left me ! That is nothing, if thou hast not 
 Left thy God too ! for unions like to these. 
 Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot 
 Be happy or be hallow'd. We are sent 
 Upon tlie earth to toil and die ; and they 
 Are made to minister on high unto 
 The Highest : but if he can save thee, soon 
 The hour will come in wliich celestial aid 
 Alone can do so. 
 
 Anah. Ah! he speaks of death 
 
 Sam. Of death to tLsl and those who are with us: 
 But that the man seems full of sorrow, I 
 Could smile. 
 
 Japh. I grieve not for myselfj nor fear 
 
 I am safe, not for my own deserts, but those 
 Of a well-doing sire, who hath been found 
 Righteous enough to save his children. Would 
 His power was greater of redemption ! or 
 That by exchanging my own life for hers. 
 Who could alone have made mine happy, she, 
 The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could share 
 The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
 The seed of Seth ! 
 
 Aho, And dost thou think that we, 
 
 With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's, blood 
 Warm in our veins, — strong Cain! who was be- 
 gotten 
 In Paradise, — would mingle with Seth's children? 
 Seth, the last oifspring of old Adam's dotage ? 
 No, not to save all earth, were earth in peril! 
 Our race hath alway dwelt apart from thine 
 From the beginning, and shall do so ever. 
 
 Japh. I did not speak to thee, Aholibamah ! 
 Too much of the forefather whom thou vauntest 
 Has come down in that haughty blood which springs 
 From him who shed the first, and that a brother's ! 
 But thou, my Anah ! let me call thee mine, 
 Albeit thou art not ; 't is a word I cannot 
 Part with, although I must from thee. My Anah ! 
 Thou who dost rather make me dream that Abel 
 Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 
 Survived in thee, so much unlike thou art 
 The rest of the stern Cainites, save in beauty, 
 For all of them are fairest m their favour 
 
 Aho. {interrupting him.) And wouldst thou have her 
 like our father's foe 
 In mind, in soul ? If / partook thy thought, 
 And dream'd that aught of Ahel was in her ! — 
 Get thee hence, son of Noah ; thou makest strife. 
 
 Japh. Offspring of Cain, thy father did so! 
 
 Aho. But 
 
 He slew not Seth; and what hast thou to do 
 With other deeds between his God and him ? 
 Japh. Thou speakest well : his God hath judged 
 him, and 
 I had not named his deed, but that thyself 
 Didst seem to glory in him, nor to shrink 
 From what he had done. 
 
 Aho. He was our father's fathtr , 
 
 The eldest born of man, the strongest, bravest, 
 And most enduring : — Shall I blush for him 
 From whom we had our being? Look upon 
 Our race ; behold their stature and their beauty, 
 
 Their courage, strength, and length of days 
 
 Japh. They are numberd. 
 
 Aho. Be it so I but while yet their hours endure, 
 I glory in my brethren and our fathers. 
 
364 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 Japh. My sire and race but glory in their God, 
 Anah ! and thou ? 
 
 Anah. Whate'er our God decrees, 
 
 The God of Seth as Cain, I must obey, 
 And will endeavour patiently to obey. 
 But could I dare to pray in his dread hour 
 Of universal vengeance, (if such should be,) 
 It would not be to live, alone exempt 
 Of all my house. My sister! oh, my sister! 
 What were the world, or other worlds, or all 
 The brightest future, without the sweet past — 
 Thy love — my father's — all the life, and all 
 The things which sprang up with me, like the stars 
 Making my dim existence radiant ^vith 
 Soft hghts which were not mine ? Aholibamah ! 
 Oh ! if there should be mercy — seek it, find it : 
 I abhor death, because that thou must die. 
 
 Aho. What ! hath this dreamer, with his father's ark 
 The bugbear he hath built to scare the world, 
 Shaken my sister ? Are we not the loved 
 Of seraphs ? and if we were not, must we 
 CUncr to a son of Noah for our lives? 
 
 Rather than thus But the enthusiast dreams 
 
 The worst of dreams, the fantasies engender'd 
 By hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
 Shall shake these solid mountains, tliis firm earth, 
 And bid those clouds and waters take a shape 
 Distinct from that which we and all our sires 
 Have seen them wear on their eternal way ? 
 Who shaU do this? 
 
 Japh. He whose one word produced them. 
 
 Aho. Who heard tliat word ? 
 
 Japh. The universe, which leap'd 
 
 To life before it. Ah ! smilest thou still in scorn ? 
 Turn to thy seraphs \ if tliey attest it not, 
 They are none. 
 
 Sam. Ahohbamah, own thy God ! 
 
 Aho. I have ever hail'd our Maker, Samiasa, 
 As thine, and mine : a God of love, not sorrow. 
 
 Japh. Alas ! what else is love but sorrow? Even 
 He who made earth in love had soon to grieve 
 Above its fiii-st and best inhabit.ants. 
 
 Aho. 'T is said so. 
 
 Japh. It is even so. 
 
 Enter Noah and Shem. 
 
 Noah. Japhet! What 
 
 Dost thou here wdth these children of the wicked ? 
 Dread'st thou not to partake their coming doom. 
 
 Japh. Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
 To save an earthborn being ; and behold, 
 These are not of the sinful, since they have 
 The fellowship of angels. 
 
 Noah. These are they, then, 
 
 Who leave the throne of God, to take them wives 
 From out the race of Cain ; the sons of heaven, 
 Who seek earth's daughters for their beauty ? 
 
 Aza. Patriarch ! 
 
 Thou hast said it. 
 
 Noah. Wo, wo, wo to such communion! 
 
 Has not God made a barrier between earth 
 And heaven, and limited each, kind tokmd? 
 
 Sam. Was not man made in high Jehovah's image? 
 Did God not love what he had made ? And what 
 Do we but imitate and emulate 
 His love unto created love? 
 
 Noah. I am 
 
 But man, and w^as not made to judge mankind, 
 Far less the sons of God ; but as our God 
 Has deign'd to commune with me, and reveal 
 His judgments, I reply, that the descent 
 Of seraphs from their everlasting seat 
 Unto a perishable and perishing. 
 Even on the very eve of perishing, world, 
 Cannot be good. 
 
 Aza. What ! though it were to save ? 
 
 NoaJi. Not ye in all your glory can redeem 
 What he who made you glorious hath condemn'd. 
 Were your immortal mission safety, 'twould 
 Be general, not for two, though beautiful ; 
 And beautiful they are, but not the less 
 Condemn'd. 
 
 Japh. Oh father ! say it not. 
 
 Noah. Son! son! 
 
 If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, forget 
 That they exist ; they soon shall cease to be, 
 While thou shalt be the sire of a new world, 
 And better. 
 
 Japh. Let me die with this, and them! 
 
 Noah. Thou shotddst for such a thought, but shalt 
 Who can redeems thee. [not; he 
 
 Sam. And why him and thee, 
 
 More than what he, thy son, prefers to both ? 
 
 Noah. Ask him who made thee greater than myself 
 And mine, but not less subject to his own 
 Almightiness. And lo ! his mildest and 
 Least to be tempted messenger appears ! 
 
 Enter Raphael the Archangel. 
 
 Raph. Spirits ! 
 
 Whose seat is near the throne. 
 What do ye here ? 
 Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown, 
 Now that the hour is near 
 When earth must be alone ? 
 Return ! 
 Adore and bum 
 In glorious homage with the elected " seven." 
 Your place is heaven. 
 Sam. Raphael ! 
 
 The first and fairest of the sons of God, 
 
 How long hath this been law. 
 That earth by angels must be left untrod ? 
 
 Earth ! v/hich oft saw 
 Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod ! 
 The world he loved, and made 
 For love ; and oft have we obey'd 
 His frequent mission wnth deUgbted pinions : 
 
 Adoring him in his least works display'd ; 
 Watching this youngest star of his dominions ; 
 And, as the latest birth of his great word. 
 Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 
 Why is thy brow severe ? 
 And wherefore speak'st thou of destruction near? 
 Raph. Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 
 In their true place, with the angelic choir, 
 Written in fire 
 They would liave seen 
 Jehovah's late decree, 
 And not inquired their JNIaker's breath of me : 
 But ignorance must ever be 
 A part of sin ; 
 And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow less 
 
 As they wax proud within ; 
 For Blindness is the first-born of Excess. 
 
 When all good angels left the world, ye stayed, 
 Stung with strange passions, and debased 
 
 By mortal feelings for a mortal maid ; 
 But ye are pardon'd thus far, and replaced 
 With your pure equals. Hence ! away ! away ! 
 Or stay. 
 And lose eternity by that delay ! 
 Aza. And thou ! if earth be thus forbidden 
 In the decree 
 To us until this moment hidden, 
 Dost thou not err as we 
 In being here ? 
 Raph. I came to call ye back to your fit sphere, 
 In the great name and at the word of God. 
 Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 
 
Part I. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 365 
 
 That which I came to do : till now we trod 
 Together the eternal space ; together 
 
 Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must die ! 
 Her race, return'd into her womb, must wither, 
 And much which she inherits ; but oh ! why 
 Cannot this earth be made, or be destroy'd, 
 Without involving ever some vast void 
 In the immortal ranks ? immortal still 
 
 In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
 Our brother Satan fell ; his burning will 
 Rather than long worship dared endure ! 
 But ye who still are pure ! 
 Seraphs ! less mighty than that mightiest one, 
 
 Think how he was undone ! 
 And think if tempting man can compensate 
 For heaven desired too late ! 
 Long have I warr'd, 
 Long must I war 
 With him who deem'd it hard 
 To be created, and to acknowledge him 
 Who midst the cherubim 
 Made him as suns to a dependent star, 
 Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. 
 
 I loved him — beautiful he was : oh heaven ! 
 Save his who made, what beauty and what power 
 Was ever like to Satan's ! Would the hour 
 In which he fell could ever be forgiven ! 
 The wish is impious : but, oh ye ! 
 Yet undestroy'd, be warn'd ! Eternity 
 
 With him, or with his God. is in your choice : 
 He hath not tempted you ; he cannot tempt 
 The angels, from his further snares exempt : 
 
 But man hath listen'd to his voice, 
 And ye to woman's — beautiful she is. 
 The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 
 The snake but vanquish'd dust ; but she will drav/ 
 A second host from heaven, to break heaven's law. 
 Yet, yet, oh fly ! 
 Ye cannot die; 
 But they 
 Shall pass away, 
 While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sky 
 
 For perishable clay, 
 Whose memory in your immortality 
 
 Shall long outlast the sun which gave them day. 
 Think how your essence differeth from theirs 
 In ail but suffering ! why partake 
 The agony to which they must be heirs — 
 Born to be plough'd with years, and sown with cares, 
 And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil? 
 Even had their days been left to toil their path 
 Through time to dust, unshorten'd by God's wrath, 
 Still they are Evil's prey and Sorrow's spoil. 
 
 Aho. Let them fly ! 
 
 I hear the voice which says that all must die 
 Sooner than our white-bearded patriarchs died ; 
 And that on high 
 An ocean is prepared, 
 While from below 
 The deep shall rise to meet heaven's overflow. 
 
 Few shall be spared, 
 It seems; and, of that few, the race of Cain 
 Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
 Sister ! since it is so, 
 And the eternal Lord 
 In vain would be implored 
 For the remission of one hour of wo, 
 Let us resign even what we have adored, 
 And meet the wave, as we would meet the sword, 
 
 If not unmoved, yet undismay'd. 
 And wailing less for us than those who shall 
 Survive in mortal or immortal thrall, 
 
 And, when the fatal waters are allay'd, 
 Weep for the myriads who can weep no more. 
 Fly, seraphs ! to your own eternal shore, 
 
 ; — 
 
 Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
 Our portion is to die, 
 And yours to hve for ever : 
 But which is best, a dead eternity, 
 Or Uving, is but known to the great Giver. 
 Obey him, as we shall obey ; 
 I would not keep this life of mine in clay 
 An hour beyond his will ; 
 Nor see ye lose a portion of his grace, 
 For all the mercy which Seth's race 
 Find still. 
 Fly! 
 And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven, 
 Think that my love still mounts with thee on high, 
 
 Samiasa ! 
 And if I look up with a tearless eye, 
 'Tis that an angel's bride disdains to weep. — 
 Farewell i Now rise, inexorable deep ! 
 Anah. And must we die ? 
 
 And must I lose thee too, 
 
 Azaziel ? 
 Oh, my heart ! my heart ! 
 
 Thy prophecies were true ! 
 And yet thou wert so happy too! 
 The blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new ; 
 But yet depart ! 
 Ah! why? 
 Yet let me not retain thee — fly ! 
 My pangs can be but brief; but thine would be 
 Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for me. 
 Too much already hast thou deign'd 
 To one of Adam's race ! 
 Our doom is sorrow : not to us alone. 
 But to the spirits who have not disdain'd 
 To love us, cometh anguish with disgrace. 
 The first who taught us knowledge hath been hurl'd 
 From his once archangelic throne 
 Into some unknown world : 
 
 And thou, Azaziel ! No — 
 Thou shalt not suffer wo 
 For me. Away ! nor weep! 
 Thou canst not weep ; but yet 
 Mayst suffer more, not weeping : then forget 
 Her, whom the surges of the all-strangling deep 
 
 Can bring no pang like this. Fly ! fly ! 
 Being gone, 'twill be less difficult to die. 
 Japh. Oh say not so ! 
 
 Father ! and thou, archangel, thou ! 
 Surely celestial mercy lurks below 
 That pure severe serenity of brow : 
 
 Let them not meet this sea without a shore, 
 Save in our ark, or let me be no more ! 
 Noah. Peace, child of passion, peace ! 
 If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue 
 
 Do God no wrong ! 
 Live as he wills it — die, when he ordains, 
 A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's. 
 
 Cease, or be sorrowful in silence ; cease 
 To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish plaint 
 Wouldst thou have G od commit a sin for thee ? 
 Such would it be 
 To alter his intent 
 For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man! 
 And bear what Adam's race must bear, and can. 
 Japh. Ay, father ! but when they are gone, 
 And we are all alone. 
 Floating upon the azure desert, and 
 The depth beneath us hides our own dear land, 
 And dearer, silent friends and brethren, all 
 Buried in its immeasurable breast, 
 Who, who, our tears, our shrieks, shall then command? 
 Can we in desolation's peace have rest? 
 Oh God ! be thou a God, and spare 
 Yet while 't is time ! 
 Renew not Adam's fall : 
 
366 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 Mankind were then but twain, 
 But they are numerous now as are the waves 
 
 And the tremendous rain, 
 Whose drops shall be less thick than would their graves, 
 Were craves permitted to the seed of Cain. 
 Noah, 'silence, vain boy 1 each word of thine 's a crime. 
 Angel ! forgive this striplmg's fond despair. 
 
 Raph. Seraphs ! these mortals speak in passion : Ye ! 
 Who are, or should be, passionless and pure. 
 May now return with me. 
 
 Sam. It may not be ; 
 
 We have chosen, and will endure. 
 Raph. Say'st thou? 
 
 jiza. He hath said it, and I say, Amen ! 
 
 Raph. Again ! 
 
 Then from this hour. 
 Shorn as ye are of all celestial power, 
 And aliens from your God, 
 Farewell ! 
 Japh. Alas ! where shall they dwell ? 
 
 Hark, hark ! Deep sounds, and deeper still, 
 Are howling from the mountain's bosom : 
 There 's not a breath of wind upon the hill, 
 
 Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom : 
 Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load. 
 JVoah. Hark, hark! the sea-birds cry! 
 In clouds they overspread the lurid sky, 
 And hover round the mountain, where before 
 Never a white wing, wetted by the wave. 
 
 Yet dared to soar. 
 Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to brave. 
 Soon it shall be their only shore. 
 And then, no more I 
 Japh. The sim ! the sun ! 
 
 He riseth, but his better light is gone ; 
 And a black circle, bound 
 His glaring disk around. 
 Proclaims earth's last of summer days hath shone ! 
 
 The clouds return into the hues of night, 
 Save where their brazen-colour'd edges streak 
 The verge where brighter morns were wont to break. 
 
 Noah^ And lo ! yon flash of light, 
 The distant thunder's harbinger, appeal's 
 
 It cometh ! hence, away ! 
 Leave to the elements their evil prey ! 
 Hence to where our a!l-hallow'd ark uprears 
 Its safe and wreckless sides. 
 Japh. Oh, father, stay ! 
 Leave not my Anah to the swallowing tides ! 
 
 Noah. Must we not leave all life to such ? Begone ! 
 Japh. Not I. 
 
 Noah. Then die 
 
 With them ! 
 How darest thou look on that prophetic sky. 
 And seek to save what all things now condemn, 
 In overwhelming unison 
 
 With just Jehovah's wrath ! 
 Japh. Can rage and justice join in the same path? 
 Noah. Blasphemer ! darest thou murmur even now ? 
 Raph. Patriarch, be still a father ! smooth thy brow : 
 Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink : 
 He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 
 
 With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters ; 
 But be, when passion passeth, good as thou. 
 
 Nor perish like heaven's children with man's daughters. 
 Aho. The tempest cometh ; heaven and eardi unite 
 For the annihilation of all life. 
 Unequal is the strife 
 Between our strength and the Eternal Might! 
 Sam. But ours is with thee ; we wiU bear ye far 
 To some untroubled star, 
 Where thou and Anah shalt partake our lot : 
 
 And if thou dost not weep for thy lost earth, 
 Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 
 Anah. Oh ! my dear father's tents, my place of birth. 
 
 And mountains, land, and woods ! when ye are not, 
 Who shall dry up my tears ? 
 
 Aza. Thy spirit-lord. 
 
 Fear not ; though we are shut from heaven. 
 Yet much is ours, whence we can not be driven. 
 
 Raph. Rebel ! thy words are wicked, as thy deeds 
 Shall henceforth be but weak : the flaming sword. 
 Which chased the first-bom out of Paradise, 
 Still flashes in the angelic hands. 
 
 Aza. It cannot slay us : threaten dust with death, 
 And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds. 
 What are thy swords in our immortal eyes ? 
 
 Raph. The moment cometh to approve thy strength ; 
 And learn at length 
 How vain to war with what thy God commands : 
 Thy former force was in thy faith. 
 
 Enter Mortals, flying for refuge. 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 The heavens and earth are mingling — God I oh God ! 
 
 yVhai have we done ? Yet spare ! 
 
 Hark ! even the forest beasts howl forth their pray'r ! 
 
 The dragon crawls from out his den. 
 
 To herd, in terror, innocent v\ith men ; 
 And the birds scream their agony through air. 
 Yet, yet, Jehovah ! yet withdraw thy rod 
 Of wrath, and pity thine own world's despair ! 
 Hear not man only but all nature plead ! 
 
 Raph. Farewell, thou earth ! ye wretched sons of clay 
 I cannot, must not, aid you. "T is decreed ! 
 
 [Eant Raphael. 
 
 Japh. Some clouds sweep on as vuhures for their prey. 
 While others, fix'd as rocks, await the word 
 At which their wrathful \ials shall be pour'd. 
 No azure mere shall robe the firmament, 
 Nor spangled stars be glorious : Death hath risen : 
 In the sun's place a pale and ghastly glare 
 Hath wound itself aroiHid the dying air. 
 
 Aza. Come, Anah! quit this chaos-founded prison, 
 To which the elements again repair. 
 To turn it into what it was : beneath 
 The shelter of these v/ings thou shalt be safe. 
 As was the eagle's nestling once within 
 Its mother's. — Let the coming chaos chafe 
 With all its elements ! Heed not their din! 
 A brighter world than this, where thou shalt breathe 
 Ethereal life, will we explore: 
 These darken'd clouds are not the only skies. 
 
 [AzAziEL and Samiasa fly o^, and disappear 
 with Anah and Aholibamah. 
 
 Japh. They are gone I They have disappear'd amid 
 the roar 
 Of the forsaken world ; and never more, 
 Whether they live, or die with all earth's life 
 Now near its last, can aught restore 
 Anah unto these eyes. 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 Oh son of Noah! mercy on thy kind ! 
 What ! wilt thou leave us all — all — all behind ? 
 While safe amid the elemental strife, 
 Thou sitt'st within thy guarded ark? 
 A Mother, {offering her infant to Japhet.) Oh let 
 this child embark ! 
 I brought him forth in wo. 
 
 But thought it joy 
 To see him to my bosom clinging so. 
 Why was he born? 
 What hath he done — 
 My unwean'd son — 
 To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn ? 
 What is there in this milk of mine, that death 
 Should stii- all heaven and earth up to destroy 
 My boy, 
 
Part I. 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 367 
 
 And roll the waters o'er his placid breath ? 
 Save him, thou seed of Seth ! 
 Or cursed be — with him who made 
 Thee and thy race, for which we are betray'd ! 
 Japh. Peace ! 't is no hour for curses^ but for prayer ! 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 For prayer I ! ! 
 And where 
 Shall prayer ascend, 
 When the swoln clouds unto the mountains bend 
 
 And burst, 
 And gushing oceans every barrier rend, 
 Until the very deserts know no thirst ? 
 Accurst 
 Be he who made thee and thy sire ! 
 We deem our curses vain ; we must expire ; 
 
 But as we know the worst, 
 Why should our hymn be raised, our knees be bent 
 Before the implacable Omnipotent, 
 Since we must fall the same ? 
 If he hath made earth, let it be liis shame, 
 
 To make a world for torture. — Lo ! they come, 
 The loathsome waters, in their rage ! 
 And with their roar make wholesome nature dumb! 
 
 The forest's trees, (coeval vwth the hour 
 When Paradise upsprung, 
 
 Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower, 
 Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung,) 
 
 So massy, vast, yet green in their old age. 
 Are overtopt, 
 
 Their summer blossoms by the surges lopt, 
 Which rise, and rise, and rise. 
 Vainly we look up to the lowering skies — 
 
 They meet the seas. 
 And shut out God from our beseeching eyes 
 Fly, son of Noah, fly! and take thine ease 
 In thine allotted ocean-tent ; 
 And view, all floating o'er the element. 
 The corpses of the world of thy young days : 
 Then to Jehovah raise 
 Thy song of praise ! 
 A Mortal. Blessed are the dead 
 Who die in the Lord! 
 And though the waters be o'er earth outspread, 
 Yet, as his word, 
 Be the decree adored ! 
 He gave me Ufe — he taketh but 
 The breath which is his own : 
 And though these eyes should be for ever shut, 
 
 Nor longer this weak voice before his throne 
 Be heard in supplicating tone, 
 
 Still blessed be the Lord, 
 For what is past, , 
 For that which is : 
 For all are his, 
 From first to last — 
 Time — space — eternity — life — death— 
 
 The vast known and immeasurable unknown. 
 He made, and can unmake; 
 
 And shall /, for a little gasp of breath 
 Blaspheme and groan ? 
 
 No ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith, 
 Nor quiver, though the universe may quake 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 Where shall we fly ? 
 Not to the mountains high ; 
 For now their torrents rush, with double roar, 
 
 To meet the ocean, which, advancing still, 
 Already grasps each drowning hill, 
 Nor leaves an unsearch'd cave. 
 
 Enter a Woman. 
 Woman. Oh, save me, save! 
 Our valley is no more : 
 
 My father and my fcirher's tent. 
 My brethren and my brethren's herds, 
 
 The pleasant trees that o'er our noonday bent 
 And sent forth evening songs from sweetest birds, 
 The little rivulet which freshen'd all 
 Our pastures green, 
 No more are to be seen. 
 When to the mountain cliff I climb 'd this morn, 
 
 I turn'd to bless the spot, 
 And not a leaf appeai-'d about to fall ; — 
 
 And now they are not ! — 
 Why was I born? 
 
 Japh. To die ! in youth to die 5 
 
 And happier in that doom. 
 Than to behold the universal tomb 
 
 Which I 
 Am thus condemn'd to weep above in vain. 
 Why, when all perish, why must I remain ? 
 
 [The waters rise: Men fly in every direction: 
 many are overtaken by the waves ; the Chorus 
 of Mortals disperses in search of safety up 
 the mountains : Japhet remains upon a rock^ 
 while the Ark floats towards Mm in the 
 distance. 
 
THE ISLAND; 
 
 OR, 
 
 CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES. 
 
 The foundation of the following story will be found 
 partly in the account of the mutiny of the Bounty in 
 the South Seas, (in 1789,) and partly in " Manner's 
 Account of the Tonga Islands^^^ 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 The morning watch was come ; the vessel lay 
 Her course, and gently made her liquid way ; 
 The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow 
 In furrows form'd by that majestic plough ; 
 The waters with their world w ere all before ; 
 Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore 
 The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane, 
 Dividing darkness from the dawning main ; 
 The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, 
 Swam liigh, as eager of the coming ray ; 
 The stars from broader beams began to creep. 
 And lift their shining eyeuds from the deep ; 
 The sail resumed its lately shadow'd white. 
 And the wind flutter'd with a freshening flight; 
 The purpling ocean owns the coming sun, 
 But ere he break — a deed is to be done. 
 
 II. 
 The gallant chief within his cabin slept, 
 Secure in those by w-hom. the watch wg5 kept: 
 His dreams were of Old England's welcome shore. 
 Of toils rewarded, and of danger's o'er ; 
 His name w-as added to the glorious roll 
 Of those who search the stoiTn-surrounded Pole. 
 The worst was over, and the rest seem'd sure, 
 Am< why should not his slumber be secure ? 
 Alas ! his deck was trod by unwilling feet, 
 And wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet ; 
 Young hearts, which languish'd for some sunny isle, 
 Where summer years and summer women smile ; 
 Men without country, who, too long estranged, 
 Had found no native home, or found it changed, 
 And, half uncivilized, preferr'd the cave 
 Of some soft savage to the uncertain w^ave — 
 The gushing fruits that nature gave untill'd ; 
 The wood without a path but where they will'd ; 
 The field o'er which promiscuous plenty pour'd 
 Her horn; the equal land without a lord; 
 The wish — which ages have not yet subdued 
 In man — to have no master save his mood ; 
 The earth, whose mine w^as on its face, unsold, 
 The glowing sun and produce all its gold ; 
 The freedom which can call each grot a home ; 
 The general garden, where all steps may roam. 
 Where Nature owns a nation as her child, 
 Exultmg in the enjoyment of the wild ; 
 Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know ; 
 Their unexploring navy, the canoe ; 
 Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase ; 
 Their strangest sight, an European face: — 
 Such was the country which these strangers yearn'd 
 To see again ; a sight they dearly earn'd. 
 
 III. 
 
 Awake, bold Bligh ! the foe is at the gate ! 
 
 Awake ! awake ! Alas ! it is too late ! 
 
 Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer 
 Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear. 
 Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy bresist; 
 The hands, which trembled at thy voice, arrest ; 
 Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command 
 The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand ; 
 That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath 
 Its desperate escape from duty's path, 
 Glares round thee, in the scarce believing eyes 
 Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice : 
 For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage, 
 Unless he drain the wine of passion — ^rage. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In vain, not silenced by the eye of death, 
 
 Thou call'st the loyal \vith thy menaced breath :— 
 
 They come not ; they are few, and, over-awed, 
 
 Must acquiesce, while sterner hearts applaud. 
 
 In vain thou dost demand the cause : a curse 
 
 Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. 
 
 Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade, 
 
 Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid. 
 
 The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast 
 
 In hands as steel'd to do the deadly rest. 
 
 Thou darest them to their worst, exclaiming — ^' Fire !" 
 
 But they who pitied not could yet admire ; 
 
 Some lurking remnant of their former awe 
 
 Restrain'd them longer than their broken law ; 
 
 They would not dip their souls at once in blood, 
 
 But left thee to the mercies of the flood, 
 v. 
 
 " Hoist out the boat I" was now the leader's cry; 
 
 And who dare answer " No !" to Mutiny, 
 
 In the first daw^ng of the drimken hour. 
 
 The Saturnalia of unhoped-for powder ? 
 
 The boat is lowerd with all the haste of hate. 
 
 With its slight plank between thee and thy fate ; 
 
 Her only cargo such a sca,nt supply 
 
 As promises the death their hands deny ; 
 
 And just enough of %vater and of bread 
 
 To keep, some days, the dying from the dead : 
 
 Some cordage, canvass, sails, and lines, and twine, 
 
 But treasures all to hermits of the brine, 
 
 Were added after, to the earnest prayer 
 
 Of those who saw no hope save sea and air ; 
 
 And last, that trembling vassal of the Pole — 
 
 The feeling compass — Navigation's soul. 
 
 VI, 
 
 And now the self- elected chief finds time 
 
 To stun the first sensation of his crime, 
 
 And raise it in his followers — " Ho ! the bowl !" 
 
 Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. 
 
 " Brandy for Jieroes !" Burke could once exclaim — 
 
 No doubt a hquid path to epic fame ; 
 
 And such the new-bom heroes found it here, 
 
 And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheer. 
 
 "Huzza! for Otaheite !" was the cry. 
 
 How strange such shouts fi-om sons of Mutiny 
 
Canio II. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 369 
 
 I'he gentle island, and the genial soil. 
 The friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil, 
 The courteous manners but from nature caught, 
 The wealth unhoarded, and the love unbought ; 
 Could these have charms for rudest seaboys, driven 
 Before the mast by every wind of heaven ? 
 And now, even now prepared with other's woes 
 To earn mild virtue's vain desire, repose ? 
 Alas ! such is our nature ! all but aim 
 At the same end by pathways not the same ; 
 Our means, our birth, our nation, and our name, 
 Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame,^ 
 Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay 
 Than aught we know beyond our little day. 
 Yet still there whispers the small voice within. 
 Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din : 
 Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, 
 Man's conscience is the oracle of God. 
 
 The lanch is crowded with the faithful few 
 Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew: 
 But some remain'd reluctant on the deck 
 Of that proud vessel — now a moral wreck — 
 And view'd their captain's fate with piteous eyes ; 
 While others scofF'd his augur'd miseries, 
 Sneer'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail, 
 And the slight bark so laden and so frail. 
 The tender nautilus, who steers his prow, 
 The seaborn sailor of his shell canoe, 
 The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea, 
 Seems far less fragile, and, alas ! more free. 
 He, when the lightning-wing'd tornados sweep 
 The surge, is safe — his port is in the deep — 
 And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind. 
 Which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 When all was now prepared, the vessel clear 
 Which hail'd her master in the mutmeer — 
 A seaman, less obdurate than his mates, 
 Show'd the vain pity which but irritates ; 
 Watch'd liis late chieftain with exploring eye, 
 And told, in signs, repentant sympathy ; 
 Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth, 
 Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth. 
 But soon observed, this guardian was withdra'/vn, 
 N"or further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn. 
 Then forward stepp'd the bold and froward boy 
 His chief had cherish'd only to destroy, 
 A.nd, pointing to the helpless prow beneath, 
 Exclaim'd, " Depart at once ! delay is death 1" 
 Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all : 
 [n that last moment could a word recall 
 Remorse for the black deed as yet half done, 
 And what he hid from many show'd to one : 
 When Bligh in stern reproach demanded where 
 Was now his grateful sense of former care ? 
 Where all his hopes to see his name aspire, 
 And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher ? 
 His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell, 
 ■"T is that ! 't is that ! I am m hell ! in hell 1" 
 No more he said ; but urging to the bark 
 His chiefj commits him to his fragile ark ; 
 These the sole accents from his tongue that fell. 
 But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The arctic sun rose broad above the wave ; 
 The breeze now sank, now whisper'd from his cave ; 
 As on the ,Eolian harp, his fitful wings 
 Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean strings. 
 With slow, despairing oar, the abandon'd skiff 
 Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff. 
 Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main: 
 That boat and ship shall never meet again 1 
 2W 
 
 But 't is not mine to tell their tale of grief, 
 
 Their constant peril and their scant relief; 
 
 Their days of danger, and their nights of pain ; 
 
 Their manly courage even when deem'd in vain ; 
 
 The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son 
 
 Known to his moiher in the skeleton ; 
 
 The ills that lessen'd still their little store. 
 
 And starved even Hunger till he wrung no more ; 
 
 The varying frowns and favours of the deep, 
 
 That now almost ingulfs, then leaves to creep 
 
 With crazy oar and shatter'd strength along 
 
 The tide that yields reluctant to the strong ; 
 
 The incessant fever of that arid thirst 
 
 Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst 
 
 Above their naked bones, and feels delight 
 
 In the cold drenching of the stormy night. 
 
 And from the outspread canvass gladly wrings 
 
 A drop to moisten life's all gasping springs ; 
 
 The savage foe escaped, to seek again 
 
 More hospitable shelter from the main ; 
 
 The ghastly spectres which were doom'd at last. 
 
 To tell as true a tale of dangers past, 
 
 As ever the dark annals of the deep 
 
 Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep. 
 
 X. 
 
 We k-ave them to their fate, but not unknown 
 
 Nor unredress'd. Revenge may have her own : 
 
 Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, 
 
 And injured navies urge their broken laws. 
 
 Pursue we on his track the mutineer, 
 
 Whom distant vengeance had not taught to fear. 
 
 Wide o'er the wave — aw aj ! away ! away ! 
 
 Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay ; 
 
 Once more the happy shores without a law 
 
 Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw ; 
 
 Nature, and nature's goddess — woman — woos 
 
 To lands where, save their conscience, none accuse ; 
 
 Where all partake the earth without dispute. 
 
 And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit ;* 
 
 Where none contest the fields, the woods, the sti-eams :- 
 
 The goldless age, where gold disturbs no dreams, 
 
 Inhabits or inhabited the shore. 
 
 Till Europe taugVit them better than before ; 
 
 Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs, 
 
 But left her vices also to their heirs. 
 
 Away with this ! behold them as they were, 
 
 Do good with Nature, or with Nature err. 
 
 " Huzza ! for Otaheite !" was the cry. 
 
 As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 
 
 The breeze springs up ; the lately flapping sail 
 
 Extends its arch before the growing gale ; 
 
 In swifter ripples stream aside the seas. 
 
 Which her bold bow flings off with dashing ease. 
 
 Thus Argo p'ougii'd the Euxine's virgin foam; 
 
 But those she wafted still look back to home — 
 
 These spurn their country with their rebel bark, 
 
 And fly her as the raven fled the ark ; 
 
 And yet they seek to nestle with the dove, 
 
 And tame iheir fiery spirits down to love. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 I. 
 
 How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai,| 
 When summer's sun went down the coral bay ! 
 Come, let us to the islet's softest shade, 
 And hear the warbling birds ! the damsels said : 
 
 * The now celebrated bread-fruit, to transplant which Captain Bligh's 
 expedition was undertaken. 
 
 t The first three sections are taken from an actual song of the Tonga 
 Islanders, of which a prose translation is given in " Mariner's Accouut 
 of the Tonga Islands." Toohonai is not however one of them ; but 
 was one of those where Christian and the mi 'ineers look refuge. I 
 have altered and added, but have retaiaed as much as possible of the 
 original. 
 
370 
 
 THE l.'^LAND. 
 
 Caxto II, 
 
 The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, 
 
 Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo ; 
 
 "We '11 cull the flowers that grow above the dead, 
 
 For these most bloom where rests the warrior's head \ 
 
 And we will sit in twilight's face, and see 
 
 The sweet moon glancing through the tooa tree, 
 
 The lofty accents of whose sighing bough 
 
 Shall sadly please us as we lean below ; 
 
 Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 
 
 Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main, 
 
 Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray. 
 
 How beautiful are these ! how happy they, 
 
 Who, from the toil and tumult of their hves. 
 
 Steal to look down where naught but ocean strives ' 
 
 Even he too loves at time the blue lagoon. 
 
 And smoothes his ruffled mane beneath the moon. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yes — from the sepulchre we '11 gather flowers. 
 
 Then feast like spirits in their promised bovvers, 
 
 Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf, 
 
 Then lay our limbs along the tender turf, 
 
 And, wet and shining from the sportive toil, 
 
 Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil. 
 
 And plait our garlands gather'd from the grave, 
 
 And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the brave. 
 
 But lo ! night comes, the Mooa woos us back. 
 
 The sound of mats are heard along our track; 
 
 Anon the torchlight dance shall fling its sheen 
 
 In flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green ; 
 
 And we too will be there ; we too recall 
 
 The memory bright with many a festival. 
 
 Ere Fiji blew the shell of v»'ar, when foes 
 
 For the first time were wafted in canoes. 
 
 Alas ! for them the flower of mankind bleeds ; 
 
 Alas ! for them our fields are rank with weeds : 
 
 Forgotten is the rapture, or unknov/n, 
 
 Of wandering with the moon and love alone. 
 
 But be it so : — they taught us how to wield 
 
 The club and rain our arrows o'er the field : 
 
 Now let them reap the harvest of their art ! 
 
 But feast to-night! to-morrow we depart. 
 
 Strike up the dance ! the cava bowl fill high ! 
 
 Drain every drop ! — to-morrow we may die. 
 
 In summer garments be our limbs array'd ; 
 
 Around our waists the tappa's v/hite display'd 
 
 Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, hke springs, 
 
 And round our necks shall glance the hooni strings ; 
 
 So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow 
 
 Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below. 
 
 III. 
 But now the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile ; 
 Ah, pause ! nor yet put out the social smile. 
 To-morrow for the Mooa we depart, 
 But not to-night — to-night is for the heart. 
 Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo, 
 Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo ! 
 How lovely are your forms ! how every sense 
 Bows to your beauties, soften'd, but intense, 
 Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep, 
 Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep ! — 
 We too will see Licoo ; but — oh ! my heart ! — 
 Wl at do I say ? — to-morrow we depart ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thiis rose a song — the harmony of times 
 Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. 
 Tme, they had vices — such are nature's growth — 
 But only the barbarian's — we have both : 
 The sordor of civilization, mix'd 
 With all the savage which man's fall hath fix'd. 
 Who hath not seen Dissimulation's reign, 
 The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain? 
 Wiio such would see may from his lattice view 
 The Old World more degraded than the New,— 
 
 Now 7iew no more, save where Columbia rears 
 Twin giants, born by Freedom to her spheres, 
 Where Chimborazo, over air, earth, wave. 
 Glares with his Titan eye, and sees no slave. 
 
 V. 
 
 Such was this ditty of tradition's days, 
 
 Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys 
 
 In song, where fame as yet hath left no sign 
 
 Beyond the sound whose charm is half divine ; 
 
 Which leaves no record to the skeptic eye, 
 
 But yields young history all to harmony ; 
 
 A boy Achilles, with the centaur's lyre 
 
 In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire. 
 
 For one long-chcrish'd ballad's simple stave. 
 
 Rung from the rock, or mingled with the. wave. 
 
 Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, 
 
 Or fathering mountain echoes as they glide. 
 
 Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear, 
 
 Then all the columns Conquest's minions rear ; 
 
 Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme 
 
 For sages' labours or the student's dream ; 
 
 Attracts, when history's volumes are a toil, — 
 
 The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soil. 
 
 Such was this rude rhyme — rhyme is of the rude— 
 
 But such inspired the Norseman's solitude. 
 
 Who came and conquer'd ; such, wherever rise 
 
 Lands which no foes destroy or civilize. 
 
 Exist: and what can our accornplish'd art 
 
 Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd heart ? 
 
 And sweetly now those untaught melodies 
 
 Broke the luxurious silence of the skies, 
 
 The sweet siesta of a summer day, 
 
 The tropic afternoon of Toobonai, 
 
 When every flower was bloom, and air was balm, 
 
 And the first breath began to stir the palm. 
 
 The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave 
 
 All gently to refresh the thirsty cave. 
 
 Where sat the songstress with the stranger boy, 
 
 Who taught her passion's desolating joy. 
 
 Too powerful over every heart, but most 
 
 O'er those who know not how it may be lost ; 
 
 O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire, 
 
 Like martyrs revel in their funeral pyre, 
 
 Whh such devotion to their ecstasy. 
 
 That life knows no such rapture as to die : 
 
 And die they do ; for earthly fife has naught 
 
 Match'd with that burst of nature, even in thought j 
 
 And all our dreams of better life above 
 
 But close in one eternal gush of love. 
 
 VII. 
 
 There sat the gentle savage of the wild, 
 In growth a woman, though in years a child. 
 As childhood dates within our colder chme, 
 Where naught is ripen'd rapidly save crime ; 
 The infant of an infant world, as pure 
 From nature — lovely, warm, and premature ; 
 Dusky like night, but night with all her stars ; 
 Or cavern sparkling with its native spars ; 
 With eyes that were a language and a spell, 
 A form like Aphrodite's in her shell, 
 With all her loves around her on the deep, 
 Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep ; 
 Yet full of life — for through her tropic cheek 
 The blush would make its way, and all but speak 
 The sun-born blood suffijsed her neck and threw 
 O'er her clear nutbrown skin a lucid hue, 
 Like coral reddening through the darken'd wave, 
 ^"Tilch draws the diver to the crimson cave. 
 Such was this daughter of the southern seas, 
 Herself a billow in her energies. 
 To bear the bark of others' happiness, 
 Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew lesa ; 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 371 
 
 Her wild and warm yet faithful bosom knew 
 No joy like what it gave ; her hopes ne'er drew 
 Alight from experience, that chill touchstone, whose 
 Sad proof reduces all things from their hues : 
 She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not, 
 Or what she knew was soon — too soon — forgot: 
 Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds pass 
 O'er lakes, to ruffle, not destroy, their glass, 
 Whose depths unsearch'd, and fountains from the hill, 
 Restore their surface, in itself so still, 
 Until the earthquake tear the naiad's cave, 
 Root up the spring, and trample on the wave, 
 . And crush the hving waters to a mass. 
 The amphibious desert of the dank morass ! 
 And must their fate be hers? The eternal change 
 But grasps humanity with quicker range ; 
 And they who fall but fall as worlds will fall, 
 To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And who is he ? the blue-eyed northern child 
 
 Of isles more known to man, but scarce less wild ; 
 
 The fair-hair'd offspring of the Hebrides, 
 
 Where roars the Pentland with its whirling seas ; 
 
 Rock'd in his cradle by the roaring wind, 
 
 The tempest-born in body and in mind, 
 
 His young eyes opening on the ocean-foam, 
 
 Had from that moment deem'd the deep his home, 
 
 The giant comrade of his pensive moods, 
 
 The sharer of his craggy solitudes, 
 
 The only Mentor of his youth, where'er . 
 
 His bark was borne ; the sport of wave and air ; 
 
 A careless thing, who placed his choice in chance, 
 
 Nursed by the legends of his land's romance ; 
 
 Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear. 
 
 Acquainted with all feelings save despair. 
 
 Placed in the Arab's clime, he would have been 
 
 As bold a rover as the sands have seen, 
 
 And braved their thirst with as enduring lip 
 
 As Ishmael, wafted on his desert-ship ;* 
 
 Fix'd upon Chili's shore, a proud cacique ; 
 
 On Hellas' mountains a rebellious Greek ; 
 
 Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane ; 
 
 Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. 
 
 For the same soul that rends its path to sway, 
 
 If rear'd to such, can find no further prey 
 
 Beyond itself, and must retrace its way,f 
 
 Plunging for pleasure into pain : the same 
 
 Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst shame, 
 
 A humbler state and discipline of heart 
 
 Had form'd his glorious namesake's counterpart ;J 
 
 But grant his vices, grant them all his own, 
 
 How small their theatre without a throne ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thou smilest; — these comparisons seem high 
 To those who scan all things with dazzled eye ; 
 Link'd with the unknown name of one whose doom 
 Has naught to do with glory or with Rome, 
 With Chili, Hellas, or with Araby ;— 
 Thou smilest?— Smile ; 'tis better thus than sigh; 
 Yet such he might have been; he was a man, 
 A soaring spirit, ever in the van, 
 A patriot hero or despotic chief. 
 To form a nation's glory or its grief. 
 
 •The "phip of tlie desert" is the Oriental figure for the camel or 
 dromedary : and they deserve the metaphor well, the former for his 
 endurance, the latter for his swiftness, 
 t " Lur.uUus, when frngality could charm. 
 
 Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm."— Pope. 
 t The consul Nero, who made the unequalled march which deceived 
 Hannibal, and defeated Asdrubal ; thereby accomplishing an achieye- 
 ment almost unrivalled in military annals. The first mtelligence of his 
 return to Hannibal, was the sight of AsdrubaPs head thrown into his 
 camp.' When Hannibal saw this, he exclaimed with a sigh, that " Rome 
 would now be the mistress of the world." And yet to this vie cry of 
 
 ■ ' mesake reigned at all. But 
 
 "When the name 
 
 Born under auspices which make us more 
 
 Or less than we delight to ponder o'er. 
 
 But these are visions ; say, what was he here ? 
 
 A blooming boy, a truant mutineer. 
 
 The faii-hair'd Torquil, free as ocean's spray, 
 
 The husband of the bride of Toobonai. 
 
 By Neuha's side he sate, and watch'd the waters,— 
 
 Neuha, the sunflower of the island daughters. 
 
 Highborn, (a birth at which the herald smiles, 
 
 Without a scutcheon for these secret isles,) 
 
 Of a long race, the valiant and the free. 
 
 The naked knights of savage chivalry. 
 
 Whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore ; 
 
 And thine — I 've seen — Achilles ! do no more. . 
 
 She, when the thunder- bearing strangers came, 
 
 In vast canoes, begirt with bolts of flame, 
 
 Topp'd with tall trees, which, loftier than the palm, 
 
 Seem'd rooted in the deep amid its calm; 
 
 But when the winds awaken'd, .shot forth wings 
 
 Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings, 
 
 And sway'd the waves, like cities of the sea, 
 
 Making the very billows look less free ; — 
 
 She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow, 
 
 Shot through the surf, like reindeer through the snow 
 
 Swift-gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge. 
 
 Light as a nereid in her ocean sledge. 
 
 And gazed and wonder'd at the giant hulk. 
 
 Which heaved from wave to wave its trampling bulk: 
 
 The anchor dropp'd ; it lay along the deep. 
 
 Like a huge lion in the sun asleep. 
 
 While round it swarm'd the proas' flitting chain, 
 
 Like summer bees that hum around his mane. 
 
 The white man landed! — need the rest be told? 
 
 The New World stretch'd its dusk hand to the Old ; 
 
 Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 
 
 Of wonder warm'd to better sympathy. 
 
 Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires. 
 
 And kinder still their daughter's gentler fires. 
 
 Their union grew: the children of the storm 
 
 Found beauty hnk'd with many a dusky form ; 
 
 While these in turn admired the paler glow. 
 
 Which seem'd so white in climes that knew no snow. 
 
 The chase, the race, the liberty to roam. 
 
 The soil where every cottage show'd a home ; 
 
 The sea-spread net, the lightly-launch'd canoe, 
 
 Which stemm'd the studded archipelago. 
 
 O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry isles; 
 
 The healthy slumber, earn'd by sportive toils ; 
 
 The palm, the loftiest dryad of the woods, 
 
 Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods, 
 
 While eacfles scarce build higher than the crest 
 
 Which shadows o'er the vineyard in her breast; 
 
 The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root, 
 
 Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and fruit ; 
 
 The bread-tree, which, without the ploughshare, yields 
 
 The unreap'd harvest of unfurrow'd fields, 
 
 And bakes its unadulterated loaves 
 
 Without a furnace in unpurchased groves, 
 
 And flings off famine from its fertile breast, 
 
 A priceless market for the gathering guest ; — 
 
 These, with the luxuries of seas and woods, 
 
 The airy joys of social solitudes. 
 
 Tamed each rude wanderer to the sympathies 
 
 Of those who were more happy, if less wise, 
 
 Did more than Europe's discipline had done, 
 
 And civilized civilization's son ! 
 
 world 
 Nero's it might be owing that his i.Tiperial namesake 
 the infamy of the one has eclipsed the glory of tiieothe 
 of " Nero" is heard, who thinks of the consul?— But such are Iwrnan 
 things. 
 
 Of these, and there was many a willing pair, 
 Neuha and Torquil were not the least fair : 
 Both children of the isles, tliough distant far ; 
 Both born beneath a sea-jiresiding star ; 
 
372 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 Both nourish'd amid nature's native scenes, 
 
 Loved to the last, whatever intervenes 
 
 Between us and our childhootl's sympathy, 
 
 Which still reverts to what first caught the eye. 
 
 He who first met the Highlands' swelling blue 
 
 Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue, 
 
 Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face, 
 
 And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 
 
 Long have I roam'd through lands which are not mine, 
 
 Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine, 
 
 Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 
 
 Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep: 
 
 But 't was not all long ages lore, nor all 
 
 Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall 
 
 The infant rapture still survived the boy, 
 
 And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Troy,* 
 
 MLx'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount, 
 
 And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount. 
 
 Forgive me, Homer's universal shade 1 
 
 Forgive me, Phoebus ! that my fancy stray'd ; 
 
 The north and nature taught me to adore 
 
 Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before. 
 
 XTir. 
 The love which maketh all things fond and fair, 
 The youth which makes one rainbow of the air, 
 The dangers past, that make even man enjoy 
 The pause in which he ceases to destroy, 
 The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 
 Strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel, 
 United the half savage and the whole. 
 The maid and boy, in one absorbing soul. 
 No more the thundering memory of the fight 
 Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its dark delight ; 
 No more the irksome restlessness of rest 
 Disturb'd him like the eagle in her nest, 
 Whose whetted beak and far-pervading eye 
 Darts for a victim over all the sky; 
 His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state, 
 At once Elysian and effeminate, 
 Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's urn ; — 
 These wither when for aught save blood they burn ; 
 Yet when their ashes in their nook are laid, 
 Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade ? 
 Had Caesar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 
 Rome had been free, the world had not been his. 
 And what have Csesar's deeds and Caesar's fame 
 Done for the earth ? We feel them in our shame : 
 The gory sanction of his glory stains 
 The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains. 
 Though Glory, Nature, Reason, Freedom, bid 
 Roused millions do what single Brutus did — 
 Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's song 
 From the tall bough where they have perch'd so long,— 
 Still are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls. 
 And take for falcons those ignoble fowls. 
 When but a word of freedom would dispel 
 These bugbears, as their terrors show loo well. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Rapt in the fond forgetfulness of life, 
 Neuha, the South Sea girl, was all a wife, 
 With no distracting world to call her off 
 From love ; with no society to scoff 
 At the new transient flame ; no babbling crowd 
 Of coxcombry in admiration loud. 
 Or with adulterous whisper to alloy 
 Her duty, and her glory, and her joy : 
 
 ■• When very young, about eight years of age, after an attack of the 
 scarlet fever at Aberdeen, I was removed by medical advice into the 
 HighlandB. Here J passed occasionally some summers, and from (his 
 period I date my love of mountainous coimlries. I can never forget the 
 effect, a few years afterwards in England, of the only thing I had long 
 «e«n, even in miniature, of a mountain, in the Malvern Hills. After 1 
 returned to Cheltenham, I used to watch them every afternoon, at sunset. 
 with ti sensation which I cannot de.scribe. This was boyish enough ; but 
 1 wa» then only tliirieen years of age, and it was in the holid.)yR. 
 
 Wiih faith and feelings naked as her form, 
 She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm. 
 Changing its hues with bright variety, 
 But slill expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 
 Howe'er its arch may swell, its colours move, 
 The cloud-compelling harbinger of love. 
 
 XV. 
 
 H[ere, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore, 
 They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er ; 
 Nor long the hours — they never passed o'er time. 
 Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime. 
 Which deals the daily pittance of our span, 
 And points and mocks with iron laugh at man. 
 What deem'd they of the future or the past? 
 The present, like a tyrant, held them fast : 
 Their hourglass was the sea-sand, and the tide, 
 Like her smooth billovv', saw their moments glide ; 
 Their clock the sun, in his unbounded tow'r ; 
 They reckon'd not, whose day was but an hour ; 
 The nightingale, their only vesper-bell. 
 Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell;* 
 The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep, 
 As in the north he mellows o'er the deep. 
 But fiery, full, and fierce, as if he left 
 The world for ever, earth of light bereft. 
 Plunged with red forehead dowTi along the wave, 
 As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 
 Then rose they, looking first along the skies. 
 And then for light into each other's eyes. 
 Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun, 
 And asking if indeed the day were done. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And let not this seem strange ; the devotee 
 
 Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy ; 
 
 Around him days and worlds are heedless driven, 
 
 His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 
 
 Is love less potent ? No — his path is trod. 
 
 Alike uplifted gloriously to God ; 
 
 Or link'd to all we know of heaven below. 
 
 The other better self^ whose joy or wo 
 
 Is more than ours ; the all-absorbing flame 
 
 Which, kindled by another, grows the same, 
 
 Wrapt in one blaze ; the pure, yet funeral pile. 
 
 Where gentle hearts, like Bramins, sit and smile. 
 
 How often we forget all time, when lone, 
 
 Admiring Nature's universal throne. 
 
 Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense 
 
 Reply of hers to our intelligence ! 
 
 Live not the stars and mountains ? Are the waves 
 
 Without a spirit ? Are the dropping caves 
 
 Without a feeling in their silent tears ? 
 
 No, no ; — they woo and clasp us to their spheres, 
 
 Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 
 
 Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore. 
 
 Strip off this fond and false identity I — 
 
 Who thinks of self, when gazing on the sky? 
 
 And who, though gazmg lower, ever thought, 
 
 In the young moments ere the heart is taught 
 
 Time's lesson, of man's baseness or his own ? 
 
 All nature is his realm, and love his throne. 
 
 Neuha arose, and Torquil : twilight's hour 
 Came sad and softly to their rocky bower, 
 Which, kindling by degrees its dewy spars, 
 Echoed their dim light to the mustering stars. 
 Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm, 
 Sought out their cottage, built beneath the palm ; 
 Now smiling and now silent, as the scene ; 
 Lovely as Love — the spirit ! — when serene. 
 
 " The now well-known story of the loves of Itie nightingale and ros« 
 need not be more than alluded to, being suffieiently fBimiliBr to th« ww- 
 tern as to the eastern reader. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 373 
 
 The Ocean scarce spolie louder with liis swell, 
 Than breathes his mimic murraurer ia the shell,* 
 As, far divided from his parent deep, 
 The seaborn infant cries, and will not sleep, 
 Raising his little plaint in vain, to rave 
 For the broad bosom of his nursing wave : 
 The woods droop'd darkly, as inclined to rest, 
 The tropic bird wheel'd rock-ward to his nest. 
 And the blue sky spread round them like a lake 
 Of peace, where Piety her thirst might slake. 
 
 XTIII. 
 
 But through the palm and plantain, hark, a voice ! 
 Not such as would have been a lover's choice, 
 In such an hour, to break the air so still ; 
 No dying night-breeze, harping o'er the hill, 
 Sti-iking the strings of nature, rock and tree, 
 Those best and earUest lyres of harmony, 
 With Echo for their chorus ; nor the alarm 
 Of the loud war-whoop to dispel the charm ; 
 Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl, 
 Exhaling all his sobtary soul, 
 The dim though large-eyed winged anchorite, 
 Who peals his dreary paean o'er the night ; — 
 But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill 
 As ever started through a sea-bird's bill ; 
 And then a pause, and then a hoarse "Hillo! 
 Torquil ! my boy ! what cheer ? Ho ! brother, ho !" 
 "Who hails?" cried Torquil, following with his eye 
 The sound. " Here 's one," was all the brief reply. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But here the herald of the self-same mouth 
 
 Came breathing o'er the aromatic south, 
 
 Not like a "bed of violets" on the gale. 
 
 But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale, 
 
 Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown 
 
 Its gentle odours over either zone, 
 
 And pufT'd where'er winds rise or waters roll. 
 
 Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole, 
 
 Opposed its vapour as the lightning flash'd. 
 
 And reek'd, mid mountain-billows unabash'd, 
 
 To ^olus a constant sacrifice. 
 
 Through every change of all the varying skies. 
 
 And what was he who bore it ? — I may err, 
 
 But deem him sailor or philosopher.f 
 
 Subhme tobacco ! which from east to west 
 
 Cheers tlie tar's labour or the Turkman's rest ; 
 
 Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides 
 
 His hours, and rivals opium and his brides ; 
 
 Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand. 
 
 Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand ; 
 
 Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, 
 
 When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe ; 
 
 Like other charmers, wooing the caress 
 
 More dazzlingly when daring in full dress ; 
 
 Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 
 
 Thy naked beauties — Give me a cigar ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 Through the a})proaching darkness of the wood 
 A human figure broke the solitude, 
 Fantastically, it may be, array'd, 
 A seaman in a savage masquerade ; 
 Such as appears to rise out from the deep 
 When o'er the fine the merry vessels sweep. 
 
 * If the reader will apply to his ear the sea-shell on his chimney-piece, 
 he will be aware of what is alluded to. If the text should appear ob- 
 Bcure, he will find in "Gebir" the same idea better expressed in two 
 lines. — The poem I never read, but have heard the lines quoted by a 
 more ret;oridile reader — who seems to be of a different opinion from the 
 editor of the Quarterly Review, who qualified it, in his answer to the 
 Critical Reviewer of his Juvenal, as trash of tlie worst and most insane 
 description. It is to Mr. Landor, the author of " Gebir," so qualified, 
 and of some Latin poems, which vie with Martial or Catullus in ob- 
 Bcenitv, thai the immaculate Mr. Southey addresses his declamation 
 
 rnt* »mok»r,— even to pipes beyond computation. 
 
 And the rough satumaha of the tar 
 Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrow'd car ;♦ 
 And pleased the god of ocean sees his name 
 Revive once more, though but in mimic game 
 Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze 
 Undreamt of in his native Cycladcs. 
 Still the old god delights, from out the main, 
 To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign. 
 Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim, 
 His constant pipe, which never yet burn'd dim, 
 His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait, 
 Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state ; 
 But then a sort of kerchief round his head, 
 Not over-tightly bound, nor nicely spread ; 
 And stead of trowsers (ah ! too early torn ! 
 For even the mildest woods will have their thorn) 
 A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat 
 Now served for inexpressibles and hat ; 
 His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face. 
 Perchance might suit alike with either race. 
 His arms were all his own, our Europe's growth, 
 Wliich two world's bless for civilizing both ; 
 The musket swung behind his shoulders broad, 
 And somewhat stoop'd by his marine abode. 
 But brawny as the boar's ; and hung beneath, 
 His cudass droop'd, unconscious of a sheath, 
 Or lost or worn away ; his prstols were 
 Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial pair — 
 (Let not this metaphor appear a scoffj 
 Though one miss'd fire, the other would go off; 
 These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust 
 As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust, 
 Completed his accoutrements, as Night 
 Survey'd him in his garb heteroclite. 
 
 " What cheer, Ben Bunting?" cried (when in full view 
 
 Our new acquaintance) Torquil, " Aught of new ?'' 
 
 " Ey, ey I" quoth Ben, " not new, but news enow ; 
 
 A strange sail in the offing." — " Sail ! and how ? 
 
 What ! could you make her out ? It cannot be 
 
 I've seen no rag of canvass on the sea." 
 
 " Belike," said Ben, " you might not from the bay. 
 
 But from the bluff-head, where I watch'd to-day, 
 
 I saw h er in the doldrums ; for the wind 
 
 Was Ught and baffling." — " AVlien the sun declined 
 
 Where lay she? had she anchor'd?" — " No, but still 
 
 She bore down on us, till the wind grew still." 
 
 " Her flag ?" — " I had no glass ; but fore and aft, 
 
 Egad ! she seemed a wicked-looking craft." 
 
 " Arm'd ?" — " I expect so ; — sent on the look-out : 
 
 'T is time, belike, to put our helm about." 
 
 " About ? — Whate'er may have us now in chase, 
 
 We '11 make no running fight, for that were base 
 
 We will die at our quarters, hke true men." 
 
 " Ey, ey ! for that 't is all the same to Ben." 
 
 " Does Christian know this ?"— " Ay ; he has piped all 
 
 hands 
 To quarters. They are furbishing the stands 
 Of arms ; and we have got some guns to bear. 
 And scaled them. You are wanted." — " That's but fair; 
 And if it were not, mine is not the soul 
 To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 
 My Neuha ! ah ! and must my fate pursue 
 Not me alone, but one so sweet and true? 
 But whatsoe'er betide, ah, Neuha ! now 
 Unman me not ; the hour will not allow 
 A tear ; I am thine whatever intervenes !" 
 " Right," quoth Ben, " that will do for the marbes."| 
 
 * This rough but jovial ceremony, used in crossing the Bne, ha« been sc 
 often and so well described, that it need not be more than alluded to. 
 
 t " That will do for the maiines, but the sailors won't beheve it,' is 
 an old saying ; and one of the few fragments of former jealousies which 
 Btill survive (in jest only) between these gallant services. 
 
374 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 The fight was o'er ; the flashing through the gloom. 
 
 Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb, 
 
 Had ceased ; and sulphury vapours upward driven 
 
 Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven: 
 
 The rattling roar which rung in every volley 
 
 Had left the echoes to their melancholy ; 
 
 No more they shriek'd their horror, boom for boom ; 
 
 The strife was done, the vanquish'd had their doom ; 
 
 The mutineers were crush'd, dispersed, or ta'en, 
 
 Or liv'd to deem the happiest were tlie slain. 
 
 Few, few escaped, and these were hunted o'er 
 
 The isle they loved beyond their native shore. 
 
 No further home was theirs, it seem'd, on earth, 
 
 Once renegades to that which gave them birth ; 
 
 Track'd like wild beasts, like them they sought the wild, 
 
 As to a mother's bosom flies the child ; 
 
 But vainly wolves and lions seek their den, 
 
 And still more vainly men escape from men. 
 
 II. 
 
 Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes 
 
 Far over ocean in his fiercest moods, 
 
 "When scaling his enormous crag the wave 
 
 Is hurl'd down headlong, like the foremost brave, 
 
 And fails back on the foaming crowd behind. 
 
 Which fight beneath the banners of the wind, 
 
 But now at rest, a little remnant drew 
 
 Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few ; 
 
 But still their weapons in their hands, and still 
 
 Wiih somethmg of the pride of former will, 
 
 As men not all unused to meditate, 
 
 And strive much more than wonder at their fate. 
 
 Their present lot was Vv-hat they had foreseen. 
 
 And dared as what was likely to have been ; 
 
 Yet still the lingering hope, which deem'd their lot 
 
 Not pardon'd, but imsought for or forgot, 
 
 Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves 
 
 Might still be miss'd amid the world of waves. 
 
 Had wean'd their thoughts in part from what they saw 
 
 And felt, the vengeance of their country's law. 
 
 Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won paradise, 
 
 No more could shield their virtue or their vice : 
 
 Their better feelings, if such v.ere, were tlirown 
 
 Back on themselves, — their sins remain'd alone. 
 
 Proscribed even in their second country, they 
 
 Were iost ; in vain the world before them lay ; 
 
 All outlets seem'd secured. Their new allies 
 
 Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice ; 
 
 But what avail'd the club and spear, and arm 
 
 Of Hercules, against the sulphury charm, 
 
 The magic of the thunder, which destroy'd 
 
 The warrior ere his strength could be employ'd? 
 
 Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the grave 
 
 No less of human bravery than the brave !* 
 
 Their own scant numbers acted all the few 
 
 Against the many oft will dare and do; 
 
 But though the choice seems native to die free, 
 
 Even Greece can boast but one Thermopylae, 
 
 Till now, when she has forged her broken chain 
 
 Back to a sword, and dies and lives again I 
 
 III. 
 Beside the jutting rock the few appear'd. 
 Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd : 
 Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn, 
 But still the hunter's blood was on their horn, 
 A little stream came tumbling from the height, 
 And straggling into oceaji as it might. 
 
 • Archidamii?. king of Sparta, and son of Agesilaus. when ho saw a 
 mschine invented for the casting of stones and "darts, exclaimed that it 
 was the "grave of valour." The same story has been told of some 
 Irnights on the first application of gunpowder ; but the oiisinal anec- 
 cU)t« Is iu PliiUrch. * 
 
 Its bounding chrystal frolick'd in the ray, 
 
 And gush'd from cliff to crag with saltless spray ; 
 
 Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure 
 
 And fresh as innocence, and more secure, 
 
 Its silver torrent glitter'd o'er the deep. 
 
 As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks- the steep, 
 
 While far below the vast and sullen swell 
 
 Of ocean's alpine azure rose and fell. 
 
 To this young spring they rush'd, — all feelings first 
 
 Absorb'd in passion's and in nature's thirst, — 
 
 Drank as they do who drink their last, and threw 
 
 Their arms aside to revel in its dew ; 
 
 Cool'd their scorch'd throats, and wash'd the gory stains 
 
 From wounds whose only bandage might be chains ; 
 
 Then, when their draught was quench'd, look'd sadly 
 
 round. 
 As wondering how so many still were found 
 Alive and fetterless : — but silent all. 
 Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call 
 On him for language which his lips denied. 
 As though tlieir voices with their cause had died. 
 
 Stern, and aloof a little from the rest, 
 
 Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest. 
 
 The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread 
 
 Along his cheek was livid now as lead ; 
 
 His light-brown locks, so graceful in their flow. 
 
 Now rose hke startled vipers o'er his brow. 
 
 Still as a statue, with his lips comprest 
 
 To stifle even the breath v/ithin his breast, 
 
 Fast by the rock, all menacing, but mute, 
 
 He stood; and, save a slight beat of his foot, 
 
 "VSTiich deepen'd now and then the sandy dint 
 
 Beneath his heel, his form seem'd turn'd' to flint. 
 
 Some paces further Torquil lean'd his head 
 
 Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled,^ 
 
 Not mortally — his worst wound was within : 
 
 His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in. 
 
 And blood-drop^, sprinkled o'er his yellow hair, 
 
 Show'd that his faintness came not fi-om despair, 
 
 But nature's ebb. Beside him was another. 
 
 Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother, — 
 
 Ben Bunting, who essay'd to wash, and wipe. 
 
 And bind his wound — then calmly lit his pipe, 
 
 A trophy which sui-vived a hundred fights, 
 
 A beacon which had cheer'd ten thousand nights. 
 
 The fourth and last of this deserted group 
 
 Walk'd up and down — at times would stand, then stoop 
 
 To pick a pebble up — then let it drop — 
 
 Then hurry as in haste — then quickly stop — 
 
 Then cast his eyes on his companions — then 
 
 Half whistle half a tune, and pause again — 
 
 And then his former movements would redouble. 
 
 With something between carelessness and trouble. 
 
 This is a long description, but applies 
 
 To scarce five minutes pass'd before the eyes ; 
 
 But yet what minutes ! Moments hke to these 
 
 Rend men's lives into immortalities. 
 
 At length Jack Skyscrape, a mercurial man. 
 
 Who flutter'd over all things like a fan, 
 
 More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare 
 
 And die at once than vn-estle with despair, 
 
 Exclaim'd "G— d damn!"— those syllables intense,- 
 
 Nucleus of England's native eloquence. 
 
 As the Turk's "Allah!" or the Roman's more 
 
 Pagan " Proh Jupiter !" was wont of yore 
 
 To give their first impressions such a vent. 
 
 By way of echo to embarrassment. 
 
 Jack was embarrass'd, — never hero more, 
 
 And as he knew not what to say, he swore : 
 
 Nor swore in vain ; the long congenial sound 
 
 Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound 
 
 J 
 
CAiNTO IV. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 375 
 
 He drew it from his mouth, and look'd full wise, 
 But merely added to the oath his eyes ; 
 Thus rendering the imperfect phrase complete, 
 A peroration I need not repeat. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But Christian, of a higher order, stood 
 
 Like an extinct volcano in his mood ; 
 
 Silent, and sad, and savage, — with the trace 
 
 Of passion reeking frorn his clouded face; 
 
 Till lifting up again his sombre eye. 
 
 It glanced on Torquil, who lean'd faintly by. 
 
 " And is it thus ?" he cried, " unhappy boy ! 
 
 And thee, too, thee — my madness must destroy !" 
 
 He said, and strode to where young Torquil stood, 
 
 Yet dabbled with his lately flowing blood ; 
 
 Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press, 
 
 And shrunk as fearful of his own caress ; 
 
 Inquired into his state ; and when he heard 
 
 The wound was slighter than he deem'd or fear'd, 
 
 A moment's brightness pass'd along his brow, 
 
 As much as such a moment would allow. 
 
 " Yes," he exclaim'd, " we are taken in the toil, 
 
 But not a coward or a common spoil ; 
 
 Dearly they have bought us — dearly still may buy, — 
 
 And I must fall ; but have you strength to fly ? 
 
 'T would be some comfort still, could you survive ; 
 
 Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. 
 
 Oh ! for a sole canoe ! though but a shell, 
 
 To bear you hence to where a hope may dwell ! 
 
 For me, my lot is what I sought ; to be. 
 
 In Ufe or death, the fearless and the free." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Even as he spoke, around the promontory, 
 
 Which nodded o'er the billows high and hoary, 
 
 A dairk speck dotted ocean : on it flew 
 
 Like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew ; 
 
 Onward it came — and, lo ! a second foilow'd — 
 
 Now seen — now hid — where ocean's vale was hoUow'd ; 
 
 And near, and nearer, till their dusky crew 
 
 Presented well-known aspects to the view, 
 
 Till on the surf their skimming paddles play, 
 
 Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the spray ; — 
 
 Now perching on the waves high curl, and now 
 
 Dash'd downward in the thundering foam below. 
 
 Which flings its broad and boiling sheet on sheet, 
 
 And slings its high flakes, shiver'd into sleet : 
 
 But floating still through surf and sv*'ell, drew nigh 
 
 The barks, like small birds through a lowering sky. 
 
 Their art seem'd nature — such the skill to sweep 
 
 The wave of these born playmates of the deep. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And who the first that, springing on the strand, 
 Leap'd like a nereid from her shell to land. 
 With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye 
 Shining with love, and hope, and constancy ? 
 Neuha — the fond, the faithful, the adored — 
 Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent pour'd ; 
 And smiled, and wept, and near, and nearer clasp'd, 
 As if to be assured 't was him she grasp'd ; 
 Shudder'd to see his yet warm wound, and then. 
 To find it trivial, smiled and wept again. 
 She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear 
 Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not despair. 
 Her lover lived, — nor foes nor fears could blight 
 That full-blown moment in its all delight : 
 Joy trickled in her tears, joy fill'd the sob 
 That rock'd her heart till almost heakd to throb ; 
 And paradise was breathing in tlie sigh 
 Of nature's child in nature's ecstacy. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The sterner spirits who beheld that meeting 
 
 Were not unmoved; who are, when hearts are greeting? 
 
 Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy 
 
 With tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy 
 
 Mix'd with those bitter thoughts the soul eurrays 
 
 In hopeless visions of our better days, 
 
 When all 's gone — to the rainbow's latest ray. 
 " And but for me !" he said, and turn'd away 
 Then gazed upon the pair, as in his den 
 A lion looks upon his cubs again; 
 And then relapsed into his sullen guise, 
 As heedless of his further destinies. 
 
 X. 
 
 But brief their time for good or evil thought ; 
 
 The billows round the promontory brought 
 
 The plash of hostile oars. — Alas ! who made 
 
 That sound a dread ? All round them seem'd array'd 
 
 Against them, save the bride of Toobonai : 
 
 She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay 
 
 Of the arm'd boats, which hurried to complete 
 
 The remnant's ruin with their flying feet, 
 
 Beckon'd the natives round her to their prows, 
 
 Embark'd their guests, and launch'd their light canoes-, 
 
 In one placed Christian and his comrades twain ; 
 
 But she and Torquil must not part again. 
 
 She fix'd him in her ov\ti. — Away ! away ! 
 
 They clear the breakers, dart along the bay. 
 
 And towards a group of islets, such as bear 
 
 The sea-bird's nest and seal's surf^hollow'd lair, 
 
 They skim the blue tops of the billows ; fast 
 
 They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased. 
 
 They gain upon them — now they lose again,— 
 
 Again make way and menace o'er the main ; 
 
 And now the two canoes in chase divide, 
 
 And follow different courses o'er the tide, 
 
 To baffle the pursuit. — Away ! away ! 
 
 As life is on each paddle's flight to-day. 
 
 And more than life or lives to Neuha : Love 
 
 Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove— 
 
 And now the refuge and the foe are nigh — 
 
 Yet, yet a moment !— Fly, tliou light ark, fly ! 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 White as a white sail on a dusky sea. 
 When half the horizon 's clouded and half free, 
 Fluttering between the dun wave and the sky, 
 Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity. 
 Her anchor parts ; but still her snowy sail 
 Attracts our eye amid the rudest gale : 
 Though every wave she climbs divides us more, 
 The heart stiil follows from the loneliest shore. 
 
 II. 
 Not distant from the isle of Toobonai, 
 A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray. 
 The haunt of birds, a desert to mankind. 
 Where the rough seal reposes from the wind, 
 And sleeps unwieldy in his cavern dun. 
 Or gambols with huge frolic in the sun: 
 There shrilly to the passing oar is heard 
 The startled echo of the ocean bird, 
 Who rears on its bare breast her callow brood, 
 The feather'd fishers of the solitude. 
 A narrow segment of the yellow sand 
 On one side forms the outline of a strand ; 
 Here the young turtle, crawling from his shell, 
 Steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell ; 
 Chipp'd by the beam, a nursling of the day, 
 But hatch'd for ocean by the fostering ray ; 
 The rest was one bleak precipice, as e'er 
 Gave mariners a shelter and despair ; 
 A spot to make the saved regret the deck 
 Which late went down, and envy the lost wreck. 
 Such was the stern asylum Neuha chose 
 To shield her lover from his following foes ; 
 But all its sercet was not told : she knew 
 In this a treasure hidden from the view. 
 
 III. 
 Ere the canoes divided, near the spot. 
 The men that mann'd what held hor Torquil's lot, 
 
376 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 By her command removed, to strengthen more 
 
 The skiff which wafted Christian from the shore. 
 
 This ho would have opposed; but with a smile 
 
 She pointed calmly to the craggy isle, 
 
 And bade him " speed and prosper." She would take 
 
 The rest upon herself for Torquil's sake. 
 
 They parted with this added aid ; afar 
 
 The proa darted hUe a shooting star, 
 
 And gain'd on the pursuers, who now steer'd 
 
 Right on the rock which she and Torquil near'd. 
 
 They pull'd ; her arm, though delicate, was free 
 
 And firm as ever grappled with the sea, 
 
 And yielded scarce to Torquil's manher strength. 
 
 The prow now almost lay within its length 
 
 Of the crag s steep, mexorable face, 
 
 With naught but soundless waters for its base ; 
 
 Within a hundred boats' length was the foe, 
 
 And now what refuge but their frail canoe ? 
 
 This Torquil ask'd with half upbraiding eye, 
 
 Which said — " Has Neuha brought me here to die ? 
 
 Is this a place of safety, or a grave, 
 
 And yon huge rock the tombstone of the wave ?" 
 
 IV. 
 
 They rested on their paddles, and uprose 
 
 Neuha, and pointing to the approaching foes, 
 
 Cried, " Torquil, follow me, and fearless follow!" 
 
 Then plunged at once into the ocean's hollow. 
 
 There was no time to pause — the foes were near — 
 
 Chains in his eye, and menace in his ear ; 
 
 With vigour they pull'd on, and as they came, 
 
 Hail'd him to jield, and by his forfeit name. 
 
 Headlong he leapt — to him the swimmer's skill 
 
 Was native, and now all his hope from ill : 
 
 But how, or where ? He dived, and rose no more ; 
 
 The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea and shore. 
 
 There was no landing on that precipice, 
 
 Steep, harsh, and slippery as a berg of ice. 
 
 They watch'd awhile to see him float again, 
 
 But not a trace rebubbled from the main: 
 
 The wave roll'd on, no ripple on its face. 
 
 Since their first plunge recall'd a single trace ; 
 
 The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam, 
 
 That whiten'd o'er what seem'd their latest home, 
 
 White as a sepulchre above the pair 
 
 Who left no marble (mournful as an heir) 
 
 The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide 
 
 Was all that told of Torquil and his bride ; 
 
 And but for this alone the whole might seem 
 
 The vanish'd phantom of a seaman's dream. 
 
 They paused and searched in vain, then pull'd away ; 
 
 Even superstition now forbade their stay. 
 
 Some said he had not plung'd into the wave. 
 
 But vanish'd like a corpse-light from a grave ; 
 
 Others, that something supernatural 
 
 Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall ; 
 
 While all agreed that in his cheek and eye 
 
 There was a dead hue of eternity. 
 
 Still as their oars receded from the crag. 
 
 Round every weed a moment would they lag. 
 
 Expectant of some token of their prey ; 
 
 But no — he had melted from them like the spray. 
 
 V. 
 
 And where was he, the pilgrim of the deep, 
 Following the nereid 1 Had they ceased to weep 
 For ever ? or, received in coral caves. 
 Wrung life and pity from the softening waves 
 Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell, 
 And sound with mermen the fantastic shell? 
 Did Neuha with the mermaids comb her hair 
 Flowing o'er ocean as it stream'd in air ? 
 Or had they perished, and in silence slept 
 Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leapt? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 
 FoDow'd : her track beneath her native sea 
 
 Was as a native's of the element. 
 
 So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went, 
 
 Leaving a streak of light behind her heel, 
 
 Which struck and fiash'd like an amphibious steel. 
 
 Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace 
 
 The depths where divers hold their pearl in chase, 
 
 Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas, 
 
 Pursued her liquid steps with heart and ease. 
 
 Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led 
 
 The way — then upward soar'd — and as she spread 
 
 Her arms, and flung the foam from off her lociis, 
 
 Laugii'd, and the sound was answer'd by the rocks. 
 
 They had gam'd a central realm of earth again, 
 
 But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. 
 
 Around she pointed to a spacious cave, 
 
 Whose only portal was the keyless wave,* 
 
 (A hollow archway by the sun unseen, 
 
 Save through the billows' glassy veil of green, 
 
 In some transparent ocean holiday. 
 
 When all the finny people are at play,) 
 
 Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's eyea. 
 
 And clapp'd her hands with joy at his surprise ; 
 
 Led him to where the rock appeard to jut, 
 
 And form a something like a Triton's hut; 
 
 For all was darkness for a space, till day 
 
 Through clefts above let in a sober'd ray ; 
 
 As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 
 
 The dusty monuments from light recoil, 
 
 Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 
 
 The vault drew half her shadow from the scene. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 
 
 A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo ; 
 
 A plantain-leaf o'er all, the more to keep 
 
 Its latent sparkle fiom the sapping deep. 
 
 This mantle kept it dry ; then from a nook 
 
 Of the same plantain-leaf a flint she took, 
 
 A few shrunk wither'd twigs, and from the blade 
 
 Of TorquiPs knife struck fire, and thus arrray'd 
 
 The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and high, 
 
 And show'd a self-born Gothic canopy : 
 
 The arch uprear'd by nature's architect, 
 
 The architrave some earthquake might erect; 
 
 The buttress from some mountain's bosom hurl'd, 
 
 When the Poles crash'd, and water w-as the world : 
 
 Or harden'd fi-om some earth-absorbing fire 
 
 While yet the globe reek'd from its funeral pyre ; 
 
 The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave,f 
 
 Were there, all scoop'd by Darkness from her cave. 
 
 There, with a little tinge of phantasy, 
 
 Fantastic faces mop'd and mow'd on high. 
 
 And then a mitre or a shrine would fix 
 
 The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 
 
 Thus Nature play'd with the stalactites, 
 
 And built herself a chapel of the seas. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand, 
 And waved along the vault her kindled brand. 
 And led him into each recess, and show'd 
 The secret places of their new abode. 
 Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 
 Before, to sooth the lover^ lot she shared : 
 The mat for rest ; for dress the fresh gnatoo, 
 And sandal oil to fence against the dew ; 
 For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
 Born of the fruit; for board the plantain spread 
 
 Of this cave (which is no fiction) the original will be found in the 
 ninth chapter of " Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands." I have 
 taken the poetical liberty to transplant it to Toobonai, the last island 
 where any distinct account is left of Christian and his comrades. 
 
 t This may seem to minute for the general outline (in Mariner's 
 Account) from which ii is t;i ken. But few men have travelled without 
 seeing something of the kind — on laud, that is. Without adverting to 
 EUora, in Mungo Park's last journal (if my memory do not err, for there 
 are eight years since T read ihe book) he mentions having met with a 
 rock or mountain so exactly resembling a Gothic cathedral, that only 
 minute inspection could convince him thatit was a work of nature. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 377 
 
 With Its broad leaf^ or turtle-shell which bore 
 
 A banquet in the flesh it cover'd o'er ; 
 
 The gourd with water recent from the rill. 
 
 The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; 
 
 A pine-torch pile to keep undying light, 
 
 And she herself, as beautiful as night, 
 
 To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene, 
 And make their subterranean world serene. 
 She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail 
 Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail, 
 And form'd a refuge of the rocky den 
 For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. 
 Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe, 
 Laden with all the golden fruits that grew ; 
 Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
 With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower ; 
 And now she spread her litde store with smiles, 
 The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 
 
 IX. 
 
 She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, press'd 
 
 Her shelter'd love to her impassion'd breast ; 
 
 And suited to her soft caresses, told 
 
 An olden tale of love, — for love is old. 
 
 Old as eternity, but not outworn 
 
 With each new being born or to be born :* 
 
 How a young chief^ a thousand moons ago. 
 
 Diving for turtle in the depths below, 
 
 Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean prey, 
 
 Into the cave which round and o'er them lay ; 
 
 How in some desperate feud of after time 
 
 He shelter'd there a daughter of the clime, 
 
 A foe beloved, and offspring of a foe. 
 
 Saved by his tribe but for a captive's wo; 
 
 How, when the storm of war was still'd, he led 
 
 His island clan to v/here the waters spread 
 
 Their deep-green shadow o'er the rocky door. 
 
 Then dived — it seem'd as if to rise no more : 
 
 His wondering mates, amazed within their bark, 
 
 Or deem'd him mad, or prey to the blue shark ; 
 
 Row'd round in sorrow the sea-girded rock, 
 
 Then paused upon their paddles from the shock ; 
 
 When, fresh and springing from the deep, they saw 
 
 A goddess rise — so deem'd they in their awe ; 
 
 And their companion, glorious by her side. 
 
 Proud and exulting in his mermaid bride ; 
 
 And how, when undeceived, the pair they bore 
 
 With sounding conchs and joyous shouts to shore ; 
 
 Hov/ they had gladly hved and calmly died, — 
 
 And why not also Torquil and his bride ? 
 
 Not mine to tell the rapturous caress 
 
 Which follow'd wildly in that wild recess 
 
 This tale ; enough that all within that cave 
 
 Was love, though buried strong as in the grave 
 
 Where Abelard, through twenty years of death, 
 
 When Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 
 
 Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretch 'd, and press'd 
 
 The kindling ashes to his kindled breast.f 
 
 The waves without sang round their couch, their roar 
 
 As much unheeded as if life were o'er ; 
 
 Within, their hearts made all their harmony. 
 
 Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh. 
 
 X. 
 
 And they, the cause and sharers of the shock 
 
 Which left them exiles of the hollow rock, 
 
 Where were they ? O'er the sea for life they plied, 
 
 To seek from Heaven the shelter men denied. 
 
 Another course had been their choice — but where ? 
 
 The wave which bore them still their foes v/ould bear, 
 
 Who, disappointed of their former chase. 
 
 In search of Christian now renew'd their race. 
 
 'ThereaderwiUrecnllect the epigram of the Greek anthology, or its 
 translation iato most of the modern langiiagfS : — 
 " Whoe'er tliou art, thy master see, 
 He was, or is, or is to be." 
 tThe tradition is attached to the story of Eloisa, that when her body 
 was lowered into the grave of Abelard, (who had been buried twenty 
 years.) he opened his arms to receive her. 
 
 2X 
 
 Eager with anger, their strong arms made way 
 Like vultures baffied of their previous prey. 
 They gain'd upon them, all whose safety lay 
 In. some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay: 
 IN o further chance or choice remain 'd ; and right 
 For the first further rock which met their sight 
 They steer'd, to take their latest view of land. 
 And yield as victims, or die sword in hand ; 
 Dismiss'd the natives and their shallop, who 
 Would still have battled for that scanty crew ; 
 But Christian bade them seek their shore again, 
 Nor add a sacrifice which were in vain ; 
 For what were simple bow and savage spear 
 Against the arms which must be wielded here? 
 
 xi. 
 
 They landed on a wild but narrow scene. 
 
 Where few but Nature's footsteps yet had been ; 
 
 Prepared their arms, and with that gloomy eye, 
 
 Stern and sustain'd, of man's extremity, 
 
 When hope is gone, nor glory's self remains 
 
 To cheer resistance against death or chains, — 
 
 They stood, the three, as the three hundred stood 
 
 Who dyed Thermopylee with holy blood. 
 
 But, ah ! how different ! 't is the cause makes all 
 
 Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 
 
 O'er them no fame, eternal and intense. 
 
 Blazed through the clouds of death and beckon'd hence ; 
 
 No grateful country, smiling through her tears, 
 
 Begun the praises of a thousand years ; 
 No nation's eyes v/ould on their tomb be bent, 
 No heroes envy them their monument ; 
 However boldly their warm blood was spilt, 
 Their life was shame, their epitaph was guilt. 
 And this they knew and felt, at least the one, 
 The leader of the band he had undone ; 
 Who, born perchance for better things, had set 
 His life upon a cast which linger'd yet : 
 But now the die was to be thrown, and all 
 The chances were in favour of his fall : 
 And such a fall ! But still he faced the shock, 
 Obdurate as a portion of the rock 
 Whereon he stood, and fix'd his levell'd gun, 
 Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 
 
 The boat drew nigh, well arm'd, and firm the crew 
 
 To act whatever duty bade them do ; 
 
 Careless of danger, as the onward wind 
 
 Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behind. 
 
 And yet perhaps they rather wish'd to go 
 
 Against a nation's than a native foe, 
 
 And felt that this poor victim of self-will, 
 
 Briton no more, had once been Britain's still. 
 
 They hail'd him to surrender — no reply ; 
 
 Their arms were poised, and glitter'd in the sky. 
 
 They hail'd again — no answer ; yet once more 
 
 They offer'd quarter louder than before. 
 
 The echoes only, from the rocks rebound, 
 
 Took their last farewell of the dying sound. 
 
 Then flash'd the flint, and blazed the volleying flame, 
 
 And the smoke rose between them and their aim, 
 
 While the rock rattled with the bullets' knell. 
 
 Which peal'd in vain, and flatten'd as they fell ; 
 
 Then flew the only answer to be given 
 
 By those who had lost all hope in earth or heaven. 
 
 After the first fierce peal, as they puU'd nigher, 
 
 They heard the voice of Chiistian shout, "Now fire ! 
 
 And ere the word upon the echo died, 
 
 Two fell ; the rest assail'd the rock's rough side, 
 
 And, furious at the madness of their foes, 
 
 Disdain'd all further efforts, save to close. 
 
 But steep the crag, and all without a path, 
 
 Each step opposed a bastion to their wrath ; 
 
 Wliile, placed 'mid clefts the least accessible, 
 
 Which Christian's eye was train'd to mark full well, 
 
378 
 
 APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 The three mainlain'd a strife which must not yield, 
 
 In spots where eagles might have chosen to build. 
 
 Their every shot told ; while the assailant fell, 
 
 Dash'd on the shingles lilce the Unipet shell ; 
 
 But still enough survived, and mounted still, 
 
 Scattering their numbers here and there, until 
 
 Surrounded and commanded, though not nigh 
 
 Enough for seizure, near enough to die. 
 
 The desperate trio held aloof their fate 
 
 Bui by a thread, like sharks who have gorged the bait ; 
 
 Yet to the very last they battled well, 
 
 And not a groan inform'd their foes who fell. 
 
 Christian died last — twice wounded ; and once more 
 
 Mercy was offer'd when they saw his gore ; 
 
 Too late for life, but not too late to die, 
 
 With, though a hostile hand, to close his eye. 
 
 A limb was broken, and he droop'd along 
 
 The crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 
 
 The sound revived him, or appear'd to wake 
 
 Some passion which a weakly gesture spake : 
 
 He beckon'd to the foremost, who drew nigh. 
 
 But, as they near'd, he rear'd his weapon high — 
 
 His last ball had been aim'd, but from his breast 
 
 He tore the topmost button from his vest,* 
 
 Down the tube dash'd it, levell'd, fired, and smiled 
 
 As his foe fell ; then, like a serpent, coil'd 
 
 His wounded, weary f )rm, to where the steep 
 
 Look'd desperate as himself along the deep; 
 
 Cast one glance back, and clench'd his hand, and shook 
 
 His last rage 'gainst the earth which he forsook ; 
 
 Then plunged : the rock below received like glass 
 
 His body crush'd mto one gory mass. 
 
 With scarce a shred to tell of human form, 
 
 Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm; 
 
 A fair-hair'd scalp, besmear'd with blood and weeds, 
 
 Yet reek'd, the remnant of himself and deeds ; 
 
 Some splinters of his weapons, (to the last, 
 
 As long as hand could hold, he held them fast,) 
 
 Yet glitter'd, but at distance — hurl'd away 
 
 To rust beneath the dew and dashing spray. 
 
 The rest was nothing — save a Ufe mispent, 
 
 And soul — but who shall answer where it went ? 
 
 'T is ours to bear, not judge the dead ; and they 
 
 Wlio doom to hell, themselves are on the way, 
 
 Unless these bullies of eternal pains 
 
 Are pardon'd their bad hearts for their worse brains. 
 
 XIII 
 
 The deed was over ! All were gone or ta'en, 
 The fugitive, the captive,, or the slain. 
 Chain'd on the deck, where once, a gallant crew, 
 Thev stood with honour, were the wretched few 
 
 * In Thlbaiilt's account of Frederic the Second of Prussia, there is a 
 singular relation of a young Frenchman, who with his mistress appeared 
 to be of some rank. He enlisted and deserted at.Scweidnitz ; and after 
 adesperate resistance was retaken, having killed an officer, who at- 
 tempted to seize him after he was wounded, by the discharge of his nius- 
 Itet loaded with a button of his uniform. 'Some circumstances on his 
 court-martial raised a great interest among his judges, who wished to 
 discover his real situation in Ufe, which he oflered to disclose, but to tiie 
 king only, to whom he requested permission to write. This was refused, 
 and Frederic was filled with the greatest indignation, from baffled curi- 
 osity or some other motive, when be understood that his request had been 
 denial,— See Thibault's Work, vol. 2d.— [I qtiote from memory.] 
 
 Survivors of the skirmish on the isle ; 
 But the last rock left no surviving spoil. 
 Cold lay they where they fell, and weltering, 
 While o'er them flappd the sea-birds' dewy wdng, 
 Now wheeling nearer from the neighbouring surge, 
 And screaming high their harsh and hungry dirge: 
 But calm and careless heaved the wave below, 
 Eternal with unsympathetic flow ; 
 Far o'er its face the dolphins sported on, 
 And sprung the flying fish against the sun, 
 Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height, 
 To gather moisture for another flight. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 'T was morn ; and Neuha. who by dawn of day 
 
 Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray. 
 
 And watch if aught approach'd the amphibious lair 
 
 Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air : 
 
 It flapp'd, it fiU'd, and to the growing gale 
 
 Bent its broad arch : her breath began to fail 
 
 With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high, 
 
 While yet a doubt sprung where its course might iie 
 
 But no ! it came not ; fast and far away 
 
 The shadow lessen'd as it clear'd the bay. 
 
 She gazed and flung the sea-foam from her eyes, 
 
 To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. 
 
 On the horizon verged the distant deck, 
 
 Diminish'd, dwindled to a very speck — 
 
 Then vanish'd. All was ocean, all was joy ! 
 
 Down plunged she through the cave to rouse her boy . 
 
 Told all she had seen, and all she hoped, and all 
 
 That happy love could augur or recall ; 
 
 Sprung forth again, with Torquil following free 
 
 His bounding nereid over the broad sea ; 
 
 Swam round the rock, to where a shallow cleft 
 
 Hid the canoe that Neuha there had left 
 
 Drifting along the tide, without an oar, 
 
 That eve the strangers chased them from the shore ; 
 
 But when these vanish'd, she pursued her prow, 
 
 Regain'd, and urged to where they found it now : 
 
 Nor ever did more love and joy embark. 
 
 Than now was wafted in that slender ark. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Again their o\vn shore rises on the view, 
 
 No more polluted with a hostile hue ; 
 
 No sullen ship lay bristling o'er the foam, 
 
 A floating dungeon : — all was hope and home ! 
 
 A thousand proas darted o'er the bay. 
 
 With sounding shells, and heralded their way ; 
 
 The chiefs came down, around the people pour'd, 
 
 And welcomed Tonpiil as a son restored ; 
 
 The women throng'd, embracing and embraced 
 
 By Neuha, asking where they had been chased. 
 
 And how escaped ? The tale was told ; and then 
 
 One acclamation rent the sky again ; 
 
 And from that hour a new tradition gave 
 
 Their sanctuary the name of " Neuha's Cave." 
 
 A hundred fires, far flickering from the height, 
 
 Blazed o'er the general revel of the night, 
 
 The feast in honour of the guest, retum'd 
 
 To peace and pleasure, perilously earn'd ; 
 
 A night succeeded by such happy days 
 
 As only the yet infant world displays. 
 
 APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM THE VOYAGE BY CAPTAIN BLIGH. 
 
 On the 27th of December it blew a severe storm of 
 wind from the eastward, in the course of which we suf- 
 fered greatly. One sea broke away the spare yards 
 and spars out of the starboard mainchains ; another 
 broke into the ship and stove all the boats. Several 
 casks of beer that had been lashed on deck broke loose, 
 and were washed overboard ; and it was not without 
 
 treat risk and difficulty that we were able to secure the 
 oats from being washed away entirely. A great quan- 
 
 tity of our bread was also damaged and rendered use* 
 less, for the sea had stove in our stern, and filled the 
 cabin with water. 
 
 On the 5th of January, 1788, we saw the island of 
 Teneriffe about twelve leagues distant ; and next day, 
 being Sunday, came to an anchor in the road of Santa 
 Cruz. There we took in the necessary supplies, and, 
 having finished our business, sailed on the 10th. 
 
 I now divided the people into three watches, and 
 gave the charge of the third watch to Mr. Fletcher 
 
APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 
 
 379 
 
 Christian, one of the mates. I have always considered 
 this a desirable regulation when circumstances will ad- 
 mit of it ; and I am persuaded that unbroken rest not 
 only contributes much towards the health of the ship's 
 company, but enables them more readily to exert them- 
 selves in cases of sudden emergency. 
 
 As I wished to proceed to Otaheite without stopping, 
 I reduced the allowance of bread to two-thirds, and 
 caused the water for drinking to be filtered through 
 drip-stones, bought at Teneriffe for that purpose. I 
 now acquainted the ship's company of the object of the 
 voyage, and gave assurances of certain promotion to 
 every one whose endeavours should merit it. 
 
 On Tuesday the 26th of February, being in south 
 latitude 29° 38', and 44° 44' west longitude, we bent new 
 sails, arid made other necessary preparations for en- 
 countering the weather that was to be expected in a 
 high latitude. Our distance from the coast of Brazil 
 was about one hundred leagues. 
 
 On the forenoon of Sunday the 2d of March, after 
 seeing that every person was clean, divine service was 
 performed, according to my usual custom on this day. 
 I gave to Mr. Fletcher Christian, whom I had before 
 directed to take charge of the third watch, a written 
 order to act as lieutenant. 
 
 The change of temperature soon began to be sensi- 
 bly felt, and that the people might not suffer from their 
 own negligence, I supplied them with thicker clothing, 
 as better suited to the climate. A great number of 
 whales of an immense size, with two spout-holes on 
 the back of the head, were seen on the 11th. 
 
 On a complaint made to me by the master, I found 
 it necessary to punish Matthew Quintal, one of the 
 seamen, with two dozen of lashes, for insolence and 
 mutinous behaviour, which was the first time that there 
 was any occasion for punishment on board. 
 
 We were off Cape St. Diego, the eastern part of the 
 Terra del Fuego, and, the wind being unfavourable, I 
 thought it more adviseable to go round to the eastward 
 of Staten-land than to attempt passing through Straits 
 ie Maire. We passed New Year's Harbour and Cape 
 St. John, and on Monday the 31st were in latitude 60° 
 I' south. But the w^ind became variable, and we had 
 bad weather. 
 
 Storms, attended with a great sea, prevailed until the 
 12th of April. The ship began to leak, and required 
 pumping every hour, which was no more than we had 
 reason to expect from such a continuance of gales of 
 wind and high seas. The decks also became so leaky, 
 that it was necessary to allot the great cabin, of which 
 I made little use except in fine weather, to those people 
 who had not berths to hang their hammocks in, and by 
 this means the space between decks was less crowded. 
 
 With all this bad weather, we had the additional 
 mortification to find, at the end of every day, that we 
 were losing ground; for, notwithstanding our utmost 
 exertions, and keeping on the most advantageous tracks, 
 we did little better than drift before the wind. On Tues- 
 day the 22d of April, we had eight down on the sick 
 list, and the rest of the people, though in good health, 
 were greatly fatigued ; but I saw, with much concern, 
 that it was impossible to make a passage this way to 
 the Society Islands, for we had now been thirty days 
 in a tempestuous ocean. Thus the season was too far 
 advanced for us to expect better weather to enable us 
 to double Cape Horn ; and, from these and other con. 
 siderations, I ordered the helm to be put a-weather, 
 and bore away for the Cape of Good Hope, to the great 
 joy of every one on board. 
 
 We came to an anchor on Friday the 23d of May in 
 Simon's Bay, at the Cape, after a tolerable run. The 
 ship required complete caulking, for she had become so 
 leaky, that we were obliged to pump hourly in our pas- 
 sage from Cape Horn. The sails and rigging also re- 
 quired repair ; and on examining the provisions, a con- 
 siderably quantity was found damaged. 
 
 Having remained thirty-eight days in this place, and 
 my people having received all the advantage that could 
 be derived from refreshments of every kind that could 
 be met with, we sailed on the 1st of July. 
 
 A gale of wind blew on the 20th, with a high sea: it 
 increased after noon with such violence, that the ship 
 was driven almost forecastle under before we could get 
 
 the sails clewed up. The lower yards were lowered, 
 and the topgallant-masts got down upon deck, which 
 relieved her much. We lay to all night, and in the 
 mQrning bore away under a reefed foresail. The sea 
 still running high, in the afternoon it became very unsafe 
 to stand on : we therefore lay to all night, without any 
 accident, excepting that a man at the steerage was 
 thrown over the wheel and much bruised. Towards 
 noon the violence of the storm abated, and we again 
 bore away under the reefed foresail. 
 
 In a few days we passed the island of St. Paul, where 
 there is good fresh water, as I was informed by a Dutch 
 captain, and also a hot spring, which boils fish as com- 
 pletely as if done by a fire. Approaching to Van Die- 
 man's land, we had much bad weather, with snow and 
 hail ; but nothing was seen to indicate our vicinity on 
 the 13th of August, except a seal, which appeared at 
 the distance of twenty leagues from it. We anchored 
 in Adventure Bay on Wednesday the 20th. 
 
 In our passage hither from the'Cape of Good Hope, 
 the winds were chiefly from the westward, with very 
 boisterous weather. The approach of strong southerly 
 winds is announced by many birds of the albatross oV 
 peterel tribe ; and the abatement of the gale, or a shift 
 of wind to ihe northward, by their keeping away. The 
 thermometer also varies five or six degrees in its height 
 when a change of these winds may be expected. 
 
 In the land surrounding Adventure Ba}' are many 
 forest trees one hundred and fifty feet high : we saw 
 one which measured above thirty-three feet in girth. 
 We observed several eagles, sonie beautiful blue-plu- 
 maged herons, and paroquets in great variety. 
 
 The natives not appearing, we went in" search of 
 them, towards Cape Frederic Henry. Soon after, 
 coming to a grapnel close to the shore, for it was im- 
 possible to land, we heard their voices, like the cackling 
 of geese, and twenty persons came out of the woods. 
 We threw trinkets ashore tied up in parcels, which they 
 would not open until I made an appearance of leaving 
 them : they then did so, and, taking the articles out, put 
 them on their heads. On first coming in sight they 
 made a prodigious clattering in their speech, and held 
 their arms over their heads. They spoke so quick, that 
 it was impossible to catch one single word they uttered. 
 Their colour is of a dull black ; their skin scarified about 
 the breast and shoulders. One was distinguished by his 
 body being coloured with red ochre, but all the others 
 were painted black, with a kind of soot, so thickly laid 
 over their faces and shoulders, that it was difficult to 
 ascertain what they were like. 
 
 On Thursday, the 4th of September, we sailed out 
 of Adventure Bay, steering first towards east-south- 
 east, and then to the northward of east, when, on the 
 19 th, we came in sight of a cluster of small rocky islands, 
 which I named Bounty Isles. Soon afterwards we fre- 
 quently observed the sea, in the night-time, to be co- 
 vered by luminous spots, caused by amazing quantities 
 of small blubbers, or Medusoe, which emit a light like 
 a blaze of a candle from the strings or filaments extend- 
 ing from them, while the rest of the body continues per- 
 fectly dark. 
 
 We discoA^ered the island of Otaheite on the 25th, 
 and, before casting anchor next morning in Matavai 
 Bay, such numbers of canoes had come off, that, after 
 the natives ascertained we were friends, they came on 
 board, and crowded the deck so much, that in ten mi- 
 nutes I could scarce find my own people. The whole 
 distance which the ship had run, in direct and contrary 
 courses, from the time of leaving England until reach- 
 ing Otaheite, was twenty-seven thousand and eighty- 
 six miles, which, on an average, was one hundred and 
 eight miles each twenty-four hours. 
 
 Here we lost our surgeon on the 9th of December. 
 Of late he had scarcely ever stirred out of the cabin, 
 though not apprehended to be in a dangerous state. 
 Nevertheless, appearing worse than usual in the even- 
 ing, he was removed where he could obtain more air, 
 bul without any benefit, for he died in an hour after- 
 wards. This unfortunate man drank very hard, and 
 was so averse to exercise, that he would never be pre- 
 vailed on to take half a dozen turns on deck at a 
 time during all the course of the voyage. He waa bu- 
 ried on shore. 
 
380 
 
 APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 
 
 On Monday the 5th of January, the small cutter was 
 missed, of which I was immediately apprised. The 
 ship's company being mustered, we found three men 
 absent, who had carried it off. They had taken with 
 them eii^ht stand of arms and ammunition ; but with re- 
 gard to their plan, every one on board seemed to be 
 quite ignorant. I therefore went on shore, and en- 
 gaged all the chiefs to assist in recovering both the 
 boat and the deserters. Accordingly, the former was 
 brought back in the course of the day by five of the 
 natives ; but the men were not taken until nearly three 
 weeks afterwards. Learning the place w'here they 
 were, in a different quarter of the island of Otaheite, I 
 went thither in the cutter, thinking there would be no 
 great difficulty in securing them with the assistance of 
 the natives. However, they heard of my arrival ; and 
 when I Avas near a house in v\'hich they were, they 
 came out without their fire-arms, and delivered them- 
 selves up. Some of the chiefs had formerly seized and 
 bound these deserters ; but had been prevailed on, by 
 fair promises of returning peaceably to the ship, to 
 release them. But finding an opportunity again to 
 get possession of their arms, they set the natives at 
 defiance. 
 
 The object of the voyage being now completed, all 
 the bread-fruit plants, to the number of one thousand 
 and fifteen, were got on board on Tuesday the 31st of 
 March. Besides these, we had collected many other 
 plants, some of them bearing the finest fruits in the 
 world ; and valuable, from affording brilliant dyes, and 
 for various properties besides. At sunset of the 4th of 
 April, we made sail from Otaheite, bidding farewell to 
 an island where for twenty-three weeks we had been 
 treated with the utmost affection and regard, and Aihich 
 seemed to increase in proportion to our stay. That v>'e 
 were not insensible to their kindness, the succeednig 
 circumstances sufficiently proved ; for to the friendly 
 and endearing behaviour of these people may be as- 
 cribed the motives incitmg an event that effected the 
 ruin of our expedition, which there was every reason to 
 believe would have been attended with the most favour- 
 able issue. 
 
 Next morning we got sight of the island Huaheine ; 
 and a double canoe soon coming alongside, containing 
 ten natives, I saw among them a young man, who re- 
 collected me, and called me by my name. I had been 
 here in the year 1780, with Captain Cook, in the Reso- 
 lution. A few days after sailing from this island, the 
 weather became squally, and a thick body of black 
 clouds collected in the east. A v^^ater-spout was in a 
 short time seen at no great distance from us, which ap- 
 peared to great advantage from the darkness of the 
 clouds behind it. As nearly as I could judge, the up- 
 per part was about two feet in diameter, and the lower 
 about eight inches. Scarcely had I made these remarks, 
 when I observed that it was rapidly advancing towards 
 the ship. We immediately altered our course, and took 
 in all the sails except the foresail; soon after which it 
 passed within ten yards of the stern, with a rustlins 
 noise, but without our feeling the least effect from it 
 being so near. It seemed to be travelling at the rate 
 of about ten miles an hour, in the directionof the wind, 
 and it dispersed in a quarter of an hour after passing 
 us. It is impossible to say what injury we should have 
 received had it passed directly over us. Masts, I ima- 
 gine, might have been carried away, but I do not ap- 
 prehend that it would have endangered the loss of the 
 ship. 
 
 Passing several islands on the v.'ay, we anchored at 
 Annamooka on the 23d of April ; and an old lame man 
 called Tepa, whom I had known here in 1777, and im- 
 mediately recollected, came on board, along with others, 
 from different islands in the vicinity. They were de- 
 sirous to see the ship, and on being taken below, where 
 the bread-fruit plants were arranged, they testified 
 great surprise, A few of these being decayed, we went 
 on shore to procure some in their place. 
 
 The natives exhibited mmnerous marks of the pecu- 
 liar mourning which they express on losing their rela- 
 tives ; such as bloody temples, their heads being de- 
 prived of most of their hair ; and what was worse, al- 
 most the whole of them had lost some of their fingers. 
 Several fine boys, not above six years old, had lost both ■ 
 
 their little fingers ; and several of the men, besides 
 these, had parted with the middle finger of the right 
 hand. 
 
 The chiefs went off with me to dinner, and we car- 
 ried on a brisk trade for yams : we also got plantains 
 and bread-fruit. But the yams were in great abun- 
 dance, and very fine and large. One of them weighed 
 above forty-five pounds. Sailing canoes came, some 
 of which contained not less than ninety passengers. 
 Such a number of them gradually arrived from diffe- 
 rent islands, that it was impossible to get any thing 
 done, the multitude became so great, and there was no 
 chief of sufficient authority to command the whole. I 
 therefore ordered a watering party, then employed, to 
 come on board, and sailed on Sunday the 26th of April. 
 
 We kept near the island of Kotoo all the afternoon 
 of Monday, in hopes that some canoes would come off 
 to the ship, but in this we were disappointed. The 
 wind being northerlj^, we steered to the westward in 
 the evening, to pass south of Tofoa ; and I gave direc- 
 tions for this course to be continued during the night. 
 The master had the first watch, the gunner the middle 
 watch, and Mr. Christian the morning watch. This 
 was the turn of duty for the night. 
 
 Hitherto the voyage had advanced in a course of un- 
 interrupted prosperity, and had been attended with cir- 
 cum.stances equally pleasing and satisfactory. But a 
 very different scene was now to be disclosed : a con- 
 spiracy had been formed, which was to render all our 
 past labour productive only of misery and distress : and 
 it had been concerted with so mucli secrecy and cir- 
 cumspection, that no one circumstance escaped to be- 
 tray the impending calamity. 
 
 On the nightof Monday, the watch was set as I have 
 described. Just before sunrise on Tuesday morning, 
 while I was yet asleep, Mr. Christian, wiih the master 
 at arms, gunner's mate, and Thomas Burkitt, seaman, 
 came into mv cabin, and seizing me, tied my hands 
 with a cord behind my back, threatening m,e with in- 
 stant death if I spoke or made the least noise. I never- 
 theless called out as loud as I could, in hopes of assis- 
 tance ; but the officers not of their party were already 
 secured by sentinels at their doors. At m.y own cabin 
 door were three men, besides the four Avithin : all ex- 
 cept Christian had muskets and bayonets : he had only 
 a cutlass. I w-as dragged out of bed, and forced on 
 deck in my shirt, suffering great pain in the mean time 
 from the tightness with which my hands were tied. On 
 demanding the reason of such violence, the only an- 
 swer was abuse for not holding my tongue. The mas- 
 ter, the gunner, surgeon, masters mate, and Nelson the 
 gardener, were kept confined belov.-, and the fore hatch- 
 way was guarded by sentinels. The boatswain and car- 
 penter, and also the clerk, were allowed to come on deck, 
 where they saw me standing abaft the mizzen-mast, 
 with my hands tied behind my back, under a guard, with 
 Christian at their head. The boatswain was then or- 
 dered to hoist out the launch, accompanied by a threat, 
 if he did not do it instantly, to take caee of him- 
 self. 
 
 The boat being hoisted out, Mr. Hayward and Mr. 
 Hallet, two of the midshipmen, and Mr. Samuel, the 
 clerk, were ordered into it. I demanded the intention 
 of giving this order, and endeavoured to persuade the 
 people near me not to persist in such acts of violence ; 
 i>ut it was to no effect; for the constant answer was, 
 " Hold your tongue, sir, or you are dead this moment." 
 
 The master had by this time sent, requesting that he 
 might come on deck, which was permitted : but he was 
 soon ordered back again to his cabin. My exertions 
 to turn the tide of affairs were continued: when Chris- 
 tian, changing the cutlass he held for a bayonet, and 
 holding me by the cord about my hands with a strong 
 gripe, threatened me with immediate death if I would 
 not be quiet ; and, the villains around me had their 
 pieces cocked, and bayonets fixed. 
 
 Certain individuals were called on to get into the 
 boat, and were hurried over the ship's side ; whence I 
 concluded that along with them I was to be set adrift. 
 Another effort to bring about a change produced no- 
 thing but menaces of having my brains blown out. 
 
 The boatswain and those seamen who were to be 
 put into the boat were allowed to collect twine, canvass, 
 
APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 
 
 381 
 
 lines, sails, cordage, an eight-and-twenty- gallon cask 
 of water; and Mr. Samuel got 150 pounds of bread, 
 with a small quantity of rum and wine : also a quadrant 
 and compass , but he was prohibited, on pain of death, 
 to touch any map or astronomical book, and any instru- 
 ment, or any of my surveys and drawings. 
 
 The mutineers having thus forced those of the sea- 
 men whom they wished to get rid of into the boat, 
 Christian directed a dram to be served to each of his 
 crew. I then unhappily saw that nothing could be done 
 to recover the ship. The officers v. ere next called on 
 deck, and forced over the ship's side into the boat, while 
 I was kept apart from everyone abaft the mizzen-mast. 
 Christian, armed with a bayonet, held the cord fastening 
 my bauds, and the guard around me stood with their 
 pieces cocked ; but on my daring the ungrateful wretches 
 to iire, they uncocked them. Isaac Martin, one of them. 
 I saw had' an incHnation to assist me ; and as he fed 
 me with shaddock, my lips being quite parched, we ex- 
 plained each other's sentiments by looks. But this was 
 observed, and he was removed. " He then got into the 
 boat, attempting to leave the ship ; however, he was 
 compelled to return. Some others were also kept con- 
 trary to their inclination. 
 
 It appeared to me that Christian was some time in 
 doubt whether he should keep the carpenter or his 
 mates. At length he determined on the latter, and the 
 carpenter was ordered into the boat. He was per- 
 mitted, though not without opposition, to take his tool- 
 chest. 
 
 Mr. Samuel secured my journals and commission, 
 with some important ship papers : this he did with great 
 resolution, though strictly watched. He attempted to 
 save the time-keeper, and a box with my surveys, 
 drawings, and remarks for fifteen years past, which 
 were verv numerous, when he was hurried away with — 
 "Damn your eyes, you are well off to get what you 
 have." 
 
 Much altercation took place among the mutinous 
 crew during the transaction of this whole affair. Some 
 swore, " I '11 be damned if he does not find his way home, 
 if he gets any thing with him," meaning me ; and when 
 the carpenter's chest was carrying away, " Damn my 
 eyes, he will have a vessel built in a month ;" while 
 others ridiculed the helpless situation of the boat, which 
 was very deep in the water, and had so little room for 
 those who were in her. As for Christian, he seemed 
 as if meditating destruction on himself and every one 
 else. 
 
 I asked for arms, but the mutineers laughed at me, 
 and said I was well acquainted with the people among 
 whom I was going : four cutlasses, however, were 
 thrown into the^boat after we were veered astern. 
 
 The officers and men being in the boat, they only 
 waited for me, of which the master-at-arms informed 
 Christian, who then said, " Come, Captain Bhgh, your 
 officers and men are now in the boat, and you must go 
 with them ; if you attempt to make the least resistance, 
 you will instantly be put to death ;" and without further 
 ceremony I wasforced over the side by a tribe of armed 
 ruffians, where they untied my hands. Being in the 
 boat, we were veered astern by a rope. A few pieces 
 of pork were thrown to us, also the four cutlasses. The 
 irmourer and carpenter then called out to me to re- 
 •nember that they had no hand in the transaction. 
 A.fter having been kept some time to make sport for 
 .hese unfeeling wretches, and having undergone much 
 ridicule, we w-ere at length cast adrift in the open ocean. 
 
 Eighteen persons were with me in the boat, — the 
 Tiaster, acting surgeon, botanist, gunner, boatswain, 
 carpenter, master, and quartermaster's mate, two quar- 
 termasters, the sail-maker, two cooks, my clerk, the 
 outcher, and a boy. There remained on board Fletcher 
 Christian, the master's mate ; Peter Haywood, Edward 
 youna, George Stewart, midshipmen ; the master-at- 
 arms, gunner's mate, boatswain's mate, gardener, ar- 
 mourer, carpenter's mate, carpenter's crew, and fourteen 
 seamen, being altogether the most able men of the 
 ship's company. 
 
 Having little or no wind, we rowed pretty fast to- 
 wards the island of Tofoa, which bore northeast about 
 ten leagues distant. The ship while in sight steered 
 
 west-northwest; but this I considered only as a feint, 
 for when we were sent away, " Huzza for Otaheite !" 
 was frequently heard among" the mutineers. 
 
 Christian, the chief of them, was of a respectable 
 family in the north of England. This was the third 
 voyage he had made with me. Notwithstanding the 
 roughness with which I was treated, the remembrance 
 of past kindnesses produced some remorse in him. 
 While they were forcing me out the ship, I asked him 
 whether tliis was a proper return for the many instances 
 he had experienced of my friendship ? He appeared 
 disturbed at the question, and answered with much 
 emotion, " That — Captain Bligh — that is the thing — I 
 am in hell — I am in hell !'^ His abilities to take charge 
 of the third watch, as 1 had so divided the ship's com- 
 pany, were fully equal to the task. 
 
 Haywood was also of a respectable family in the 
 north of England, and a young man of abilities, as well 
 as Christian. These two had been objects of my par 
 ticular regard and attention, and I had taken great pains 
 to instruct them, having entertained hopes that, as pro- 
 fessional men, they would have become a credit to their 
 country. Young was well recommended, and Stewart 
 of creditable parents in the Orkneys, at which place, on 
 the return of the Resolution from the South Seas in 
 1780, we received so many civilities, that in conside- 
 ration of these alone I should gladly have taken him 
 with me. But he had always borne a good character. 
 
 When I had time to reflect, an inward satisfaction 
 prevented the depression of my spirits. Yet, a few- 
 hours before, my situation had been pecuharly flat- 
 tering ; I had a ship in the most perfect order, stored 
 with every necessary, both for health and service ; the 
 object of the voyage was attained, and two-thirds of it 
 now completed. The remaining part had every pros- 
 pect of success. 
 
 It will naturally be asked, what could be the cause 
 of such a revolt? In answer, I can only conjecture 
 that the mutineers had flattered themselves with the 
 hope of a happier life among the Otaheitans than they 
 could possibly enjoy in England, which, joined to some 
 female connexions, m.ost probably occasioned the whole 
 transaction. 
 
 The women of Otaheite are handsome, mild, and 
 cheerful in manners and conversation, possessed of 
 great sensibility, and have sufficient delicacy to make 
 them be admired and beloved. The chiefs were so 
 much attached to our people, that they rather encou- 
 raged their stay among them than otherwise, and even 
 made them promises of large possessions. Under 
 these and many other concomitant circumstances, it 
 ought hardly to be the subject of surprise that a set of 
 sailors, most of them void of connexions, should be led 
 awav, where they had the power of fixing themselves 
 in the midst of plenty, in one of the finest islands in 
 the world, where there was no necessity to labour, and 
 where the allurements of dissipation are beyond any 
 conception that can be formed of it. The utmost, how- 
 ever, that a commander could have expected was de- 
 sertions, such as have already happened more or less 
 in the South Seas, and not an act of open mutiny. 
 
 But the secrecy of this mutiny surpasses belief. 
 Thirteen of the party who were now with me had 
 always lived forv.ard among the seamen , yet neither 
 they, nor the messmates of Christian, Stev.art, Hay- 
 wood, and Young, had ever observed any circumstance 
 to excite suspicion of what was plotting ; and it is not 
 wonderful if I fell a sacrifice to it, my mind being en- 
 tirely free from suspicion. Perhaps,had mariners been 
 on board, a sentinel at my cabin door might have pre- 
 vented it ; for I constantly slept with the door open, 
 that the officer of the watch might have access to me 
 en all occasions. If the mutiny had been occasioned 
 by any grievances, either real or imaginaiw, I must 
 have discovered symptoms of discontent, which would 
 have put me on m\' guard ; but it was far otherwise. 
 With Christian, in particular, I was on the most friendly 
 terms ; that very day he was engaged to have dined 
 with me ; and the preceding night he excused himself 
 from supping with me on pretence of indisposition, for 
 which I felt concerned, having no suspicions of his 
 honour or integrity. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 A 
 
 SERIES OF POEMS, 
 
 ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. 
 
 • Virginibus puerisque Canto. 
 
 HORACE, Ub. 3, Od« I. 
 
 " He whistled as be went for want of ihousht." 
 DRYDES. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, 
 
 KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC. ETC, 
 THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY HIS OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Lord Byron first appeared as an author in Novem- 
 ber, 1806, when he printed a collection of poems for dis- 
 tribution among his friends. The first copy of diis volume, 
 which is a thin quarto, was presented to Mr. Bccher, 
 v,-ho immediately perceived, on looking over its pages, 
 that some of the contents were by no means of a descrip- 
 tion to reflect credit on their author ; and at his friendly 
 suggestion the whole impression, with the exception of 
 two, or, at the most, three copies, was committed to the 
 flames. After the destruction of this volume, Lord By- 
 ron directed the collection to be reprinted, with the omis- 
 sion of the objectionable poems. This edition, which 
 was confined to a hundred copies, and, like its predeces- 
 sor, designed for private circulation, was proceeded in 
 so quickly, that at the end of about six weeks, January, 
 1807, it was ready for delivery. The volume was enti- 
 tled '"'Poems on Various Occasions," and was printed 
 at Newark by S. and J. Ridge ; the author's name was 
 not given. The dedication was, '' To those friends at 
 whose request they were printed, for whose amusement 
 or approbation they were solely intended, these trifles 
 are respectfully dedicated bv the author." Immediately 
 foDowing the dedication \^ as this notice : — " The only 
 apology necessary to be adduced in extenuation of any 
 errors in the following collection is, that the author has 
 not yet completed his nineteenth year. December 23, 
 1806." The approbation which this volume received 
 from the friends to whom it was submitted induced Lord 
 Byron to come more immediately before the public ; and 
 in the latter end of May, 1807, this collection, with con- 
 siderable alterations, the omission of some poems, and 
 the addition of others, was reprinted and published, un- 
 der the title of " Hours of Idleness, a Series of Poems, 
 original and translated, by George Gordon, Lord Byron. 
 a Minor." This volume was also printed at Newark. 
 In the four editions of this work, which rapidly succeed- 
 ed each other, many variations are found : several cor- 
 rections were made ; several pieces were silently with- 
 drawn, and replaced by others ; and after the first edition 
 a dedication to Lord Carlisle was prefixed. In the pre- 
 sent publication, all those poems from the " Private Vo- 
 lume," and the early editions of " Hours of Idleness," 
 which were suppressed by the author, are reprinted, and 
 all the variations of the different impressions are noticed. 
 
 • This was the only motto ^ven in the private volume ; it wasretain- 
 frf with the other two in the first e'lition of Hours of Idleness, and omitted 
 in the second. 
 
 PREFACE.* 
 
 In submitting to the public eye the following collection, 
 I have not only to combat the difficulties that writers of 
 verse generally encounter, but may incur the charge of 
 presumption for obtruding myself on the world, when, 
 without doubt, I might be, at my age, more usefully em- 
 ployed. These productions are the fruits of the lighter 
 hours of a young man who has lately completed his 
 nineteenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of 
 a boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. 
 Some few were written during the disadvantages of ill- 
 ness and depression of spirits ; under the former influ- 
 ence, " Childish Recollections," in particular, 
 were composed. This consideration, though it cannot 
 excite the voice of Praise, may at least arrest the arm of 
 Censure. A considerable portion of these poems has 
 been privately printed, at the request and for the perusal 
 of my friends. I am sensible that the partial and fre- 
 quently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the 
 criterion by which poetical genius is to be estimated, yet, 
 •'to do greatly," we must "dare greatly;" and I have 
 hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this 
 volume. " I have passed the Rubicon," and must stand 
 or fall by the •' cast of the die." In the latter event, I 
 shall submit without a murmur ; for, though not without 
 solicitude for the fate of these effusions, my expectations 
 are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may 
 have dared much and done little ; for, in tlie words of 
 Cowper, " it is one thing to write what may please our 
 friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little 
 biassed in our favour, and another to write what may 
 please every body ; because they who have no connexion, 
 or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault 
 if they can." To the truth of this, however, I do not 
 wholly subscribe : on the contrary, I feel convinced that 
 these trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their 
 merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed; their 
 numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that 
 favour which has been denied to odiers of maturer years, 
 decided character, and far greater ability. I have not 
 aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied 
 any particular model for imitation : some translations are 
 given, of which many are paraphrastic. In the original 
 pieces there may appear a casual coincidence with au- 
 
 * Printed in the first edition of Hours of Idleness ; omitted in the 
 second. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 383 
 
 thors whose works I have been accustomed to read ; but 
 I have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To pro- 
 duce any thing entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, 
 would be a Herculean task, as every subject has already- 
 been treated to its utmost extent. — Poetry, however, is 
 not my primary vocation ; to divert the dull moments of 
 indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged 
 me " to this sin :" little can be expected from so unpro- 
 mising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, is all 
 I shall derive from these productions ; and I shall never 
 attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single addi- 
 tional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an intruder. 
 Though accustomed, in my younger days, to rove a care- 
 less mountaineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have 
 not, of late years, had the benefit of such pure air, or so 
 elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the 
 lists with genuine bards, who have enjoyed both these 
 advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a 
 few not less profit, from their productions ; while I shall 
 expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without 
 the latter, and in all probability with a very slight share 
 of the former, Heave to others " Virum volitare per ora." 
 I look to the few who will hear with patience " dulce est 
 desipere in loco," — To the former worthies I resign, 
 without repining, the hope of immortality, and content 
 myself with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking 
 " among the mob of gentlemen who write ;" — my read- 
 ers must determine whether I dare say " with ease," or 
 the honour of a posthumous page in " The Catalogue 
 of Royal and Noble Authors," a work to which the 
 peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as many 
 names of considerable length, sound, and antiquity, are 
 thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily over- 
 shadows several voluminous productions of their illustri- 
 ous bearers. 
 
 With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this first 
 and last attempt. To the dictates of young ambition 
 may be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally 
 absurd. To a few of my own age tlie contents may 
 afford amusement : I trust they will, at least, be found 
 harmless. It is highly improbable, from my situation 
 and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever obtrude myself 
 a second time on the public ; nor even in the very doubt- 
 ful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to 
 commit a future trespass of the same nature. The opi- 
 nion of Dr. Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of 
 mine,* " That when a man of rank appeared in the 
 character of an author, his merit should be handsomely 
 acknowledged," can have little weight with verbal, and 
 still less with periodical censors ; but were it otherwise, 
 I should be loath to avail myself of the privilege, and 
 would rather incur the bitterest censure of anonymous cri- 
 ticism than triumph in honours granted solely to a title. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 
 
 ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 " Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged 
 DAYS ? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day : yet 
 
 A FEW years, and the BLAST OF THE DESERT COMES, 
 IT HOWLS IN THY EMPTY COURT. — Ossian.] 
 
 1. 
 
 Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds 
 whistle ; 
 
 Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay ; 
 In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 
 
 Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the way. 
 
 * The Eail of Carlisle, whose works have long received the meed of 
 public applauoe, to which, by their intrinsic worth, they were well ( 
 tied. 
 
 t The motto wai added in the first edition of Hourc of Idleaeu. 
 
 Of the mail-oover'd Barons, who proudly to battle 
 Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 
 
 The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle, 
 Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 
 
 3. 
 No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, 
 Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd wreath ; 
 Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan* slumbers, 
 Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 
 4. 
 
 Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy ; 
 
 For the safety of Edward and England they fell : 
 My fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; 
 
 How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell 
 
 5. 
 On Marston,! with Rupert,J 'gainst traitors contending, 
 Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleaJi field ; 
 For the rights of a monarch their country defending, 
 .Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. 
 
 6. 
 Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, departing 
 
 From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! 
 Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting 
 
 New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 
 
 7. 
 Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
 
 'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; 
 Far distant he goes, with the same emulation. 
 
 The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 
 
 8. 
 That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish ; 
 
 He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown ; 
 Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; 
 
 When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own 
 
 1803. 
 
 ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE, 
 AND SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL.|i 
 
 Oh ! mihi praeteritos referat si Jupiter annos. 
 
 Virgil, JEneid, lib. 8, 560. 
 
 1. 
 
 Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 
 Embitters the present, compared with the past; 
 
 Where science first dawned on the powers of reflection, 
 And friendships were form'd too romantic to last ; 
 
 2. 
 Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance 
 
 Of comrades in friendship and mischief allied ; 
 How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance, 
 
 Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied ! 
 
 3. 
 
 Again I revisit the hills where we sported. 
 
 The streams where we swam, and the fields where we 
 fought ; 
 
 The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted, 
 To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 
 
 4. 
 
 Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd, 
 As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay ; 
 
 Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd, 
 To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 
 
 * Horistan Castle, in Derbyshire, an ancient seat uf the BjTon family, 
 . t The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. 
 were defeated. 
 
 % Son of the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles I. He after- 
 wards commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles II. 
 
 ij This poem was printed in the private volume, and in the first edition 
 of Hours of Idleness, where the motto from Virgil was added. It wnt 
 afterwards omitted. 
 
384 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 I once more view the room with spectators surrounded 
 Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown ; 
 
 While to swell my young pride such applauses re- 
 sounded, 
 I fancied that Mossop* himself was outshone : 
 
 6. 
 Or, as Lear, I poured forth the deep imprecation. 
 
 By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived ; 
 Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, 
 
 I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 
 
 7. 
 Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you ! 
 
 Unfaded your memory dwells in my breastj ; 
 Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you ; 
 
 Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest. 
 
 8. 
 To IdaJ full oft may remembrance restore m.e, 
 
 While fate shall the shades of the future unroll ! 
 Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me, 
 
 More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 
 
 9. 
 
 But if, through the course of the years which await me, 
 Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, 
 
 I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me, 
 " Oh ! such were the days which my infancy knew." 
 
 1806. 
 
 TO D||. 
 
 1. 
 
 In thee I fondly hoped to clasp 
 
 A friend, whom death alone could sever 5 
 
 Till envy, with malignant grasp, 
 Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. 
 2. 
 
 True she has forced thee from my breast, 
 Y"et in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ; 
 
 There, there thine image still must rest, 
 Until that heart shall cease to beat. 
 3. 
 
 And, when the grave restores her dead. 
 When life again to dust is given, 
 
 On thy dear breast I '11 lay my head- 
 Without thee, where would be my heaven ? 
 February, 1803. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A FRIEND**. 
 
 " 'Ao-T-Tjp -ngXv fikv kXafiKts ivl ^a)oZ<nv k^os." 
 
 Laertius. 
 
 Oh, Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dearff, 
 What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier ! 
 What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, 
 Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death ! 
 Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; 
 Could si,;! s avert his dart's relentless force 
 
 _ . , cotemporary of Garrick, famous for his performance of 
 ^anga, in Young's tragedy of Ihe Revenge. 
 
 t " Your memory beams through this agonized breast." 
 
 + ., T,,. u. u. , . . ,, Private volume. 
 
 J " J thought this poor brain, fever'd even to madness, 
 Of tears, as of reason, for ever was drain 'd ; 
 But the drops which now flow down this bosom of sadness, 
 
 Convince me the springs have some moisture retain'd. 
 " Sweet scenes of my childhood ! your blest recollection 
 Has wrung from these eyelids, to weeping long dead, 
 In toirents Uie tears of my warmest affection, 
 
 The last and the fondest I ever shall shed.' 
 
 Private volume. 
 
 II Printed in the private volume only. 
 •* These lines were printed m the private volume, the title being " Epi- 
 aph on a beloved Friend." The motto was added in the first edition of 
 
 Hours of Idleness, 
 tt " Oh, Boy ! for ever loved, for ever dear, 
 
 Private volume. 
 
 Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, 
 Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; 
 Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, 
 Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight. 
 * If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
 The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, 
 Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 
 A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
 No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
 But living statutes there are seen to weep ; 
 Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
 Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
 What though thy sire lament his failing line, 
 A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! 
 Though none like thee his dying hour will cheer, 
 l^et other offspring soothe his anguish here : 
 But who with me shall hold thy former place? 
 Thine image what new friendship can efface ? 
 Ah none ! — a father's tears will cease to flow, 
 Time will assuage an infant brother's woe 5 
 To all, save one, is consolation known. 
 While solitary friendship sighs alone. 
 
 J 
 
 1803. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice 
 Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice ; 
 When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, 
 Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; 
 Oh may my shade behold no sculptured urns 
 To mark the spot where earth to earth returns ! 
 tNo lengthened scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone 
 My epitaph shall be my name alone : 
 If that with honour fail to crown my clay, 
 Oh may no other fame my deeds repay ! 
 That, only that, shall single out the spot ; 
 X By that remember'd, or with that forgot. 
 
 1803. 
 
 TO EDDLESTON|(. 
 1. 
 
 Let Folly smile, to view the names 
 
 Of thee and me in friendship twined ; 
 Yet Virtue will have greater claims 
 
 To love, than rank with vice combined, 
 2. 
 And though unequal is thy fate. 
 
 Since title deck'd my higher birth ! 
 Yet envy not this gaudy state ; 
 
 Thine is the pride of modest worth. 
 
 3. 
 
 Our souls at least congenial meet. 
 Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ; 
 
 Our intercourse is not less sweet. 
 
 Since worth of rank supplies the place. 
 
 November, 1802. 
 
 * " Though low thy lot, since in a cottage bom, 
 
 No titles did thy humble name adorn ; 
 
 To me far dearer was thy artless love 
 
 Than all the joys wealth, fame, and friends could prove : 
 
 For thee alone I lived, or wish'd to live ; 
 
 Oh God ! if impious, this rash word forgive ! 
 
 Heart-broken now, I wait an equal doom. 
 
 Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb ; 
 
 Where, this frail form composed in endless rest, 
 
 I Ml make my last cold pillow on thy breast ; 
 
 That breast where oft m life I've laid ray head 
 
 Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead ;' 
 
 This life resigu'd, without one parting sigh. 
 
 Together in one bed of earth ;\-e'!l lie ! 
 
 Together share the fate to mortals given. 
 
 Together mix our dust, and hope for heaven.' 
 Such was the conclusion in the private volume. 
 
 t " No lengthen'd scroll of virtue and renown " 
 f " Bv thM rlml^r m'"*' f^fi'-^'^J'li'^on of Hours of IdleneBS. 
 I By that remsmber'd, or for e'er forgot."— Private volume 
 II Only printed m the private volume. Tommc. 
 
385 
 
 V 
 
 / 
 
 I 
 

 ^ <p C-, 
 
 ^^^- /^-^,^^ 
 
 
 C^/V ^':7^ . „ , >. ■ y — ^, . ^ 
 
 y / /aJi^-^JL 
 
 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 3S5 
 
 REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B 
 PIGOT, ESQ.., ON THE CRUELTY 
 OF HIS MISTRESS *. 
 1. 
 Why, Pigot, complain 
 Of this damsel's disdain, 
 Why thus in despair do you fret ? 
 For months you may try, 
 Yet, believe me, a sigh 
 Will never obtain a coquette. 
 
 2. 
 Would you teach her to love ? 
 
 For a time seem to rove ; 
 At first she may frown in a pet ; 
 
 But leave her awhile, 
 
 She shortly will smile, 
 And then you may kiss your coquette. 
 3. 
 
 For such are the airs 
 
 Of these fanciful fairs, 
 They think all our homage a debt ; 
 
 Yet a partial neglect 
 
 Soon takes an effect. 
 And humbles the proudest coquette. 
 4. 
 
 Dissemble your pain. 
 
 And lengthen your chain, 
 And seem her hauteur to regret ; 
 
 If again you shall sigh, 
 
 She no more will deny 
 That yours is the rosy coquette. 
 5. 
 
 If still, from false pride, 
 
 Your pangs she deride. 
 This whimsical virgin forget ; 
 
 Some other admire. 
 
 Who will melt with your fire^ 
 And laugh at the little coquette. 
 6. 
 
 For me, I adore 
 
 Some twenty or more. 
 And love them most dearly ; but yet, 
 
 Though my heart they enthral, 
 
 I'd abandon them all. 
 Did they act like your blooming coquette. 
 7. 
 
 No longer repine, 
 
 Adopt this design, 
 And break through her slight-woven net ; 
 
 Away with despair, 
 
 No longer forbear. 
 To fly from the captious coquette. 
 8. 
 
 Then quit her, my friend I 
 
 Your bosom defend, 
 Ere quite with her snares you're beset : 
 
 Lest your deep-wounded heart. 
 
 When incensed by the smart, 
 Should lead you to curse the coquette. 
 
 October 21 th, 1806. 
 
 TO THE SIGHING STREPHONj. 
 1. 
 
 Your pardon, my friend. 
 
 If my rhymes did offend. 
 Your pardon, a thousand times o*er 
 
 From friendship I strove 
 
 Your pangs to remove. 
 But I swear I will do so no more. 
 
 * Printed in the private volume only, 
 t Thi*e gtaniM wers only printed in tho private Tolume. 
 2 Y 
 
 Since your beautiful maid 
 Your flame has repaid, 
 No more I your folly regret ; 
 She's now the most divine, 
 And I bow at the shrine 
 Of this quickly reformed coquette. 
 3. 
 Yet still, I must own, 
 I should never have known 
 From your verses, what else she deserved ; 
 Your pain seem'd so great, 
 I pitied your fate, 
 As your fair was so develish reserved. 
 4. 
 Since the balm-breathing kiss 
 Of this magical miss 
 Can such wonderful transports produce ; 
 Since the " world you forget, 
 Vfhen your lips once have met," 
 My counsel will get but abuse. 
 5. 
 You say, when " I rove, 
 I know nothin? of love ;" 
 'Tis true, I am given to range; 
 If I rightly remember, 
 I've loved a good number. 
 Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 
 6. 
 I will not advance. 
 By the rules of romance, 
 To humour a whimsical fair ; 
 
 Though a smile may delight, 
 Yet a frown won't affright, 
 Or drive me to dreadful despair. 
 7. 
 ^yhile my blood is thus- warm 
 I ne'er shall reform. 
 To mix in the Platonists' school ; 
 Of this I am sure. 
 Was my passion so pure. 
 Thy mistress would think me a fool. 
 8. 
 And if I should shun 
 Every woman for one, 
 Whose image must fill my whole breast^ 
 Whom I must prefer, 
 And sigh but for her — 
 What an insult 'twould be to the rest ! 
 9. 
 Now, Strephon. good bye; 
 I cannot deny 
 Your passion appears most absurd ; 
 Such love as you plead 
 Is pure love indeed, 
 For it onlv consists in the word. 
 
 THE TEAR. 
 
 " O lachryrnarum fons, tenero sacroe 
 Duc«iitium ortus ex animo ; quater 
 Felix r in irno qui scatentsm 
 
 Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." — Gray*. 
 
 1. 
 
 When Friendship or Love 
 
 Our sympathies move. 
 When Truth in a glance should appear. 
 
 The lips may beguile 
 
 With a dimple or smile, 
 But the test of affection's a Tear. 
 
 Too oft is a smile 
 
 But the hypocrite's wile, 
 
 I 'This motto was inserted in the first edition of Hour? of Idleness. 
 
386 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 To mask detestation or ftar ; 
 Give me the sotl sigh, 
 Whilst the soul-telling eye 
 Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear 
 3. 
 Mild Charity's glow, 
 To us mortals below, 
 Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 
 Compassion will melt 
 Where this virtue is felt, 
 And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 
 4. 
 The man doom'd to sail 
 With the blast of the gale, 
 Through billows Atlantic to steer, 
 As he bends o'er the wave 
 Which may soon be his grave. 
 The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 
 5. 
 The soldier braves death 
 For a fanciful wreath 
 In Glory's romantic career i 
 But he raises the foe 
 When in battle laid low. 
 And bathes every wound with a Tear. 
 6. 
 If with high-bounding pride 
 He return to his bride. 
 Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, 
 All his toils are repaid 
 When, embracing the maid, 
 From her eyelid he kisses thy Tear. 
 7. 
 Sweet scene of my youth ! 
 Seat of Friendship and Truth, 
 Where love chased each fast -fleeting year, 
 Loth to leave thee, I mourned, 
 For a last look I tum'd. 
 But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 
 8. 
 Though my vows I can pour 
 To my Mary no more, 
 My Mary to Love once so dear, 
 In the shade of her bower 
 I remember the hour 
 She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 
 
 By another possest, 
 
 May she live ever blest ! 
 Her name still my heart must revere : 
 
 With a sigh I resign 
 
 WTiat I once thought was mine, 
 And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 
 10. 
 
 Ye friends of my heart, 
 
 Ere from you I depart, 
 This hope to my breast is most near : 
 
 If again we shall meet 
 
 In this rural retreat. 
 May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 
 11. 
 
 When my soul wings her flight 
 
 To the regions of night, 
 * And mv corse shall recline on its bier, 
 
 As ye pass by the tomb 
 
 Where my ashes consume, 
 Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 
 12. 
 
 May no marble bestow 
 
 The splendour of woe 
 
 Which the children of vanity rear ; 
 
 No fiction of fame 
 
 Shall blazon my name, 
 All I ask — all I wish — is a Tear. 
 
 October 26, 1806. 
 
 TO MISS PIGOT * 
 1. 
 
 Eliza, what fools are the INIussulman sect. 
 
 Who to woman deny the soul's fliture existence ; 
 Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect. 
 And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance. 
 2. 
 Had their prophet possess'd half Em atom of sense, 
 
 He ne'er would have women from paradise driven , 
 Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence. 
 
 With women alone he had peopled his heaven. 
 3. 
 Yet still to increase your calamities more. 
 
 Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit. 
 He allots one poor husband to share amongst four ! — 
 With souls you'd dispense ; but this last, who could 
 bear it ? 
 
 4. 
 His religion to please neither party is made ; 
 
 On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives the most uncivil,; 
 Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, 
 " Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil." 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN "LETTERS OF AN 
 ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GEN- 
 TLEMAN. BY J. J. ROUSSEAU. FOUN- 
 DED ON FACTS t." 
 
 " Away, away, your flattering arts 
 May now betray some simpler hearts ; 
 And you will smile at their believing. 
 And they shall weep at your deceiving." 
 
 ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO 
 
 MISS . 
 
 Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts. 
 
 From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts. 
 
 Exist but in imagination, — 
 
 INIere phantoms of thine own creation; 
 
 For he who views that witching grace, 
 
 That perfect form, that lovely face. 
 
 With eyes admiring, oh ! believe mcj 
 
 He never wishes to deceive thee : 
 
 Once in thy polish'd mirror glance, 
 
 Thou'lt there descry that elegance 
 
 Which from our sex demands such praises, 
 
 But envv' in the other raises : 
 
 Then he who tells thee of thy beauty. 
 
 Believe me, only does his duty : 
 
 Ah ! fly not from the candid youth ; 
 
 It is not flattery, — 'tis truth. 
 
 July, 1804. 
 
 THE CORNELIAN J. 
 
 1. 
 
 No specious splendour of this stone 
 Endears it to my memory ever ; 
 
 With lustre only once it shone. 
 And blushes modest as the giver. 
 2. 
 
 Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, 
 Have for my weakness oft reproved me : 
 
 And mj body iball Bleep on its hkr.^'— Private tolumi. 
 
 * Found only in the private volume, 
 t Only printed in the private vulume. 
 1 To young Eddleston. This poem is only found in (b» rriralfl Tolumo. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 387 
 
 Yet still the simple gift I prize, — 
 
 For I am sure the giver loved me. 
 3. 
 He offer'd it vs^ith downcast look, 
 
 As fearful that I might refuse it ; 
 I told him when the gift I took, 
 
 My only fear should be to lose it. 
 4. 
 This pledge attentively I view'd. 
 
 And sparkling as I held it near, 
 Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, 
 
 And ever since I 've loved a tear. 
 5. 
 Still, to adorn his humble youth. 
 
 Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield j 
 But he who seeks the flowers of truth, 
 
 Must quit the garden for the field. 
 6. 
 'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth, 
 
 Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume; 
 The flowers which yield the most of both 
 
 In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 
 7. 
 Had Fortune aided Nature's care, 
 
 For once forgetting to be blind. 
 His would have been an ample share, 
 
 If well-proportion'd to his mind. 
 8. 
 But had the goddess clearly seen. 
 
 His form had fix'd her fickle breast ; 
 Her countless hoards would his have been, 
 
 And none remain'd to give the rest. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,* 
 COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY 
 DEAR TO HIM j. 
 
 1. 
 
 Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom, 
 Not e'en a zephyr, wanders through the grove. 
 
 Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb, 
 And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 
 
 2. 
 Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, 
 
 That clay where once such animation beam'd ; 
 The King of Terrors seized her as his prey, 
 
 Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. 
 
 S. 
 
 Oh ! could that King of Terrors pity feel, 
 Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate ! 
 
 Not here the mourner would his grief reveal. 
 Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 
 
 4. 
 
 But wherefore weep ? her matchless spirit soars 
 Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day ; 
 
 And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 
 Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. 
 
 5. 
 
 And shall presumptuous mortals heaven arraign, 
 And, madly, godlike providence accuse ? 
 
 Ah ! no, far fly from me attempts so vain, 
 I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 
 
 * Miss Parker. 
 
 t To these stanzas, which are from the private volume, the following 
 note was attached : "The author claims the indulgence of the reader 
 more for this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection ; but as it 
 was written at an earfier period than the rest (being composed at the age 
 of fourteen), and bis first essay, he preferred submitting it to the indul- 
 gence of his friends in its present state, to making either addition or 
 klteralion." 
 
 Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, 
 Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face ; 
 
 Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, 
 Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 
 
 TO EMMA*. 
 
 Since now the hour is come at last, 
 
 When you must quit your anxious lover ; 
 
 Since now our dream of bliss is past, 
 One pang, m.y girl, and all is over. 
 
 2. 
 Alas ! that pang will be severe, 
 
 Which bids us part to meet no more, 
 Which tears me far from one so dear, 
 
 Departing for a distant shore. 
 
 3. 
 
 Well : we have pass'd some happy hours. 
 And joy will mingle with our tears ; 
 
 When thinking on these ancient towers, 
 The shelter of our infant years; 
 
 4. 
 Where from the gothic casement's height, 
 
 We view'd the lake, the park, the dale, 
 And still, though tears obstruct our sight, 
 
 We lingering look a last farewell. 
 
 5. 
 
 O'er fields through which we used to run. 
 And spend the hours in childish play ; 
 
 O'er shades where, when our race was done, 
 Reposing on my breast you lay ; 
 
 6. 
 
 Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, 
 Forgot to scare the hov'ring flies, 
 
 Yet envied every fly the kiss 
 
 It dared to give your slumbering eyes : 
 
 7. 
 See still the little painted bark, 
 
 In which I row'd you o'er the lake ; 
 See there, high waving o'er the park, 
 
 The elm I clamber'd for your sake. 
 
 8. 
 These times are past — our joys are gone, 
 
 You leave me, leave this happy vale; 
 These scenes I must retrace alone ; 
 
 Without thee what will they avail ? 
 
 9. 
 Who can conceive, who has not proved, 
 
 The anguish of a last embrace ? 
 When, torn from all you fondly loved, 
 
 You bid a long adieu to peace. 
 
 10. 
 
 This is the deepest of our woes, 
 For this these tears our cheeks bedew-; 
 
 This is of love the final close, 
 Oh, God, the fondest, last adieu ! 
 
 AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE. 
 
 DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OP 
 " THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE" AT A PRIVATK 
 THEATRE. 
 
 Since the refinement of this polish'd age 
 Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 
 Since taste has now expunged licentious wit. 
 Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ • 
 
 * This poem is inserted from the private volume. 
 
388 
 
 HOURS OP IDLENESS. 
 
 Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, 
 
 Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek ; 
 
 Oh ! let the Modest muse some pity claim, 
 
 And meet indulgence, though she find not fame. 
 
 Still, not for her alone we wish respect, 
 
 Others appear more conscious of defect : 
 
 To-night no veteran Roscii you behold, 
 
 In all the arts of scenic action old ; 
 
 No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you hero, 
 
 No SiDDONS draw the sympathetic tear ; 
 
 To-night you throng to witness the debut 
 
 Of embryo actors, to the Drama new : 
 
 Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try ; 
 
 Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly : 
 
 Failing in this our first attempt to soar. 
 
 Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 
 
 Not one poor trembler only fear betrays, 
 
 Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise 
 
 But all our dramatis personse wait 
 
 In fond suspense this crisis of our* fate. 
 
 No venal views our progress can retard. 
 
 Your generous plaudits are our sole reward ; 
 
 For these, each Hero all his power displays, 
 
 Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. 
 
 Surely the last will some protection find ; 
 
 None to the softer sex can prove unkind : 
 
 Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield, 
 
 The sternest Censorj to the fair must yield. 
 
 Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail, 
 
 Should, after all, our best endeavours fail, 
 
 Still let some mercy in your bosoms live. 
 
 And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, 
 
 THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEAR- 
 ED XN A MORNING PAPER J. 
 
 "Our nation's foes lament ou Fox's death. 
 But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath : 
 These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 
 We give the palm where Justice points its due." 
 
 TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT 
 THE FOLLOWING REPLY ||. 
 
 Oh, factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth 
 
 Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth, 
 
 What though our "nation's foes" lament the fate, 
 
 With generous feeling, of the good and great. 
 
 Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
 
 Of him whose meed exists in endless fame ? 
 
 When Pitt expired in plenitude of power. 
 
 Though ill success obscured his dying hour^ 
 
 Pity her dewy wings before hira spread, 
 
 For noble spirits " war not with the dead :" 
 
 His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave^ 
 
 As all his errors slumber'd in the grave ; 
 
 He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight 
 
 Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state : 
 
 When lo ! a Hercules in Fox appear'd, 
 
 Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd : 
 
 He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied, 
 
 With him our fest-reviving hopes have died 4 
 
 Not one great people only raise his urn, 
 
 All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 
 
 "These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue. 
 
 To give the palm where Justice points its due ;" 
 
 Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail, 
 
 Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. 
 
 Fox ! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep. 
 
 Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep ; 
 
 * Our. In the private volume, their. 
 t Censor. In the private volume, critic. 
 t " In the Momine Foot."— Prtcate volume. 
 
 [I "For inMrtion in the Morcing Chronicle," wa« here added in the 
 pnv»t« volume. 
 
 For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, 
 While friends and foes alike his talents own ; 
 Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine. 
 Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign ; 
 Which Envy, wearing Candor's sacred mask, 
 For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. 
 
 TO M. S. G.* 
 1. 
 
 Whene'er I view those lips of thine, 
 
 Their hue invites my fervent kiss ; 
 Yet I forego that bliss divine, 
 Alas 1 it were unhallow'd bliss. 
 2. 
 Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, 
 How could I dwell upon its snows ? 
 Yet is the daring wish represt, 
 
 For that, — would banish its repose. 
 3. 
 A glance from thy soul-searching eye 
 
 Can raise with hope, depress with fear ; 
 Yet I conceal my love, and why ? 
 I would not force a painful tear. 
 4. 
 I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
 
 Hast seen my ardent flame too well ; 
 And shall I plead my passion now. 
 To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ? 
 5. 
 No ! for thou never canst be mine, 
 
 United by the priest's decree ; 
 By any ties but those divine, 
 
 Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shall be. 
 6. 
 Then let the secret fire consume, 
 
 Let it consume, thou shalt not know ; 
 With joy I court a certain doom, 
 Rather than spread its guilty glow. 
 7. 
 I will not ease my tortured heart. 
 
 By driving dove-eyed peace from thine , 
 Rather than such a sting impart. 
 
 Each thought presumptuous I resign. 
 8. 
 Yes ! yield those lips, for which I'd brare 
 
 More than I here shall dare to tell ; 
 Thy innocence and mine to save, — 
 I bid thee now a last farewell. 
 9, 
 Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair. 
 And hope no more thy soft embrace, 
 Which to obtain my soul would dare. 
 All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 
 10. 
 At least from guilt shalt thou be free, 
 
 No matron shall thy shame reprove ; 
 Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
 No martyr shalt thou he to love^ 
 
 TO CAROLINEf. 
 1. 
 
 Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, 
 Suffused in tears, implore to stay ; 
 
 And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs, 
 Which said far more than words can say ? 
 2. 
 
 Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, 
 When love and hope lay both o'erthrown ; 
 
 * Only printed in the private volume. 
 t Prit)l«d only in the privsu volosae. 
 
HOURS OP IDLENESS. 
 
 389 
 
 Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 
 
 Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. 
 3. 
 But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, 
 
 When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, 
 The tears that from my eyelids flow'd 
 
 Were lost in those which fell from thine. 
 4. 
 Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek, 
 
 Thy gushing tears had quenched its flame, 
 And as thy tongue essay 'd to speak, 
 
 In sighs alone it breathed my name. 
 
 5. 
 
 And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, 
 
 In vain our fate in sighs deplore ; 
 Remembrance only can remain, — 
 
 But that will make us weep the more. 
 
 6, 
 Again, thou best beloved, adieu ! 
 
 Ah! if thou canst o'ercome regret, 
 Nor let thy mind past joys review, — 
 
 Our only hope is to forget ! 
 
 TO CAROLINE*. 
 L 
 
 When I hear you express an affection so warm, 
 Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; 
 
 For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, 
 And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. 
 
 2. 
 Yet still, this fond bosom regrets while adoring, 
 
 That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear. 
 That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring, 
 
 Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear ; 
 
 3. 
 
 That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining 
 
 Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze. 
 When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, 
 Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 
 4. 
 'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my 
 features, 
 Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree 
 Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures. 
 In the death which one day will deprive you of me. 
 5. 
 Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, 
 
 No doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; 
 He worships each look with such faithful devotion, 
 A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 
 6. 
 But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us. 
 And our breasts which alive with such sympathy glow. 
 Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us. 
 When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low : 
 7. 
 Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, 
 Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow ; 
 Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure, 
 And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 
 
 1805. 
 
 TO CAROLINE f. 
 1. 
 
 Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever ray sorrow ? 
 
 Oh, when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay ? 
 The present is hell, and the coming to morrow 
 
 But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. 
 
 • Ineerted from th« private volume, 
 t Thii po«m alM i» r«r"nted from lh» private voJubm. 
 
 From my eye flows no tear, from my lips fall no curses, 
 I blast not the fiends who have hurled me from bliss ; 
 
 For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 
 Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 
 
 3. 
 
 Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes 
 bright'ning, 
 Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could 
 assuage, 
 On our foes should my glance lanch in vengeance ita 
 
 lightning. 
 With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 
 
 4. 
 But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, 
 
 Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight , 
 Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, 
 
 Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 
 
 5. 
 
 Yet still, though we bend with a feign 'd resignation, 
 Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer ; 
 
 Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation, 
 In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 
 
 6. 
 
 Oh ! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, 
 Since in life, love and friendship for ever are fled ? 
 
 If again in the mansion of death 1 embrace thee, 
 Perhaps they will leave immolested the dead. 
 
 1805. 
 
 STANZAS TO A LADY, 
 
 WITH THE POEMS OF CAM0EW8. 
 1. 
 
 This votive pledge of fond esteem. 
 
 Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou'lt prize , 
 It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 
 
 A theme we never can despise. 
 2. 
 Who blames it but the envious fool. 
 
 The old and disappointed maid ? 
 Or pupil of the prudish school. 
 
 In smgle sorrow doom'd to fade ? 
 3. 
 Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read, 
 
 For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ; 
 To thee in vain I shall not plead 
 
 In pity for the poet's woes. 
 4. 
 He was in sooth a genuine bard ; 
 
 His was no faint, fictitious flame : 
 Like his, may love be thy reward. 
 
 But not thy hapless fate the same. 
 
 THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE*. 
 
 " 'A Bap/?iros d£ ^op^ats 
 'EpojTO /iovvov T]X^-" 
 
 Anacreon. 
 
 Away with your fictions of flimsy romance ! 
 
 f Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove ! 
 Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, 
 
 Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love. 
 2. 
 Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, 
 
 Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove. 
 From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, 
 
 Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love ! 
 
 • These stanzas were printed in the private volume, and in the firat »(& 
 tion of Hours of Idleness, but omitted in the second, 
 t " Those tissues of fancy Moriah:{; has woy9.— Private volufHt. 
 X " Moriah, the Goddeu of FoUy." 
 
390 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, 
 
 Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, 
 Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, 
 
 And try the effect of the first kiss of love. 
 4. 
 I hate you, ye cold compositions of art : 
 
 Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove, 
 I court the effusions that spring from the heart 
 
 Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love. 
 
 5. 
 
 Your shepherds, your flocks*, those fantastical themes, 
 
 Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move : 
 Arcadia displays but a region of dreams ; 
 
 What are visions like these to the first kiss of love? 
 6. 
 Oh ! cease to affirm that man, since his birth |, 
 
 From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove ; 
 Some portion of paradise still is on earth, 
 
 And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 
 7. 
 When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past — 
 
 For years fleet away with the wings of the dove — 
 The dearest remembrance will still be the last, 
 
 Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 
 
 TO MARY, 
 
 1. 
 
 Oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire, 
 
 With bright but mild affection shine, 
 Though they might kindle less desire, 
 
 Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 
 2. 
 For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
 
 Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, 
 We must admire, but still despair ; 
 
 That fatal glance forbids esteem. 
 3. 
 When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, 
 
 So much perfection in thee shone, 
 She fear'd that, too divine for earth. 
 
 The skies might claim thee for their own : 
 4. 
 Therefore, to guard her dearest work. 
 
 Lest angels might dispute the prize. 
 She bade a secret lightning lurk 
 
 Within those once celestial eyes. 
 5. 
 These might the boldest sylph appal, 
 
 When gleaming with meridian blaze ; 
 Thy beauty must enrapture all. 
 
 But who can dare thine ardent gaze ? 
 6. 
 'Tis said that Berenice's hair 
 
 In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; 
 But they would ne'er permit thee there, 
 
 Thou wonldst so far outshine the seven. 
 7. 
 For did those eyes as planets roll, 
 
 Thy sister-lights would scarce appear : 
 E'en suns, which systems now control. 
 
 Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. 
 
 1806. 
 
 TO WOMAN. 
 
 Woman ! experience might have told me 
 That all must love thee who behold thee : 
 
 Surely experience might have taught 
 
 Thy firmest promises are nought; 
 
 But placed in all thy charms before me. 
 
 All I forget but to adore thee. 
 
 Oh, Memory ! thou choicest blessing 
 
 When join'd with hope, when still possessing. 
 
 But how much cursed by every lover 
 
 When hope is fled and passion's over. 
 
 Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, 
 
 How prompt are striplings to believe her! 
 
 How throbs the pulse when first we view 
 
 The eye that rolls in glossy blue. 
 
 Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 
 
 A beam from under hazel brows ! 
 
 How quick we credit every oath. 
 
 And hear her plight the willing troth! 
 
 Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, 
 
 When, lo ! she changes in a day. 
 
 This record will for ever stand, 
 
 " Woman, thy vows are traced in sand*." 
 
 TO M. S. G. 
 
 1. 
 
 When I dream that you love me, you '11 surely forgive 
 
 Extend not your anger to sleep ; 
 For in visions alone your affection can live, — 
 
 I rise, and it leaves me too weep. 
 2. 
 Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast, 
 
 Shed o'er me your languor benign : 
 Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, 
 
 What rapture celestial is mine ! 
 3. 
 They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, 
 
 Mortality's emblem is given : 
 To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, 
 
 If this be a foretaste of heaven 
 4, 
 Ah ! frown not sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, 
 
 Nor deem me too happy in this ; 
 If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, 
 
 Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 
 5. 
 Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile, 
 
 Oh ! think not my penance deficient ! 
 When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile. 
 
 To awake will be torture sufficient. 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL aUAKERj. 
 
 Sweet girl ! though only once we met, 
 That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 
 And though we ne'er may meet again. 
 Remembrance will thy form retain. 
 I would not say, " I love," but still 
 My senses struggle with my will : 
 In vain to drive thee from my breast. 
 My thoughts are more and more represt ; 
 In vain I check the rising sighs. 
 Another to the last replies : 
 Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
 Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 
 
 What though we never silence broke. 
 Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 
 The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, 
 And tells a tale it never feels : 
 Deceit the guilty lips impart, 
 And hush the mandates of the heart ; 
 
 ■ Yoar shepherds, your pipes, &c." — Private volume. 
 Oh 1 cease to affirm thai man, from his birth," &c. — Private vol- 
 
 ' The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb. 
 t These lines were published in the private volume, and the first edition 
 of Hours of Idleness, but subsequently omitted by the author. 
 
HOURS OP IDLENESS. 
 
 391 
 
 But soul's interpreters, the eyes, 
 
 Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 
 
 As thus our glances oft conversed, 
 
 And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, 
 
 No spirit, from within, reproved us. 
 
 Say rather, " 'twas the spirit moved us." 
 
 Though what they utter'd 1 repress, 
 
 Yet I conceive thou' It partly guess ; 
 
 For as on thee my memory ponders, 
 
 Perchance to me thine also wanders. 
 
 This for myself, at least, I '11 say. 
 
 Thy form appears through night, through day : 
 
 Awake, with it my fancy teems ; 
 
 In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams ; 
 
 The vision charms the hours away, 
 
 And bids me curse Aurora's ray 
 
 For breaking slumbers of delight 
 
 Which make me wish for endless night. 
 
 Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate, 
 
 Shall joy or woe my steps await. 
 
 Tempted by love, by storms beset. 
 
 Thine image I can ne'er forget. 
 
 Alas ! again no more we meet. 
 No more our former looks repeat ; 
 Then let me breathe this parting prayer, 
 The dictate of my bosom's care : 
 " May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker, 
 That anguish never can o'ertake her ; 
 That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, 
 But bliss be aye her heart's partaker ! 
 Oh ! may the happy mortal, fated 
 To be, by dearest ties, related. 
 For her each hour new joys discover, 
 And lose the husband in the lover ! 
 May that fair bosom never know 
 What 'tis to feel the restless v/oe 
 Which stings the soul, with vain regret, 
 Of him who never can forget !" 
 
 SONG* 
 1. 
 
 When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, 
 
 And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snowf ! 
 To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, 
 
 Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below J, 
 Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear. 
 
 And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, 
 No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear ; 
 
 Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you? 
 2. 
 Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, — 
 
 What passion can dwell in the heart of a child ? 
 But still I perceive an emotion the same 
 
 As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild : 
 One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 
 
 I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; 
 And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd ; 
 
 And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you. 
 3. 
 I arose with the dawn ; with my dog as my guide, 
 
 From mountain to mountain I bounded along ; 
 I breastedjl the billows of Dee's** rushing tide. 
 
 And heard at a distance the Highlander's song : 
 
 To Mary Duff. First 
 
 in the second edition of Hours of 
 
 Idle 
 
 t Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire: "Gormal of snow," is 
 an expression frequently to be found in Ossian. 
 
 :f This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed 
 to the mountains ; it is by no means uncommon on attaining the top of 
 Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-bourd, &c. to perceive between the summit and the val- 
 ley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by lightning, 
 while the spectator literally looks down upon the storm, perfectly secure 
 from its effects. 
 
 11 Breasting the lofty surge.— Shakespeare. 
 
 •* The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and falls 
 nto the sea, at New Abei-deeu, 
 
 At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, 
 
 No dreams save of Mary were spread to my view; 
 And warm to the skies my devotions arose, 
 
 ■ For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. 
 4. 
 I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone ; 
 
 The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more ; 
 As the last of my race, I must wither alone. 
 
 And delight but in days I have witness'd before : 
 Ah ! splendour has raised, but embitter'd, my lot; 
 
 More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew : 
 Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not 
 forgot; 
 
 Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. 
 5. 
 When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, 
 
 I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen* ; 
 When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 
 
 I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene , 
 When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold, 
 
 That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
 I think on the long-flowing ringlets of gold. 
 
 The locks that were sacred to beauty and you. 
 6. 
 Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more 
 
 Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow : 
 But while these soar above me unchanged as before, 
 
 Will Mary be there to receive me ? ah, no ! 
 Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred! 
 
 Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
 No home in the forest shall shelter my head. 
 
 Ah ! Mary, what home could be mine but with you ? 
 
 TO 
 
 -t. 
 
 Oh I yes, I will own we were dear to each other ; 
 
 The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true ; 
 The love which you felt was the love of a brother, 
 
 Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. 
 2; 
 But friendship can vary her gentle dominion, 
 
 The attachment of years in a moment expires ; 
 Like love, too, she moves on a swifl-waving pinion. 
 
 But glows not, like love, with unquenchable fires. 
 3. 
 Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together, 
 
 And blest were the scenes of our youth I allow : 
 In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather , 
 
 But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. 
 4. 
 No more with affection shall memory blending 
 
 The wonted delights of our childhood retrace : 
 When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending. 
 
 And what would be justice appears a disgrace. 
 5. 
 However, dear S , for I still must esteem you — 
 
 The few whom I love I can never upbraid — 
 The chance which has lost may in future redeem you, 
 
 Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 
 6. 
 I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, 
 
 With me no corroding resentment shall live : 
 My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection. 
 
 That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive. 
 7. 
 You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence. 
 
 If danger demanded, were wholly your own ; 
 You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance, 
 
 Devoted to love and friendship alone. 
 
 * Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Higlilands, not far from 
 the ruins of Dee Castle, 
 t This poem was first published in tl>e Hours (/ Idleness. 
 
392 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 8. 
 You knew but away with the vain retrospection ! 
 
 The bond of affection no longer endures ; 
 Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, 
 
 And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. 
 
 9. 
 
 For the present, we part — I will hope not for ever, 
 For time and regret will restore you at last ; 
 
 To forget our dissension we both should endeavour, 
 I ask no atonement but days like the past. 
 
 TO MARY, 
 
 ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. 
 1. 
 
 This faint resemblance of thy charms. 
 
 Though strong as mortal art could give, 
 My constant heart of fear disarms, 
 
 Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 
 2. 
 Here 1 can trace the locks of gold 
 
 Which round thy snowy forehead wave, 
 The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould, 
 
 The lips which made me Beauty's slave, 
 3. 
 Here I can trace — ah, no ! that eye 
 
 Whose azure floats in liquid fire, 
 Must all the painter's art defy. 
 
 And bid him from the task retire. 
 4. 
 Here I behold its beauteous hue, 
 
 But where's the beam so sweetly straying* 
 Which gave a lustre to its blue. 
 
 Like Luna o'er the ocean playing ? 
 
 5. 
 
 Sweet copy ! far more dear to me, 
 
 Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, 
 Than all the living forms could be, 
 
 Save her who placed thee next my heart. 
 
 6. 
 She placed it, sad, with needless fear. 
 
 Lest time might shake my wavering soul, 
 Unconscious that her image there 
 
 Held every sense in fast control. 
 7. 
 Through hours, through years, through time 'twill cheer 
 
 My hope, in gloomy moments, raise ; 
 In life's last conflict 'twill appear, 
 
 And meet my fond expiring gaze. 
 
 'Tis I that am alone to blame, 
 I, that am guilty of love's treason ; 
 
 Since your sweet breast is still the same, 
 Caprice must be my only reason 
 
 5. 
 
 I do not, love ! suspect your truth, 
 
 With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not ; 
 
 Warm was the passion of my youth. 
 One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 
 
 6. 
 
 No, no, my flame was not pretended. 
 For, oh ! I loved you m.ost sincerely ; 
 
 And — though our dream at last is ended — 
 My bosom still esteems you dearly. 
 
 7. 
 No more we meet in yonder bowers ; 
 
 Absence has made me prone to roving ; 
 But older, firmer hearts than ours 
 
 Have found monotony in loving. 
 
 8. 
 Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, 
 
 New beauties still are daily bright'ning, 
 Your eye for conquest beams prepared, 
 
 The forge of love's resistless lightning. 
 
 9. 
 
 Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, 
 Many will throng to sigh like me, love ! 
 
 More constant they may prove, indeed ; 
 Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love ! 
 
 TO LESBIAt. 
 
 1. 
 
 Lesbia! since far from you I've ranged. 
 Our souls with fond affection glow not 
 
 You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, 
 I 'd tell why, — but yet I know not. 
 
 2. 
 Your polish'd brow no cares have crost ; 
 
 And, Lesbia ! we are not much older, 
 Since trembling first ray heart I lost. 
 
 Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. 
 
 3. 
 
 Sixteen was then our utmost age. 
 
 Two years have lingering past away, love ! 
 And now new thoughts our minds engage. 
 
 At least I feel disposed to stray, love ! 
 
 But Where's the beam of soft deare ? 
 
 Which gave a lustre to its blue, 
 
 Love, only love could e'er inspire- 
 Only printed in the private volurne. 
 
 Private volutM. 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY*. 
 
 As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden, two ladies passing 
 near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing near them, 
 to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning. 
 
 1. 
 
 Doubtless, sweet girl, the hissing lead, 
 Wafting destruction o'er thy charms. 
 
 And hurtling f o'er thy lovely head. 
 Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms. 
 
 2. 
 Surely some envious demon's force, 
 
 Vex'd to behold such beauty here, 
 Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, 
 
 Diverted from its first career. 
 
 3. 
 
 Yes, in that nearly fatal hour 
 
 The ball obey'd some hell-born guide ; 
 
 But Heaven, with interposing power. 
 In pity turn'd the death aside. 
 
 Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 
 Upon that thrilling bosom fell ; 
 
 Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear 
 Extracted from its glistening cell : 
 
 5. 
 
 Say, what dire penance can atone 
 For such an outrage done to thee ? 
 
 Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne , 
 What punishment wilt thou decree ? 
 
 6. 
 
 Might I perform the judge's part. 
 
 The sentence I should scarce deplore ; 
 
 It only would restore a heart 
 
 Which but belong'd to thee before. 
 
 " These stanias are only found in the private volume, 
 f This word is used by Gray, in his poem to the Fatal Siattn i 
 *' Iron sleet of arrowy shower 
 Hurtlea through the darken 'd air." 
 
HOURS OP IDLEKESS. 
 
 393 
 
 7. 
 The least atonement I can make 
 
 Is to become no longer free ; 
 Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake, 
 
 Thou shalt be all in all to me. 
 
 8. 
 But thou, perhaps, mayst now reject 
 
 Such expiation of my guilt : 
 Come then, some other mode elect ,• 
 
 Let it be death, or what thou wilt. 
 
 9. 
 
 Chose then, relentless ! and I swear 
 Nought shall thy dread decree prevent ; 
 
 Yet hold — one little word forbear ! 
 Let it be aught but banishment. 
 
 LOVE'S LAST ADIEU*. 
 
 Anacreon. 
 
 L 
 
 The roses of love glad the garden of life. 
 
 Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew, 
 Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, 
 
 Or prunes tiiem for ever in love's last adieu ! 
 
 2. 
 In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart, 
 
 In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 
 The chance of an hour may command us to part, 
 
 Or death disunite us in love's last adieu ! 
 
 3. 
 Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen 
 breast. 
 Will whisper, "Our meeting we yet may renew :" 
 With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt, 
 Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! 
 
 4. 
 Oh ! mark you yon pair : in the sunshine of youth 
 Love twined round their childhood his flowers as they 
 grew ; 
 They flourish awhile in the season of truth, 
 Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu J 
 
 5. 
 
 Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way 
 Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue ? 
 
 Yet why do I ask ? — to distraction a prey. 
 
 Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu I 
 
 6. 
 
 Oh ! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind ? 
 
 From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
 There, ravmg, he howls his complaint to the wind ; 
 
 The mountains reverberate love's last adieu ! 
 
 7. 
 Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 
 
 Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew ; 
 Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins ; 
 
 He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! 
 
 8. 
 How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel ! 
 
 His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few, 
 Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel, 
 
 And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu ! 
 
 Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast ; 
 
 No more with love's former devotion we sue : 
 He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast , 
 
 The shroud of affection is love's last adieu ! 
 
 * This poem was omitted in the second edition of Hours of Idleness. 
 
 2Z 
 
 10. 
 
 In this life of probation for rapture divine, 
 Astrea^declares that some penance is due ; 
 
 From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine, 
 The atonement is ample in love's last adieu I 
 
 11. 
 
 Who kneels to the god on his altar of light 
 Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew : 
 
 His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight ; 
 His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu ! 
 
 DAMiETAS. 
 In law an infant |, and in years a boy. 
 In mind a slave to every vicious joy ; 
 From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd , 
 In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; 
 Versed in hypocrisy while yet a child • 
 Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild ; 
 Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool ; 
 Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school : 
 Damastas ran through all the maze of sin. 
 And found the goal v.'hen others just begin : 
 Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, 
 And bid him drain dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 
 But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, 
 And what was once his bliss appears his bane. 
 
 TO MARION. 
 
 Marion ! why that,.pensive brow? 
 
 What disgust to life hast thou ? 
 
 Change that discontented air : 
 
 Frowns become not one so fair. 
 
 'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, 
 
 Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 
 
 He in dimpling smiles appears. 
 
 Or mourns in sweetly timid tears. 
 
 Or bends the languid eyelid down, 
 
 But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 
 
 Then resume thy former fire, 
 
 Some will love, and all admire ;- 
 
 While that icy aspect chills us, 
 
 Nought but cool indifference thrills us. 
 
 Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, 
 
 Smile at least, or seem to smile. 
 
 Eyes like thine were never meant 
 
 To hide their orbs in dark restraint ; 
 
 Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, 
 
 Still in truant beams they play. 
 
 Thy lips — but here my modest Muse 
 
 Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : 
 
 She blushes, curt'sies, frowns, — in short, she 
 
 Dreads least the subject should transport me; 
 
 And flying oflj' in search of reason. 
 
 Brings prudence back in proper season. 
 
 All I shall therefore say (whate'er 
 
 I think, is neither here nor there ) 
 
 Is, that such lips, of looks endearing, 
 
 Were fbrm'd for better things than sneering ;. 
 
 Of soothing compliments divested, 
 
 Advice at least's disinterested ; 
 
 Such is my artless song to thee, 
 
 From all the flow of flattery free ; 
 
 Counsel like mine is as a brother's, - 
 
 My heart is given to some others ; 
 
 That is to say, unskill'd to cozen, 
 
 It shares itself among a dozen. 
 
 Marion, adieu ! oh ! pr'ythee slight not 
 
 This warning, though it may delight not; 
 
 * The Goddess of Justice. 
 
 t In law every person is an infant who has not attained the age of 
 twenty-one.. 
 
394 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 And, lest my precepts be displeasing 
 To those who think remonstrance teasing, 
 At once I'll tell thee our opinion 
 Concerning woman's soft dominion : 
 Howe'er we gaze with admiration 
 On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 
 Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 
 Howe'er those beauties may distract us, 
 Still fickle, we are prone to rove, 
 These cannot fix our souls to love : 
 It is not too severe a stricture 
 To say they form a pretty picture ; 
 But wouldst thou see the secret chain 
 Which binds us in your humble train, 
 To hail you queens of all creation. 
 Know, in a word, 'tis Animation. 
 
 OSCAR OF ALVA*. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 How sweetly shines, through azure skies, 
 The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore; 
 
 Where Alva's hoary turrets rise. 
 And hear the din of arms no more. 
 
 2. 
 But often has yon rolling moon 
 
 On Alva's casques of silver play'd ; 
 And view'd at midnight's silent noon, 
 
 Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd : 
 3.' 
 And on the crimson'd rocks beneath, 
 
 Which scroll o'er ocean's sullen flow, 
 Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death, 
 
 She saw the grasping warrior low ; 
 
 4, 
 While* many an eye which ne'er again 
 
 Could markj the rising orb of day, 
 Turn'd feebly from the gory plain, 
 
 Beheld in death her fading ray. 
 
 5. 
 Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, 
 
 They blest her dear propitious light 
 But now she glimmer'd from above, 
 
 A sad, funereal torch of night. 
 
 6. 
 
 Faded is Alva's noble race» 
 
 And gray her towers are seen afar 
 
 No more her heroes urge the chase, 
 Or roll the crimson tide of war. 
 
 7. 
 But who was last of Alva's clan ? 
 
 Why grows the moss on Alva's stone? 
 Her towers resound no steps of man, 
 
 They echo to the gale alone. 
 
 8. 
 And when that gale is fierce and high, 
 
 A sound is heard in yonder hall ; 
 It rises hoarsely through the sky, 
 
 And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 
 
 9. 
 
 Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, 
 It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 
 
 But there no more his banners rise. 
 No more his plumes of sable wave. 
 
 10. 
 
 * This poem was published for the first time in Hours of Idleness. 
 
 * The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of " Jeronymo 
 and Lorenzo," in the first volume of the " Armenian, or Ghost-Seer." It 
 also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of " Macbeth." 
 
 * While. First edition, when. 
 
 * Mark. First editioa. vieie. 
 
 Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, 
 
 When Angus hail'd his eldest born , 
 The vassals round their chieftain's hearth 
 
 Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 
 XL 
 They feast upon the mountain deer. 
 
 The pibroch raised its piercing note 
 To gladden more their highland cheer, 
 
 The strains in martial numbers float : 
 12. 
 And they who heard the war-notes wild 
 
 Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 
 Should play before the hero's child 
 
 While he should lead the tartan train. 
 13. 
 Another year is quickly past. 
 
 And Angus hails another son ; 
 His natal day is like the last, 
 
 Nor soon the jocund feast was done, 
 14. 
 Taught by their sire to bend the bow, 
 
 On Alva's dusky hills of wind. 
 The boys in childhood chased the roe, 
 
 And left their hounds in speed behind. 
 15. 
 But ere their years of youth are o'er, 
 
 They mingle in the ranks of war ; 
 They lightly wheel the bright claymore, 
 
 And send the whistling arrow far. 
 16. 
 Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, 
 
 Wildly it stream'd along the gale ; 
 But Allan's locks were bright and fair, 
 
 And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 
 
 17. 
 
 But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, 
 
 His dark eye shone through beams of truth ; 
 Allan had early learn'd control, 
 
 And smooth his words had been from youth. 
 18 
 Both, both were bra^^e ; the Saxon spear 
 
 Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel ; 
 And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, 
 
 But Oscar's bosom knew to feel ; 
 
 19. 
 
 While Allan's soul belied his form, 
 Unworthy with such charms to dwell : 
 
 Keen as the lightning of the storm. 
 On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 
 
 20. 
 From high Southannon's distant tower 
 
 Arrived a young and noble dame ; 
 With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, 
 
 Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came i 
 
 21. 
 
 And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride. 
 And Angus on his Oscar smiled : 
 
 It soothed the father's feudal pride 
 Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 
 
 22. 
 Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 
 
 Hark to the swelling nuptial song . 
 In joyous strains the voices float. 
 
 And still the choral peal prolong. 
 
 23. 
 See how the heroes' blood-red plumes 
 
 Assembled wave in Alva's hall ; 
 Each youth his varied plaid assumes, 
 
 Attendin^f on their chieftain's call. 
 
HOURS OP IDLENESS. 
 
 395 
 
 24. 
 It is not war their aid demands, 
 
 The pibroch plays the song of peace ; 
 To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, 
 
 Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 
 25. 
 But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late : 
 
 Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame? 
 While thronging guests and ladies wait, 
 
 Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 
 26. 
 At length young Allan join'd the bride : 
 
 "Why comes not Oscar ?" Angus said; 
 *' Is he not here?" the youth replied; 
 
 "With me he roved not o'er the glade. 
 
 27. 
 " Perchance, forgetful of the day, 
 
 'Tis his to chase the bounding roe; 
 Or ocean's waves prolong his stay ; 
 
 Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 
 
 28. 
 "Oh, no !" the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, 
 
 " Nor chase, nor wave, my boy delay ; 
 Would he to Mora seem unkind ? 
 
 Would aught to her impede his way ? 
 29. 
 "Oh ! search, ye chiefs ! oh ! search around ! 
 
 Allan, with these through Alva fly ; 
 Till Oscar, till my son is found, 
 
 Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." 
 30. 
 All is confusion — through the vale 
 
 The name of Oscar hoarsely rings 
 It rises on the murm'ring gale. 
 
 Till night expands her dusky wings ; 
 31. 
 It breaks the stillness of the night, 
 
 But echoes through her shades in vain : 
 It sounds through morning's misty light. 
 
 But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 
 
 32. 
 Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief 
 
 For Oscar search'd each mountain cave ; 
 Then hope is lost ; in boundless grief, 
 
 His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave. 
 
 33. 
 "Oscar ! my son I — thou God of Heav'n 
 
 Restore the prop of sinking age ! 
 Or if that hope no more is given, 
 
 Yield his assassin to my rage. 
 
 34. 
 "Yes, on some desert rocky shore 
 
 My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie ; 
 Then grant, thou God ! I ask no more, 
 With him his frantic sire may die ! 
 35. 
 "Yet he may live, — away, despair ! 
 
 Be calm, my soul I he yet may live ; 
 T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear ! 
 
 God ! my impious prayer forgive ! 
 
 36. 
 "What, if he live for me no more, 
 
 1 sink forgotten in the dust, 
 The hope of Alva's age is o'er : 
 
 Alas ! can pangs like these be just?" 
 37. 
 Thus did the hapless parent mourn, 
 
 Till Time, who soothes severest woe, 
 Had bade serenity return, 
 
 And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 
 
 38. 
 For still some latent hope survived 
 
 That Oscar might once more appear ; 
 His hope now droop'd and now revived, 
 
 Till Time had told a tedious year. 
 39. 
 Days roll'd along, the orb of light 
 
 Again had run his destined race ; 
 No Oscar bless'd his father's sight. 
 
 And sorrow left a fainter trace. 
 
 40. 
 For youthful Allan still remain'd, 
 
 And now his father's only joy : 
 And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, 
 
 For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy. 
 
 41. 
 
 She thought that Oscar low was laid. 
 And Allan's face v/as wondrous fair ; 
 
 If Oscar lived, some other maid 
 
 Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care. 
 
 42. 
 And Angus said, if one year more 
 
 In fruitless hope was pass'd away, 
 His fondest scruples should be o'er. 
 
 And he would name their nuptial day. 
 43. 
 Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last 
 
 Arrived the dearly destined morn ; 
 The year of anxious trembling past, 
 
 What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn ! 
 44. 
 Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 
 
 Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 
 In joyous strains the voices float, 
 
 And still the choral peal prolong. 
 
 45. 
 Again the clan, in festive crowd, 
 
 Throng through the gate of Alva's hall ; 
 The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, 
 
 And all their former joy recall. 
 
 46. 
 
 But who is he, whose darken'd brow 
 Glooms in the midst of general mirth ? 
 
 Before his eyes far fiercer glow 
 
 The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 
 
 47. 
 Dark is the robe which wraps his form, 
 
 And tall his plume of gory red ; 
 His voice is like the rising storm. 
 
 But light and trackless is his tread. 
 
 48. 
 'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, 
 
 The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff'd ; 
 With shouts the vaulted roofs resound. 
 
 And all combine to hail the draught. 
 
 49. 
 Sudden the stranger-chief arose, 
 
 And. all the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; 
 And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, 
 
 And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 
 
 50. 
 
 " Old man!" he cried, " this pledge is done ; 
 
 Thou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me ; 
 It hail'd the nuptials of thy son : 
 
 Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 
 51. 
 " While all around is mirth and joy, 
 
 To bless thy Allan's happy lot, 
 Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy ? 
 
 Say, why should Oscar be forgot?" 
 
396 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 ^2. 
 ♦« Alas !" the hapless sire replied, 
 
 The big tear starling as he spoke, 
 " When Oscar left my hall, or died, 
 
 This aged heart was almost broke. 
 
 63. 
 " Thrice has the earth revolved her course 
 
 Since Oscars form has bless'd my sight ; 
 And A llan is my last resource, 
 
 Since martial Oscar's death or flight." 
 
 54. 
 
 '' 'Tis %vell," replied the stranger stern, 
 And fiercely tiash'd his rolling eye ; 
 
 " Thv Oscar's faie I lain would learn ; 
 Perhaps the hero did not die. 
 
 55. 
 
 " Perchance, if those whom he most loved. 
 Would call, thy Oscar might return 
 
 Perchance the chief has only roved ; 
 For him thy Belt3.ne* yet may burn, 
 
 56. 
 " Fill high the bowl the talkie roimd. 
 
 We will not claim the pledge by stealth ; 
 W~ith wine let every cup be crowTi'd : 
 
 Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 
 
 57. 
 " With all my soul," old Angus said, 
 
 And fill'd his goblet to the brim ; 
 " Here's to my boy ! alive or dead, 
 
 I ne'er shall fnd a son like him." 
 
 58. 
 " Bravely, old man, this health has sped ; 
 
 But whv does Allan trembling stand ? 
 Come, drink remembrance of the dead, 
 
 And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 
 
 59, 
 The crimson glow of Allan's face 
 
 Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; 
 The drops of death each other chase 
 
 Adown in agonizing dew. 
 
 60. 
 
 Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 
 And thrice his lips refused to taste ; 
 
 For thrice he caught the stranger's eye 
 On his with deadly fury placed, 
 
 61. 
 
 " And is it thus a brother hails 
 
 A brother's fond remembrance here ? 
 
 If thus affection's strength prevails, 
 WTiat might we not expect from fear ?" 
 
 62. 
 
 Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 
 " Would Oscar nov/ could share our mirth !' 
 
 Internal fear appall'd his soul ; 
 
 He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 
 
 63. 
 
 " 'Tis he ! I hear my murderer's voice i" 
 Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form ; 
 
 " A murderer's voice !" the roof replies, 
 And deeply swells the bursting storm. 
 
 64. 
 
 The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink. 
 The stranger's gone, — amidst the crew 
 
 A form was seen in tartan green. 
 And tall the shade terrific grew. 
 
 ' Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of May, held near fires 
 fighted for (he occasion. 
 
 65. 
 
 His waist was bound with a broad bell round, 
 
 His plume of sable .«tream'd on high ; 
 But his breast was bare, v.ilh the red wounds there, 
 
 And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 
 66. 
 And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, 
 
 On Angus bending low tl^e knee ; 
 And thrice he frov»n'd on a chief on the ground, 
 
 Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 
 67. 
 The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole, 
 
 The thunders through the v.elkin ring, 
 And the gleaming form, through iheraist of the storm 
 
 Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 
 68. 
 Cold was the feast, the revel ceased. 
 
 Who lies upon the stony floor ? 
 Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast*, 
 
 At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 
 
 69. 
 
 " Away, away ! let the leech essay 
 
 To pour the light on Allan's eyes :*' 
 His sand is done, — his race is run ; 
 
 Oh I never more shall Allan rise I 
 70. 
 But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, 
 
 His locks are lifted by the gale ; 
 And Allan's barbed arrow lay 
 
 With him in dark Glentanar's vale, 
 71. 
 And whence the dreadful stranger came, 
 
 Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; 
 But no one doubts the form of flame. 
 
 For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 
 72. 
 Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, 
 
 Exulting demons wing'd his dart : 
 While Envy waved her burning brand, 
 
 And pour'd her venom round his heart. 
 73. 
 Swift is the shaft fi-ora Allan's bow : 
 
 Whose streaming life-blood stains his side ? 
 Dark Oscar's sable crest is low. 
 
 The dart has drunk his vital tide. 
 74. 
 And Mora's eve could Allan move, 
 
 She bade his wounded pride rebel : 
 Alas I that eyes which beamed with love 
 
 Should urge the soul to deeds of hell ! 
 75. 
 Lo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb 
 
 Which rises o'er a warrior dead ? 
 It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; 
 
 Oh! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 
 76. 
 Far, distant far, the noble grave 
 
 Which held his clan's great ashes stood ; 
 And o'er his corse no banners wave. 
 
 For they w-ere stain'd with kindred blood, 
 77. 
 W^hat minstrel gray, what hoary bard, 
 
 Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise ? 
 The song is glory's chief reward, 
 
 But who can strike a murderer's praise ? 
 78, 
 Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, 
 
 No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 
 Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, 
 
 His harp in shuddering chords would break. 
 
 * Old Angus ptess'd the earth \rith hi» breast. — First Edition, 
 
HOURS OP IDLENESS. 
 
 397 
 
 79. 
 No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, 
 
 Shall sound his glories high in air : 
 A dying father's bitter curse, 
 
 A brother's death groan echoes there. 
 
 TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. 
 
 In looking over my papers to select a few additional poems for this 
 second edition, I found the following lines, which I had totally forgot- 
 ten, composed in the summer of 1805, a short time previous to my depar- 
 ture from Hazron. They were addressed to a young schoolfellow of high 
 rank) who had been ray frequent companion in some rambles through the 
 neighbouring country ; however, he never saw the lines, and most proba- 
 bly never will. As, on a re-perusal, I found them not worse than some 
 other pieces in the collection, I have now published them, for the first time, 
 after a slight revision. 
 
 Dorset ! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, 
 Explering every path of Ida's glade, 
 Whom still affection taught me to defend, 
 And made me less a tyrant than a friend ; 
 Though the harsh custom of our youthful band 
 Bade thee obey, and gave me to command* ; 
 Thee on whose head a few short years will shower 
 The gifts of riches and the pride of power ; 
 E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
 Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the tlirone. 
 Yet Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul 
 To shun fair science, or evade control ; 
 Though passive tutorsj, fearful to dispraise 
 The titled child, whose future breath may raise, 
 Vievv' ducal errors with indulgent eyes, 
 And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. 
 
 When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 
 To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee, — 
 And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn 
 Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn, — 
 When these declare, "that pomp alone should wait 
 On one by birth predestined to be great ; 
 That books were only meant for drudging fools, 
 That gallant spirits scorn the common rules," 
 Believe them not,— they point the path to shame 
 And seek to blast the honours of thy name. 
 Turn to the few in Ida's early throng. 
 Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong ; 
 Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, 
 iSTone dare to raise the sterner voice of truth. 
 Ask thine own heart ; 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear; 
 For well I know that virtue lingers there. 
 
 Yes ! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, 
 But now new scenes invite me far away ; 
 Yes I have mark'd within that generous mind 
 ^ soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. 
 A.h ! though myself by nature haughty, wild. 
 Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child ; 
 Though every error stamps me for her own, 
 And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone ; 
 Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, 
 [ love the virtues which I cannot claim. 
 
 'Tis not enough, with other sons of power, 
 To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour ; 
 To swell some peerage page in feeble pride. 
 With long-drawn names that grace no page beside ; 
 Then share with titled crowds the common lot — 
 In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot ; 
 While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, 
 Except the dull, cold stone that hides thy head, 
 
 *At every public school the junior boys are completely subsei-vient to the 
 upper forms till they attain a seat in the higher classes. From this state 
 of probation, very properly, no rank is exempt ; but after a certain period 
 they command in turn those who succeed. 
 
 t Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most distant ; I 
 .-nerely mention generally what is too often the weakness of preceptors. 
 
 The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, 
 
 That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll. 
 
 Where lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find 
 
 One spot, to leave a worthless name behind. 
 
 There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 
 
 + That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, 
 
 A race with old armorial lists o'erspread, 
 
 In records destined never to be read. 
 
 Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, 
 
 Exalted more among the good and wise, 
 
 A glorious and a long career pursue, 
 
 As first in rank, the first in talent too : 
 
 Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun; 
 
 Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 
 
 Turn to the annals of a former day, 
 Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display. 
 One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth, 
 And call'd, proud boast ! the British drama forthf . 
 Another view, not less renown'd for wit ; 
 Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit ; 
 Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine ; 
 In every splendid part ordain'd to shine ; 
 Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, 
 The pride of princes, and the boast of songj. 
 Such were thy fathers ; thus preserve their name ; 
 Not heir to titles only, but to fame. 
 The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, 
 To me, this little scene of joys and woes ; 
 Each knell of Time now warns me to resign 
 Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were 
 
 mine : 
 Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue. 
 And gild their pinions as the moments flew ; 
 Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, 
 By dreams of ill to cloud some future day ; 
 Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell ; 
 Alas ! they love not long who love so well. 
 To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
 Scenes hail'd as exiles hail their native shore, 
 Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep, 
 Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 
 
 Dorset, farewell ! I will not ask one part 
 Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 
 The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 
 Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. 
 And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year. 
 Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere. 
 Since the same senate, nay, the same debate 
 May one day claim our suffrage for the state, 
 We hence may meet, and pass each other by 
 With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 
 For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 
 A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe, 
 With thee no more again I hope to trace 
 The recollection of our early race ; 
 No more, as once, in social hours rejoice. 
 Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice. 
 Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 
 To veil those feelings which perchance it ought, " 
 If these — but let me cease the lengthen'd strain — 
 Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in vain. 
 The guardian seraph who directs thy fate 
 Will leave thee glorious as he found thee great. 
 
 * See the same line in Lara, stanza 11. 
 
 ■f " Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, created Earl of Dorset by 
 James the first, was one of the earliest and brightest ornaments to the 
 poetry of his country, and the first who produced a regular drama." — 
 Anderson^ s British Poets. 
 
 I " Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, esteemed the most accomplished 
 man of his day, was alike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charles 
 II. and the gloomy one of William III. He behaved with great gallantry 
 in the sea fight with the Dutch in 1665, on the day previous to which ha 
 composed his celebrated song. His character has been drawn in the 
 highest colours by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congi-eve. — Anderson's Bri 
 tish Poets. 
 
TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS. 
 
 ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN 
 DYING. 
 
 Animula ! vagula, blandula, 
 Hospes, comesque, corporis, 
 Q,ure nunc abibis in loca ? 
 Pallidula, rigida, nudula, 
 NeCj ut soles, dabis jocos. 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, 
 Friend and associate of this clay ! 
 To what unknown region borne, 
 Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight ? 
 No more with wonted humour gay. 
 But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 
 
 AD LESBIAM. 
 
 Equal to Jove that youth must be — 
 Greater than Jove he seems to me — 
 Who, free from jealousy's alarms, 
 Securely views thy matchless charms. 
 That cheek, which ever dimpling glows. 
 That mouth, from whence such music flows, 
 To him, alike, are always known. 
 Reserved for him, and him alone. 
 Ah ! Lesbial though 't is death to me, 
 I cannot choose but look on thee ; 
 But, at the sight, my senses fly ; 
 I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die ; 
 Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, 
 Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres. 
 My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, 
 My limbs deny their slight support, 
 Cold dews ray pallid face o'erspread, 
 With deadly languor droops my head, 
 My ears with tingling echoes ring, 
 And life itself is on the wing ; 
 My eyes refuse the cheering light. 
 Their orbs are veil'd in starless night : 
 Such pangs my nature sinks beneath. 
 And feels a temporary death. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON 
 VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. 
 
 BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. 
 
 He who sublime in epic numbers roU'd, 
 And he who struck the softer lyre of love. 
 
 By Death's* unequal hand alike controU'd, 
 Fit comrades in Elysian regions move ! 
 
 IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. | 
 
 " Sulpicia ad Cerinthum." — Lib. Quart. 
 
 Cruel Cerinthus ! does the fell disease 
 
 Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please ? 
 
 Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain. 
 
 That I might live for love and you again : 
 
 But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate : 
 
 By death alone I can avoid your hate. 
 
 * The hanrl of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, a3 Virgil was 
 considerably older than Tilmllns at his decease. 
 t From the private volume. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 
 
 " LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSERIS." 
 1. 
 
 Ye Cupids, droop each little head, 
 Nor let your wings with joy be spread. 
 My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead. 
 
 Whom dearer than her eyes she loved : 
 For he was gende, and so true, 
 Obedient to her call he flew. 
 No fear, no wild alarm he knew. 
 
 But lightly o'er her bosom moved : 
 
 2. 
 And softly fluttering here and there. 
 He never sought to clear the air, 
 But chirupp'd oft, and, free from care, 
 
 Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
 Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne 
 From whence he never can return, 
 His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn, 
 
 Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 
 
 3. 
 
 Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! 
 Whose jaws eternal victims crave. 
 From whom no earthly power can save, 
 
 For thou hast ta'en the bird away : 
 From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, 
 Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow ; 
 Thou art the cause of all her wo 
 
 Receptacle of life's decay. 
 
 IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. 
 
 Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
 A million scarce would quench desire : 
 Still would I steep my lips in bliss, 
 And dwell an age on every kiss : 
 Nor then my soul should sated be ; 
 Still would I kiss and cling to thee : 
 Naught should my kiss from thine dissever ; 
 Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever ; 
 E'en though the numbers did exceed 
 The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
 To part would be a vain endeavour : 
 Could I desist? — ah ! never — ^never. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM HORACE * 
 
 ODE 3, LIB. 3. 
 1. 
 
 The man of firm and noble soul 
 No factious clamours can control ; 
 No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow 
 
 Can swerve him from his just intent : 
 Gales the warring waves which plough, 
 
 By Auster on the biDovvs spent, 
 To curb the Adriatic main. 
 Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. 
 
 2. 
 Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
 Hurding his lightnings from above, 
 
 Only printed in the private volume. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 399 
 
 With all his terrors then unfurl'd, 
 He would unmoved, unawed behold : 
 
 The flames of an expiring world, 
 Again in crashing chaos roU'd, 
 
 In vast promiscuous ruin hurled. 
 
 Might light his glorious funeral pile : 
 
 Still dauntless midst the wreck of earth he 'd smile. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON.* 
 
 TO HIS LYRE. 
 
 I WISH to tune my quivering lyre 
 To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; 
 To echo, from its rising swell, 
 How heroes fought and nations fell, 
 When Atreus' sons advanced to war, 
 Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar ; 
 But still, to martial strains unknown, 
 My lyre recurs to love alone. 
 Fired with the hope of future fame, 
 I seek some nobler hero's name ; 
 The dying chords are strung anew. 
 To war, to war, my harp is due : 
 With glowing strings, the epic strain 
 To Jove's great son I raise again ; 
 Alcides and his glorious deeds. 
 Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds ; 
 All, all in vain ; my wayward lyre 
 Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
 Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms ! 
 Adieu the clang of war's alarms ! 
 To other deeds my soul is strung, 
 And sweeter notes shall now be sung ; 
 My harp shall all its powers reveal. 
 To tell the tale my heart must feel ; 
 Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, 
 In songs of bliss and sighs of flame. 
 
 ODE IILf 
 
 'T WAS now the hour when Night had driven 
 
 Her car half round yon sable heaven ; 
 
 Bootes, only, seem'd to roll 
 
 His arctic charge aroimd the pole ; 
 
 While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, 
 
 Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep : 
 
 At this lone hour, the Paphian boy, 
 
 Descending from the realms of joy, 
 
 duick to my gate directs his course. 
 
 And knocks with all his little force. 
 
 My visions fled, alarm'd I rose, — 
 
 " What stranger breaks my blest repose?" 
 
 " Alas !" replies the wily child 
 
 In faltering accents sweetly mild, 
 
 " A hapless infant here I roam, 
 
 Far from my dear maternal home. 
 
 Oh ! shield me from the wintry blast! 
 
 The nightly storm is pouring fast. 
 
 No prowling robber lingers here. 
 
 A wandering baby who can fear ? 
 
 I heard his seeming artless tale, 
 
 I heard his sighs upon the gale : 
 
 My breast was never pity's foe, 
 
 But felt for all the baby's wo. 
 
 I drew the bar, and by the light 
 
 Young Love, the infant, met my sight ; 
 
 His bow across his shoulders flung, 
 
 And thence his fatal quiver hung, 
 
 (Ah ! little did I think the dart 
 
 Would rankle soon within my heart.) 
 
 * First published in Hours of Idleness, 
 t First printed in Hours of Idleness. 
 
 With care I tend my weary guest. 
 His little fingers chill my breast ; 
 His glossy curls, his azure wing, 
 Which droop with nightly showers, I wring: 
 His shivering limbs the embers warm ; 
 And now reviving from the storm, 
 Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, 
 Than swift he seized his slender bow : — 
 " I fain would know, my gentle host," 
 He cried, " if this its strength has lost ; 
 I fear, relax'd with midnight dews. 
 The strings their former aid retlise." 
 With poison tipt, his arrow flies. 
 Deep in my tortured heart it lies ; 
 Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd : — 
 " My bow can still impel the shaft : 
 'T is firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; 
 Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ?" 
 
 FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES. 
 
 FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ^SCHYLUS. 
 
 Great Jove, to whose almighty throne 
 
 Both gods and mortals homage pay. 
 Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, 
 
 Thy dread behests ne'er disobey 
 Oft shall the sacred victim fall 
 In seagirt Ocean's mossy hall ; 
 My voice shall raise no impious strain 
 Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. 
 
 How different now thy joyless fate, 
 
 Since first Hesione thy bride. 
 When placed aloft in godlike state. 
 The blushing beauty by thy side, 
 Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled. 
 And mirthful strains the hours beguiled. 
 The Nymphs and Tritons danced around. 
 Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd. 
 Harrow, Dec. I, 1804. 
 
 THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURIALUS. 
 
 A PARAPHRASE FROM THE .ENEID, LIE. IX. 
 
 Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood. 
 Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood ; 
 Well skill'd m fight the quivering lance to wield, 
 Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field : 
 * From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, 
 And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. 
 To watch the movements of the Daunian host, 
 With him Euryalus sustains the post; 
 No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 
 And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy ; 
 Though few the seasons of his youthful life. 
 As yet a novice in the martial strife, 
 'Twas his, with beauty, valour's gifts to share — 
 A soul heroic, as his form was fair : 
 These burn with one pure flame of generous love ; 
 In peace, in war, united still they move ; 
 Friendship and glory form their joint reward ; 
 And now combined they hold their nightly guard. 
 
 * Him Ida sent, a iiunter now no more, 
 To combat foes upon a foreign shore. 
 Near liim, the loveliest of tiie Trojan bana 
 Did fair Euryalus, his comrade, stand : 
 Few are the seasons of his youthful life 
 As yet a novice in the martial strife : 
 The gods to him unwonted gifts impart, 
 A female's beauty, with a hero's heart. 
 These burn with one pure flame of generous love , 
 In peace, in war, united still they move ; 
 Friendship and glory form their joint reward, 
 And now combined, 'the massy gate they guard. 
 Such was the original version of this passage, as given lu the private 
 volume, where uo more than the above fragment was printed. 
 
400 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 " Wlial god," exclaim'd the first, "instils this fire ! 
 Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? 
 My labouring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, 
 Abhors this station of inglorious rest ; 
 The love of fame with this can ill accord, 
 Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 
 Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, 
 Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb ? 
 Where confidence and ease the watch disdain, 
 And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign? 
 Then hear my thought : — In deep and sullen grief 
 Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief: 
 Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine, 
 (The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine,) 
 Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound, 
 Melhinks, an easy path perchance were found; 
 Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls, 
 And lead ^neas from Evander's halls." 
 With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy, 
 His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy : — 
 " These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone? 
 Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own? 
 Am I by thee despised, and left afar. 
 As one unfit to share the toils of war ? 
 Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught ; 
 Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought ; 
 Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, 
 I track'd ^neas through the walks of fate : 
 Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear, 
 And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. 
 Here is a soul with hope in)mortal burns, 
 And life, ignoble life, for glory spurns. 
 Fame, fame is cheaply earn' d by fleeting breath: 
 The price of honour is the sleep of death." 
 Then Nisus, — "Calm thy bosom's fond alarms: 
 Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. 
 More dear thy worth and valour than my ovm, 
 I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne 1 
 So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, 
 And clasp again the comrade of my youth ! 
 But should I fall, — and he who dares advance 
 Through hostile legions must abide by chance, — 
 If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, 
 Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low, 
 Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve, 
 Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve. 
 When humbled in the dust, let some one be, 
 Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; 
 Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force. 
 Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse ; 
 Or, if my destiny these last deny. 
 If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie. 
 Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb. 
 To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. 
 Why should thy doting wretched mother weep 
 Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep ? 
 Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared, 
 Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared ; 
 Who braved what woman never braved before, 
 And left her native for the Latian shore." 
 " In vain you damp the ardour of my soul," 
 Replied Euryalus ; " it scorns control ! 
 Hence, let us haste !" — their brother guards arose, 
 Roused by their call, nor court again repose 5 
 The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing. 
 Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. 
 
 Now o'er the earth a solemn stilbess ran, 
 And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man ; 
 Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
 Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. 
 On one great point the council are agreed. 
 An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
 Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield 
 And poised with easy arm his ancient shield ; 
 
 AVhen Nisus and his friend their leave request 
 To offer something to their high behest. 
 With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear. 
 The faithful pair before the throne appear: 
 lulus greets them ; at his kind command. 
 The elder first address'd the hoary band. 
 
 " With patience" (thus Hyrtacides began) 
 " Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan. 
 Where yonder beacons half expiring beam. 
 Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream 
 Nor heed that we a secret path have traced. 
 Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
 Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke. 
 Whose shade securely our design will cloak ! 
 If you, ye chiefs, and fortune, will allow, 
 We '11 bend our course to yonder mountain's brow, 
 Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight. 
 Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night: 
 Then shall iEneas in his pride return, 
 While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn ; 
 And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead 
 Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. 
 Such is our purpose, not unknown the way ; 
 Where yonder torrent's devious water stray, 
 Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, 
 The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 
 
 Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, 
 Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd, 
 " Ye parent gods! who rule the fate of Troy, 
 Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
 When minds like these in striplings thus ye raise, 
 Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise ; 
 In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive, 
 And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
 Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd, 
 And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast; 
 With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, 
 And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : 
 " What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize 
 Can we bestow, which you may not despise ? 
 Our deities the first best boon have .given — 
 Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
 What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth 
 Doubtless await such young, exalted worth. 
 jEneas and Ascanius shall combine 
 To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." 
 lulus then : — " By all the powers above ! 
 By those Penates * who my country love ! 
 By hoary "Vesta's sacred fane, I swear. 
 My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair! 
 Restore my father to my grateful sight, 
 And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
 Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own. 
 Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown ! 
 My sire secured "them on that fatal day. 
 Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey: 
 Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine ; 
 Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine : 
 An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave. 
 While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave : 
 But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 
 When great iEneas wears Hesperia's crown. 
 The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed 
 Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed, 
 Are thine ; no envious lot shall then be cast, 
 I pledge my word, irrevocably past : 
 Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dames, 
 To sooth thy softer hours with amorous flames. 
 And all the realms which now the Latins sway, 
 The labours of to-night shall well repay. 
 
 Household godsv 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 401 
 
 But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 
 Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, 
 Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun, 
 Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one ; 
 Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine ; 
 Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 
 Alike through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy, 
 In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 
 
 To him Euryalus : — " No day shall shame 
 The rising glories which from this I claim. 
 Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown, 
 But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. 
 Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 
 One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart : 
 My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, 
 Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine. 
 Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain 
 Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; 
 * Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 
 A bright example of maternal love. 
 Unknown the secret enterprise I brave. 
 Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave ; 
 From this alone no fond adieus I seek. 
 No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek ; 
 By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 
 Her parting tears would shake my purpose now : 
 Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain. 
 In thee her much-loved child may live again ; 
 Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 
 Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress : 
 So dear a hope must all my soul inflame, 
 To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 
 Struck with a filial care so deeply felt, 
 In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt : 
 Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflov/ ; 
 Such love was his, and such had been his wo. 
 *' All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied ; 
 " Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 
 To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 
 Creusa's f style but wanting to the dame. 
 Fortune an adverse wayward course may run. 
 But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
 Now, by my life ! — my sire's most sacred oath — 
 To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth. 
 All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, 
 If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd," 
 Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 
 A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; 
 Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 
 For friends to envy and for foes to feel ; 
 A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil. 
 Slain 'mid the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
 Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows. 
 And old Alethes' casque defends his brows. 
 Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembled train. 
 To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. 
 More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
 lulus holds amid the chiefs his place : 
 His prayers he sends ; but what can prayers avail, 
 Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale ! 
 
 The trench is pass'd, and, favourM by the night. 
 Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. 
 When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er ? 
 Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no more ! 
 Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen; 
 And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between: 
 Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine ; 
 A mingled chaos this of war and wine. 
 " Now," cries the first, "for deeds of blood prepare. 
 With me the conquest and the labour share : 
 
 " Alone s/ie came." In the first edition, " Hither she coma. 
 The mother of lulus, lost on th« night when Troy was taken. 
 
 3A 
 
 Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise, 
 
 Watch thou, while many a dreaming cheftain dies : 
 
 I 'U carve our passage through the heedless foe. 
 
 And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 
 
 His whispering accents then the youth repress'd, 
 
 And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting breast; 
 
 Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed ; 
 
 Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed: 
 
 To Tumus dear, a prophet and a prince. 
 
 His omens more than augur's skill evince; 
 
 But he, who thus foretold the fate of all, 
 
 Could not avert his own untimely fall. 
 
 Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless fell. 
 
 And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell 
 
 The charioteer along his courser's sides 
 
 Expires, the steel his sever'd neck divides; 
 
 And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead : 
 
 Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; 
 
 From the swoll'n veins the blackening torrents pour 
 
 Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. 
 
 Young Lamyms and Lamus next expire. 
 
 And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire: 
 
 Half the long night in childish games was pass'd ; 
 
 Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last: 
 
 Ah ! happier far had he the morn survey'd, 
 
 And till Aurora's dawn his skill display'd. 
 
 In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep 
 His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; 
 'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night, he prowls, 
 With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls: 
 Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams; 
 In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 
 
 Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, 
 But falls on feeble crowds without a name : 
 His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, 
 Yet wakeful RhiEsus sees the threatening steel' 
 His coward breast behind a jar he hides, 
 And vainly in the weak defence confides ; 
 Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, 
 The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
 Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow 
 One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
 Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, 
 Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; 
 There, unconfined, behold each grazing steed, 
 Unwatch'd, unlieeded, on the herbage feed : 
 Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm. 
 Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm :— 
 " Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd ; 
 Full foes enough to-night have breath'd their last: 
 Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ; 
 Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 
 
 What silver arms, with various art emboss'd, 
 What bowls and mantles in confusion toss'd, 
 They leave regardless I yet one glittering prize 
 Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
 The gilded harness Rhamnes* coursers felt, 
 The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt : 
 This from the pallid corse was quickly torn. 
 Once by a line of former cheftains worn. 
 Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
 Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears ; 
 Then from the tents their cautious steps they beiid 
 To seek the vale where safer paths extend. 
 
 Just at this hour a band of Latian horse 
 To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course : 
 While the slow foot their tardy march delay. 
 The knights, impatient, spur along the way : 
 Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led, 
 To Turnushwith their master's promise sped: 
 
402 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Now tliey approach the trench, and view the walls, 
 
 When, on the left, a light reflection falls ; 
 
 The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night, 
 
 Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 
 
 Volscens with question loud the pair alarms : — 
 
 " Stand, stragglers ! stand ! why early thus in arms? 
 
 From whence, to whom ?" — He meets with no reply: 
 
 Trusting the covert of the night, they fly ; 
 
 The thicket's depth with hurried pace they tread. 
 
 While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 
 
 With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, 
 Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene : 
 Euryaius his heavy spoils impede, 
 The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead ; 
 But Nisus scours along the forest's maze 
 To where Latinus' steeds in safety gi-aze. 
 Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, 
 On every side they seek his absent friend. 
 " O God ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft, 
 In what impending perils art thou left !" 
 Listening he runs — above the waving trees, 
 Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze ; 
 The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
 Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. 
 Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise ; 
 The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys : 
 The hapless boy a ruffian train surround. 
 While lengthening shades his weary way confound ; 
 Him with loud shouts the furious knights pursue, 
 Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
 What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare ? 
 Ah ! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share 7 
 What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, 
 Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ? 
 His life a votive ransom nobly give. 
 Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live ? 
 Poising with strength his lifted lance on high. 
 On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye : — 
 *' Goddess serene, transcending every star! 
 dueen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar! 
 By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove. 
 When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove ; 
 If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 
 Thine altars wtih the produce of the chase, * 
 Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, 
 To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." 
 Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung ; 
 Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung ; 
 The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, 
 Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay : 
 He sobs, he dies, — the troop in wild amaze, 
 Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze. 
 While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples riven, 
 A second shaft with equal force is driven : 
 Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes ; 
 Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. 
 Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall. 
 " Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all!" 
 Q.uick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, 
 And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 
 Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals, 
 Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals ; 
 Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, 
 And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies : 
 " Me, me — ^your vengeance hurl on me alone ; 
 Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own. 
 Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven ! attest ! 
 He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile confest ! 
 All, all was mine, — his early fate suspend ; 
 He only loved too well his hapless friend : 
 Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage remove ; 
 His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." 
 He pray'd in vain ; the dark assassin's sword 
 Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ; 
 
 Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, 
 And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast: 
 As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air, 
 Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; 
 Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower. 
 Declining gently, falls a fading flower ; 
 Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, 
 And lingering beauty hovers round the dead. 
 
 But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide. 
 Revenge his leader, and despair his guide ; 
 Volscens he seeks amid the gathering host, 
 Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost; 
 Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe ; 
 Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow ; 
 In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds. 
 Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; 
 In viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flies, 
 Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies ; 
 Deep in his throat its end the weapon found. 
 The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. 
 Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved — 
 Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved ; 
 Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, 
 And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace ! 
 
 Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim, 
 Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame! 
 Ages on ages shall your fate admire, 
 No future day shall see your names expire. 
 While stands the Capitol, immortal dome ! 
 And vanquish'd millions hail their empress, Rome ! 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF 
 EURIPIDES.* 
 
 When fierce conflicting passions urge 
 
 The breast where love is wont to glow, 
 What mind can stem the stormy surge 
 
 Which rolls the tide of human wo ? 
 The hope of praise, the dread of shame, 
 
 Can rouse the tortured breast no more ; 
 The wild desire, the guilty flame. 
 
 Absorbs each wish it felt before. 
 
 2. 
 But if affection gently thrills 
 
 The soul by purer dreams possest, 
 The pleasing balm of mortal ills 
 
 In love can sooth the aching breast : 
 If thus thou comest in disguise, f 
 
 Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, 
 What heart unfeeling would despise 
 
 The sweetest boon the gods have given ? 
 
 3. 
 
 But never from thy golden bow 
 
 May I beneath the shaft expire ! 
 Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, 
 
 Awakes an all-consuming fire : 
 Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears ! 
 
 With others wage internal war ; 
 Repentance, source of future tears. 
 
 From me be ever distant far ! 
 
 4. 
 May no distracting thoughts destroy 
 
 The holy calm of sacred love ! 
 May all the hours be winged with joy, 
 
 Which hovei faithful hearts above ! 
 
 • First printed in Ilours of Idleness 
 
 1 Comest in disguise. In the first edition, com'tl in gen'U guUa. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 403 
 
 Fair Venus ! on tliy myrtle shrine 
 
 Ah! hapless dame !* no sire bewails. 
 
 May I with some fond lover sigh, 
 
 No friend thy wretched fate deplores, 
 
 Whose heart may mingle pure with mine— - 
 
 No kindred voice with rapture hails 
 
 With me to live, with me to die ! 
 
 Thy steps within a stranger's doors. 
 
 5. 
 
 My native soil ! beloved before, 
 
 7. 
 Perish the fiend whose iron heart, 
 
 Now dearer as my peaceful home, 
 
 To fair affection's truth unknown, 
 
 Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 
 
 Bids her he fondly loved depart, 
 
 A hapless banish'd wretch to roam ! 
 
 Unpitied, helpless, and alone ; 
 
 This very day, this very hour, 
 
 ^Vho ne'er unlocks with silver keyf 
 
 May I resign this fleeting breath! 
 
 The milder treasures of his soul, — 
 
 Nor quit my silent humble bovver ; 
 
 May such a friend be far from me, 
 
 A doom to me far worse than death. 
 
 And ocean's storms between us roll ! 
 
 6. 
 Have I not heard the exile's sigh. 
 
 * Medea, who accompanied Jasou to Corinth, was deserted by him for 
 the daughter of Creon, king of that city. The chorus from which this 
 
 And seen the exile's silent tear. 
 
 is taken here addresses Medea ; though a considerable Uberty is taken 
 with the original, by expanding the idea, as also in some other pans of 
 the translation. 
 
 Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, 
 
 A pensive weary wanderer here ? 
 
 t The original is " Ka^apdv ivoC^avTi nXfiSa ^perffiv;" literally 
 " disclosing the bright key of the mind." 
 
 FUGITIVE PIECES. 
 
 THOUGHTS 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.* 
 
 High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
 Magnus his ample front sublime uprears : 
 Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god 
 While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod. 
 As all around sit rapt in speechless gloom, 
 His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome ; 
 Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
 Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. 
 
 Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried, 
 Though little versed in any art beside ; 
 Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, 
 Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
 What though he knows not how his fathers bled 
 When civil discord piled the fields with dead, 
 When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, 
 Or Henry trampled on the crest of France ; 
 Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta, 
 Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ; 
 Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, 
 While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid; 
 Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame. 
 Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 
 
 Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
 Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await ; 
 Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize. 
 If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 
 But, lo ! no common orator can hope 
 The envied silver cup within his scope. 
 Not that our heads much eloquence require, 
 Th' Athenian's glowing style, or Tully's fire. 
 A manner clear or warm is useless, since 
 We do not try by speaking to convince. 
 
 Be other orators of pleasing proud : 
 We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd: 
 Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 
 A proper mixture of the squeak and groan : 
 No borrow'd grace of action must be seen ; 
 The slightest motion would displease the Dean ; 
 Wliilst every staring graduate would prate 
 Against what he could never imitate. 
 
 The man who hopes t' obtain the promised cup 
 Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up ; 
 Nor stop, but rattle over every word — 
 No matter what, so it can not be heard. 
 Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest: 
 Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best; 
 Who utters most widiin the shortest space 
 May safely hope to win the wordy race. 
 
 The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, 
 Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; 
 Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie 
 Unknown — unhonour'd live, unwept-for die : 
 Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls. 
 They think all learning fix'd within their walls : 
 In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, 
 All modern arts affecting to despise ; 
 Yet prizing Bentley's,* Brunck's,* or PoRSON'sf note, 
 More than the verse on which the critic wrote : 
 
 I Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale. 
 Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; 
 
 To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel 
 When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
 With eager haste they court the lord of power. 
 Whether 't is Pitt or Petty rules the hour ;§ 
 To him with suppliant smiles they bend the head, 
 
 II While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. 
 
 * No reflection is here intended against the person mentioned under 
 the name of Magnus. He is merely represented as performing an una- 
 voidable function of his office. Indeed, such an attempt could only recoil 
 upon myself; as that gentleman is now as much distinguished by his 
 eloquence, and the dignified propriety with which he fills his situation, as 
 he was in his younger days for wit and conviviality. 
 
 The above note was added la the first edition of the Hours of Idle- 
 ness. 
 
 * Celebrated critics. 
 
 t The present Greek professor at Trinity College, Cambridge ; a man 
 whose powers of mind and writings may perhaps justify their preference. 
 
 The concluding clause of the foregoing note was added in the first edi- 
 tion of Hours of Idleness. 
 
 % Vain as their honours, * c— The four ensuing lines were inserted in 
 the second edition of Hours of Idleness. 
 
 § Since this was written, Lord H. Petty has lost his place, and sub- 
 sequently (I had almost said consequently) the honour of representing 
 the University. A fact so glaring requires no comment. 
 
 II While distant mitres, &c. In the private volume, While mitrtt, 
 prebends, to their eyes are spread. 
 
401 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 1806. 
 
 But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace 
 They 'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place. 
 Such are the men vvho learning's treasures guard 
 Such is their practice, such is their reward ! 
 This much, at least, we may presume to say — 
 The premium can't exceed the price they pay. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF 
 
 " Tu semper amoiis 
 raeraor, et cari comitis ue abscedat imago." 
 
 Valeriut Flaccns. 
 
 L 
 
 Friend of my youth ! when young we rovod, 
 Like striplings mutually beloved 
 
 With friendship's purest glow, 
 The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours 
 Was such as pleasure seldom showers 
 
 On mortals here below. 
 
 The recollection seems alone 
 Dearer than all the joys I 've known 
 
 When distant far from you: 
 Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain, 
 To trace those days and hours again, 
 
 And sigh again adieu ! 
 
 3. 
 
 My pensive memory lingers o'er 
 Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, 
 
 Those scenes regretted ever : 
 The measure of our youth is full, 
 Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 
 
 And we may meet — ah ! never ! 
 
 As when one parent spring supplies 
 
 Two streams which from one fountain rise, 
 
 Together join'd in vain ; 
 How soon, diverging from their source. 
 Each, murmuring, seeks another course, 
 
 Till mingled in the main ! 
 
 5. 
 Our vital streams of weal or wo, 
 Though near, alas ! distinctly flow, 
 
 Nor mingle as before : 
 Now swift or slow, now black or clear, 
 Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear. 
 
 And both shall quit the shore. 
 
 Our souls, my fiiend ! which once supplied 
 One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, 
 
 Now flow in different channels : 
 Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
 'T is yours to mix in polish'd courts, 
 
 And shine in fashion's annals • 
 
 7. 
 "'T is mine to waste on love my time, 
 Or vent my reveries in rhyme 
 Without the aid of reason ; 
 For sense and reason (critics know it) 
 Have quitted every amorous poet. 
 Nor left a thought to seize on. 
 
 Poor IjIttle ! sweet, melodious bard ! 
 Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard 
 
 That he who sang before all, 
 He who the lore of love expanded, 
 By dire reviewers should be branded 
 
 As void of wit and moral.* 
 
 And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, 
 Harmonious favourite of the Nine ! 
 
 Repine not at thy lot : 
 Thy soothing rays may still be read, 
 when Persecution's arm is dead, 
 
 And critics are forgot. 
 
 10. 
 Still I must yield those worthies merit, 
 Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, 
 
 Bad rhymes, and those who write them ; 
 And though myself may be the next 
 By critic sarcasm to be vext, 
 
 I really will not fight them.f 
 
 11. 
 
 Perhaps they would do quite as well 
 To break the rudely sounding shell 
 
 Of such a young beginner. 
 He who offends at pert nineteen. 
 Ere thirty may become, I ween, 
 
 A very harden'd sinner. 
 
 12. 
 
 Now, , I must return to you ; 
 
 And sure apologies are due : 
 
 Accept, then, my concession. 
 
 In truth, dear , in fancy's flight 
 
 I soar along from left to right ; 
 
 My muse admires disgression. 
 
 13. 
 
 I think I said 't would be your fate 
 To add one star to royal state, — 
 
 May regal smiles attend you ! 
 And should a noble monarch reign. 
 You will not seek his smiles in vain. 
 
 If worth can recommend you. 
 
 14. 
 
 Yet since in danger courts abound, 
 Where specious rivals glitter round. 
 
 From snares may saints preserve you! 
 And grant your love or friendship ne'er 
 From any claim a kindred care 
 But those who best deserve you ! 
 
 15. 
 
 Not for a moment may you stray 
 From truth's secure unerrring way ! 
 
 May no delights decoy ! 
 O'er roses may your footsteps move ! 
 Your smiles be ever smiles of love1 
 
 Your tears be tears of joy ! 
 
 16. 
 
 Oh ! if you wish that happiness 
 
 Your coming days and years may bless, 
 
 And virtues crown your brow, 
 Be still as you were wont to be, 
 Spotless as you 've been known to me, — 
 
 Be still as you are now. 
 
 • TheM »tanta« were first published in the second edition of Hours of 
 lulenee*. 
 
 These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a severe 
 critique, In a northern review, on a new pubiicaiion of the British Ana- 
 creon. 
 
 t A bard (horresco refcrens) defied his reviewer to mortal combat. 
 If this example becomes prevalent, our periodical ceuBors must be dipped 
 in the river Styx ; for what else can secure them from the numeroun hoit 
 of their enraged asssailant .' 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 405 
 
 17. 
 
 And though some trifling share of praise, 
 To cheer my last declining days, 
 
 To me were doubly dear ; 
 Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
 I 'd wave at once a poei''s fame, 
 
 To prove a prophet here. 
 
 ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES 
 SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, 
 COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DE- 
 SCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARM- 
 LY DRAWN. + 
 
 ■ But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician, 
 Should condemn me for printing a second edition ; 
 If good Madam Squintum my worlc should abuse, 
 May I venture to give her a smack of my muse ?" 
 Anstey's New Bath Guide, p. 
 
 Candour compels me, Becher ! to commend 
 The verse which blends the censor with the friend. 
 Your strong, yet just, reproof extrorts applause 
 From me, the heedless and imprudent f cause. 
 For this wild J error which pervades my strain, 
 I sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain ? 
 The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart ; 
 Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart ? 
 Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control, 
 The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. 
 When love's delirium haunts the glowing mind, 
 Limping Decorum lingers far behind : 
 Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
 Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase. 
 The young, the old, have worn the chains of love : 
 Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove : 
 Let those whose souls contem-n the pleasing power 
 Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
 Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song. 
 The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, 
 Whose laboured lines in chilling numbers flow, 
 To paint a pang the author ne'er can know ! 
 The artless Helicon I boast is youth ; — 
 My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth. 
 Far be 't from me the " virgin's mind" to " taint :" 
 Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
 The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile, 
 Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile. 
 Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, 
 Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe — 
 She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine 
 Will ne'er be '•' tainted" by a strain of mine. 
 But for the nymph whose premature desires 
 Torment the bosom with unholy fires. 
 No net to snare her willing heart is spread ; 
 She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read. 
 For me, I fain would please the chosen few, 
 Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true, 
 Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 
 The light effusions of a heedless boy. 
 I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 
 Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud ; 
 Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize. 
 Their sneers or censures I alike despise. • 
 
 November 26, 1806. 
 
 GRANTA. 
 
 " ^Apyvpiais XdyxaK^i^ i"«X°" '^"^ -Tavra Kpar^iratj."* 
 
 1. 
 
 Oh ! could Le Sage's f demon's gift 
 
 Be realized at my desire. 
 This night my trembling form he 'd lift 
 
 To place it on St. Mary's spire. 
 
 2. 
 Then would, unroof 'd, old Granta's halls 
 
 Pedantic inmates full display ; 
 Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls, 
 
 The price of venal votes to pay. 
 
 3. 
 
 Then would I view each rival wight, 
 
 Petty and Palmerston survey ; 
 Who canvass there with all their might, 
 
 Against the next elective day. 
 
 4. 
 Lo ! candidates and voters lie | 
 
 All luU'd in sleep, a goodly number ! 
 A race renown'd for piety. 
 
 Whose conscience won't distui'b their slumber: 
 
 LordH , indeed, may not demur; 
 
 Fellows are sage reflecting men: 
 They know preferment can occur 
 
 But very seldom, now and then. 
 
 6. 
 
 They know the chancellor has got 
 Some pretty livings in disposal ; 
 
 Each hopes that one may be his lot, 
 And therefore smiles on his proposal. 
 
 7. 
 Now from the soporific scene § 
 
 I 'U turn mine eye, as night grows later, 
 To view unheeded and unseen 
 
 The studious sons of Alma Mater. 
 
 There, in apartments small and damp, 
 The candidate for college prizes 
 
 Sits poring by the midnight lamp ; 
 Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 
 
 9. 
 
 He surely well deserves to gain them, 
 With all the honours of his college. 
 
 Who, striving hardly to obtain them, 
 Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge ; 
 
 10. 
 
 Who sacrifices hours of rest 
 To scan precisely metres attic ; 
 
 Or agitates his anxious breast 
 In solving problems mathematic : 
 
 * These lines were printed in the private volume, and in the first edi- 
 tion of Hours of Idleness, but afterwards omttied. 
 t Imprudent. In the private volume, umoortkyt 
 i Wild. Private volume lole. 
 
 * The'mottowas not given in the private volume, 
 t The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Aamodeus, the demon, 
 places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for 
 
 ^^^XLo^i^caniidates and voters lie, &c. The fourth and fifth stanza*, 
 which are given here as they were printed in the Hours of Idleness, ran 
 as follows in the private volume :— 
 
 " One on his power and place depends, 
 The other on the Lord knows what ; 
 Each to some eloquence pretends. 
 
 Though neither will convince by that. 
 " The first, indeed, may not demur." 
 I From the soporific scene. In the private volume, From corrup- 
 tion's shameless^scene. 
 
406 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 11. 
 
 Who reads false quantities in Sele,* 
 
 Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle ; 
 Deprived of many a wholesome meal ; 
 
 In barbarous Latin f dooni'd to wrangle : 
 
 12. 
 
 Renouncing every pleasing page 
 
 From authors of historic use; 
 Preferring to the letter'd sage 
 
 The square of the hypothenuse. | 
 
 13. 
 
 Still, harmless are these occupations, 
 That hurt none but the hapless student, 
 
 Compared with other recreations, 
 
 Which bring together the imprudent ; 
 
 14. 
 
 Whose daring revels shock the sight, 
 
 When vice and infamy combine, 
 When drunkermess and dice invite, 
 
 As every sense is steep'd in wine. 
 
 15. 
 
 Not so the methodistic crew, 
 
 Who plans of reformation lay ; 
 In humble attitude they sue, 
 
 And for the sins of others pray : 
 
 16. 
 
 Forgetting that their pride of spirit, 
 
 Their exultation in their trial, 
 Detracts most largely from the merit 
 
 Of all their boasted self-denial. 
 
 17. 
 
 — 'T is morn : from these I turn my sight. 
 
 What scene is this which meets the eye ? 
 A numerous crowd, array'd in white,§ 
 
 Across the green in numbers fly. 
 
 18. 
 Loud rings in air the chapel bell ; 
 
 'T is hush'd: — what sounds are these I hear? 
 The organ's soft celestial swell 
 
 Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear. 
 
 19. 
 To this is join'd the sacred song. 
 
 The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain ; 
 Though he who hears the music long 
 
 Will never wish to hear again. 
 
 Our choir would scarcely be excused. 
 Even as a band of raw beginners ; 
 
 All mercy now must be refused 
 To such a set of croaking sinners. 
 
 21. 
 If David, when his toils were ended, 
 
 Had heard these blockheads sing before him. 
 To us his Psalms had ne'er descended, — 
 
 In furious mood he would have tore 'em. 
 
 22. 
 The luckless Israelites, when teiken 
 
 By some inhuman tyrant's order, 
 Were asked to sing, by joy forsaken, 
 
 On Babylonian river's border. 
 
 * Sele's publication on Greek metres displays considerable talent and 
 ingenuity, but, an might be expected in so difficult a work, is not re- 
 markable for accuracy. 
 
 In the private volume, " Sele's publication on Greek metres is not re- 
 markable for its accuracy." 
 
 t The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and not very intel- 
 ligible. 
 
 In the private volume, " Every Cambridge man will assent to this. — 
 The Latin of the schools is almost unintelligible." 
 
 J The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypolhenuee is 
 equa.1 to the squares of the other two sides of a right-angled triangle. 
 
 5 On a saint's day the students wear suiplices in chapel. 
 
 Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, 
 Inspired by stratagem or fear, 
 
 They might have set their hearts at ease, 
 The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 
 
 24. 
 But if I scribble longer* now. 
 
 The deuce a soul will stay to read : 
 My pen is blunt, my ink is low ; 
 
 'Tis almost time to stop, indeed. 
 
 25. 
 Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires ! 
 
 No more like Cleofas I fly ; 
 No more thy theme my muse inspires : 
 
 The reader 's tired, and so am I. 
 
 1806. 
 
 LACHIN Y. GAIR.f 
 
 Lachin y. Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch na Garr, towers 
 proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. One 
 of our modern tourisis mentions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, 
 in Great Britain. Be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most 
 sublime and picturesque among our " Caledonian Alps." Its appear, 
 ance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows. 
 Near Lachin y. Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, tha 
 recollection of which has given birth to the following stanzas. 
 
 1. 
 
 Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses! 
 
 In you let the minions of laxury rove ; 
 Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes. 
 
 Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : 
 Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 
 
 Round their white summits though elements war ; 
 Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing foun- 
 tains, 
 
 I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 2. 
 
 Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd ; 
 
 My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ;f 
 On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd. 
 
 As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade : 
 I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 
 
 Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; 
 For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story. 
 
 Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 " Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices 
 
 Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" 
 Surely the soul of the hero rejoices. 
 
 And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale. 
 Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, 
 
 Winter presides in his cold icy car : 
 Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers ; 
 
 They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 4. 
 
 " HI starr'd,§ though brave, did no visions foreboding 
 Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?" 
 
 Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden,|| 
 Victory crown'd not your fall with applause : 
 
 * If T scribble lonsrer. In the private volume. If Itoriie much longer. 
 
 t First published in Hours of Idleness. 
 
 } This word is erroneously pronounced plad : the proper pronun* 
 ciation (according to the Scotch) is known by the orthography. 
 
 § I allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," many 
 of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the 
 le of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well 
 as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Huntley, 
 married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James the First of 
 Scotland. By her he left four sons: the thiid. Sir William Gordon, I 
 have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors. 
 
 II Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I am not certain ; 
 but, as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the prin- 
 cipal action, " pars pro toto." 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 407 
 
 Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, 
 You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar ;* 
 
 The pibrochf resounds, to the piper's loud number, 
 Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 Years have roll'd on. Loch na Garr, since I left you, 
 
 Years must elapse ere I tread you again : 
 Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you, 
 
 Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
 England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 
 
 To one who has roved on the mountains afar. 
 Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic ! 
 
 The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr I 
 
 TO ROMANCE.I 
 
 1. 
 
 Parent of golden dreams, Romance ! 
 
 Auspicious queen of childish joys, 
 Who lead'st along, in airy dance, 
 
 Thy votive train of girls and boys ; 
 At length, in spells no longer bound, 
 
 I break the fetters of my youth ; 
 No more I tread thy mystic round. 
 
 But leave thy reahns for those of Truth. 
 
 2. 
 And yet 't is hard to quit the dreams 
 
 Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
 Where every nymph a goddess seems, 
 
 Whose eyes through rays immortal roll ; 
 While Fancy holds her boundless reign, 
 
 And all assume a varied hue ; 
 When virgins seem no longer vain, 
 
 And even woman's smiles are true. 
 
 3. 
 
 And must we owti thee but a name. 
 
 And from thy hall of clouds descend ? 
 Nor find a sylph in every dame, 
 
 A Pylades§ in every friend ? 
 But leave at once thy realms of air 
 
 To mingling bands of fairy elves ? 
 Confess that woman 's false as fair, 
 
 And friends have feeling for — themselves? 
 
 With shame I own I 've felt thy sway ; 
 
 Repentant, now thy reign is o'er : 
 No more thy precepts I obey, 
 
 No more on fancied pinions soar. 
 Fond fool ! to love a sparkling eye. 
 
 And think that eye to truth was dear ; 
 To trust a passing wanton's sigh, 
 
 And melt beneath a wanton's tear . 
 
 5. 
 
 Romance ! disgusted with deceit, 
 Far from thy motley court I fly, 
 
 Where Affectation holds her seat, 
 And sickly Sensibility ; 
 
 Whose silly tears can never flow 
 For any pangs excepting thine ; 
 
 Who turns aside from real wo. 
 To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. 
 
 6. 
 
 Now join with sable Sympathy, 
 
 With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, 
 Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, 
 
 Whose breast for every bosom bleeds 
 And call thy sylvan female choir. 
 
 To mourn a swain for ever gone, 
 Who once could glow with equal fire, 
 
 But bends not now before thy throne. 
 
 7. 
 Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears 
 
 On all occasions swiftly flow ; 
 Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears 
 
 With fancied flames and phrensy glow ; 
 Say, will you mourn my absent name, 
 
 Apostate from your gentle train ? 
 An infant bard at least may claim 
 From you a sympathetic strain. 
 
 8. 
 Adieu, fond race ! a long adieu ! 
 
 The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
 E'en now the gulf appears in view, 
 
 Where unlaraented you must lie : 
 Oblivion's blackening lake is seen. 
 
 Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; 
 Where you, and eke your gentle queen, 
 
 Alas ! must perish altogether. 
 
 ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.* 
 
 " It is the voice of years that are gone 1 they roll before me with oU 
 their deeds. -f—Ossian, 
 
 1. 
 
 Newstead ! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome ! 
 
 Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry's | pride ! 
 Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb, 
 
 Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide, 
 
 2. 
 Hail to thy pile ! more honour'd in thy fall 
 
 Than modem mansions in their pillar'd state ; 
 Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, 
 
 Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 
 
 3. 
 
 No mail-clad serfs, § obedient to their lord, 
 In grim array the crimson cross || demand; 
 
 Or gay assemble round the festive board 
 Their chief's retainers, an immortal band : 
 
 4. 
 Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 
 
 Retrace their progress through the lapse of time ; 
 Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, 
 
 A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime. 
 
 But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the chief ; 
 
 His feudal realm in other regions lay : 
 In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, 
 
 Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 
 
 6. 
 Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound 
 
 The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view; 
 Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found, 
 
 Or innocence from stern oppression flew. 
 
 * A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle of Brae- 
 mar. 
 
 + The bagpipe. 
 
 X First publislied in the Hours of Idleness. 
 
 § It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of 
 Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of 
 Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and Pythias, have 
 been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachments, 
 which in all probability never existed beyond the imagination of the 
 poet, the page of an historian or modern novelist. 
 
 * As one poem on this subject is printed in the beginning, the author 
 had, originally, no intention of inserting the following : it is now added 
 at the particular request of some friends. See p. 383 of this edition. 
 
 t The motto was not given in the private vol Jrae. 
 
 % Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas d. 
 Becket. 
 
 § This word is used by Walter Scott in his poem, " The Wild Hunts- 
 man :" synonymous with vassal. 
 
 i The red cross was the badge of the crusaders. 
 
408 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, 
 
 Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl ; 
 
 And superstition's crimes, of various dyes. 
 Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. 
 
 8. 
 Where now the grass exliales a murky dew, 
 
 The humid paU of life-extinguish' d clay, 
 In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew. 
 
 Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 
 
 9. 
 
 Where now the bats their wavering wings extend 
 Soon as the gloaming * spreads her waning shade,| 
 
 The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 
 Or matin orisons to Mary J paid. 
 
 10. 
 
 Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield ; 
 
 Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed : 
 Religion's charter their protecting shield 
 
 Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 
 
 11. 
 One holy Heury § reared the Gothic walls, 
 
 And bade the pious inmates rest in peace ; 
 Another Kenry the kind gift recalls. 
 
 And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. 
 
 12. 
 Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer ; 
 
 He drives them exiles from their blest abode, 
 To roam a dreary world in deep despair — 
 
 No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. 
 
 13. 
 Hark how the hall, resounding to tlie strain. 
 
 Shakes with the martial music's novel din I 
 The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, 
 
 High crested banners, wave thy walls within. 
 
 14. 
 
 Of changing sentinels the distant hum, 
 
 The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms 
 
 The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, 
 Unite in concert with increased alarms. 
 
 15. 
 
 An abbey once, a regal fortress || now, 
 
 Encircled by insulting rebel powers. 
 War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatning brow, 
 
 And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 
 
 16. 
 
 Ah vain defence ! the hostile traitor's siege, 
 
 Though oft repulsed by guile, o'ercomes the brave ; 
 
 His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege. 
 Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 
 
 17. 
 
 Not unavenged the raging baron yields ; 
 
 The blood of traitors smears the purple plain : 
 Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields, 
 
 And days of glory yet for him remain. 
 
 18. 
 
 Still in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew 
 Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave 5 
 
 But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, 
 
 The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. 
 
 * As " gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is far more poetical, 
 and has been recommended by many eraiueat literary men, particularly 
 by Dr. Alooreinhis Letters to Burns, I have ventured to use it oa account 
 of its harmony. 
 
 t Gloaming spreads her waning shade. In the- private ▼olume, Tiei- 
 light winds a waning shade. 
 
 X The priory was dedicated to the Virgin. 
 
 § At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed New- 
 stead Abbey on Sir John Byron. 
 
 II Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between Charles 
 I. and his parliament. 
 
 19. 
 
 Trembling, she snatch'd him* from th' unequal strife, 
 
 In other fields the torrent to repel ; 
 For nobler combats, here, reserved his life. 
 
 To lead the band where godlike FalklandI fell. 
 
 20. 
 From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given, 
 
 While dying groans their painful requiem sound, 
 Far different incense now ascends to heaven, 
 
 Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 
 
 21. 
 
 There many a pale and i-uthless robber's corse, 
 Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod ; 
 
 O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, 
 Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 
 
 22. 
 Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, 
 
 Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould: 
 From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead. 
 
 Raked from repose in search for buried gold. 
 
 23. 
 Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre. 
 
 The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death ; 
 No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire, 
 
 Or sings tlie glories of the martialj wreath. 
 
 24. 
 At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey. 
 
 Retire ; the clamour of the fight is o'er; 
 Silence again resumes her a\vful sway. 
 
 And sable Horror || guards the massy door. 
 
 25. 
 Here Desolation holds her dreary court : 
 
 What satellites declare her dismal reign . 
 Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort, 
 
 To flit their vigils in tlie hoary fane. 
 
 Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 
 The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies ; 
 
 The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, 
 And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. 
 
 27. 
 With storms she welcomes his expiring groans ; 
 
 Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath 1 
 Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones, 
 
 Loathing 5 the offering of so dark a death. 
 
 The legal ruler IF now resumes the hehn. 
 He guides through gentle seas the prow of state ; 
 
 Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm, 
 And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate. 
 
 29. 
 The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells. 
 
 Howling, resign their violated nest; 
 Again the master on his tenure dwells, 
 
 Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraotur'd zest 
 
 * Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high command in the 
 royal army : the former was general in chief in Ireland, lieutenant of the 
 Tower, and governor to James, Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy 
 James II. ; the latter had a principal share in many actions. — Vide 
 Clarendon, Hume, &c. 
 
 t Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most acrxjmplished man 
 of his age, Avas killed at the battle of Newberry, charging in the ranks of 
 Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry. 
 
 X Martial. The private volume reads laurell'd. 
 
 11 Sable Horror. In the private volume, Horror stalking. 
 
 § This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately 
 subsequent to the death or interment of Cromwell, which occasioned 
 many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers : both interpreted 
 the circumstance into diviue interposition ; but whether as approbatiou 
 or condemnation, we leave to the casuists of that age to decide. I have 
 made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of ray poem. 
 
 II Charles 11. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 409 
 
 30. 
 Vassals, within thy hospitable pale, 
 
 Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 
 Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, 
 
 And matrons, once lamentina;, cease to mourn. 
 
 3L 
 
 A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, 
 Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 
 
 And hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note, 
 
 The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 
 
 32. 
 Beneath their coursers hoofs the valleys shake ; 
 
 What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase! 
 The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake ; 
 
 Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. 
 
 33. 
 Ah happy days ! too happy to endure i 
 
 Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : 
 No splendid vices glitter'd to allure ; 
 
 Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 
 
 34. 
 From these descending, sons to sires succeed ; 
 
 Time steals along, and Death uproars his dart; 
 Anotlier chief impels the foaming steed, 
 
 Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 
 
 35. 
 
 Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is thine ! 
 
 Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay ; 
 The last and youngest of a noble line 
 
 Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 
 
 36. 
 
 Deserted now, he scans tliy gray worn towers ; 
 
 Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep ; 
 Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers ; 
 
 These, tliese he views, and views them but to weep. 
 
 37. 
 
 Yet are his tears no emblem of regret: 
 Cherish'd affection only bids them flow. 
 
 Pride, hope, and love, forbid him to forget. 
 But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow. 
 
 38. 
 Yet be prefers thee to the gilded domes 
 
 Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great ; 
 Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs. 
 
 Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate. 
 
 39. 
 Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, 
 
 Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; 
 ♦Hours splendid as the past may still be thine, 
 
 And bless thy future as thy former day^ . 
 
 So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, 
 And scat Pomposus* whei'e your Probussate. 
 Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
 Pomposus holds you in his harsh control ; 
 Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, 
 With florid jargon, and v.'ith vain parade ; 
 With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, 
 Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. 
 Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws, 
 He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause. 
 With him the same dire fate attending Rome, 
 Ill-fated Ida ! soon must stamp your doom : 
 Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame, 
 No trace of science left you but the name. 
 
 Juli/, 1805. 
 
 CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS.f 
 
 " 1 cannot but remember such things were, 
 Aud were most dear to me." 
 
 J When slow Disease, with all her host of pains, 
 Chills the vrarm tide which flows along the veins ; 
 When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing, 
 And flies with every changing gale of spring ; 
 Not to the aching frame alone confined, 
 Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind : 
 What grisly forms, the spectre-train of wo, 
 Bid shuddering Nature sb.ritik beneath the blow, 
 With Resignation wage relentless strife, 
 While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life. 
 Yet less the pang when through the tedious hour 
 Remembrance sheds around her genial power, 
 Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given, 
 When love was bliss, and Beauty forra'd our heaven; 
 Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene, 
 Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. 
 As when through clouds that pour the sunnuer storm 
 The orb of day unveils his distant form. 
 Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain, 
 And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 
 Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams, 
 The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams, 
 Though sunlc the radiance of his former blaze, 
 To scenes far distant points his paler rays ; 
 Still rules my senses with unbounded sway, 
 The past confounding with the present day. 
 
 Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 
 Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought ; 
 
 ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT 
 PUBLIC SCHOOL.f 
 
 Wheke are those honours, Ida! once your own, 
 When Probusf fill'd your magisterial throne ? 
 As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
 Hail'd a barbarian in her Caesar's place. 
 
 * Hours splendid, &c. In the private volume and the first edition 
 of Haul's of Idleness, the stanza ended with the following lines : 
 " Fortune may smile upon a future line, 
 And Heaven restore an ever-cloudless day." 
 
 t These lines were only printed in th6 private volume. Lord Byron 
 most sincerely regretted having written this and the subsequent attack 
 on Dr. Butler contained in the poem called Childish Recollections. A 
 reconciliation took place between them before Lord Byron's first depar- 
 ture for Greece ; and Mr. Moore informs us that, " not content with this 
 private atonement to Dr. Butler, it was Lord Byron's iuteniion, had he 
 pubhshed another edition of the Hours of Idleness, to substitute for the 
 offensive verses aeainst that gentleman, a frauk avowal of the wrong h» 
 had been guilty of, in giving vent to thein." — Life of Byron, vol. i. 
 
 J Probui, Dr. Drury. 
 
 3B 
 
 * Pomposus, Dr. Butler. 
 
 t This poem was published in the private volume ; and with many 
 additions and corrections in the first edition of Hours of Idleness j but 
 was afterwards sui)pressed. 
 
 j 111 the private volume the poem opened with the following lines : 
 " Hence ! thou unvarying song of varied loves, " 
 
 Which youth cummeuds, maturer age reproves ; 
 
 Whicji every rhyming bard repeats by rote. 
 
 By thousands echo'd to the self-same note ! 
 
 Tired of the dull, unceasing, copious strain, 
 
 My soul is panting to be free again. 
 
 Farewell ! ye nymphs propitious to my verse, 
 
 Some other Daniou will your charms rehearse ; 
 
 Some other paint his p^'igS) in hope of bliss. 
 
 Or dwell in rapture or. your iiectar'd kiss. 
 
 Those beauties, grateful to my ardent sight, 
 
 No more enirauce my senses in delight ; 
 
 Those bosoms, forHi'd of animated snow, 
 
 Alike are tastele.«s, are unfeeling now. 
 
 These to some happier lover I resign — 
 
 The memory of those joys alone is mine. 
 
 .Censure no more shall brand my humble name, 
 
 The child of passion and the fool of fame. 
 
 Weary of love, of life, devour'd with spleen, 
 
 I rest a perfect Timou, not nineteen. 
 
 World 1 I renounce thee ! all my hope 's o'ercait ; 
 
 One sigh I give thee, but tlwt aish 's the last. 
 
 Friends, foes, and females, now alike adieu ! 
 .Would I could add, remembrance of you too ! 
 
 Yet though the future dark ami cheerless gleams, 
 
 The curse of njcmory, hov'iiiigin my drealn^, 
 
 Depicts with glowing pencil air those years. 
 
 Ere yet my cup, erapois"n'd, flow'd with tears ; 
 
 Still rules my senses with tyrannic sway, 
 
 The past confounding with the present day. 
 
 " Alas! in vain I check the maddenins thought j 
 
 It still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought ; 
 
 My soul to Fancy's," &c. &c. &c. as et liuft twenty -niim. 
 
410 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS 
 
 My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, 
 And roams romantic o'er her airy fields ; 
 Scenes of my youth, develop'd, crowd to view, 
 To which I long have hade a last adieu I 
 Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes ; 
 Friends lost to me for aye except in dreams ; 
 Some who in marble prematurely sleep, 
 Whose forms I now remember but to weep ; 
 Some who yet urge the same scholastic course 
 Of early science, future fame the source ; 
 Who, still contending in the studious race. 
 In quick rotation fill the senior place ! 
 These with a thousand visions now unite, 
 To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight.* 
 
 Ida ! blest spot, where Science holds her reign, 
 How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train ! 
 Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, 
 Again I mingle with thy playful quire ; 
 Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 
 Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same ; 
 Through winding paths, along the glade, I trace 
 The social smile of ev'ry welcome face ; 
 My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and wo, 
 Each early boyish friend or youthful foe,^ 
 Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past : — 
 I bless the former, and forgive the last. 
 Hours of my youth ! when, nurtured in my breast, 
 To love a stranger, friendship made me blest ; — 
 Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth. 
 When every artless bosom throbs with truth; 
 Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign, 
 And check each impulse with prudential rein ; 
 When all we feel, our honest souls disclose — 
 In love to friends, in open hate to foes ; 
 No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, 
 No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit. 
 Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, 
 Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 
 When now the boy is ripen'd into man, 
 His careful sire chalks forth some wary plari ; 
 Instructs his son from candour's path to shrink, 
 Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think ; 
 Still to assent, and never to deny — 
 A patron's praise can well reward the lie : 
 And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard, 
 Would lose his opening prospects for a word ? 
 Although against that word his heart rebel, 
 And truth, indignant, all his bosom swell. 
 
 Away with themes like this ! not mine the task 
 From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask ; 
 Let keener bards delight in satire's sting ; 
 My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing: 
 Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow, 
 To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 
 But when that foe, from feeling or from shame, 
 The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 
 Wam'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired, 
 With this submission all her rage expired. 
 From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save, 
 She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave ; 
 f Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
 Pomposus' virtues are but known to few : 
 I never fear'd the young usurper's nod. 
 And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod. 
 
 * The next fifty-six lines, to 
 
 " Here first remember'd be the joyous band," 
 wert added in the first edition of Hours of Idleness, 
 t Or if my muse a pedanV a portrait drew, 
 
 Powposus' virtues, ^ c. 
 Mr. Moore informs us, that instead of this passage, Lord Byrou meant 
 oinssrt, 
 
 " If once my nmae a harsher portrait drew, 
 Warm with her wroni;3 and deem'd the likeness true, 
 Bv cooler judement taught, her fault she owns,— 
 WUh noble miuds a fault, confess 'd, atones." 
 
 I.ifa of Byron, Tol. i. p. 188. 
 
 If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
 Who share the conveise of a college hall. 
 She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain. 
 'T is past, and thus she will not sin again. 
 Soon must her early song for ever cease. 
 And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 
 
 Here first remember'd be the joyous band 
 Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command ; 
 Who join'd with me in every boyish sport — 
 Their first adviser, and their last resort ; 
 * Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown, 
 Or all the sable glories of his gown ; 
 Who, thus transplanted from his father's school — -,. 
 Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule — 
 Succeeded him whom all unite to praise, 
 The dear preceptor of my early days ; 
 Probus,t the pride of science, and the boast, 
 To Ida now, alas ! for ever lost. 
 With him for years we search'd the classic page, 
 And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage ; 
 Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat 
 From learning's labour is the blest retreat. 
 I Pomposus fills his magisterial chair ; 
 Pomposus governs, — but, my muse, forbear: 
 Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot; 
 His name and precepts be alike forgot ;§ 
 No more his mention shall my verse degrade, 
 To him my tribute is already paid. |1 
 
 HHigh, through those elms with hoary branches crown'd, 
 Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round ; 
 There Science, fi-om her favour'd seat, sur\'eys 
 The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ; 
 To her awhile resigns her youthful train, 
 Who move in joy, and dance along the plain ; 
 In scatter'd groups each favour'd haunt pursue ; 
 Repeat old pastimes, and discover new ; 
 Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun, 
 In rival bands between the wickets run. 
 Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, 
 Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. 
 But these with slower steps direct their way 
 Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray ; 
 
 * Instead of the present couplet, the private volume has the following 
 four lines : — 
 
 " Careless to sooth the pedar)t's furious frown, 
 Scarcely respecting his majestic gown ; 
 By which, in vain,"he gain'd a borrowed grace, 
 Adding new terror to his sneering face." 
 t This most able and excellent man retired from his situation in 
 March, 1805, after having resided thirty-five years at Harrow ; the last 
 twenty as head-master ; an office he held with equal honour to himselt 
 and advantage to the very extensive scliool over which -he presided. 
 Panegyric would here be superfluous : it would be useless to enumerate 
 qualifications which were never doubted. A considerable contest took 
 place between three rival candidates for his vacant chair : of this I can 
 only say, 
 
 Si mea, cum vestris valuissent vota, Pelasgi ! 
 Non foret ambiguus tanti certaminis Haeres. 
 J PompostisJtUs his TTiagisterial cfiair ; 
 
 omp-isus governs, &c. 
 Had J^ord Byron published another edition of Hours of Idleness, it 
 was his intention to give the following turn to this passage : 
 " Another fills his magisterial chair ; 
 Reluctant Ida owns'a stranger's care ; 
 Oh ! may like honours crown his future name,— 
 If such his virtues, such shall be his fame." 
 
 Moore's Life of Byron, vol. i. p. 189. 
 § His name, &c. Instead of this line, the private volume reads, 
 
 " Soon shall his shallow precepts be forgot." 
 II This alludes to a character printed in a former private edition for the 
 perusal of some friends, which, with many other pieces, is withheld from 
 the present volume. (*) To draw the attention of the public to insignifi- 
 cance would be deservedly reprobated ; and another reason, though not of 
 equal consequence, may be given in the following couplet : 
 " Satire or sense, alas ! can Sposus feel .'' 
 Who breaks a butterflv upon the wheel ?" 
 
 'POFE.— Prologue to the Satires. 
 TI The ensuing hundred and twenty-two lines, to 
 
 " Alonzo, best and dearest of my friends," 
 are not found in the private volume, but were introduced in the first edi- 
 tion of Hours of Idleness. 
 
 (•) Those pieces are reprinted in the present edition. The chuxKttar 
 iUudfd to is contained in the pr*ceding poem. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 411 
 
 While yonder few search out some green retreat, 
 
 And arbours shade them from the summer heat : 
 
 Others again, a pert and lively crew, 
 
 Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view, 
 
 With frolic quaint their antic jests expose, 
 
 And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes ; 
 
 Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 
 
 Tradition treasures for a future day : 
 
 " 'T was here the gather 'd swains for vengeance fought 
 
 And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought ; 
 
 Here have we fled before superior might, 
 
 And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight." 
 
 While thus our souls with early passions swell, 
 
 In lingering tones resounds the distant bell ; 
 
 Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er. 
 
 And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 
 
 No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, 
 
 But ruder records fill the dusky wail ; 
 
 There, deeply carved, behold ! each tyro's nama , 
 
 Secures its owner's academic fame ; 
 
 Here mingling view the names of sire and son — 
 
 The one long graved, the other just begun : 
 
 These shall survive alike when son and sire 
 
 Beneath one common stroke of fate expire : 
 
 Perhaps their last memorial these alone, 
 
 Denied in death a monumental stone, 
 
 Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 
 
 The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave. 
 
 And here my name, and many an early friend's, 
 
 Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 
 
 Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 
 
 Who tread our steps, and fill our former place. 
 
 Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe, 
 
 Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law , 
 
 And now in turn possess the reins of power. 
 
 To rule the little tyrants of an hour ; — 
 
 Though sometimes with the tales of ancient day 
 
 They pass the dreary winter's eve away — 
 
 " And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide, 
 
 And thus they dealt the combat side by side ; 
 
 Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled, 
 
 Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd ; 
 
 Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell, 
 
 And here he faher'd forth his last farewell ; 
 
 And here one night abroad they dared to roam, 
 
 While bold Pomposus bravely stayed at home ;" — 
 
 While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive, 
 
 When names of these, like ours, alone survive : 
 
 Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 
 
 The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 
 
 Dear honest race, though now we meet no more, 
 One last long look on what we were before — 
 Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — 
 Drew tears t"rom eyes unused to weep with you. 
 Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, 
 Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 
 I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, 
 And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 
 Vain wish ! if chance some well-remember'd face 
 Some old companion of my early race. 
 Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy, 
 My eyes, my heart proclaim'd me still a boy ; 
 The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around, 
 Were quite forgotten when my friend was found ; 
 The smiles of beauty — (for, alas ! I 've known 
 What 't is to bend before Love's mighty throne) — 
 The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear, 
 Could hardly charm me when that friend was near: 
 My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise, 
 The woods of Ida danced before my eyes ; 
 I saw the sprightly wanderers pour along, 
 I saw and join'd again the joyous throng ; 
 Panting, again I traced her lofty grove, 
 And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love. 
 
 Yet why should I alone with such delight 
 Retrace the circuit of my former flight? 
 Is there no cause beyond the common claim 
 Endear'd to all in childhood's very name ? 
 Ah ! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
 Which whispers friendship vv'ill be doubly dear 
 To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 
 And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
 Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee — 
 A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
 Stern death forbade my orphan youth to share 
 The tender guidance of a father's care : 
 Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
 The love which glistens in a father's eye? 
 For this can wealth or title's sound atone, 
 Made by a parent's early loss my own ? 
 What brother springs a brother's love to seek ? 
 What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek ? 
 For me how dull the vacant moments rise, 
 To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties ! 
 Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream 
 Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ; 
 While still the visions to my heart are prest, 
 The voice of love will murmur in my rest: 
 I hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice ; 
 I hear again, — but, ah ! no brother's voice. 
 A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray 
 Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way ; 
 While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine, 
 I cannot call one single blossom mine : 
 What then remains? in solitude to groan, 
 To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone ? 
 Thus must I cling to some endearing hand, 
 And none more dear tlian Ida's social band. 
 
 * Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends, 
 Thy name ennobles him who thus commends : 
 From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise^ 
 The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
 Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth, 
 If hope anticipate the words of truth. 
 Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, 
 To build his own upon thy deathless fame.f 
 Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
 Of those with whom I lived supremely blest, 
 Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore ; 
 Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. 
 Yet when confinement's lingering hour was done, 
 Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one : 
 Together we impell'd the flying ball ; 
 Together waited in our tutor's hall ; 
 Together join'd in cricket's manly toil. 
 Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
 Or plunging from the green declining shore, 
 Our pliantj limbs the buoyant billows bore ; 
 In every element, unchanged, the same, 
 All, all that brothers should be but the name. 
 
 Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy ! 
 Davus, the harbinger of childish joy ; 
 For ever foremost in the ranks of fun. 
 The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; 
 Yet with a breast of such materials made — 
 Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid ; 
 Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 
 In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. 
 Still I remember in the factious strife 
 The rustic's musket aim'd against my life : 
 
 * Alonzo. In the private volume, Johannes. 
 
 1 The following four lines of the private volume were omitted in tlu 
 Hours of Idleness : 
 
 " Could aught inspire me with poetic fire, 
 For thee alone 1 'd strike the hallow'd lyre ; 
 But to some abler hand the task I wave, 
 Whose strains immortal may outlive the grave," 
 X Pliant. Private volume, ;«srj'. 
 
412 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 High poised in air the massy weapon hung, 
 A cry of horror burst from every tongue ; 
 Whilst I, in combat with another foe, 
 Fought on, vmconscious of th' impending blow ', 
 Your arm. brave boy, arrested liis career — 
 Forward you sprung, insensible to fear ; 
 Disarm'd and bafHed by your conquering hand, 
 The grovelling savage roU'd upon the sand: 
 + An act like this can simple thanlLs repay? 
 Or all the labours of a grateful lay ? 
 Oh no I whf ne'er my breast forgets the deed, 
 That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed. 
 
 Lycus ! on me thy claims are justly great : 
 Thy milder virtues could m}' muse relate, 
 To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong 
 The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song.f 
 Well canst thou boast to lead in senates fit — 
 A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit : 
 Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 
 Lycus ! thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
 "Wliere learning nurtures the superior mind. 
 What may we hope from genius thus refined I 
 'V^^len time at length matures thy growing years, 
 How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers ! 
 Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, 
 With honour's soul, united beam in thee. 
 
 Shall fair Eurvalus pass by unsung? 
 From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung: 
 What though one sad dissension bade us part, 
 That name is yet embalm'd within my heart ; 
 Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, 
 And palpitate responsive to the sound. 
 Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will: 
 We once were friends, — I '11 think we are so still, 
 A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould, 
 A heart untainted, we in thee behold : 
 Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield, 
 Nor seek for glory in the tented field ; 
 To minds of ruder texture these be given — 
 Thv soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
 Haply in polish'd courts might be thy seat. 
 But that thy tongue could never forge deceit; 
 The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, 
 The flow of compliment, the slippery wile, 
 W^ouU make that breast with indignation burn. 
 And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. 
 Domestic happiness will staunp thy fate ; 
 Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; 
 The world admire thee, and thy friends adore ; 
 J Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 
 
 * An act lil:e this, ftc. In the private volume the last four lines of this 
 character were as follows : 
 
 " Thus did ynu s<ive that life t scarcely prize— 
 A Ufa unworthy such a sacrifice : 
 Oh ! when my breast forgets the generous deed, 
 That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed." 
 t In the private volume, we find the following lines concluding the 
 character of Lycus : and the remainder of the passage relating to him 
 was originally given as descriptive of a friend entitled Clams, of whom 
 no mention is made in the last published copy of the poem ; 
 " For ever to possess a friend in thee, 
 Was bliss unhoped, ihoush not unsought by nae. 
 Thy softer soul was form'd for love alone, 
 To ruder passions and to hate unknown ; 
 Thy mind, in union with thy beauteous form, 
 Was gentle, but unfit to stem the siorm ; 
 That face, an index of celestial woi th, 
 Proclaim'd a heart abstracted from the earth. 
 Oft, when depress'd with sad foreboding gloom, 
 r sat reclined upon our favourite tomb, 
 I've seen those sympathetic eyes o'erflow 
 With kind compassion for thy comrade's wo ; 
 Or when less mournful subjects form'd our theraei, 
 We tried a thousand fond romantic schemes. 
 Oft hast thou sworn, in friendship's soothing tone. 
 Whatever wish was mine must be thine own. 
 " The next can boast to lead in senates fit— 
 A Spartan firmness with Atheniaji wit : 
 Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 
 Clarua 1 thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
 When learning," &c. -c. 
 I •< W.isr* li th« rsatleaa-fosl would wish for more ?" 
 
 Prirat* voium*. 
 
 Now last, but nearest of the social band. 
 See honest, open, generous Cleon stand ; 
 With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene, 
 No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 
 On the same day our studious race begun. 
 On the same day our studious race was run , 
 Thus side by side we pass'd our first career, 
 Thus side by side we strove for many a year; 
 At last concluded our scholastic life. 
 We neither conquer'd in the classic strife : 
 As speakers * each supports an equal name, 
 And crowds allow to both a partial fame : 
 To sooth a youthful rival's early pride. 
 Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide, 
 Yet candour's self compels me now to own 
 Justice awards it to my friend alone.f 
 
 Oh ! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear, 
 Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear ! 
 Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn 
 To trace the hours which never can return ; 
 jYet with the retrospection loves to dwell, 
 And sooth the sorrows of her last farewell ! 
 Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind. 
 As infant laurels ro'und my head were twined 
 When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song, 
 Or placed me higher in the studious throng 
 Or when my first harangtie received applause, 
 His sage instruction the primeval cause. 
 What gratitude to him my soul possest, 
 Wliile hope of dawning honours fiU'd my breast! 
 §For all my humble fame, to him alone 
 The praise is due, who made that fame my own. 
 Oh ! could I soar above these feeble lays, 
 These young effusions of my early days, 
 To him my nnise her noblest strain would give : 
 The song might perish, biU the theme must live. 
 Yet why for him the needless verse essay? 
 His honour'd name requires no vain display: 
 By every son of grateful Ida blest. 
 It finds an echo in each youthful breast ; 
 A fame beyond the glories of the proud. 
 Or all the plaudits of tlie venal crowd. 
 
 Ida, not yet exhausted is the theme. 
 Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. 
 How many a friend deserves the grateful strain 
 What scenes of childhood still unsung remain 
 Yet let me hush this echo of the past. 
 This parting song, the dearest and the last ; 
 And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, 
 To me a silent and a sweet employ, 
 
 * This alludes to the public speeches delivered at ilie school where the 
 author was educated. 
 
 t The six concluding lines of this passage were given as follows in the 
 private volume : 
 
 " As speakers each supports a rival name, 
 Though neither seeks to damn the other's fanis. 
 Pomposus sits, unequal to decide : 
 With youthfiif candour we the palm divide ; 
 Yet candour's self comi^ls me now to own 
 Justice awards it to my friend alone." 
 J " Tel in the retrospection finds relief. 
 
 And revels in the luxury of grief." — Private volume. 
 § From this place to the end, the copy of the poem, as printed in the 
 Hours of Idleness, differs entii-ely from that in the private volume, whicU 
 contains and concludes thus : 
 
 " When , yet a novice in the mimic art, 
 t feign'd the transports of a vengeful heart ; 
 When as the Royal Slave 1 trod the stage, 
 To vent in Zanga more than mortal rage ; 
 The praise of Probus made me feel more proud 
 Than all the plaudits of the list'ning crowd. 
 
 " Ah ! vain endeavour in this childish strain 
 To sooth the woes of which I thus complain 
 What can avail tl>e fruitless loss of time, 
 To measure sorrow in a gingling rhyme ! 
 No social solace from a friend is near, 
 And heartless strangers drop no feeUng teur. 
 I seek not joy in woman's sparkling eye : 
 The smiles of besuty cannot check the sigh. 
 Adieu ! thou world ! thy pleasure 's still a drMm, 
 Thy rirtue but a visionary theme ; 
 The years of vice on years of follr roll. 
 Till grinning death assignj th« deaiiiitd foal, 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 413 
 
 While, future hope and fear alike unknown, 
 I think with pleasure on the past alone ; 
 Yes, to the past alone my heart confine, 
 And chase the phantom of what once was mine. 
 
 Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, 
 And proudly sieer through time's eventful tide ; 
 Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere. 
 Smile in thy bower, but quit thee w'ith a tear ;— 
 That tear perhaps the fondest which will flow 
 O'er their last scene of happiness below. 
 Tell me, ye hoary few who glide along. 
 The feeble veterans of some former throng, 
 Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl' d 
 Are swept f^r ever from this busy world ; 
 Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth. 
 While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth , 
 Say if remembrance days like these endears 
 Beyond the rapture of succeeding years? 
 Say can ambition's fever'd dream bestow 
 So sweet a balm to sooth your hours of wo ? 
 Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son, 
 Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, 
 Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys, 
 (For glittering baubles are not left to boys,) 
 Recall one scene so much beloved to view 
 As those where Youth her garland twined for you. 
 Ah, no ! amid the gloomy calm of age 
 You turn with faltering hand life's varied page ; 
 Peruse the record of your days on earth, 
 Unsullied only where it marks your birth ; 
 Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf, 
 And blot with tears the sable lines of grief; 
 AVhere Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw, 
 Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 
 But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn 
 Traced by the rosy finger of the morn ; 
 When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth, 
 And Love,* without his pinion, smiled on youth. 
 
 t ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, YfRlT- 
 TEN BY MONTGOMERY, AUTHOR OF 
 " THE WANDERER IN SWITZERLAND," 
 &c &c. ENTITLED " THE COMMON LOT." 
 
 1. 
 
 MoNTGOMERs:^ ! true, the common lot 
 
 Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave ; 
 Yet some shall never be forgot — 
 
 Some shall exist beyond the grave. 
 
 Where all are hastening to the dread abode, 
 To meet the judjinient of a rigliteous God ; 
 MiK'd in the concourse of the thoughtless throng, 
 A inoui-ner midst of mirth, I glide along ; 
 A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing. 
 Curst by reflection's deejjcorroding sting ; 
 But not that mental sting which stabs within, 
 The dark avenger of uiipunish'd sin • 
 The silent shaft which goads the guilty wretch 
 Extended on a rack's untiring stretch : 
 Coiiscience that sting, that shaft to himsupphes — 
 His mind the rack from which he ne'er can rise. 
 For me, whate'er my folly or my fear. 
 One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here : 
 No dread internal haunts my hours of res'. 
 No dreams of injured innocence infest : 
 Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft, 
 Conscience, my last but welcome guest is left. 
 Slander's impoison'd breaih may blast my name 4 
 Envy delights to blight the buds of fame ; 
 Deceit may chill the current of my blood. 
 And freeze affection's warm impassion 'd flood ; 
 Presaging horror darken every sense ; — 
 Here will conscience be my best defence. 
 My bosom feeds no ' worm which ne'er can die :' 
 Not crimes 1 mourn, but happiness gone by. 
 Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile. 
 My heart is bitter, though my cheek may smile : 
 No more with former bliss my heart isgla-i ; 
 Hope yields to anguish, and my soul is sad : 
 From fond regret no future Joy can save ; 
 Remembrance slumbers only in the grave." 
 
 * " L'Amitife est 1' Amour »ans ailes" i« a, French proverb. 
 
 \ Only prinl»d ia the private volume. 
 
 " Unknown the region of his birth," 
 The hero * rolls the tide of war ; 
 
 Yet not unknown his martial worth, 
 Which glares a meteor from afar. 
 
 3 
 
 His joy or grief, his weal or wo, 
 
 Perchance may 'scape the page of fame ; 
 
 Yet nations now unborn will know 
 The record of his deathless name. 
 
 The patriot's and the poet's frame 
 Must share the common tomb of all : 
 
 Their glory will not sleep the same ; 
 IViat will arise though empires fall. 
 
 5. 
 
 The lustre of a beauty's eye, 
 Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 
 
 The fair, the brave, the good must die, 
 And sink the yawning grave beneath. 
 
 6. 
 
 Once more the speaking eye revives, 
 Still beaming through the lover's strain ; 
 
 For Petrarch's Laura still survives : 
 She died, but ne'er will die again. 
 
 7. 
 The rolling seasons pass away, 
 
 And Time, vmtiring, waves his winff ; 
 Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay, 
 
 But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 
 8. 
 All, all must sleep in grim repose, 
 
 Collected in tlie silent tomb ; 
 The old and young, with friends and foes, 
 
 Festering alike in shrouds, consume. 
 9. 
 The mouldering marble lasts its day, 
 
 Yet falls at length an useless fane ; 
 To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey, 
 
 The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 
 
 10. 
 
 What though the sculpture be destroy'd, 
 From dark oblivion meant to guard ? 
 
 A bright renown shall be enjoy'd 
 
 By those whose virtues claim reward. 
 
 11. 
 
 Then do not say the common lot 
 Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave ; 
 
 Some few who ne'er will be fl)rgot 
 Shall burst the bondage of the grave. 
 
 1806. 
 
 TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER.f 
 
 1. 
 
 Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind : 
 
 I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 
 But retirement accords with the tone of my mind : 
 
 I will not descend to a world I despise. 
 2. 
 Did the senate or camp my exertions require, 
 
 Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth : 
 When infancy's years of probation expire. 
 
 Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. 
 
 ••No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, 
 Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and in more modern limes the fame 
 of Marlboroirgh, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, 
 &c. are familiar to every historical reader, but the exact plac« of their 
 birth are known to a very small proportion of their admireva, 
 
 t Only found in the private volume. 
 
414 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd 
 Still mantles unseen in its secret recess : 
 
 At length in a volume terrific reveal'd 
 No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. 
 
 4. 
 
 Oh! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame 
 
 Bids me live but to hope for prosperity's praise. 
 Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame, 
 
 With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. 
 5. 
 For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, 
 
 What censure, what danger, what wo would I brave ! 
 Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath, 
 
 Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. 
 6. 
 Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd ? 
 
 Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules ? 
 Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd ? 
 
 Why search for delight in the friendship of fools ? 
 
 7. 
 I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love ; 
 
 In friendship I early was taught to believe ; 
 My passion the matrons of prudence reprove ; 
 
 I have foimd that a friend may profess, yet deceive. 
 8. 
 To me what is wealth ? it may pass in an hour, 
 
 If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown. 
 To me what is title ? — the phantom of power ; 
 
 To me what is fashion ? — I seek but renown. 
 
 9. 
 Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul, 
 
 I still am unpractised to varnish the truth ; 
 Then why should I live in a hateful control ? 
 
 Why waste upon folly the days of my youth ? 
 
 THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.* 
 
 AN IMITATION OP MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.f 
 
 Dear are the days of youth ! Age dwells on their 
 remembrance through the mist of time. In the twi- 
 light, he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his 
 Bpear with trembling hand. " Not thus feebly did I 
 raise the steel before my fathers !" Past is the race 
 of heroes ! but their fame rises on the harp ; their souls 
 ride on the wings of the wind ! they hear the sound 
 through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall 
 of clouds ! Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his 
 larrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests ; 
 he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast 
 of the mountain. 
 
 In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. 
 His steps in the field were marked in blood ! Lochlin's 
 sons had fled before his angry spear ; but mild was the 
 eye of Calmar ; soft was the flow of his yellow locks : 
 they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid 
 was the sigh of his soul : his thoughts were given to 
 friendship, to dark-haired Oria, destroyer of heroes ! 
 Equal were their swords in battle ; but fierce was the 
 pride of Orla : gende alone to Calmar. Together they 
 dewlt in the cave of Oithona. 
 
 From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. 
 Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his 
 chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean ! Their 
 hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid 
 of Erin. 
 
 Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. 
 But the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The 
 
 * First published in Hours of Idlenetfi. 
 
 t It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably 
 varied in the cntastrophe, is taken from " Nisus and Euryalus," of which 
 episod* a trannlati on it already given in tho present volume. 
 
 sons of Lochlin slept ; their dreams were of blood. 
 They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so 
 the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. 
 Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their 
 hands. Fingal called his chiefs ; they stood around. 
 The king was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but 
 strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his 
 powers. '* Sons of Morven," said the hero, " to-mor- 
 row we meet the foe : but where is Cuthullin, the shield 
 of Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not 
 of our coming. Who will speed through Lochlin to the 
 hero, and call the chief to arms ? The path is by the 
 swords of foes, but many are my heroes. They are 
 thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will 
 arise ?" 
 
 " Son of Trenmor ! mine be the deed," said dark- 
 haired Orla, " and mine alone. What is death to me? 
 I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. 
 The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne 
 Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards ; and lay me 
 by the stream of Lubar." — " And shalt thou fall alone '^" 
 said fair-haired Calmar. " Wilt thou leave thy friend 
 afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in fight. 
 Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear ? No, Orla! 
 ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of 
 shells; ours be the path of danger : ours has been the 
 cave of Oithona ; ours be the narrow dwelling on the 
 banks of Lubar." " Calmar," said the chief of Oithona, 
 " why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust 
 of Erin ? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his 
 hall of air : he will rejoice in his boy ; but the blue-eyed 
 Mora spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She 
 listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinlts 
 it is the tread of Calmar. Let him not say, ' Calmar 
 has fallen by the steel of Lochlin : he died with gloomy 
 Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why should tears 
 dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice 
 curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar. 
 Live to raise my stone of moss ; live to revenge me in 
 the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my 
 grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla from the 
 voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes 
 of praise." "Orla," said the son of Mora, "could I 
 raise the song of death to my friend? Could I give his 
 fame to the winds ? No, my heart would speak in sighs. 
 Faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla ! our 
 souls shall hear the song together. One cloud shall be 
 our son high. The bards will mingle the names of 
 Orla and Calmar." 
 
 They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are to 
 the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim twin- 
 kles through the night. The northern star points the 
 path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill. 
 Here the troops are mixed : they frown in sleep. Their 
 shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam at 
 distance in heaps. The fires are faint ; their embers fail 
 in smoke. All is hushed ; but the gale sighs on the 
 rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the 
 slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Ma- 
 thon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It 
 rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His 
 spear is raised on high. " Why dost thou bend thy brow, 
 chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar. " We are 
 in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay?" " It is 
 a time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. 
 " Mathon of Lochlin sleeps : seest thou his spear? Its 
 point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of 
 Mathon shall reek on mine ; but shall I slay him sleepincr, 
 son of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound: my fame 
 shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise ! Mathon ! 
 rise! the son of Connal calls; thy life is his; rise to 
 combat." Mathon starts from sleep ; but did he rise 
 alone? No: the gathering chiefs bound on the plain. 
 '' Fly ! Calmar ! fly !" said dark-haired Orla. " Mathon 
 is mine. I shall die in joy. But Lochlin crowd* 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 415 
 
 around. Fly through the shade of night." Orla turns. 
 The helm of Mathon is cleft ; his shield falls from his 
 arm : he shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of 
 the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall : his wrath rises ; 
 his weapon glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear 
 pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, 
 and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves 
 of the ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour 
 the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the 
 surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so 
 rise the chiefs of Morven on the scatter'd crests of 
 Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. 
 He strikes his shield ; his sons throng around ; the peo- 
 ple pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian 
 stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle 
 wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang 
 of death ! many are the widows of Lochlin. Morven 
 prevails in its strength. 
 
 Mom glimmers on the hills ; no living foe is seen ; but 
 the sleepers are many ; grim they lie on Erin. The 
 breeze of ocean lifts their locks ; yet they do not awake. 
 The hawks scream above their prey. 
 
 Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? 
 Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the 
 dark hair of his friend. " 'T is Calmar : he lies on the 
 bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce 
 is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not ; but 
 his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His 
 hand is grasped in Calmar's ; but Calmar lives! he 
 lives, though lov/. " Rise," said the king, "rise, son of 
 Mora : 't is mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Caknar 
 may yet bound on the hills of Morven." 
 
 "Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of 
 Mon-en with Orla," said the hero. " What were the 
 chase to me alone ? Who would share the spoils of bat- 
 tle with Calmar ? Orla is at rest ! Rough was thy soul, 
 Orla ! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on 
 others in lightning ; to me a silver beam of night. Bear 
 my sword to blue-eyed Mora ; let it hang in my empty 
 fiall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save 
 Orla. Lay me with my friend. Raise the song when I 
 4m dark !" 
 
 They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray 
 stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. 
 
 When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue 
 waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. The 
 bards raised the song. 
 
 " What form rises on the roar of clouds ? "Whose 
 dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests ? His 
 voice rolls on the thunder. 'T is Orla, the brovra chief 
 of Oithona. He was unmatched in w ar. Peace to thy 
 soul, Orla ! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar ! 
 Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora ; but not harm- 
 less was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts 
 of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, 
 Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy 
 name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy 
 *<ur locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of 
 the rainbow ; and smile through the tears of the storm."* 
 
 TO E. N. L. ESa.f 
 
 " Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico." — Hor. E. 
 Dear L , in this sequester'd scene, 
 
 While all around in slumber lie, 
 The joyous days which ours have been 
 
 Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye ; 
 
 * I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope 
 that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the translation of a series of 
 poems complete in themselves ; but, while the imposture is discovered 
 the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults — 
 particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction. — The present 
 humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the original as an 
 attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachmentto their favourite 
 author. 
 
 t Flrtt published in Hours of Idlenest. 
 
 Thus if amid the gathering storm, 
 
 While clouds the darken'd noon deform, 
 
 Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
 
 ■I hail the sky's celestial bow. 
 
 Which spreads the sign of future peace. 
 
 And bids the war of tempest cease. 
 
 Ah ! though the present brings but pain, 
 
 I think those days may come again ; 
 
 Or if, in melancholy mood, 
 
 Some lurking envious fear intrude, 
 
 To check my bosom's fondest thought, 
 
 And interrupt the golden dream, 
 I crush the fiend with malice fraught. 
 
 And still indulge my wonted theme 
 Although we ne'er again can trace, 
 
 In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore 5 
 Nor through the groves of Ida chase 
 
 Our raptured visions as before. 
 Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, 
 And manhood claims his stern dominion ; 
 Age will not every hope destroy, 
 But yield some hours of sober joy. 
 
 Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 
 Will shed around some dews of spring: 
 But if his scythe must sweep the flowers 
 Which bloom among the fairy bowers, 
 Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, 
 And hearts with early rapture swell ; 
 If frowning age, with cold control. 
 Confines the current of the soul, 
 Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, 
 Or checks the sjTnpathetic sigh, 
 Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, 
 And bids me feel for self alone ; 
 Oh ! may my bosom never learn 
 
 To sooth its wonted heedless flow ; 
 Still, still despise the censor stem, 
 
 But ne'er forget another's wo. 
 Yes, as you knew me in the days 
 O'er which remembrance yet delays, 
 Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild. 
 And even in age at heart a child. 
 
 Though now on airy visions borae, 
 
 To you my soul is still the same. 
 Oft has it been my fate to moum, > 
 
 And all my former joys are tame. 
 But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue! 
 
 Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er: 
 By every bliss my childhood knew, 
 
 I '11 think upon your shade no more. 
 Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, 
 
 And caves their sullen roar enclose, 
 We heed no more the wintry blast, 
 
 When luU'd by zephyr to repose. 
 Full often has my infant Muse 
 
 Attuned to love her languid lyre ; 
 But now, without a theme to choose. 
 
 The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
 My youthful nymphs, alas ! are flown ; 
 
 E is a wife, and C a mother, 
 
 And Carolina sighs alone. 
 
 And Mary's given to another ; 
 And Cora's eye, which roU'd on me, 
 
 Can now no more my love recall : 
 In truth, dear L , 't was time to flee i 
 
 For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
 And though the sun, with genial rays, 
 His beams alike to all displays. 
 And every lady's eye 's a sun, 
 These last should be confined to one. 
 The soul's meridian do n't become her, 
 Whose sun displays a general summer ! 
 Thus faint is ev-ry former flame, 
 And passion's self is now a name. 
 
416 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 As, when the ebbing flames are low, 
 
 The aid which once improved their light, 
 And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 
 
 Now quenches all their sparks in night ; 
 Thus has it been with passion's fires, 
 
 As many a boy and girl remembers, 
 While all the force of love expires, 
 
 Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 
 
 But now, dear L , 't is midnight's noon, 
 
 And clouds obscure the watery moon, 
 Whose beauties I shall not rehearse. 
 Described in every stripling's verse ; 
 For why should I the path go o'er, 
 Which every hard has trod before ? 
 Yet ere yon silver lamp of night 
 
 Has thrice perform'd her stated round, 
 Has thrice retraced her path cf light. 
 
 And chased away the gloom profound, 
 I trust that we, my gentle friend, 
 Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
 Above the dear-loved peaceful seat 
 Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ; 
 And then with those our childhood knew, 
 We '11 mingle with the festive crew; 
 While many a tale of former day 
 Shall wing the laughing hours away ; 
 And all the flow of souls shall pour 
 The sacred intellectual shower. 
 Nor cease till Luna's waning horn 
 Scarce glimmers through the mist of mom. 
 
 * TO 
 
 Oh ! had ray fate been join'd with thine, 
 As once this pledge appear'd a token, 
 
 These follies had not then been mine. 
 For then my peace had not been broken. 
 
 2. 
 To thee these early faults I owe, 
 
 To thee, the wise and old reproving: 
 They Imow my sins, but do not know 
 
 'T was thine to breaJi the bonds of loving.- 
 
 3. 
 
 For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 
 A-nd all its rising fires could smother : 
 
 But now thy vows no more endure, 
 Bestow'd by thee upon another. 
 
 4. 
 Perhaps his peace I could destroy. 
 
 And spoil the blisses that await him ; 
 Yet let my rival smile in joy, 
 
 For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 
 
 5. 
 Ah ! since thy angel form is gone, 
 
 My heart no more can rest with any"; 
 But what it sought in thee alone, 
 
 Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 
 
 6. 
 Then fare thee well, deceitful maid, 
 
 'T were vain and fruitless to regret thee ; 
 Nor Hope, nor Memory, yield their aid, 
 
 But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 
 
 7. 
 Yet all this giddy waste of years, 
 
 This tiresome round of palling pleasures ; 
 These varied loves, these matron's fears, 
 
 These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures ; 
 
 • Mis» Chaworth. 
 Idlenwt. 
 
 First published in the first edition of Hoars of 
 
 If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd: — 
 This cheek, now pale from early riot, 
 
 With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, 
 But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 
 
 9. 
 Yes, once the rural scene was sweet. 
 
 For Nature seem'd to smile before thee ; 
 And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, 
 
 For then it beat but to adore thee. 
 
 10. 
 
 But now I seek for other joys ; 
 
 To think would drive my soul to madness ; 
 In thoughtless throngs and empty noise 
 
 I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 
 
 11. 
 
 Yet, even in these a thought will steal, 
 In spite of every vain endeavour ; 
 
 And fiends might pity what I feel, 
 To know that thou art lost for ever. 
 
 i 
 
 STANZAS.* 
 1. 
 I WOULD I were a careless child. 
 
 Still dwelling in my Highland cave, 
 Or roaming through the dusky wild. 
 
 Or bounding o'er the dark-blue wave ; 
 The cumbrous pomp of Saxonf pride 
 
 Accords not with the freeborn soul, 
 Which loves the mountain's craggy side. 
 
 And seeks the rocks where biUovvs roll. 
 
 2. 
 Fortune! take back these cultured lands, 
 
 Take back this name of splendid sound 
 I hate the touch of servile hands, 
 
 I hate the slaves that cringe around 
 Place me along the rocks I love. 
 
 Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar; 
 I ask but this — again to rove 
 
 Through scenes my youth hath knowTi before. 
 
 3. 
 
 Few are my years, and yet I feel 
 
 The world was ne'er design'd for me ; 
 Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal \ 
 
 The hour when man must cease to be ? 
 Once I beheld a splendid dream, 
 
 A visionary scene of bliss : 
 Truth ! — wherefore did thy hated beam 
 
 Awake me to a world liike this ? 
 
 I loved — but those I loved are gone ; 
 
 Had friends — my early friends are fled ; 
 How cheerless feels the heart alone 
 
 When all its former hopes are dead ? 
 Though gay companions o'er the bowl 
 
 Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
 Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul 
 
 The heart — the heart is lonely still. 
 
 5. 
 
 How dull ! to hear the voice of those 
 
 Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, 
 Have made, though neither friends nor foes, 
 
 Associates of the festive hour. 
 Give me again a faithful few, 
 
 In years and feelings still the same, 
 And I will fly the midnight crew. 
 
 Where boist'rous joy is but a name. 
 
 * First published in the second edition of Houri of Idlenesi, 
 f Sassenage, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or 
 English. 
 
CRITiaUE ON HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 417 
 
 And woman! lovely woman, thou, 
 
 My hope, my comforter, my all ! 
 How cold must be my bosom now. 
 
 When e'en thy smiles begin to pall 
 Without a sigh would I resign 
 
 This busy scene of splendid wo, 
 To make that calm contentment mine, 
 
 Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 
 
 7. 
 Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 
 
 I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
 My breast requires the sullen glen, 
 
 Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. 
 Oh ! that to me the wings were given 
 
 Which bear the turtle -to her nest ! 
 Then would [ cleave the vault of heaven, 
 
 To flee away, and be at rest.* 
 
 LINESf 
 
 WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF 
 HARROW ON THE HILL, SEPTEMBER 2, 1807. 
 
 Spot of my youth I M'hose hoary branches sigh, 
 Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky ; 
 
 * Psalm Iv. ver. G.— " And I said, Oh ! that I had wings like a dove ; 
 for then would I fly away, and be at rest." This verse also constitutes 
 a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language. 
 
 t First published in the second edition of the Hours of Idleness. 
 
 Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, 
 With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; 
 With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, 
 Like me, the happy scenes they knew before ; 
 Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill, 
 Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, 
 Thou drooping Elm ! beneath v/hose boughs I lay, 
 And frequent mused the twilight hours away ; 
 Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline. 
 But, ah ! without the thoughts which then were mine 
 How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, 
 Invite the bosom to recall the past. 
 And seem to whisper as they gently swell, 
 " Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell !" 
 When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast, 
 And calm its cares and passions into rest, 
 Oft have I thought 't would sooth my dying hour, 
 If aught may sooth when life resigns her power, 
 To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, 
 Would hide my bosom wliere it loved to dwell ; 
 With this fond dream methinks 't were sweet to die — 
 And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie ; 
 Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose, 
 Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose ; 
 For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, 
 Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd ; 
 Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, 
 Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved ; 
 Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, 
 Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here ; 
 Deplored by those, in early days allied, 
 And unremember'd by the world beside. 
 
 CRITIQUE. 
 
 EXTRACTED FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, NO. 22, FOR JANUARY, 180S. 
 
 Hours of Idleness; a Series of Poems, original and' 
 translated. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a Minor. 
 8vo. pp. 200.— JVewark, 1807. 
 
 The poesy of this young lord belongs to the class 
 which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, 
 we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with 
 so few deviations in either direction from that exact 
 standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and 
 can no more get above or below the level, than if they 
 were so much stagnant water. As an extenuation of 
 this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward in 
 pleading minority. We have it in the titlepage, and 
 on the very back of the volume ; it follows his name 
 like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is laid 
 upon it in the preface; and the poems are connected 
 with this general statement of his case, by particular 
 dates, substantiating the age at which each was v/ritten. 
 Now, the law upon the point of minority we hold to be 
 perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the defen- 
 dant ; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground 
 of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against 
 Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put 
 into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment 
 were given against him, it is highly probable that an 
 exception would be taken were he to deliver for poetry 
 the contents of this volume. To this he might plead 
 minority ; but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the 
 article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the 
 price in good current praise, should the goods be un- 
 marketable. This is our view of the law on the point, 
 and, we dare to say, so v^ill it be ruled. Perhaps, how- 
 ever, in reality, all liiat he tells us about his youth is 
 rather with a view to increase our wonder than to 
 soften our censures. He possibly means to say, " See 
 how a minor can write ! This poem was actually com- 
 3 C 
 
 posed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of 
 only sixteen !" — But, alas ! we all remember the poetry 
 of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve ; and so far from 
 hearing, Avith any degree of surprise, that very poor 
 verses were written by a youth from his leaving school 
 to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this 
 to be the most common of all occurrences ; that it hap- 
 pens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated 
 in England ; and that the tenth man writes better verse 
 than Lord Byron. 
 
 His other plea of privilege our author rather brings 
 forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, 
 does allude frequently to his family and ancestors— 
 sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes ; and while 
 giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care 
 to remember us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that when a 
 nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be 
 handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consi- 
 deration only that induces us to give Lord Byron's 
 poems a place in our review, beside our desire to coun- 
 sel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn 
 his talents, which are considerable, and his opportuni- 
 ties, which are great, to better account. 
 
 With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure 
 him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even 
 when accompanied by the presence of a certain num- 
 ber of feet,— nay, although (which does not always 
 happen) those feet should scan regularly, and have 
 been all counted accurately upon the fingers,— is not 
 the whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to 
 believe, that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat 
 of fancy, is necessary to constitute a poem, and that a 
 poem in the present day, to be read, must contain at 
 least one thought, either in a little degree different from 
 the ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. 
 We put it to his candour, whether there is any thing 
 
418 
 
 CRITiaUE ON HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 so deserving the name of poetry in verses like the fol- I whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tern- 
 lowing, written in 1806; and whether, if a youth of pests? His voice rolls on the thunder; t is Orla, tli( 
 eighte^en could say any thing so uninteresting to his 
 cestors, a youth o'f nineteen should publish it : 
 
 " Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing 
 From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 
 Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting 
 New courzige, he '11 think upon glory and you. 
 " Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
 "T is nature, not fear, thai exciies his regret : 
 Far distant he goes, with the same emulation ; 
 The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 
 " That fame, and that memory, siill will he cherish ; 
 He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown ; 
 Like you will he Uve, or like you will he perish ; 
 When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own. 
 
 Now we positively do assert, that there is nothing 
 better than these stanzas in the whole compass of the 
 noble minor's volume. 
 
 Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting 
 what the greatest poets have done before him, for coni- 
 parisons fas he must have had occasion to see at his 
 writing-master's) are odious.— Gray's Ode on Eton 
 College should really have kept out the ten hobbling 
 stanzas " On a distant View of the Village and School 
 of Harrow." 
 
 " Where faurv vet jovs to re'race the resemblance 
 Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; 
 How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance, 
 Vv'liich rests in the bosom, though hope is denieo. 
 
 In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr. Rogers, 
 " On a Tear,'''' might have warned the noble author off 
 those premises, and spared us a whole dozen such 
 stanzas as the following: 
 
 " Mild Charity's glow. 
 
 To us mortals belov.'. 
 Shows the soul from baibarity clear ; 
 
 Compassion will melt 
 
 Where this virtue is felt, 
 And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 
 
 " Tiie man doom'd to sail 
 
 With the blast of the gale. 
 Through billows Atlantic to steer, 
 
 As he bends o'er the wave, 
 
 Which may soon he his grave. 
 The green sparkles bright with a Tear."' 
 
 And so of instances in which former poets had fail- 
 ed. Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was made for 
 translating, during his nonage, " Adrian's Address to 
 his Soul," wiien Pope succeeded so indifferently in the 
 attempt. If our readers, however, are of another 
 opinion, they may look at it. 
 
 " Ah! gentle, fleeting, wavering spriie, 
 Friend and associate of this clay I 
 
 To what unknown region borne ; 
 Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? 
 No more with wonted humour gay, 
 
 But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn." 
 
 However, be this as it may, we fear his translations 
 and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. 
 We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian ; 
 and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. 
 Only, whv print them after they have had their day 
 and served their turn? And why call the thing in p. 
 79* a translation, where two words {Ss^uj Xeyeiv) of the 
 original are expanded into four Unes, and the other 
 thing in p. 81,t where iieaowKnais -o^ (opaig is render- 
 ed by means of six hobbling verses ? As to his Ossianic 
 poesy, we are not very good judges, being, iri truth, so 
 moderately skilled in thai species of composition, that 
 we should, in all probability, be criticising some bit of 
 the gentiine Macpherson itself, were we to express our 
 opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the fol- 
 lowing beginning of a *' Song of Bards" is by his lord- 
 ship, we ventuie to object to it, as far as we can com- 
 prehend it " What form rises on the roar of clouds, 
 
 See page 399. 
 
 t Page 399. 
 
 pests / Mis voice rolls on me inunuer ; i is vrm, the 
 brown chief of Oithona. He was," &c. After detain- 
 ing this "brown chief" some time, the bards conclude 
 by giving him their advice to " raise his fair locks ;" 
 then to " spread them on the arch of the rainbow ;" 
 and " to smile through the tears of the storm." Of 
 this kind of thing there are no less than nine pages ; 
 and we can so far venture an opinion in their favour, 
 that they look very like Macpherson ; and we are posi- 
 tive they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome. 
 
 It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists ; but 
 they should " use it as not abusing it ;" and particularly 
 one" who piques himself (though indeed at the ripe age 
 of nineteen) of being " an infant bard," — (" The artless 
 Helicon I boast is youth") — should either not know, or 
 should seem not to know, so much about his own ances- 
 try. Besides a poem above cited, on the family seat 
 of^the Byrons, we have another of eleven pages, on the 
 self-same subject, introduced with an apology, "he 
 certainly had no intention of inserting it," but really 
 " the particular request of some friends," &c. &c. It 
 concludes with five stanzas on himself, " the last and 
 youngest of a noble line." There is a good deal also 
 about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on Lachin 
 y Gair, a mountain where he spent part of his youth, 
 and might have learnt that pibroch is not a bagpipe, 
 any more than duet means a fiddle. 
 
 As the author has dedicated so large a part of his 
 volume to immortalize his employments at school and 
 at college, we cannot possibly dismiss it without pre- 
 senting the reader with a specimen of these ingenious 
 effusions. In an ode with a Greek motto, called 
 Granta, we have the following magnificent stanzas : 
 
 *' There, in apartments small and damp, 
 The candidate for college prizes 
 Sits poring by the midnight lamp. 
 Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 
 
 " Who reads false quantities in Sele, 
 Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, 
 Deptived of many a wholesome meal. 
 In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle : 
 
 " Renouncing every pleasing page, 
 From authors of historic use, 
 Preferring to the lelter'd sage 
 The square of the hypolheuuse. 
 
 " Still harmless are these occupations, 
 
 That hurt none but the hapless student, 
 Compared with other recreations. 
 Which bring together the imprudent." 
 
 We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the col- 
 lege psalmody as is contained in the following Attic 
 stanzas : 
 
 ■ Our choir would scarcely be excused 
 Even as a band of raw beginners ; 
 All mercy now must be refused 
 To such a set of croaking sinners. 
 
 ' If David, when his toils were ended. 
 
 Had heard these blockheads sing before him, 
 To us his psalms had ne'er descended : 
 In furious mood he would have tore 'em !" 
 
 But whatever judgment may be passed on the poems 
 of this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we 
 find them, and be content ; for they are the last we shall 
 ever have from him. He is, at best, he says, but an in- 
 truder into the groves of Parnassus ; he never lived in 
 a garret, hke thorough-bred poets ; and " though he 
 once roved a careless mountaineer in the Highlands of 
 Scotland," he has not of late enjoved this advantage. 
 Moreover, he expects no profit from his publication ; 
 and, whether it succeeds or not, " it is highly improba- 
 ble, from his situation and pursuits hereafter," that 
 he should again condescend to become an author. 
 Therefore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. 
 What right have we poor devils to be nice ? We are 
 well off to have got so much from a man of this lord's 
 station, wTio does not live in a garret, but " has the 
 sway" of Newstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be 
 thankful ; and, with honest Sancho, bid God bless the 
 giver, nor look the gift horse in the mouth. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS 
 
 AND 
 
 SCOTCH REVIEWERS 
 
 A SATIRE. 
 
 ' 1 had rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! 
 Than one of these same metre ballad-mongerg." 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 ' Such shameless bards we have ; and yet 't is true, 
 There are as mad, abandon'd critics too." 
 
 POPE. 
 
 A FIFTH edition of the " English Bards and Scotch 
 Reviewers," in which Lord Byron introduced several 
 alterations and corrections, was prepared in 1812, but 
 was, at his desire, destroyed on the eve of publication. 
 Or>e copy of this edition alone escaped, from which the 
 satire has been printed in the present volume. The 
 Author re-perused the poem in the latter part of the 
 summer in 1816, after his final departure from England. 
 He at that time also corrected the text in several places, 
 and added a few notes and observations in the margin, 
 which the reader will find inserted. On the blank leaf 
 preceding the tide-page of the copy from which he read. 
 Lord Byron has written — " The binding of this volume 
 is considerably too valuable for the contents ; and nothing 
 but the consideration of its being the property of another 
 prevents me from consigning this miserable record of 
 misplaced anger and indiscriminate acrimony to the 
 flames." — 
 
 PREFACEf. 
 
 All my friends, leareed and unlearned, have urged me 
 not to publish this satire with my name. If I were to 
 be " turned from the career of my humour by quibbles 
 quick, and paper bullets of the brain," I should have 
 complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terri- 
 fied by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without 
 arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none per- 
 sonally who did not commence on the offensive. An 
 author's works are public property : he who purchases 
 may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases ; and 
 the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may 
 do by me as I have done by them : I dare say they will 
 succeed better in condemning my scribblings than in 
 mending their own. But my object is not to prove that 
 I can write well, but, if possible to make others write 
 better. 
 
 As the poem has met with far more success than I 
 expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make 
 some additions and alterations, to render it more worthy 
 of public perusal. 
 
 In the first edition of this satire, published anony- 
 mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowleses Pope 
 were written by, and inserted at the request of, an in- 
 genious friend of mine, who has now in the press a 
 volume of poetry. In the present edition they are 
 erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead ; 
 
 my only reason for this being that which I conceive 
 would operate with any other person in the same man- 
 ner, a determination not to publish with my name any 
 production which was not entirely and exclusively my 
 own composition. 
 
 With* regard to the' real talents of many of the 
 poetical persons whose performances are mentioned 
 or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by 
 the author that there can be little difference of opinion 
 in the public at large ; though, like other sectaries, each 
 has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his 
 abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his 
 metrical canons received without scruple and without 
 consideration. But the unquestionable possession of 
 considerable genius by several of the writers here cen- 
 sured renders their mental prostitution more to be 
 regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, 
 laughed at and forgotten ; perverted powers demand 
 the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more 
 than the author that some known and able writer had 
 undertaken their exposure, but Mr. Gilford has de- 
 voted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the 
 regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases 
 of absolute necessity, be allowed to proscribe his nos- 
 trum to prevent the extension of so deplorable an 
 epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treat- 
 ment of the malady. A caustic is here offered, as it 
 is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can re- 
 cover the numerous patients afflicted with the present 
 prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming.— As to the 
 Edinburgh Reviewers — it would indeed require an 
 Hercules to crush the Hydra ; but if the author suc- 
 ceeds in merely "bruising one of the heads of the 
 serpent," though his own hand should suffer in the 
 encounter, he will be amply satisfied 
 
 STiLLf must I hear?— shall hoarse Fitzgeraldj bawl§ 
 His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, 
 And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews 
 Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse ? 
 Prepare for rhyme— T '11 p-ublish, right or wrong : 
 Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. 
 
 tha 
 
 ■ THE BRITISH BARDS, 
 
 * In the original Manuscript the title was 
 A SATIRE.'^ 
 
 t This preface was written for the second edition, and printed with it. 
 The noble author had left this counti-y previous to the publication of that 
 idition, and is not yet returned No'te to the fourth edition, 1811. 
 
 He w, and gone again. 1816.— MS. 7iote by' Lord Byron. 
 
 * The preface to the first edition began here. 
 
 t The first ninety-six lines were prefixed to the second edition : 
 original opened with 
 
 Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days 
 Ignoble themes, &c.— Line 97. 
 I Hoarse Fitzgera!d.—mshi enough ; but why notice such a mount* 
 
 batilc ?—MS. note by Lord Bvron. 
 
 § IMITATION. 
 " Semper ego auditor tantum ? nunquamne reponam 
 Vexotus totie's rauci Theseide Codri ?" 
 
 Juvenal, B3.ti\-a I. 
 Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the " Small Beer Poet 
 inmct his annual tribute of verse on the " Literary Fund ••" "Ot f nt^t 
 with writing, he spouts in person after the company have imbibed a lea 
 \ sonable quantity of bad port, to enable thein to sustain the operation. 
 
420 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 Oh ! nature's noblest gift— my gray goose-quill ! 
 Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 
 Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
 That mighty instrument of little men! 
 The pen foredoom'd to aid the mental throes 
 Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose, 
 Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, 
 The lover's solace, and the author's pride. 
 What wits ! what poets dost thou daily raise ! 
 How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise ! 
 Condemii'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
 Widi all the pages which 't was thine to write. 
 But thou, at least, mine own especial pen! 
 Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 
 Our task complete, Hke Hamet's* shall be free ; 
 Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me: 
 Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme. 
 No eastern vision, no distemper'd dreamf 
 Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is plain ; 
 Smooth be the verse, and easy be the sti-ain. 
 
 When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, 
 Obey'd by all who nought beside obey ; 
 When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
 Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime 
 When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, 
 Aud weigh their justice in a golden scale ; 
 E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, 
 Afraid of sham.e, unknown to other fears. 
 More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe, 
 And shrinks from ridicule, though not from law. 
 
 Such is the force of wit ! but not belong 
 To me the arrows of satiric song ; 
 The royal vices of our age demand 
 A keener v.-eapon, and a mightier hand. 
 Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, 
 And yield at least amusement in the race : 
 Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame ; 
 The cry is up, and scribblers are my game 
 Speed; Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and small. 
 Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all ! 
 I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 
 I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, 
 A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame 
 I printed — older children do the same. 
 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; 
 A book 's a book, although there 's nothing in 't. 
 Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
 Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave 
 This Lambe must ownj, since his patrician name 
 Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame§. 
 No matter, George continues still to write||. 
 Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. 
 Moved by the great example, I pursue 
 The self-same road, but make my own review : 
 Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet, like him, will be 
 Self-constituted judge of poesy. 
 
 A man must serve his time to ev'ry trade 
 Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
 Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote., 
 With just enough of learning to misquote ; 
 A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault ; 
 A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
 To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, 
 His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 
 
 * Cid Hamet Benengeli promises repose to his pen in the last chapter of 
 Don Q,uixotte. Oh ! tliat our voluminous gentry would follow the exani- 
 ple of Cid Haniet Benengeli. 
 
 t No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream. — This must have been 
 written in the spirit of prophecy. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 
 
 X This Lambe must own. — He 's a very good fellow, and except his 
 mother and sister, the best of the set, to my mind. — MS. note of Lord 
 Byron. 
 
 _ § This ingenuous youth is mentioned more particularly, with his produc- 
 tion, in another place. 
 
 11 la the Edinburgh Review. 
 
 Fear not to lie, 't will seem a sharper hit ; 
 Shrmk not from blasphemy, 't will pass for wit ; 
 Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
 And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 
 
 And shall we own such judgment ? no — as soon 
 Seek roses in December — ice in June ; 
 Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; 
 Believe a woman or an epitaph, 
 Or any other thing that's false before 
 You trust in critics, who themselves are sore ; 
 Or yield one single thought to be misled 
 By Jeffrey's heart or Lambe's Boeotian head*. 
 To these young tyrantsf, by themselves misplaced, 
 Combined usurpers on the throne of taste ; 
 To these, when authors bend in humble awe. 
 And hail their voice as truth, their word as law ; 
 While these are censors, 't would be sin to spare 
 While such are critics, why should I forbear ? 
 But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
 'T is doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; 
 Nor linow we when to spare, or where to strike, 
 Our bards and censors are so much alike. 
 
 J Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er 
 The path which Pope and Gifford trod before ; 
 If not yet sicken'd you can still proceed : 
 Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
 But hold§ ! exclaims a friend, — here 's some neglect; 
 This — that — and t' odier line seem incorrect. 
 What then l the self-same blunder Pope has got, 
 And careless Dryden — ay — but Pye has not, — 
 Indeed ! — 't is granted, faith ! — but what care I ? 
 Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. 
 
 Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days 
 Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise. 
 When sense and wit with poesy allied, 
 No fabled graces, flourish'd side by side, 
 From the same fount their inspiration drew, 
 And, rear'd by taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew. 
 Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
 Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain ; 
 A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim, 
 And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
 Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song, 
 In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. 
 Then Congreve's scenes could cheer, or Otway's melt— 
 For nature then an English audience felt. 
 But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
 When all to feebler bards resign their place ? 
 Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast. 
 When taste and reason with those times are past. 
 Now look around, and turn each trifling page, 
 Survey the precious works that please the age ; 
 This truth at least let satire's self allow. 
 No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now; 
 The loaded press beneath her labour groans, 
 And printers' devils shake their weary bones ; 
 While Southey's epics cram the creaking shelves, 
 And Litde's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. 
 II Thus saith the preacherlT : " Nought beneath the sun 
 Is new," yet still from change to change we run : 
 
 * By Jeffrey's heart or Lc.mhe'e Baotian head. — This was not just. 
 Neither the heart nor the head of these gentlemen are at all what they are 
 here represented. At the time this was'written (1808) I was personally 
 un.icquainted with either. 1816. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 
 
 Messrs. Jeffrey and Lambe are the alpha and the omega, the first and 
 last of the Edinburgh Review ; the others are mentioned hereafter, 
 t " Stulta est Clementia, cum tot ubique 
 
 occurras periturs parcere cliartcE." 
 
 Juvenal, Satire I. 
 X IMITATION. 
 " Cur tamen hoe libeat potius decun-ere campo 
 Per quem magnus equos Aui-uncte flexit alumnus 
 Si vacat, et placidi ratfonem admittitis, edam." 
 
 Juvenali Satire I. 
 § But hold ! exclaims a friend, &g. — The following six lines were in- 
 serted in the fifth edition. 
 
 II Thus saith the preacher, &c, — The following fourteen lines were In- 
 serted in the second edition. 
 IT Ecclesiostes, chap. i. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 421 
 
 What varied wonders tempt us as they pass ! 
 The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
 In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, 
 Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air ! 
 Nor less new schools of poetry arise, 
 Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : 
 O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail 
 Each coumry book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
 And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, 
 Erects a shrine and idol of its own ; 
 Some leaden calf—but whom it matters not, 
 From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott*. 
 
 Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew, 
 For notice eager, pass in long review : 
 Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace. 
 And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race ; 
 Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 
 And tales of terror jostle on the road 
 Immeasurable measures move along 
 For simpering folly loves a varied song, 
 To strange mysterious dulness still the friend, 
 Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
 Thus Lays of Minstrelsf — may they be the last . — 
 On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast. 
 While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, 
 That dames may listen to the sound at nights ; 
 And goblin brats, of Gilpin Homer's brood. 
 Decoy young border-nobles through the wood, 
 Artd skip at every step, Lord knows how high, 
 And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why ; 
 While high-born ladies in their magic cell. 
 Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, 
 Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave. 
 And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 
 
 Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan. 
 The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
 Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight. 
 Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, 
 The gibbet or the field prepared to grace 
 A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
 And think'st thou, Scott ! by vain conceit perchance, 
 On public taste to foist thy stale romance. 
 Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
 To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line ? 
 No ! when the sons of song descend to trade. 
 Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 
 
 ■• Stott, better known in the " Morning Post" by the name of Hafiz. 
 This personage is at present the most profound explorer of the batlios. I 
 remember, when the reigning family left Portugal, a special ode of Master 
 Stott's, beginning thus : 
 
 (Stott loquitur quoad Hibemia.) 
 " Princely oflfspring of Braganza, 
 
 Erin greets thee with a sfanza," &c. &c. 
 Also a sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject, and a most thundering 
 ode, conunencing as foUows : 
 
 " Oh ! for a Lay ! loud as the surge 
 That lashes Lapland's sounding shore." 
 Lord have mercy on us ! the " Lay of the Last Minstrel" was nothing to 
 this. 
 
 t See the " Lay of the Last Minstrel," passim. Never was any plan 
 so incougi-uous and absurd as the groundwork of this production. The 
 entrance of Thunder and Lfehtnius; pvologiiising to Bayes' tragedy unfor- 
 tunately takes away the merit of originality from the dialogue between 
 Messieurs the Spirits of Flood and Fell in the first canto. Then we have 
 the amiable William of Deloraine, " a stark moss-trooper," videlicet, a 
 happy compound of poacher, sheep-stealer, and highwayman. The pro- 
 priety of his magical lady's hijunction not to read can only be equalled by 
 his candid acknowledgment of his independence of the trammels of spelling, 
 although, to use his own elegant phrase, " 'twas his neck-verse at hair- 
 bee," i.e. the gallows. 
 
 The biography of Gilpin Horner, and the marvellous pedestrian page, 
 who travelled twice as fast as his master's horse, witliout the aid of seven- 
 leagucd boots, are the c'lefd'cBuvres in the improvement of taste. For in- 
 cident we have the invisible, but by no means sparing box on the ear, 
 bestowed on the page, and the entrance of a knight and charger into the 
 castle, under the very natural disguise of a wain of hay. Marmion, the 
 liero of the latter romance, is exactly what William of Deloraine would 
 have been, had he been able to read and write. The poem was manu- 
 factured for jNIessrs. Constable, Mtu-ray, and Miller, worshipful book- 
 sellers, in consideration of the receipt of a sum of money, and truly, con- 
 sidering the inspiration, it is a very creditable production. If Mr. Scott 
 will write for hire, let him do his best for his paymasters, but not disgrace 
 his genius, which is undoubtedly great, by a repetition of black letter ballad 
 imitations. 
 
 Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
 Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame : 
 Still for stern mammon may they toil in vain ! 
 And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain ! 
 Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
 Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
 For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
 And bid a long " good night to Marmion*." 
 
 These are the themes that claim our plaudits now ; 
 These are the bards to whom the muse must bow ; 
 While Milton, Dryden, Pope alike forgot, 
 Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 
 
 The time has been, when yet the muse was young, 
 When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, 
 An epic scarce ten centuries could claim. 
 While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name : 
 The work of each immortal bard appears 
 The single wonder of a thousand yearsf. 
 Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth. 
 Tongues have expired with those v/ho gave them birth, 
 Without the glory such a strain can give, 
 As even in ruin bids the language live. 
 Not so with us, though minor bards content, 
 On one great work a life of labour spent 
 With eagle pinions soaring to the skies, 
 Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! 
 To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield, 
 Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
 First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance. 
 The scourge of England and the boast of France '. 
 Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, 
 Behold her statue placed in glory's niche ; 
 Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
 A virgin phcenix from her ashes risen. 
 Next see tremendous Thalaba come on J, 
 Arabia's monstrous, Avild and wond'rous son ; 
 Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
 More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
 Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'ercome. 
 For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
 Since startled metre fled before thy face, 
 Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! 
 Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence, 
 Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 
 Now, last and greatest Madoc spreads his sails. 
 Cacique in Mexico and prince in Wales ] 
 Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, 
 More old than Mandeville's and not so true. 
 Oh ! Southey ! Southey§ ! cease thy varied song ! 
 A bard may chant too often and too long ; 
 As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare ! 
 A fourth, alas ! were more than we could bear. 
 But if, in spite of all the world can say, 
 Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way ; 
 If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil, 
 Thou wilt devote old women to the devilll, 
 
 tion of Henry Blount, Esquire, on the death of honest ' 
 
 + As the Odyssey is so closely connected with the story of the Iliad, they 
 may almost be classed as one grand historical poem. In alluding to Mil- 
 ton and Tasso, we consider the " Paradise Lost," and " Gierusalemme 
 Liherata," as their standard efforts, since neither the "Jerusalem Con- 
 quered" of the Italian, nor the " Paradise Regained" of the English bard, 
 obtained a proportionate celebrity to their former poems. Cluery : Which 
 of Mr. Southev's will survive ? 
 
 J Thalaba, Mr. Southey's second poem, is written in open defiance of 
 
 precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to produce something novel, and 
 
 succeeded to a miracle. Joan of Arc was marvellous enougn , but Thalaba 
 
 as one of those poems " which," in the words of Porson, " will be read 
 
 hen Homer and Virgil are forgotten, but — not till then.'" 
 
 § We beg Mr. Southey's pardon : " Madoc disdains the degrading title 
 
 of epic." See his preface. Why is epic degraded? and by whom? 
 
 Certainlv tlie late romaunts of Masters Cottle, Laureat Pye, Ogilvy, 
 
 Hole, and gentle JSIistress Cowley, have not exalted the epic muse ; but 
 
 as Mr. Southey's poem " disdains the appellation," allow us to ask — 
 
 has he substituted any thing belter in its stead .' or must he be content to 
 
 rival Sir Richard Blackmore in the quantity as well as the quality of his 
 
 verse ? 
 
 II See " The Old Woman of Berkley," a ballad, by Mr. Southey, 
 wherein an aged gentlewoman is carried away by Beelzebub, on a "high- 
 trotting horse." 
 
422 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue : 
 
 '- God help thee," Southey, and thy readers too*. 
 
 ■j-Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, 
 That mild apostate from poetic rule, 
 The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
 As soft as evening in his favourite May, 
 Who warns his friend " to shake off toil and trouble, 
 And quit his books for fear of growing doublej ;" 
 Who, both by precept and example, shows 
 That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose ; 
 Convincing all, by demonstration plain. 
 Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; 
 And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 
 Contain the essence of the true sublime. 
 Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
 The idiot mother of" an idiot boy ;" 
 A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, 
 And, like his bard, confounded night with day§ 
 So close on each pathetic part he dwells 
 And each adventure so sublimely tells, 
 That all who view the " idiot in his glory" 
 Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 
 
 Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
 To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 
 Though themes of innocence amuse him best. 
 Yet still obscurity 's a welcome guest. 
 If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
 To him who takes a pixy for a musejl, 
 Yet none in loftv numbers can surpass 
 The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
 So w^ell the subject suits his noble mind, 
 He brays, the laureat of the long-ear'd kindlT. 
 
 Oh! w^onder-working Lewis ! monk, or bard. 
 Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church-yard ! 
 Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
 Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
 "iVhether on ancient tombs thou takest thy stand 
 By gibb'ring spectres hail'd, thy kindred band ; 
 Or tracest chaste description on thy page. 
 To please the females of our modest age ; 
 All hail, M. P.**! from whose infernal brain 
 Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 
 At whose command " grim women" throng in crowds, 
 And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds. 
 With " small grey men," '' wild yagers," and what-not 
 To crown v^'ith honour thee and Walter Scott ; 
 Again all hail ! if tales like thine may please, 
 St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease ; 
 Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell. 
 And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 
 
 * The last line, " God help thee," is aa evident plagiarism from the 
 Anti-jacobin to Mr. Sonthey, on his dactylics : 
 
 " God help thee, silly one !" 
 
 Pocti-y of the Anti-jacohin, p. '^o. 
 t Against this passage on Words-ft-orth and Coleridse, Lord Byron has 
 written " imjiist." 
 J Lyrical Ballads, p. 4.—'-' The Tables Turned." Stanza I. 
 " Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks ; 
 "VVhy all this toil and trouble ? 
 Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, 
 Or surely you '11 gi-ow double." 
 § Mr. W. in his preface labours hard to prove that prose and verse are 
 much the same ; and certainly his precepts and practice are strictly con- 
 formable. 
 
 " And thus to Betty's questions he 
 
 Made answer, like a traveller bold, 
 The cock did crow, to-whoo, to-whoo, 
 Aud the sun did shine so cold," &c. &c. 
 
 Lyrical Ballads, p. 129. 
 |l Coleridge's Poems, p. II, Songs of the Pixies, i. e. Devonshire fairies ; 
 p. 42, we have ■' Lines to a Voung Lady ;" and p. 52, " Liaes to a young 
 
 IT He brays, the laureat of the long-ear'd kind. — Altered by Lord 
 Byjon in his last revision of the satire. In all former editions tie line 
 stood. 
 
 — — " A fellow-feeling makes us woai'rous kind." 
 
 • • " For evei7 one knows Uttle Matt 's an M. P."— See a poem to Mr. 
 Lewis, in The Statesman, supposed to be written by Mr. Jekyll. 
 
 Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir 
 Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, 
 With sparkling eyes and cheek by passion flush'd, 
 Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hush'd ? 
 'T is Little ! young Catullus of his day, 
 As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay ! 
 Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be just, 
 Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
 Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns ; 
 From grosser incense with disgust she turns : 
 Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er, 
 She bids thee " mend thy line*, and sin no more." 
 
 For thee, translator of the tinsel song, 
 To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
 Hibernian Strangford ! with thine eyes of blue,| 
 And boasted locks of red or auburn hue. 
 Whose plaintive strain each love-sick miss admires. 
 And o'er harmonious fustian| half expires, 
 Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, 
 Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 
 Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, 
 By dressing Camoens§ in a suit of lace ! 
 Mend, Strangford ! mend thy morals and thy taste 
 Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but chaste : 
 Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer'd harp restore, 
 Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore. 
 
 Behold ! — ye tarts ! one moment spare the text — 
 Hayley's last work, and worst — until his next ; 
 Whether he spin poor couplets into plays. 
 Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise||, 
 His style in youth or age is still the same, 
 For ever feeble and for ever tarne. 
 Triumphant first see " Temper's Triumphs" shine 
 At least I'm sure they triumph'd over mine. 
 Of-' Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear 
 That luckless music never triumph'd therelF. 
 
 Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward 
 On d'jU devotion — lo ! the Sabbaih bard, 
 Sepulchral Grahame, pours his notes sublime 
 In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme ; 
 Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke** 
 And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ; 
 And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, 
 Pen'erts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalmsff . 
 
 Hail, Sympathy ! thy soft idea brings 
 A thousand visions of a thousand things. 
 And shows, still whimpering through threescore ofyearsjf , 
 The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 
 And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles ! 
 Thou first, great oracle of tender souls ? 
 
 * In the original manuscnpt, " Mend thy life." 
 
 t The reader, who may wish for an explanation of this, may refer to 
 " Strangford's Camoens," page 127, note to page 56, or to the last page 
 of the Edinburgh Review of Strangford's Camoens. 
 i Fustian ; in the first edition, nonsense. 
 
 § [t is also to be remarked, that the things given to the public ae poems 
 of Camoens are no more to be found in the original Portuguese, than in 
 the Songs of Solomon. 
 
 II " Behold ! — ye tarts ! one moment spare his text — 
 
 Hayley'slast work, and worst— until his next ; 
 Whether he spins poor couplets into plays, 
 Or danruis the de?.d with purgatorial praise." 
 So emended by Loi-d Byrou in the fifth edition of this satire. The lines 
 were originally printed : 
 
 " In many raarble-cover'd volumes view 
 Hayley, in vain attempting something new ; 
 \Miether he spins his comedies in rhyme, 
 Or scrawl, as Wood and Barclay walk, 'gainst time." 
 IT Hayley's two most notorious verse productions are " Triumphs of 
 Temper," and " Triumphs of Music." He has also written much come- 
 dy m rhyme, epistles, &c., &c. As he is rather an eleeant writer of noles 
 and biography, let us recommend Pope's advice to Wvcherlev to Mr. H.'s 
 consideration, viz. "to convert his poetry into prose," W'hich mav ba 
 easily done by taking away the final syilaiJe of each couplet. 
 
 *' " Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke." 
 
 In the first edition, 
 
 " Breaks into mawkish lines each holy bock." 
 ft Mr. Grahame has poured forth two volumes of cant, under the name 
 of " Sabbath Walks," and " Biblical Pictures." 
 
 fifth 
 
 : Still whimpering through threescore ofyeari.—ThvA altered in th# 
 edition. The original reading was. 
 
 ! original reading was, 
 ' Dissolved in thine own nieltiug tears.' 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 423 
 
 ♦Whether thou sing'st with equal ease, and grief, 
 The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf; 
 Whether thy muse most lamentably tells 
 What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bellsf , 
 Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend 
 In every chime that jingled from Ostend ; 
 Ah! how much juster were thy muse's hap, 
 If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! 
 Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still blest, 
 All love thy strain, but children like it best. 
 'T is thine, with gentle Little's moral song, 
 To soothe the mania of the amorous throng ! 
 With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears, 
 Ere miss as yet completes her infant yearns : 
 But in her teens thy whining powers are vain ; 
 She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain. 
 Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine 
 The lofty numbers of a harp like thine ; 
 " Awake a louder and a loftier strainj," 
 Such as none heard before, or will again ! 
 Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood. 
 Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, 
 By more or less, are sung in every book. 
 From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook. 
 Nor this alone ; but, pausing on the road, 
 The bard sighs forth a gentle episode § ; 
 And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous miss ! — 
 When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
 Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell. 
 Stick to thy sonnets, man! — at least they sell|[. 
 But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, 
 Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe : 
 If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd, 
 Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ; 
 If Pope, whose fame and genius from the first 
 Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, 
 Do thou essay ; each fault, each failing scan ; 
 The first of poets was, alas ! but man. ^ 
 
 Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, 
 Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in CurUH ; 
 Let all the scandals of a former age 
 Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page ; 
 Affect a candour which thou canst not feel, 
 Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 
 
 * Whether thou sing'st, §c.— Tliis couplet, in all the editions before 
 the fifth, was printed. 
 
 " Whether in sighing winds tliou seek'st relief, 
 Or consolatioii in a yellow leaf." 
 t See Bowles's Sonnets, &c. — " Sonnet to Oxford," and " Stanzas on 
 hearing the Bells of Ostend." 
 
 J " Awake a louder," &c., &c.,is the first line in Bowles's " Spirit of 
 Discovery ; " a very spirited and pretty dwarf epic. Among other exqui- 
 site lines we have the following ; — 
 
 " A kiss 
 Stole on the list'nlng silence, never yet 
 Here heard ; they trembled even as if the power," &c., &c. 
 That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss, very much astonished, 
 as well they might be, at such a phenomenon*. 
 
 § The episode above alluded to is the story of " Robert a Machin" and 
 " Anae d'Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, who performed the kiss above 
 mejltioned, that startled the woods of Madeira. 
 
 " Slick to thy sonnets, man ! — at least they sell. 
 Or take the only path that open lies 
 For modern worthies who would hope to rise : 
 Fix on some well-known name, and, bit by bit. 
 Pare off the merits of his worth and wit i 
 On each alike employ the critic's knife. 
 And when a comment fails, prefix a life ; 
 Hint certain failings, faults before unknown, 
 Review forgotten lies, and add your own ; 
 Let no disease, let no misfortune 'scape. 
 And print, if luckily deform'd, his shape : 
 Thus shall the world, quite undeceived at last, 
 Cleave to their present wits, and quit their past ; 
 Bards once revered no more with favour view, 
 But give the modern sonneteers their due : 
 Thus with the dead may livmg merit cope. 
 Thus Bowles may triumph o'er the shade of Pope." 
 In the first eilition, the observations on Bowles ended with tliese lines, 
 which were written by a friend of Lord Byronl', and omitted when the 
 satire was published with the author's name. The following fifty-five 
 verses, contaiumg the conclusion of the passage on Bowles, and the no- 
 tices of Cottle and Maurice, were then printed for the first time. 
 
 U Curll is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was a bookseller. Lord 
 Fanny is the poetical name of Lord Hervey, author of " Lines to the 
 Imitator of Horace." 
 
 • Misquoted and misunderstood by me ; but not intentionally. It was 
 not the "woods," but the people in them who trembled — why, Heaven 
 only knows — unless they were overheard making the prodigious smack. — 
 MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 
 
 t Hobhouse. 
 
 Write, as if St. John'.s soul could still inspire. 
 
 And do from hate what *Mallet did for hiire. 
 
 Oh ! hadst thou lived in that congenial time. 
 
 To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhymef ; 
 
 Throng'd with the rest around his living head, 
 
 Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead ; 
 
 A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, 
 
 J And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains§. 
 
 II Another epic ! Who inflicts again 
 More books of blank upon the sons of men ? 
 Boeotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast, 
 Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, 
 And sends his goods to market — all alive ! 
 Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five ! 
 Fresh fish from Helicon lU who 'U buy ! who '11 buy 7 
 The precious bargain's cheap — in faith, not I. 
 **Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat. 
 Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat ; 
 If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain. 
 And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 
 In him an author's luckless lot behold, 
 Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold. 
 Oh, Amos Cottle ! — Phcebus ! what a name 
 To fill the speaking trump of future fame ! — 
 Oh, Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 
 What meagre profits spring from pen and ink ! 
 When thus devoted to poetic dreams, 
 Who will peruse thy prostituted reams ? 
 Oh pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 
 Had fjCotde still adorn'd the counter's side, 
 Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils. 
 Been taught to make the paper which be soils, 
 Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb, 
 He had not sung of Wales, nor I of himj|. 
 
 As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
 Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may sleep, 
 So up the hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves 
 Dull Maurice§§ all his granite weight of leaves : 
 Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain ! 
 The petrifactions of a plodding brain. 
 That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back again. 
 
 With broken lyre, and cheek serenely pale, 
 Lo ! sad Alcseus wanders down the vale ; 
 Though fair they rose, and might have bloom'd at last. 
 His hopes have perish'd by the northern blast : 
 Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales,' 
 His blossoms wither as the blast prevails ! 
 
 * Lord Bolingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after his decease, be- 
 cause the poet had retained some copies of a work by Lord Bolingbroke 
 (the Patriot King,) which that splendid, but malignant genius, had order- 
 ed to be destroyed, 
 t Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester. 
 
 " Silence, ye wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, 
 Making night hideous : answer him, ye owls !" 
 
 Dunciad. 
 X And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains.— Too savage all this 
 on Bowles.— MS. note hy Lord Byron. 1816. 
 
 § See Bowles's late edition of Pope's works, for wliich he received three 
 hundred pounds : thus Mr. B. has experienced how much easier it is to 
 profit by the reputation of another than to elevate liis own. 
 
 II Another epic ! — Opposite this passage on Joseph and Amos Cottle, 
 Lord Byron has written, " All right." 
 
 If Fresh fiah from Helicon!— '' Helicon" is a mountam, and not a 
 fish-pond. It should have been " Hippocrene."—MS. note by Lord 
 Byron. 1816. 
 
 ** Your turtle feeder's verse, §-c.— This couplet was altered in the 
 fifth edition. It originally stood : 
 
 " Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight, 
 
 Too much o'er bowls of sack prolong the night.' ' 
 
 tt Mr Cottle, Amos, Joseph. I do n't know which, but one or both, 
 
 once sellei-s of books they did not write, and now WTiters of books that do 
 
 not sell, have published a pair of epics. " Alfred," (poor Alfred ! Pye has 
 
 been at him too !) " Alfred," and the "Fall of Cambria." 
 
 1+ He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him.—\ saw some lettei-s of 
 this fellow (Joseph Cottle) to an unfortunate poetess, wliose productions, 
 which the poor woman by no means thought vainly of, he attacked so 
 roughly and bitterly, that I could hardly resist assailing him, even were it 
 uniSst, which it is not— for verUy he is an ass.— M.S. note by Lord 
 Byron. 1816. 
 
 6§ Mr Maurice hath manufactured the component parts of a ponderoua 
 quarto, upon the beauties of "Richmond Hill," and the like :— it also 
 takes in a charming view of Turnham Green, Hammersmith, Brenlfora, 
 Old and New and the pai ts adjacent. 
 
424 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep ! 
 May no rude hand disturb their early sleep* ! 
 
 Yet say ! why should the bard at once resign 
 His claim to favour from the sacred nine ? 
 For ever startled by the mingled howl 
 Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl ; 
 A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, 
 fBy hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; 
 Aged or young, the living or the dead, 
 No mercy find — these harpies must be fed. 
 Why do the injured unresisting yield 
 The calm possession of their native field ? 
 Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, 
 Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seat]: ? 
 
 Health to immortal Jeffrey ! once, in name, 
 England could boast a judge almost the same ; 
 In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 
 Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust, 
 And given the spirit to the world again, 
 To sentence letters, as he sentenced men. 
 With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, 
 With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 
 Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
 As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw ; 
 Since well instructed in the patriot school 
 To rail at party, though a party tool. 
 Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore 
 Back to the sway they forfeited before. 
 His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, 
 And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat§ ? 
 Let Jeffries' shade indulge the pious hope, 
 And greeting thus, present him with a rope : 
 '• Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 
 Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind, 
 This cord receive, for thee reserved with care 
 To wield in judgment, and at length to wear." 
 
 Health to great Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve his life, 
 To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
 And guard it sacred in its future wars, 
 Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars ! 
 Can none remember that eventful day||, 
 That ever glorious, almost fatal fray. 
 When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, 
 And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing byH ? 
 Oh, day disastrous ! On her firm-set rock, 
 Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock ; 
 Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 
 Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north ; 
 Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear, 
 The other half pursued its calm career** ; 
 Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base. 
 The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place. 
 The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can, 
 On such occasions, feel as much as man — 
 
 •* Poor iVIonlgomery ! though praised by every English Review, has 
 been bitterly reviled by the Edinburgh. After all,' the bard of Sheffield is 
 a man of considerable genius : his " Wanderer of Switzerland," is worth 
 a thousand " Lyrical Ballads," and at least fifty '■ degraded epics." 
 
 t See Lord Byron's letter to Mr. JMurray, June 13, 1813, volume 2, 
 page 
 
 i Arthur's Seat ; the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. 
 
 § And raise t/iif Daniel to the judsment-seat. — Too ferocious — this is 
 mere insanity. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 
 
 !| Can none remember. §-c.— All this is bad, because persona].— AfS. 
 note by Lord Byron. 1816. 
 
 IT In 1806, Messrs. Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk-Farm. The duel 
 was prevented by the interference of the magistracy ; and, on examina- 
 tion, the balls of the pistols were found to have evaporated. This incident 
 gave occasion to much waggery in the daily prints. 
 
 I am informed that Mr. Moore published at the lime a disavowal of the 
 statements in the newspapers, as far as regarded himself; and in justice 
 to hira I mention this circumstance. As I never heard of it before, I can- 
 not state the particulars, and was only made acquainted with the fact very 
 lately.— November 4, 1811. 
 
 ** The Tweed here liehaved with proper decorum : it would have been 
 highly reprehensible in the English half of the river to have shown the 
 emallest symptom ol apprehension. I 
 
 The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms, 
 
 If Jeffrey died, except within her arms*: 
 
 Nay last, not least, on that portentous morn, 
 
 The sixteenth story, where himself was born. 
 
 His patrimonial garret, fell to ground, 
 
 And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound: 
 
 Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white reams, 
 
 Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams ; 
 
 This of his candour seem'd the sable dew. 
 
 That of his valour show'd the bloodless hue ; 
 
 And all with justice deem'd the two combined 
 
 The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 
 
 But Caledonia's goddess hover'd o'er 
 
 The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore; 
 
 From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead. 
 
 And straight restored it to her favourite's head ; 
 
 That head, with greater than magnetic pow'r, 
 
 Caught it, as Danae caught the golden show'r. 
 
 And, though the thickening dross will scarce 
 
 Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 
 
 " My son," she cried, " ne'er thirst for gore again, 
 
 Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; 
 
 O'er politics and poesy preside. 
 
 Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide ! 
 
 For long as Albion's heedless sons submit. 
 
 Or Scottish taste decides on English wit. 
 
 So long shall last thine unmolested reign, 
 
 Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 
 
 Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan. 
 
 And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 
 
 First in the oat-fed phalanxf shall be seen 
 
 The travell'd thane, Atlienian Aberdeen J. 
 
 Herbert shall wield Thor's hamraer§, and sometimes, 
 
 In gratitude, thou 'It praise his rugged rhymes. 
 
 Smug Sydneyll too thy bitter page shall seek, 
 
 And classic Hallam,^ much renowm'd for Greek ; 
 
 Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, 
 
 And paltry Pillans** shall traduce his friend ; 
 
 While gay Thalia's luckless votan,', Lambeff, 
 
 Damn'd like the devil, devil-like will damnjij. 
 
 Knou-n be thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! 
 
 Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; 
 
 While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes 
 
 To Holland's hirelings and to learning's foes. 
 
 Yet mark one caution ere thy next Review 
 
 Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue. 
 
 * This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooih (the principal 
 prison in Edinburgh), which truly seems to have been most affected on 
 this occasion, is much to be commended. It was to be apprehended, that 
 the many unhappy crimnials executed in the front might have rendered 
 the edifice more callous. She is said to be of the softer sex. because her 
 delicacy of feeling on this day was truly feminine, though, like most femi- 
 nine impulses, perhaps a little selfish. 
 
 t — Oat-fed phalanx.— So altered in the fifth edition. The original 
 reading was, "ranks illustrious." 
 
 % His lordship has been much abroad, is a member of the Athenian So- 
 ciety, and reviewer of " Gell's Topography of Troy." 
 
 § Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry. One of the 
 principal pieces is a " Song on the Recovery of Thor's Hammer :" the 
 translation is a pleasant chant in the vulgar tongue, and endeth thus : — 
 " Instead of money and rings, I wot, 
 The hammer's bruises were her lot. 
 Thus Odin's son his hammer got." 
 
 II The Rev. Sydney Smith, the reputed author of Peter Plymley's Let- 
 ters, and sundi-y criticisms. 
 
 IT Mr. Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's " Taste," and was exceedingly 
 severe on some Greek verses therein : it was not discovered that the lines 
 were Pindar's till the press rendered it impossible to cancel the critique, 
 which still stands an everlasting monument of Hallam's ingenuity'. 
 
 The said Hallam is incensed because he is falsely accused, seeing that 
 he never dineth at Holland House. If this be true, I am sory — not for 
 having said so, but on his account, as I understand his lordship's feasts 
 are preferable to his compositions. — If he did not review Lord Holland's 
 performance, I am glad, hecause it must have been pamful to read, and 
 irksome to praise it. If Mr. Hallam will tell me who did review it, the 
 real name shall find a place in the text ; provided, nevertheless, the said 
 name be of two oi-thodox musical syllables, and will come uito the Terse : 
 till then, Hallam must stand for want of a better. 
 
 '* Pillans is a tutor at Eaton. 
 
 j\ The Hon. G. Lambe reviewed " Beresford's Miseries," and is more- 
 over author of a farce enacted with much applause at the Priory, Stan- 
 more : and danrned with great expedition at the late theatre. C-^vent 
 Gai-den. It was entitled, " Whistle for It." 
 
 tt Damned like the devil, devil-like will damn. — The line stood, iu ail 
 editions before the fifth, 
 
 "As he himself was damn'd shall try to damn." 
 
 • Hallam's ingenuity.— The note ended here in the first edition. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 425 
 
 Beware lest blundering Brougham* destroy the sale, 
 Turn beef to bannocks, caulitiowers to kail." 
 Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist 
 Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mistf . 
 
 J Then prosper, Jeffrey ! pertest of the train 
 Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery, grain! 
 Whatever blessing waits a genius Scot, 
 In double portion swells thy glorious lot ; 
 FortheeEdina culls her evening sweets. 
 And showers their odours on thy candid sheets, 
 Whose hue and fragrance to thy work adhere — 
 This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear§. 
 Lo ! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamour'd grown, 
 Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone ; 
 And, too unjust to other Pictish men. 
 Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen ! 
 
 IIIUustrious'Holland ! hard would be his lot, 
 His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot ! 
 Holland, with Henry Petty at his back, • 
 The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
 Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, 
 Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse ! 
 Long, long beneath that hospitable roof 
 Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. 
 See honest Hallam lay aside his fork. 
 Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work, 
 HAnd, grateful for the dainties on his plate, 
 Dedare his lordship can at least translate**- ! 
 Dunedin ! view thy children v/ith delight. 
 They write for food — and feed because they write ; 
 And lest, when heated with the unusual grape, 
 Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, 
 And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, 
 My lady skims the cream of each critique ; 
 Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, 
 Reforms each error, and refines the wholeff. 
 
 Now to the drama turn — oh I motley sight ! 
 What precious scenes the w^ondering eyes invite ! 
 Puns, and a prince within a barrel pentJJ, 
 And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. 
 Though now, thank Heaven ! the Rosciomania's o'er, 
 And full-grown actors are endured once more ; 
 
 * Mr. Brougham, in No. XXY. of the Edinburgh Review, throughout 
 the article conceniiua Don Pedro de Cevallos. has clisplayed more politics 
 than (joiicy ; many of the worthy burgesses of Edinliurgh being so incensed 
 at the infamous piinciples it evinces, as to have vvitlidrawn their subscrip- 
 tions' . 
 
 It seems that Mr.Bronsham is not a FiCt, as I supposed, but a Borderer, 
 and his name is pronounced Broum, from Trent to Tay :— So be it. 
 
 t I ou^ht to apol -.gize to the worthy deities for introducing a new god- 
 dess with short petticoats to their notice : but alas ! what was to be done ? 
 I coutd not say C^aledonia's genius, it being well known there is no such 
 genius to be found from Ctacl<mannan to Caithness ; yet without superna- 
 tural asency, how was Jeft'rey to be saved ? The national " kelpies" are 
 too nnpoelical, and the " brownies," and " gude neighbours" (spirits of a 
 good disposition) refused to extricate him. A goddess, therefore, has been 
 called for the purpose ; and great ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, see- 
 ing it is the only communication he ever held, or is likely to hold, with any 
 thing heavenly. . 
 
 t Then prosper, Jeffrey! ^c— This paragraph was introduced in the 
 fifth edition , „ . 
 
 § See the colour of the back binding of the Edmburgh Review. 
 II Illustrious Hollan I ! hard would be his lot, 
 
 His kirelinss mention'd, and himself forgot I 
 Bad enough, and on mistaken grounds too.— MS. note by Lord Byron. 
 181S. 
 
 H And, grateful for the dainties, Sfc.—li\ all editions before the fifth 
 this couplet was printed, 
 
 ' " And ffratnful to the founder of the feast, 
 Declare his landlord'can translate at least." 
 •* Lord Holland has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega, in- 
 serted in his life of the author? both are bepraised by his disinterested 
 guests. 
 
 t1 Certain it is, her ladyship is susiKcted of having displayed her match- 
 less wit in the Edinhurj-h' Review. However that may be, we know, from 
 good authority, that the manuscripts are submitted to her perusal— no 
 doubt, for correction. 
 
 i J In the melo-drama of Tekeli, that heroic prince is clapt mto a barrel 
 011^116 stage ; a new asylum for distressed heroes. 
 
 Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, 
 
 While British critics suffer scenes like these ; 
 
 While Reynolds vents his " dammees !" " poohs !" and 
 
 " zounds* !" 
 And common-place and common sense confounds ? 
 While Kenny's '' World" — ah I where is Kenny's wit '— 
 Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pitf ; 
 And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords 
 A tragedy complete in all but vvordsj ? 
 Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage, 
 The degradation of our vaunted stage ! 
 Heavens ! is all sense of shame and talent gone? 
 Have we no living bard of merit ? — none ! 
 Awake, George Colman ! Cumberland, awake ' 
 Ring th' alarum bell ! let folly quake ! 
 Oh, Sheridan ! if aught can move thy pen, 
 Let Comedy assume her throne again *, 
 Abjure the mummery of German schools; 
 Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; 
 Give, as thy last memorial to the age, 
 One classic drama, and reform the stage. 
 Gods ! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, 
 Vv'here Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to tread§ ? 
 On those shall Farce display buffoon'ry's mask, 
 And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask ? 
 Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
 From Cherry, Skefnngton, and Mother Goose 
 While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, 
 On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot ? 
 Lo ! with v,'bat pomp the daily prints proclaim 
 The rival candidates for Attic fame ! 
 In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, 
 Still Skeffmgton and Goose divide the prize. 
 And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise, 
 For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
 Renown'd alike ; whose genius ne'er confines 
 Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designsjj ; 
 Nor sleeps with " Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
 In five factions acts comes thundering onTT, 
 While poor John Bull, bewilder'd.with the scene, 
 Si:are3**, wondering what the devil it can mean 
 But as some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
 Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. 
 
 Such are we now — ah ! wherefore should we turn 
 To what our fathers were, unless to mourn ? 
 Degen'rate Britons ! are ye dead to shame 
 Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame ? 
 Well may the nobles of our present race 
 Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face ; 
 Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, 
 And worship Catalina's pantaloonsjf. 
 Since their own drama yields no fairer traca 
 Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. 
 
 Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art 
 To sofien manners, but corrupt the heart, 
 Pour her exotic follies o'er the town. 
 To sanction vice, and hunt decorum down : 
 
 * Their subscriptions.— lUre followed, in the fii-st edition, " The 
 naiTie of this personage is pronouuced Broom in the south, but the truly 
 northern' and wmszt-ru' pronunciation is Brou^h-am, in two syllables. 
 
 The conclusion of the note was substituted for the above in the second 
 
 3D 
 
 * All these are favourite expressions of Mr. Reynolds, and prominent 
 in his comedies, living and defunct. 
 
 t " Wliile Kenny's " World," — ah ! where is Kenny's wit ?— 
 Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit." 
 
 Thus corrected in the lifth'edilion. The lines were originally printed, 
 " While Kenny's " World," just suffer'd to proceed, 
 Proclaims the audience very kind indeed." 
 
 X Mr. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury-lane theatre, stripped 
 the tragedy of Bouduca of the dialogue, and exhil)ited the scenes as the 
 spectacle of Caractacus.— Was this worthy of his sire, or of himself? 
 
 § Siddons lives to tread.— In all editions previous to the fifth, " Kem- 
 ble lives to tread." 
 
 II Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to Drui7-lane theatre— 
 as such, Mr. Skeffington is much indebted to him. 
 
 II Mr. Skeffington is the illustrious author of the " Sleeping Beauty ;" 
 and some comedies, particularly "Maids and Bachelora :" Baculaura 
 baculo magis quam lauro digni. 
 
 " " Slaves ;" first edition, " keeps." 
 
 tt iSTaldi and Catalina require little notice — for the visage of the one, and 
 the salary of the other, will enable tis long to recollect these amusing 
 vagabonds. Besides, we are still black and blue from the equecge on tbs 
 first night of the lady's appearance in trousers. 
 
426 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes, 
 
 And bless the promise which his form displays ; 
 
 While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looka 
 
 Of hoary marquises and strippling dukes : 
 
 Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 
 
 Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil ; 
 
 Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, 
 
 Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe ; 
 
 Collini trill her love-inspiring song, 
 
 Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng ! 
 
 Whet* not your scythe, suppressers of our vice! 
 
 Reforming saints ! too delicately nice ! 
 
 By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, 
 
 No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave ; 
 
 And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display 
 
 Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. 
 
 fOr hail at once the patron and the pile 
 Of vice and folly, Greville and Argylej ! 
 Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane, 
 Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, 
 Behold the new Petronius§ of the day, 
 Our arbiter of pleasure and of play ! 
 There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 
 The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre, 
 The song from Italy, the step from France, 
 The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance, 
 The smile of beauty and the flush of wine, 
 For fops, fools, gamesters, Imaves, and lords combine: 
 Each to his humour — Comus all allows ; 
 Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. 
 Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! 
 Of piteous ruin, which yourselves have made ; 
 In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 
 Nor think of poverty, except " en masque," 
 When for the night some lately titled ass 
 Appears the beggar which his grandsire was. 
 The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er, 
 The audience take tlieir turn upon the floor ; 
 Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, 
 Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap; 
 The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, 
 The last display the free unfetter'd limb ! 
 Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair 
 With art tlie charms which nature could not spare ; 
 These after husbands wing their eager flight, 
 Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 
 
 Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and ease, 
 Where, all forgotten but the power to please, 
 Each maid may give a loose to genial tliought, 
 Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught ; 
 There the blithe youngster, just retum'd from Spain, 
 Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main; 
 The jovial caster 's set, and seven 's the nick, 
 Or — done ! — a thousand on the coming trick ! 
 If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, 
 And all your hope or wish is to expire, 
 
 * Wfiet not your scythe. — Fi-om Lord Byron's correction in 1816. In 
 the former editions, " Raise not your scythe.'" Against the six conclud- 
 ing lines of this paragrapli the author has WTilten — "Good." 
 
 1 Or hail at once the patron and the pile. — The following seventy 
 lines to " as for the smaller fry," &c., were first inserted in the second 
 edition. 
 
 I To prevent any blunder, such as mistaldng a street for a man, I beg 
 leaVe to state, that it is tlie institution, and not the duke of that name, 
 which is here alluded to. A gentleman, wth whom I am slightly acquaint. 
 ed, lost in the .4rgyle Rooms several thousand pounds at backgammon*. 
 It is but justice to the managers iu this instance to say, that some degree 
 of disapprobation was manifested : but why are the implements of gaming 
 allowed in a place devoted to the society of both sexes ? A pleasant thing 
 for the wives or daughters of those who are blest or cursed with such con- 
 nections, to hear tlie billiard-tables rattling in one room, and the dice in 
 another! That this is the case I myself can testify, as a late worthy 
 member of an institution which materially affects the morals of the higher 
 orders, while the lower may not even move to the sound of a tabor and 
 fiddle without a chance of indictment for riotous behaviour. 
 
 § Petronius " Arbiter elesantiarum" to Nero, " and a very prelty fellow 
 ill hisdav." as Mr. Congreve's " Old Bachelor" saith of H;innital. 
 
 Here 's Powell's pistol ready for your life, 
 
 And, kinder stiU, two Pagets for your wife* ; 
 
 Fit consummation of an earthly race 
 
 Begun in folly, ended in disgrace ; 
 
 While none but menials o'er the bed of death. 
 
 Wash tliy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath ; 
 
 Traduced by liars, and forgot by all. 
 
 The mangled victim of a drunken brawl. 
 
 To livo like Clodiusf, and like FalklandJ fall. 
 
 Truth ! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his hand 
 To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
 Even I — ^least thinking of a thoughtless throng, 
 Just skill'd to know the right and choose the wrong, 
 Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost, 
 To fight my course through passion's countless host§, 
 Whom every path of pleasure's flow'ry way 
 Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
 E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
 Such scenes, such men. destroy the public weal; 
 Although some kind, censorious friend will say, 
 '•' What art thou better, meddling fool||, than they '^'' 
 And ever}' brother rake will smile to see 
 That miracle, a moralist in me. 
 No matter — when some bard in virtue strong, 
 Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song, 
 Then sleep my pen for ever ! and my voice 
 Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice ; 
 Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I 
 May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. 
 
 As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals 
 From silly HafizlF up to simple Bowles, 
 Why should we call them from their dark abode, 
 In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenliam-road ? 
 Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
 To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square ? 
 If things of ton their harmless lays indite. 
 Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight 
 What harm ? In spite of every critic elf, 
 Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; 
 Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try. 
 And live in prologues, though his dramas die ; 
 Lords too are bards, such things at times befal, 
 And 't is some praise in peers to write at all. 
 Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, 
 Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhvmes** ? 
 Roscommon ! Sheffield ! with your spirits fle.d, 
 No future laurels deck a noble head ; 
 
 * True. It was Billy W — y who lost the money. I knew him, and 
 wa» a subscriber to IheArgrle e.t '.h» tim* of tho e^en'..— MS. note by 
 iord SyrcTi . 1816. 
 
 Two Pagets for your wife. — Thus altered in the fifth edition. The 
 original reading was, " a Paget for your wife." 
 t Muiato nomene de t€ 
 
 Fabula narratur 
 + T knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday night I beheld him 
 presiding at his own table, in all the lionest pride of hospitality ; on Wed- 
 nesday morning, at three o'clock, I saw stretched before me all that re- 
 mained of courage, feeling, and a host of passions. He was a gallant and 
 successful officer : his faults were the faults of a sailor — as such, Britons 
 will forgive him. He died like a brave man in a better cause ; for had ha 
 fallen in like manner on the deck of the frigate to which he was just ap- 
 pointed, his last moments would have been held up by his cotsntrymen as 
 an example to succeeding heroes. 
 
 § To JigktiTiy course through passion's countless host. — ^Tes : and a 
 precious chase they led me. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 
 
 II What art thou better, meddling fool 7 — Fool enough, certainly, 
 then, and no wiser since. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 
 
 U What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, Hafiz, could 
 he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz, where he reposes with 
 Ferdousi and Sadi, ilie oriental Homer and CatuUus, and Ijehold his 
 name assumed by one Siolt of Dromore, the most impudent and execra- 
 ble of literary poachers for the daily prints. 
 ** Here followed iu the original manuscript. 
 
 On one alone Apollo deigns to smile. 
 And crov.-ns a new Roscommon in Carlisle. 
 The provocation :dluded to in Lord Byron's note, page 262, took place 
 while the satire was in press. These lines were erased in consequence, 
 and all those dov.n to, " Wiih you, ye Druids," &c., substituted in tlieir 
 place. The following additional lines were written, but euppresied b«- 
 fore publication : 
 
 In these our times, with daily wondei-s big, 
 A lettered peer is like a lettered pig ; 
 Both know their alphabet, but who, ifrom thence, 
 Infers tliat peers or pigs have manly sense .■' 
 Still less that such should woo '.he graceful nine? 
 Fan;;a«f:ua war uol mad« for lords and s\viii«. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 427 
 
 *No muse will cheer, with renovating smile. 
 
 The paralytic puling of Carlisle. 
 
 The puny schoolboy and his early lay 
 
 Men pardon, if his follies pass away ; 
 
 But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, 
 
 Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse ? 
 
 What hetereogeneous honours deck the peer ! 
 
 Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteerj ! 
 
 So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, 
 
 His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage ; 
 
 But managers for once cried, " Hold, enough !" 
 
 Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 
 
 Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh. 
 
 And case his volumes in congenial calf; 
 
 Yes ! doff that covering, where morocco shines, 
 
 And hang a calf-skin| on those recreant lines. 
 
 W^ith you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead, 
 Who daily scribble for your daily bread ; 
 With you I war not : Gifford's heavy hand 
 Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. 
 On " all the talents" vent your venal spleen ; 
 Want is your plea, let pity be your screen. 
 Let monodies on Fox regale your crew. 
 And Melville's Mantle § prove a blanket too ! 
 One common lethe waits each hapless bard, 
 And, peace be with you ! 't is your best reward. 
 Such damning fame as Dunciads only give 
 Could bid your lines beyond a morning live ; 
 But now at once your tleeting labours close, 
 With names of greater note in blest repose. 
 Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid 
 The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade. 
 Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, 
 Leave wondering comprehension far behindl|. 
 Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill, 
 Some stragglers skirmish round the columns still ; 
 Last of the howling host which once was Bell's^, 
 Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells ; 
 And Merry's metaphors appear anew, 
 Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q,.** 
 
 ffWhen some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, 
 Employs a pen less pointed than his awl. 
 Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, 
 St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse, 
 Heavens ! how the vulgar stare ! how crowds applaud ! 
 How ladies read, and literati laud 1 
 If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, 
 'T is sheer ill-nature — don't the world know best? 
 
 • Nil muse will cheer, with renovating smile, 
 
 The paTalylic puling of Carlisle. 
 This couplet stood in the first edition, 
 
 " Nor e'en a hackuey'd muse will deign to smile 
 On minor E^yron, or mature Carlisle." 
 Opposite these lines on Lord Carlisle, Lord Byron has written, in the 
 copy wliich lie perused in 1816, " Wrong also— the provocation was not 
 sufficient to justify the acerbity." 
 
 t The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen-penny pam- 
 phlet on the state of the stage, and offers his plan of building a new thea- 
 tre. It is to be hoped his lordship will be permitted to bruig forward any 
 thing fortlie stage— except his own tragedies. 
 J " Doff lliat lion's hide, 
 
 And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs." 
 
 Shak. King John. 
 Lord Carlisle's works, most respleiidently bound, form a conspicuous 
 ornament to his bookshelves : 
 
 " The r&st is all but leather and prunella.'' 
 § " Melville's Mantle," a parody on " Elijah's Mantle," a poem. 
 
 II This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jesv K , seems 
 
 to be a follower of the Delia Crusoa school, and has published two volumes 
 of very respectable absurdities in rhyme, as times go ; besides sundi-y 
 novels in the style of the first edition of the Monk. 
 
 To the above, Lord Byron added, in 1816: "She since married the 
 Morning Post— an exceeding good match— and is since dead— which is 
 better." 
 
 H From this line the passage in the first edition stood thtia : 
 Thousli Bell has lost his nightinsales and owls, 
 Matilda snivels still, and Hafrz howls, 
 And Crusca's spirit, rising from the dead, 
 Revives in Laura, Cluiz, and X. Y. Z. 
 ** These are the signatures of various worthies who figure in the poeti- 
 cal departments of tlie newspapers. 
 
 ft When some brisk youth, &;c.— The following pai-agi-aph was inserted 
 In the second edition. . t ti 
 
 This was meant for poor Blackett, who wa^ then patronised by A. J. B., 
 but that I did not know, or tliis would not have been written, at least I 
 think not.— MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 
 
 Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, 
 And Capel LotTt* declares 't is quite sublime. 
 Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! 
 Swains ! quit the plough, resign the useless spade ! 
 Lo ! Burns and Bloorafield, nay, a greater far, 
 Gifford was born beneath an adverse star, 
 Forsook the labours of a servile state, 
 Stemm'd the rude storm and triumph'd over fata : 
 Then why no more? if Phoebus smile on you, 
 Bloomfield ! why not on brother Nathan too ?t 
 Him too the mania, not the muse has seized ; 
 Not inspiration, but a mind diseased : 
 And now no boor can seek his last abode, 
 No common be enclosed, without an ode. 
 Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to smile 
 On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 
 Let poesy go forth pervade the whole. 
 Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul ! 
 Yet tuneful cobblers ! still j'our notes prolong, 
 Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 
 So shall the fair your handy-work peruse 
 Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your shoes. 
 May Moorland! weavers boast Pindaric skill, 
 And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! 
 While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 
 And pay for poems — v/hen they pay for coats. 
 Come forth, oh Campbell§ ! give thy talents scope 
 Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope 
 And thou, melodious Rogers || ! rise at last, 
 Recal the pleasing memory of the past ; 
 Arise 1 let blest remembrance still inspire. 
 And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre 
 Restore Apollo to his vacant throne. 
 Assert thy country's honour and thine own. 
 What ! must deserted Poesy still weep 
 Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep? 
 Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns, 
 To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns 
 No ! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood, 
 The race who rhyme from folly, or for food. 
 Yet still some genuine sons 't is hers to boast, 
 Who least affecting, still affect the most : 
 Feel as they write, and write but as they feel- 
 Bear witness Gifford, Solheby, MacneilU. 
 
 " Why slumbers Gifford ?" once was ask d In vain 
 Why slumbers Gifford ? let us ask again. 
 Are there no follies for his pen to purge ? 
 Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge 
 Are there no sins for satire's bard to greet 
 Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street 
 Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path, 
 And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath 
 
 ■■ Capel Lofft, Esq. the Mscenas of shoemakei-s, and preface-writer 
 generafto distressed versemen ; a kind of gratis accoucheur to those who 
 wish to be delivered of rhyme, but do not know how to bring forth. 
 
 f See Nathaniel Bloomfield's ode, eleg}', or whatever he or any ona 
 else chooses to call it, on tlie enclosure of " Honington Green." 
 
 X Vide " Recollections of a Weaver in tlie Moorlands of StaSbrdshire." 
 § It would be supe'-fluous lo recal to the mind of the reader the authon 
 of " The Pleasures of Memory" and '■ The Pleasures of Hope," the mo«l 
 beautiful didactic poems in our language, if we except Pope's " Essay OTx 
 Man :" but so many poetasters have started up, that even the name« d 
 Campbell and Rogers are become strange. 
 
 Beneath this note Lord Byron has written, ia the copy of this iAtir» 
 which he read in 1816, 
 
 " Pretty Miss Jacqueline 
 Had a nose aquiline. 
 And would assert rude 
 Things of Miss Gertrude, 
 "While Mr. Marraion 
 Led a great army on, 
 Malting Kehama look 
 Like a fierce Mameluke." 
 II Melodious Rogers.— Rogers has not fulfilled the promise of his flrH 
 poems, but has still very great merit, — MS. note by Lord Dyron. 1816. 
 
 IT Gifford, author of the Baviad and M:eviad, the first satires of the d&y, 
 and translator of Juvenal. 
 
 Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon and Virgil's Georgics, and 
 author of " Saul," an epic poem. 
 
 Macneil, whose poems are deservedly popular, particularly " Scotland's 
 Scaith, or the Ways of War," of wliich ten thousand copies were sold in 
 one month. 
 
 *' Mr. Gifford promised publicly that Uie Baviad and Maviad should 
 not be his last original works : l«t him remember, " Mox in reluclanl9« 
 dracones." 
 
428 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time, 
 Eternal beacons of consummate crime? 
 Arouse thee, Gifford ! be thy promise claini'd, 
 Make bad men better or at least ashamed. 
 
 Unhappy White*! while life was in its spring, 
 And thy youug muse just waved her joyous wing, 
 fThe spoiler swept that soaring lyre away, 
 Which else had sounded an immorfal lay. 
 Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, 
 When Science' self destroy'd her favourite son ; 
 Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, 
 She sow'd the seed's but death has reap'd the fruit. 
 'T Avas thine own genius gave tlie final blow, 
 And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low : 
 So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the pkin. 
 No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
 View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
 And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart •- 
 Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 
 He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel ; 
 W^hile the same plumage that had warm'd his nest 
 Drank the last life-dj-op of his bleeding breast. 
 
 There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days. 
 That splendid lies are all the poet's praise ; 
 That strain'd invention, ever on the wing, 
 Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 
 'T is true, that ail who rhvme, nay, all who write, 
 Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite ; 
 Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, 
 And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
 This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe| attest ; 
 Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. 
 
 §And here let Shee|l and genius find a place, 
 Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace ; 
 To guide whose hand the sister arts combine. 
 And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; 
 Whose magic touch can bid the canvass glow, 
 Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow ; 
 While honours, doubly merited, attend 
 The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 
 
 Blest is the man who dares approach the bower 
 Where dwelt the muses at their natal hour: 
 Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd afar, 
 The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 
 The scenes which glory still must hover o'er. 
 Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. 
 But doubly blest is he whose heart expands 
 With haUow'd feelings for those classic lands ; 
 Who rends the veil of ages long gone by. 
 And views their remnants with a poet's eye ! 
 Wrightll ! 't was thy happy lot at once to view 
 Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; 
 And sure no common muse inspired thv pen 
 To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 
 
 And you, associate bards** ! who snatch'd to light 
 Those gems too long wiihheld from modem sight ; 
 
 * Henry Kirke White died at Camtmrtge, in October, 18C5, in conse- 
 quence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies thai would have ma- 
 tured a mind which disease and poverty couid not impair, and which death 
 itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poeins abound in such beauties 
 as must impress the reader a'iih the liveliest regret that so short a period 
 Tras allotted to ulents which would have dignified even the sacred func- 
 tions be was destined to a=!sume. 
 
 f 7'Ac spoiler sie pi that soaring lyre nway. 
 
 Which, else hiA sounded (tn irr.-nioital laii. 
 
 So altered by I/ord Byron on reperusiug tiie satire iii 1816. In former 
 editions the lines sliKvd, 
 
 " The spoiler came; and all thy promise fair 
 Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there." 
 
 J Crahbe. — I consider Crabbe and Coleridge ax the first of these times 
 In point of power nnd genius MS. note bn Lord Byron. 1816. 
 
 § Aiidhere Let Shee, kc. — The ensuing twenty-two lines were inserted 
 In the second edition. 
 
 K Mr. Shee, author of " Rhymes on Art," and " Elemenlfi of Art." 
 
 H Mr. Wrieht, late consul-oeueral for the Seven Islands, is author of a 
 ▼ery beautiful poem just published : it is entitled " Hora Ionics," and is 
 «Jeocriptive of the isles and the adjacent coast of Greece. 
 
 •* The trauRlators of -the Anthology, BJard and Merivale, have since 
 publUhad sep.-jrate poe;o«, which evuica genius tliatonly requires opportu 
 uily to aHain eminence. 
 
 Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath 
 Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe. 
 And all their renovated fragrance flung. 
 To grace the beauties of your native tongue ; 
 Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse 
 The glorious soirit of the Grecian muse. 
 Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone : 
 Resign Achaia's lyre and stril;e your own. 
 
 Let these, or such as these, with just applause. 
 Restore the muse's violated laws ; 
 But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, 
 That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme. 
 Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear, 
 The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear ; 
 In show the simple lyre could once surpass. 
 But nov/, worn down, appear in native brass ; 
 AVhile all his train of hovering sylphs around 
 Evaporate in similes and sound : 
 Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die : 
 False glare attracts, but more offends the eye*. 
 
 Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop, 
 The meanest object of the lowly group, 
 Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, 
 Seems blessed harmony to Lambe and Lloydf : 
 Let them — but hold, my m.use, nor dare to teach 
 A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : 
 The native genius with their being given 
 Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 
 
 And thou, too, Scott| ! resign to minstrels rude 
 The wilder Slogan of a border feud : 
 Let others spin the meagre lines for hire ; 
 Enough for genius if itself inspire ! 
 Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, 
 Prolific every spring, be too profase ; 
 §Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse, 
 And brother Coleridge lull the babes at nurse ; 
 Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most, 
 To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost ; 
 II Let Moore still sigh ; let Strangford steal from Moore, 
 And swear that Caraoens sang such notes of yore ; 
 Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave, 
 And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave ; 
 Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine. 
 And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line ; 
 Let Stott, CarlisleU , Matilda, and the rest 
 Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-; lace the best, 
 
 ' The neglect of the "Botanic Garden" is some proof of returning 
 taste : the scenery is its sole reconmiendation . 
 
 t Messrs. Lambe and Llovd, the most ignoble followers of Southey and 
 Co. 
 
 X By the by, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem his hero or heroine 
 will be less addicted to " Gramarye," and more to grammar, than the 
 Lady of tl'e La}' and her bravo, William of Deloraine. 
 
 ^ Against this passage on Wordsworth, and the following line on Cole- 
 ridge, Lord Byron lias written, '' Unjust." 
 
 li Let Moore siil/ sigL— Fifth edition. The original reading wm, 
 " Let Moore be lewd." 
 
 !i It may ! e asked why I have censured the Earl of Carlisle, my guar- 
 dian aud relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few 
 years ago ? — The guardianship was nominal, at least as far as I have been 
 able to discover : the relationship I cannot help, and arn very sorry for 
 it ; but as his lordship seemed to forget it on a very essential occasion 
 to me, I sh?Jl not burden my memory with tl-e recollection. I do not 
 think that personal differences sanction the unjust condemnation of a 
 brother scribbler ; but I see no reason why they should act as a preventive, 
 when the author, noble or ignoble, has, for a series of years, beguiled a 
 " discerning public" (as the advertisements have it) wiih divers reams 
 of most orthodox, imperial nonsense. Besides, I do not step aside to 
 vituperate the earl : no— his works come fairly in review with those of 
 other patrician literati. If, before I escaped from my teens, I said any 
 tiling in favour of his lordship's paper books, it was in the way of dutiful 
 dedication, and more from the advice of others than my own judgment, 
 and I seize the first opportunity of pronouncing my sincere recantation. 1 
 have heard that some persons conceive me to be unrier obligations to Lord 
 Carlisle : if so, I shall be most particularly hp.ppy to learn what they are, 
 and when conferred, that they may be duly appreciated and publicly ac- 
 knowledged. What I have humbly advanced as an opinion on his printed 
 things, I am prepared to support, if necessary, by quotations from elegies, 
 eulogies, odes, episodes, and certain facetious and dainty tragedies bearing 
 his name aud mark : 
 
 '■ What can ennoble knaves, or fools, or cowards ? 
 Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards." 
 So says Pope. Amen ! 
 
 Much too savage, whatever the foundation might i».—MS. natt by 
 Lord Byron. 1816. ^ 
 
 I This not* first appeared in lb« »«eciod edition. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 429 
 
 Scrawl cm, 'till death release us from the strain, 
 Or Common Sense assert her rights again. 
 But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, 
 Should leave to humbler bards ignoble lays : 
 Thy country's voice, the voice of all the nine, 
 Demand a hallow'd harp — that harp is thine. 
 Say ! will not Caledonia's annals yield 
 The glorious record of some nobler field, 
 Than the vile foray of a plundering clan . 
 Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man ? 
 Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food 
 ♦For Sherwood's outlaw tales of Robin Hood? 
 Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard, 
 And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! 
 Yet not with thee alone his name should live, 
 But own the vast renown a world can give ; 
 Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, 
 And tell the tale of what she was before ; 
 To future times her faded fame recal. 
 And save her glory, though his country fall. 
 
 fYet what avails the sanguine poet's hope, 
 To conquer ages, and witli time to cope ? 
 New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, 
 And other victorsj fill the applauding skies 5 
 A few brief generations fleet along. 
 Whose sons forget the poet and his song : 
 E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce may claim 
 The transient mention of a dubious name ! 
 When fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast, 
 Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last ; 
 §And glory like the phoenix midst her fires, 
 Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 
 
 Shall hoary Grsmta call her sable sons, 
 Expert in science, more expert at puns ? 
 Shall these approach the muse ? ah, no ! she flies, 
 II Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize ; 
 Though printers condescend the press to soil 
 With rhyme by Hoare, and epic blank by HoyleU : 
 Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist, 
 Requires no sacred theme to bid us list**. 
 Ye ! who in Granta's honours would surpass, 
 Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass ; 
 A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
 Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 
 
 tfThere Clarke, still striving piteously " to please," 
 Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, 
 A would-be satirist, a hired buflx)on, 
 A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, 
 Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean, 
 And furbish falsehoods for a magazine, . 
 Devotes to scandal his congenial mind ; 
 Himself a living libel on mankind||. 
 
 Oh ! dark asylum of a Vandal race* ! 
 
 At once the boast of learning, and disgrace! 
 fSo lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson's;}, verse 
 Can make thee better, or poor Hewson's§ worse. 
 But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, 
 The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; 
 On her green banks a greener wreath she|[ wove, 
 To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove ; 
 Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires, 
 And modern Britons glory in their sireslF. 
 
 For me, who, thus unask'd**, have dared to tell 
 My country, v/hat her sons should know too well, 
 tfZeal for her honour bade me here engage 
 The host of idiots that infest her age ; 
 No just applause her honour'd name shall lose, 
 As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
 Oh ! would thy bards but emulate thy fame, 
 And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name ! 
 What Athens was in science, Rome in power 
 What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 
 'T is thine at once, fair Albion ! to have been 
 Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's lovely queen: 
 But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, 
 And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the main ; 
 Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurl'd, 
 And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
 But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, 
 With warning ever scoff''d at, till too late ; 
 To themes less lofty still my lay confine. 
 And urge thy bards to gain a name like thinef;|:. 
 
 Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest 
 The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! 
 Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
 The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, 
 While Cannings colleagues hate him for his wit, 
 And old dame Portland §§ fills the place of Pitt. 
 
 Yet once again adieu ! ere this the sail 
 That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale ; 
 And Afric's|||l coast and Calpe'slTII adverse height, 
 And Stamboul's*** minarets must greet my sight: 
 Thence shall I stray through beauty's native climeftt, 
 Where Kaflr];JJ is clad in rocks, and crown'd with 
 snows sublime. 
 
 * In the first edillon, " Oiitlaw'd Sherwood's." 
 
 t Yet what avails, &c. — The following twelve liaes were introduced in 
 the second edition. 
 
 I " Tollere humo, victoroiie virum volitace per era." 
 
 * Virgil. 
 
 % Like the phmnix midH her fren. — The devil lake that phoenix ! 
 How came it there .' — MS. note hy Lord Byron. 1816. 
 
 II El-en from the templing ore of Seaton's prize.— Thus corrected, in 
 1816, by Lord Byron. In former e'dilions : 
 
 " And even spurn<; the sreat Seatonian prize." 
 
 H Thus in the original manuscript : 
 
 With odes by Smyth, and epic songs by Hoyle ; 
 Hoyle whose learn'd page if still upheld by whist, 
 Required no sacred theme to bid us list. 
 
 ** The " Games of Hoyle," well known to the votaries of whist chess, 
 &c. are not to be superseded by the vagaries of his poetical namesake, 
 whose poem comprised, as expressly stated in the advertisement, all the 
 " plagues of Egypt." 
 
 tt There Clarke, still striving, &.C. — These eight lines were added in 
 the second edition. 
 
 Right enough . this was well deserved, and well laid on. — MS. note by 
 Lord Byron. 1816. 
 
 XX This person, who has lately betrayed the most rabid symptoms of 
 c-onfirmcd authorship, is writer of a poem denominated the " Art of 
 Pleasing," as " luc»is a non luccndo," containing little pleasantry and less 
 poetry. He also acts as monthly stipendiary and collector of calumnies for 
 the '• Satirist." If this unfortunate young man would exchange the ma- 
 gazinst for ths mathematics, and endeavour to take a decent de^ee in his 
 university, it might ev»ntuaUy prova mora serviceable than bi8 present 
 •alary. 
 
 * " Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Prohus transported a consider- 
 able body of Vandals."— Gibbons DecUne and Fall, p. 83, vol. ii. There 
 is no reason to doubt the truth of this assertion ; the breed is still in high 
 perfection.' 
 
 These four lines were substituted for the following in tlie original manu. 
 script : 
 
 Yet hold — as when by Heaven's supreme behest, 
 If found, ten righteous had pre.served the rest. 
 In Sodom's fated town, for Granta's name 
 Let Hodgson's genius plead, and save her fame, 
 t So lost to Phcebus, that, &c. — This couplet, thus altered in the fifth 
 edition, was originally printed, 
 
 " So sunk in dulness, and so lost in shame, 
 That Smyth and Hodgson scarce redeem thy fame." 
 X This gentleman's name requires no praise ; the man who in transla 
 
 tion displays unquestionable genius may well be expected to excel in origi- 
 nal composition, of which it is to be hoped we shall soon see a splen(Sd 
 specimen 
 
 § Hewson Clarke, Esq., as it is written. 
 
 ll " Is" in the first edition. 
 
 IT The " Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem, by Richarda. 
 
 ** Unask'd ; in the first edition unknown. 
 
 tf Zeal for her honour, kc. — In the first edition this couplet ran, 
 '" Zeal for her honour, no malignant rage, 
 Has bade me spurn the follies of her age." 
 
 XX And urge thy bards to gain a ruxme like thine. — ^With this verse the 
 satire ended in the original edition. 
 
 §§ A friend of mine being asked why his grace of Portland was likened 
 to an old woman .? replied, " he supposed it was because he was past 
 bearing." — His grace is now gathered to his grandmothers, where ha 
 sleeps as sovmd as ever ; but even his sleep was better than his coUeaguea* 
 waking. 1811. 
 
 nil Afric's coast. Saw it, August, 1809.— Af5. note by Lord Byron. 
 1816. 
 
 HIT Gibraltar. Saw it, August, 1809.— MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 
 
 "* Stamboul. Was there the summer of 1810. — MS. note by Lord 
 Byron. 1816. 
 ttt Georgia. 
 
 XXt Mount Caucasus. Saw the distant ridge of, 1810, ISll.— MS. note 
 by Lord Byron. 1816. 
 
 * The breed is still in high perfection.— In the first edition :— " There 
 is no reason to doubt the truth of this assertion, a« a larga stoek of the 
 sama breed is to be found titere at this day. 
 
430 
 
 ENGLISH BAHDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 But should I back return, no tempting press* 
 
 Shall drag my journal from the desk's recess : 
 
 Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far, 
 
 Snatch his own wreath of ridicule from Carr ; 
 
 Let Aberdeen and Elginj still pursue 
 
 The shade of fame through regions of vertu ; 
 
 Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, 
 
 Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques ; 
 
 And make their grand saloons a general mart 
 
 For all the mutilated blocks of art : 
 
 Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 
 
 I leave topography to rapid! Gell§ 
 
 And, quite content, no more shall interpose 
 
 To stun the public ear — at least with prose. 
 
 Thus far I've held my undisturb'd career, 
 Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear : 
 
 * Bu'. should Tback return^ no tempting press 
 Shall drag, &c. 
 
 These four lines were aUered in the fifth edition. They originally stood, 
 " But should I back- return, no lettered sage 
 Shall drag my cijimmon-place book on the stage ; 
 Let vain Valencia* rival luckless Carr, 
 And equal him whose work he sought to mar." 
 
 * Lord Elgin would fahi persuade us that all the figures, with and 
 without noses, in his stone-shop, are the work of Phidias ! " Credat 
 Judseus !" 
 
 t Rapid. Thus altered in the fifth edition. In all previous editions, 
 " classic." 
 
 I " Rapid," indeed ! He topographized and typographized King 
 Priam's dominions in three days ! — I called him " classic" before I saw 
 the Troad, but since have learned belter than to tack to his name what 
 don't belong to \l.—Note to the fifth edition. 
 
 Air. Gell s Topography of Troyt and Ithacai cannot fail to ensure the 
 approbation of every man possessed of classical taste, as well for the infor- 
 mation Mr. Gell conveys to the mind of the reader, as for the ability and 
 research the respective works display. — Note to all the early editions. 
 
 Since seeing the plain of Troy, my opinions are somewhat changed as 
 to the above note. Cell's survey was hasty and superficial. — MS. note 
 by Lord Byron. 18t6. 
 
 * Lord Valencia (whose tremendous travels are forthcoming with due 
 decorations, gi-aphical, topographical, typogi-aphical) deposed, on Sir John 
 Carr's unlucky suit, that Dubois's satire prevented his purchase of the 
 "Stranger in Ireland." — Oh, fie, my lord ? has yom- lordship no more 
 feeling for a fellow-tourist? but " two of a trade," they say, &c. 
 
 t Troy. Visited both in 1810 and 1811.— M^. note by Lord Byron. 
 1816. 
 
 X Ithaca. Passed first in 1809.— ATS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 
 
 This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdained to own — 
 Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown : 
 My voice was heard again, though not so loud, 
 My page, though nameless, never disavow'd ; 
 And now at once I tear the veil aw ay : — 
 Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stands at bay, 
 Unscared by all the din of Melbourne house*, 
 By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse, 
 By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
 Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
 Our men in buckram shall have blows enough. 
 And feel they too arc " penetrable stuff:" 
 And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 
 Wlio conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
 The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall 
 From lips that now may seem imbued with gall ; 
 Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
 The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes : 
 But now so callous grown, so changed since youth, 
 I 've learn'd to think, and sternly speak the truth ; 
 Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree, 
 And break him on the wheel he meant for me ; 
 To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, 
 Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss ; 
 Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown, 
 I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 
 And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 
 To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. 
 Thus much I 've dared ; if my incondite layf 
 Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say : 
 This, let the world, which knows not how to spare 
 Yet rarely blames unjustly, nowdeclarej. 
 
 * Din of Melbourne house. — Singular enough, and din enough, 
 
 God knows. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 18)6. 
 
 t Thus much I ^ve dared ; if my incondite lay . 
 
 'The reading of the fifth edition : originally printed, 
 
 '• Thus much I 've dared to do ; how far my lay.' ' 
 
 + The greater part of this satire I most sincerely wish had never been 
 written — not only on account of the injustice of much of the critical, and 
 some of the personal part of it — but the tone and temper are such as I on- 
 aot approve. — Byron. July 14, 1816. 
 
 Diodati, Geneva, 
 
 THE FOLLOWING ARGUMENT INTENDED FOR THE SATIRE WAS IN THE 
 ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT, BUT NOT PUBLISHED. 
 
 The poet considereth times past and their poesy — maketh a sudden transition to times present — is incensed against book-m<aker: — ^revileth W. Seolt 
 for cupidity and ballad-mongering, with notable remarks on Master Southey — complaineth that Master Southey hath inflicted three poems epic and 
 otherwise on the public — inveigheth against Wm. Wordsworth ; but laudelh Mr. Coleridge and his elegy on a young ass — is disposed to vituperate 
 
 Mr. Lewis — and greatly rebuketh Thomas Little (the late,) and the Lord Strangford — recommendeth Air. Hayley to turn his attention to prose 
 
 and exhorteth the Moravians to glorify Mr. Grahame — sympathizelh with the Rev. Bowles — and deploreth the melancholy fate of Montgomery 
 
 — breaketh out into invective against the Edinburgh Reviewers — calleth them hard names, harpies, and the like — apostrophiseth Jeffrey and pro- 
 phesieth — Episode of Jeffrey and Moore, their jeopardy and deliverance ; portents on the mom of combat ; the Tweed, 'Tolbooth, Frith of Forth 
 severally shocked : descent of a goddess to save Jeffrey ; incorporation of the bullets with his sinciput and occiput — Edinburgh Reviewers en masse 
 —Lord Aberdeen, Herbert, Scott, Hallam, Pillans, Lambe, Sydney Smith, Brougham. &c. — The Lord Holland applauded for dinners and transla- 
 tions. — The Drama ; Sketfington, Hook, Re>'nolds, Kenney, Cherry, &c. — Sheridan, Colman, and Cumberland called upon to wTJle return to 
 
 poesy — scribblers of ail sorts — Lords sometimes rhyme ; much better not — Hafiz, Rosa Matilda, and X. Y. Z. — Rosers, Campbell, Gifford, &c., 
 true poets— translators of the Greek Antholog}-—C'rabbe— Darwin's style— Cambridge— Seatcnian Prize— Smyth— Hodgson— Oxford— Richards— - 
 Poeta loquitui- — couclasion. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT.* 
 
 I have been informed, since the present edition went to the press, that my 
 trusty and well-beloved cousins, ths Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing 
 a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting Muse, whom 
 tliey have already so be-deviled with their ungodly ribaldry : 
 
 " Tantaene animis cceleslibus irs !" 
 
 I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Anthony Aguecheek saith, " an I had 
 known he was so cunning of fence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought 
 him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphoi-us before the 
 next number has passed the Tweed ! But I yet hope to light my pipe with 
 it in Persia. 
 
 My northern friends have accnsed me, with justice, of personality to- 
 wards their great literary anthropophagus, Jeffrey ; but what else was to 
 be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by " lying and slandering," 
 and slake their thii-st by " evil speaking i" I have adduced facts already 
 well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have stated my free opmion, nor has 
 he thence sustained any injury ; — what scavenger was ever soiled by being 
 pelted with mud ? It may be said that I quit England because I have 
 censured there " pei-sons of honour and wit about town," but I am coming 
 back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those wlio 
 know me can testify that my motives for leaving England are very different 
 from fears, literary or personal : those who do not, may one day be con- 
 vinced. Since the publication of this thing, my name has not been con- 
 cealed i I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my trauBgres- 
 
 * Added to the second edition. 
 
 sions,and in daily expectation of sundi-y cartels ; but, alas " the age of 
 chivalry is over," or in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days. 
 There is a youth ycleped Hewsou Clarke (Subaudi esquire), a sizer oif 
 Emmanuel College, and, I believe, a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, 
 whom I have introduced in Uiese pages to much better company than he 
 has been accustomed to meet ; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and 
 for no reason that 1 can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear, 
 kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowsl)ip, and whom the jealousy of 
 his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me 
 and what is worse, the defenceless innocentabove mentioned, in "The Sa- 
 tirist" for one year and some months. 1 amutterly unconscious of having 
 given him any provocation; indeed, I am guiltless of having heard his name 
 till coupled with " The Satirist." He has therefore no reason to complain, 
 and I dare say that, like Su- Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than 
 othei-wise. I have now mentioned all who have done me tlie honour to 
 notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, except the edrtor of 
 " The Satirist," who, it seems, is a gentleman — God wot ! I wish he could 
 impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that 
 Mr. Jemingham is about to take up the cudgels for his Meecenas, Lord 
 Carlisle : I hope not : he was one of the few, who, in the very short inter, 
 coui-se I had with him, treated me with kindness when a boy, and what- 
 ever he may say or do, " pour on, I will endure." I have nothing further 
 to add, save a general note of thanksgivine to readers, purchasers, and 
 publishers, and, in the words of Scott, I wish 
 
 " To all and each a fair good night. 
 And »-o»y dreams and slumbers lighl." 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 BEING AN ALUJSIOjr IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE " AD PISONES, DE ARTE POETICA, 
 INTENDED A3 A SEQUEL TO " ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS." 
 
 " Ergo fungav vice co' 
 Reddere quie ferrum valeL, eisors ipsa iccandi." 
 
 KOR. D^. Arte Poet. 304, 305. 
 
 ' Rhymes are difficult things — tliey are stubborn things, sir." 
 
 FIELDING'S Amelia, Vol. iii. Book 5. Cliap. 5, 
 
 Athens. Capuchin Convent, March 12th, 1811. 
 
 Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace 
 His costly canvass with each flatter'd face, 
 Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush, 
 Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush ? 
 Or, should some limner join, for show or sale, 
 A maid of honour to a mermaid's tail ? 
 Or low* Dubost (as once the world has seen) 
 Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen ? 
 Not all that forced politeness, which defends 
 Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 
 Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems 
 The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, 
 Displays a crowd of figures incomplete, 
 Poetic nightmares, witnout head or feet. 
 
 Poets and painters, as all artists know, 
 May shoot a little with a lengthen'd bow ; 
 We claim this mutual mercy for our task, 
 And grant in turn the pardon which we ask ; 
 But make not monsters spring from gentle dams — 
 Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 
 
 A labour'd, long exordium, sometimes tends 
 (Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends ; 
 And nonsense in a lofty note goes down, 
 As pertness passes with a legal gown : 
 Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
 The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain ; 
 The groves of Granta, and her gothic halls, 
 King's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, and old 
 
 walls : 
 Or, in advent'rous numbers, neatly aims 
 To paint a rainbow, or the river Thames. f 
 
 Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam 
 Junffere si velit, et varlas inciucere plumas, 
 Undique collatis membris, ut turpiter atrum 
 Desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne ; 
 Spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici ? 
 Credite, Pisones, iste tabulae fore librum 
 Persimilem, cujus, velutoBgri somiiia, vanse 
 Fingentur species, ut nee pes, nee caput uni 
 Reddatur fornite. Pictoribus atque poetis 
 Quidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa potestas 
 Scimus, et banc veniam petimusquedamusque vicissim: 
 Sed non ui placidis coeant immitia ; non ut 
 Serpentes avibus gemiuentur, tigribus agni. 
 
 Incoeptis gravibus plerumque et magna professi 
 Purpureus, late qui splendeat, unus et alter 
 Assuitur pannus ; cum lucus et ara Dianae, 
 Et properantis aquae per amosnos ambitus agros, 
 Aut flumen Rhenum, aut pluvius describitur arcus. 
 
 • fn an English newspaper, which finds its way abroad wherever there 
 are Englbhmen, I read au account of this dirty dauber's cai-icature of 
 Mr. H , and the conseijuent action, &c. The circumstance is proba- 
 bly too well known to require fuither comment. 
 
 t " Where pttre descriplioa held the place of sense." — Poped 
 
 You sketch a tree, £uid so perhaps may shine- 
 But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign 5 
 You plan a vase — it dwindles to a pot ; 
 Then glide down Grub-street — fasting and forgot ; 
 Laugh'd into Lethe by some quaint review, 
 Whose wit is never troublesome till true. 
 
 In fine, to whatsoever you aspire, 
 Let it at least be simple and entire. 
 
 The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 
 (Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe) 
 Are led astray by some peculiar lure. 
 I labour to be brief — become obscure ; 
 One falls while following elegance too fast ; 
 Another soars, inflated with bombast ; 
 Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly, ' 
 He spins his subject to satiety ; 
 Absurdly varying, he at last engraves 
 Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves ! 
 
 Unless your care's exact, your judgment nice, 
 The flight from folly leads but into vice ; 
 None are complete, all v/anting in some part, 
 Like certain tailors, limited in art. 
 For galligaskins Slovvshears is your man, 
 But coats must claim another artizan.* 
 Now this to me, I own, seems much the same 
 As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame ; 
 Or, with a fair complexion, to expose 
 Black eyes, black ringlets, but — a bottle nose 1 
 
 Dear authors ! suit your topics to your strength, 
 And ponder well your subject, and its length ; 
 
 Sed nunc non erat his locus : et fortasse cupressum 
 Scis simulare : quid hoc, si fractis enatat exspes 
 Navibus, sere date qui pingitur .'' amphora cogpit 
 Institui : currente rota cur urceus exit ? 
 Denique sit quod vis, simplex duntaxat et unum. 
 
 Maxima pars vatura, pater, et juvenes patre digni, 
 Decipimur specie recti. Brevis esse laboro, 
 Obscurus fio : sectantem levia, nervi 
 Deficiunt animique : professus grandia, turget : 
 Serpit humi, tutus nimium, timidusque procellae : 
 Qui variare cupit rem prodigialiter unam, 
 Dclphinum sylvis appingit fluctibus aprum. 
 
 In vitium ducit culpa^ fuga, si caret arte. 
 TEmiiium circa kidum faber unus et ungues 
 Exprimet, et molles imitabitur aere capillos; 
 Infelix operis summa, quia ponere totum 
 Nesciet. Hunc ego me, si quid coniponere curem. 
 Non magis esse velim, quam pravo vivere naso, 
 Spectandum nigris oculis nigroque capillo. 
 
 * Mere common mortals were commonly content with one tailor and 
 wth one bill, but the more particular gentlemen found it impossible to 
 confide their lower garments to the makers of their body clothes. I speak 
 of the beginning of 1809 : what i-eform may hav» since taken place I neither 
 know nor desire to know • 
 
432 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 Nor lift your load, before you're quite aware 
 What weight your shoulders wjU, or will not, bear. 
 But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, 
 Await the poet, skilful in his choice ; 
 With native eloquence he soars along, 
 Grace in his thoughts, and music in his song. 
 
 Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
 With future parts the now omitted line ; 
 This shall the author choose, or that reject, 
 Precise in style, and cautious to select. 
 Nor slight applause will candid pens afford 
 To him who furnishes a wanting word. 
 Then fear not if 'tis needful to produce 
 Some term unknown, or obsolete in use, 
 (As *Pitt has furnisli'd us a word or two, 
 Which lexicographers declined to do ;) 
 So you indeed, w^ith care, — (but be content 
 To take this licence rarely) — may invent. 
 New words find credit in these latter days, 
 If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase. 
 What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse 
 To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer muse. 
 If you can add a little, say why not. 
 As well as William Pitt and Walter Scott? 
 Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs, 
 Enrich'd our island's ill-united tongues ; 
 'Tis tlien — and shall be — lawful to present 
 Reform in writing, as in parliament. 
 
 As forests shed their foliage by degrees, 
 So fade expressions which in season please. 
 And we and ours, alas ! are due to fate, 
 And works and words but dwindle, to a date. 
 Though as a monarch nods, and commerce calls, 
 Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals ; 
 Though swamps subdued, and marshes drain'd, sustain 
 The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain, 
 And rising ports along the busy shore 
 Protect the vessel from old ocean's roar, 
 All, all must perish ; but, surviving last, 
 The love of letters half preserves the past. 
 True, some decay, yet not a few revive ;t 
 Though those shall sink, which now appear to thrive, 
 
 Sumite materiem vestris, qui scribitis, equam 
 Viribus ; et versate dia quid ferre recusent 
 Quid valeant humeri. Cui [acta potentererit res, 
 Nee facundia deseret hunc nee liicidus ordo. 
 
 Ordinis haec virtus erit et venus, aut ego fallor, 
 Ut jam nunc dicat, jam nunc debemia dici 
 Pleraque differat, etprsesens in tempus omittat; 
 Hoc amet, hoc spernat promii?si carminis auctor. 
 
 In verbis etiam tenuis cautnsque serendia : 
 Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum 
 Reddiderit junctura novum. Si force necesse est 
 Indiciis monstraie recentibus abdita rerum, 
 Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Ccthegis 
 Continget ; dabiturque Jicentia sumpta pudenter ; 
 Et nova factaque nuper habebunt verba fidem, si 
 Graeco fonts cadant. parce detorta. Quid autem 
 C^cilio Plautoque dabit Romanus, ademptum 
 Virgilio Varioque ? ego cur, acquirere pauca 
 Si possum, invideur jcum lingua Catonis et Enni 
 Sermonem patrium ditaverit, et nova rerum 
 Nomina protulerit .'' Licuit, semperque licebit, 
 Signatum preesente nota producere nomen. 
 
 tJt silva; foliis pronos mutantur in annos ; 
 Prima cadunt : ita vei borum vetus iiiterit aetas, 
 Et juvenum ritu florenc modo nata, vigentque. 
 Debemur morti nos nostraque : sive receptus 
 Terra Neptunus classes aquilonibus arcet, 
 Regis opus ; sterilisve diu palus, aptaque remis 
 Vicinas urbes alit, et grave ser.tit aratrum : 
 Seu cursum mutavic iniquum frugibus amnis, 
 Doctus iter melius ; mortal la facta peribunt : 
 Nedum serraonum stet honos, et gratia vivax. 
 Multarenascentur, qus jamcecidere ; cadentque, 
 
 As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 
 Our life and language must alike obey. 
 
 The immortal wars v/hich gods and angels wage, 
 Are tliey not shown in Milton's sacred page ? 
 His strain will teach what numbers best belong 
 To themes celestial told in epic song. 
 
 The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint 
 The lover's anguish or the friend's complaint. 
 But which deserves the laurel, rhyme or blank ? 
 Which holds on Helicon the higher rank ? 
 Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute 
 This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. 
 
 Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen. 
 You doubt — see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick's dean.* 
 
 Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied 
 To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side. 
 Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden's days, 
 No sing-song hero rants in modern plays ; 
 While modest Comedy her verse foregoes 
 For jest and puni in very middling prose. 
 Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse, 
 Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse. 
 But so Thalia pleases to appear. 
 Poor virgin ! damn'd some twenty times a year ! 
 
 Whate'er the scene, let this advice have weight :— 
 Adapt your language to your hero's state. 
 At times Melpomene forgets to groan, 
 And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone ; 
 Nor unregarded will the act pass by 
 Where angry Townly lifts his voice on high. 
 Again, our Shakspeare limits verse to kings, 
 When comm.on prose will serve for common things ; 
 And lively Hal resigns heroic ire. 
 To " hollowing Hotspur "| and tlie sceptred sire. 
 
 'T is not enough, ye bards, withaU your art. 
 To polish poems ; they must touch the heart : 
 Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song. 
 Still let it bear the hearer's soul along ; 
 
 Quffi mine sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus ; 
 Queni penes arbitrium e t, et jus. et norma loquendi 
 
 Res gestEB regunique ducumque et tristia bella, 
 Quo scribi possent numero monstravit Homerus. 
 
 Versibus irnp^riter junctis querimonia primum ; 
 Post etiam inclusa est v-ti sententia compos. 
 Qiiis tamen exiguos elegos emiserit auctor, 
 Grammatici certant. et adhuc sub judice lis est. 
 
 Archilocum proprio rabies armavit iambo; 
 Hunc socci cepere pedem grandesque cothurni, 
 AJternis aptum sermonibus, et populares 
 Vincentem strepitus, et natum rebus agendis. 
 
 Musa dedit Mdibiis divos, puerosque deorum 
 Et pugilem victorem. et equum certamine primum, 
 Et juvenum curas et libera vina referre. 
 
 Descriptas servare vices operumque colbrea, 
 Cur ego, si nequeo ignoreque, poeta salutor ? 
 Cur nescire pudens prave, quam discere malo? 
 
 Versibus expom tragicis res comica non vult 
 Indignatur item privatis, ac prope socco 
 Dignis carminibus narrari ccena Thye.stae. 
 Singula quseque locum teneant sortita decenter. 
 Interdum tamen et vocem coma-dia tollit, 
 Iratusque Chremes tumido delitigat ore : 
 Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri. 
 Teiephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul, uterque 
 Projicit ampullas, et sesquipedalla verba; 
 Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela. 
 
 Non satis est pulchra esse poemata ; dulcia sunto, 
 Et quocunque volent, animum auditoris agunto. 
 
 * Mr. Pitt was liljeral in his additions to our parliamentary tongue, as 
 may be seen in many publications, particularly the Edinburgh Review. 
 
 t Old ballads, old plays, and old women's stories, are at present in as 
 much reauest as old wine or new speeches. In fact this is the millennium 
 •r black letter : thanks to our Hebers, Webers, and Scotta ! 
 
 * Mac Flecknoe, the Dunciad, and all Swift's lampooning ballads. 
 Whatever their other works may be, these originated in personal feelings, 
 and an^y retort on unworthy rivals : and though the ability of these sa- 
 tires elevates the poetical, tiheir poignancy detracts fiom the personal 
 character of the writers. 
 
 t With all the vulgar applause and critical abhorrence of puns, they 
 have Aristotle ou their side, who permits them to orators, and giveg th«ni 
 consequence by a grave disquisition. 
 
 J " And in his ear 1 '11 hollow, Mortimer 1"— 1 Htnry IV. 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 433 
 
 C ommand your audience or to smile or weep, 
 Whiche'er may please you — any thing but sleep. 
 The poet claims our tears ; but, by his leave, 
 Before I shed them, let me see him grieve. 
 
 If banish'd Romeo feign'd nor sigh nortear, 
 Lull'd by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. 
 Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face, 
 And men look angry in the proper place. 
 At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly, 
 And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye ; 
 For nature form'd at first the inward man, 
 And actors copy nature— when they can. 
 She bids the beating heart with rapture bound, 
 Raised to the stars, or levell'd with the ground ; 
 And for expression's aid, 't is said, or sung. 
 She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue. 
 Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense 
 (At least in theatres) with common sense ; 
 O'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit. 
 And raise a laugh with any thing but wit. 
 
 To skilful writers it Avill much import, 
 Whence spring their scenes, from common life or court : 
 Whether they seek applause by smile or tear, 
 To draw a " Lying Valet," or a " Lear," 
 A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, 
 A wandering " Peregrine," or plain " John Bull ; " 
 All persons please, when nature's voice prevails, 
 Scottish or Irish, bom in Wilts or Wales. 
 
 Or follow common fame, or forge a plot. 
 Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not ? 
 One precept serves to regulate the scene : 
 Make it appear as if it might have been. 
 
 If some Drawcansir you aspire to draw, 
 Present him raving, and above all law ; 
 If female furies in your scheme are plann'd, 
 Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand ; 
 For tears and treachery, for good or evil, 
 Constance King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil ! 
 
 Ut ridentibus arrldent, ita flentibus adflent 
 Human! vultus ; si vis me flere dolendum est 
 Primum ipsi tibi ; tunc tua me infortunia laedent. 
 Telephe, vel Peleu, male si mandata loqiieris, 
 Aut dormitabo, autridebo: tristia mcEstum 
 Vultum verba decent ; iratum, plena minarum ; 
 Ludentem, lasciva ; severum, seria dictu. 
 Format-enim natura prius non intus ad omnem 
 Fortunarum habitum ; juvat, aut impellit ad iram ! 
 Aut ad humum mcerore gravi deducit, et angit; 
 Post effert animi motus interprete lingua. 
 Si dicentis erunt fortunis absona dicta, 
 Romanitollent equites, peditesqne cachinnum. 
 
 Intererit multum, Davusne loquatur an heros ; 
 Maturusne senex, an adhuc florente juventa 
 Fervidus ; an matrona potens, and sedula nutrix ; 
 Mercatorne vagus, cultorne virentls agelli ; 
 Colchus an Assyrius ; Thebis nutritus, an Argis. 
 
 Aut famam sequere, aut sibi convenientia finge. 
 Scriptor honoratum si forte reponis Achillem ; 
 Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, 
 Jura neget sibi nata, nihil non arroget armis. 
 Sit Medea ferox invictaque, flebilis Ino ; 
 Perfidus Ixion ; lo vaga ; tristis Orestes ; 
 Si quid inexpertum sceiiae committis, et audes 
 Personam formare novam ; servetur ad imum 
 Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet. 
 
 Difficile est proprie communia dicere; tuque 
 Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus, 
 Q,uam si proferres ignota indictaque primus. 
 Publica materies privati juris erit, si 
 Nee circa vilem patulumque moraberis orbem ; 
 Nee verbum verbo curabis reddere fidus 
 Interpres, nee desilies imitator in arctum 
 TJnde pedem proferre pudor vetet, aut operis lex. 
 
 Nee sic inctpies, ut scriptor Cyclicus olim : 
 " Fortunam Priami cantabo, et nobile bellum." 
 Quid dignum tanto feret hie promissor hiatu 
 Parturlunt montes : nascetur ridiculus mus. 
 Quanto rectius hie, qui nil molitur inepte i 
 3 E 
 
 But if a new design you dare essay, 
 And freely wander from the beaten way, 
 True to your characters, till all be past, 
 Preserve consistency from first to last. 
 
 'T is hard to venture where our betters fail, 
 Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale ; 
 And yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer 
 A hackney'd plot, than choo ^e a new, and err , 
 Yet copy not too closely, but record. 
 More justly, thought for thought thai'i word for word , 
 Nor trace your prototype through narrow ways, 
 But only follow where he merits praise. 
 
 For you, young bard ! whom luckless fate may lead 
 To tremble on the nod of all who read, 
 Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls, 
 Beware — for God's sake, do n't begin like Bowles !* 
 " Av/ake a louder and a loftier strain," 
 And pray, what follows from his boiling brain ?— 
 He sinks to Southey's level in a trice, 
 Whose epic mountains never fail in mice ! 
 Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 
 The temper'd warblings of his master lyre ; 
 Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, 
 " Of man's first disobedience and the fruit" 
 He speaks, but as his subject swells along. 
 Earth, heaven, and hades echo with the song. 
 Still to the midst of things he hastens on. 
 As if we witness'd all already done ■, 
 Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean 
 To raise the subject, or adorn the scene ; 
 Gives, as each page improves upon the sight, 
 Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness — light , 
 And truth and fiction with such art comjiounds, 
 We know not where to fix their several bounds. 
 If you would please the public, deign to hear 
 What soothes the many-headed monster's ear , 
 If your heart triumph when the hands of all 
 Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall. 
 Deserve those plaudits — study nature's page, 
 And sketch the striking traits of every age 5 
 
 " Die mihi, Musa, virum captae post tempora Trojae, 
 Qui mores hominum multorum vidit, et urbes." 
 Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem 
 Cogitat, ut speciosa debinc miracula promat, 
 Antiphaten, Scyllamque, et cum Cyclope Charybdim. 
 Nee reditum Diomedis ab interitu Meleagri, 
 Nee gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo. 
 Semper ad eventum festinat; et in medias res ■ 
 Non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit, et quae 
 Desperat tractata nitescere posse, relinquit : 
 Atque ita mentitur, sic veris falsa remiscet, 
 Prime ne medium, medio ne discrepet imum. 
 Tu, quid ego et populus mecum desideret, audi. 
 
 * About two years ago a young man, named Townsend, was announced 
 by Mr. Cumberland (in a review since deceased) as being engaged in an 
 epic poem to be entitled "Armageddon." The plan and specimen pro- 
 mise much ; bat I hope neither to offend Mr. Townsend nor his frienda, 
 by recommending to his attention the lines of Horace to which these 
 rhymes allude. If Mr . Townsend succeeds in his undertaking, as there 
 is reason to hope, how much will the world be indebted to Mr. Cumber- 
 land for bringing him before the public 1 But till that eventful day arrives, 
 it may be doubted whether the premature display of his plan (sublime as 
 the ideas confessedly are) has not, by raising expectation too high, or 
 diminishing curiosity, by developing liis argument, rather incurred the 
 hazard of injuring Mr. Townsend's future prospects. Mr. Cumberland 
 (whose talents I shall not depreciate by the humble tribute of my prai3e)and 
 Mr. Townsend must not suppose me actuated by unworthy motives in this 
 suggestion. I wish the author all the success he can wish himself, and 
 shall be truly happy to see epic poetry weighed up from the bathos where 
 it lies sunken with "Soulhey, Cottle, Cowley (Mrs. or Abraham), Ogilvy, 
 Wilkie, Pye, and all ttie " dull of past and present days." Even if he is 
 nol a. Milton, ht maybe better than Btectroore; if not a Homer, aa 
 Antimachus. I should deem myself presumptuous, as a young man, in 
 offering advice, were it not addressed to one still younger. Mr. Townsend 
 has the greatest difficulties to encounter : but in conquering them he will 
 find employment ; in having conquered them, his reward. I know too 
 well " the scribbler's scoO', the critic's contumely," and I am afraid time 
 will teach Mr. Townsend to know them better. Those who succeed, and 
 those who do not must bear this alike, and it is hard to say which have 
 most of it. I trust that Mr. Townsend's share will be from fnuy; — he 
 vi^U soon know mankind well enough not to attribute this expression to 
 malice. 
 
 The above note was written before the author was appnsed of Mr 
 Cumberland's death. 
 
434 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 While varying man and varying years unfold 
 Life's little tale so oft, so vainly told. 
 Observe his simple childhood's dawning days, 
 His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays ; 
 Till time at length the marmish tyro weans, 
 And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens ! 
 
 Behold him freshman ! forced no more to groan 
 O'er *Virgil's devilish verses and his own, 
 Prayers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse, 
 He flies from T — v — I's frown to " Fordham's Mews : 
 (Unlucky T — v — ^1 ! doom'd to daily cares 
 By pugilistic pupils and by bearsf,) 
 Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in vain, 
 Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket plain. 
 Rough with his elders, with his equals rash, 
 Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash ; 
 Constant to nought — save hazard and a whore, 
 Yet cursing both — for both have made him sore ; 
 Unread (unless, since books beguile disease, 
 The p — X becomes his passage to degrees); 
 Fool'd, pillaged, dunn'd, he wastes his term away 
 And, unexpell'd perhaps, retires M. A. ; 
 Master of arts ! as hells and clubs* proclaim, 
 Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name ! 
 
 Launch'd into life, extinct his early fire, 
 He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
 Marries for money, chooses friends for rank, 
 Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank ; 
 Sits in the senate ; gets a son and heir ; 
 Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there. 
 Mute, though he votes, unless when call'd to cheer. 
 His son's so sharp — he 'II see the dog a oeer ! 
 
 Manhood aeclines — age palsies every limb ; 
 He quits the scene — or else the scene quits him ; 
 Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing pemiy grieves. 
 And avarice seizes all ambition leaves ; 
 Counts cent, per cent., and smiles, or vainly frets, 
 O'er hoards diminish'd by young Hopeful's debts ; 
 Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy, 
 Complete in all life's lessons — but to die ; 
 Peevish and spitefiil, doting, hard to please, 
 Commending every time, save times like these ; 
 Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot. 
 Expires unwept-— is buried— let him rot ! 
 
 But from the drama let me not digress. 
 Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less. 
 
 Si plausoris eges aulsea manentis, et usque 
 Sessuri, donee cantor, Vos plaudite, dicat ; 
 jEtatis cujusque notandi sunt tibi mores, 
 Mobilibusque decor naturls dandus et annis. 
 Reddere qui voces jam scit puer, et pede certo 
 Signal humum ; gestic paribus colludere, et iram 
 Colligit ac ponit temere, et mutaiur in horas. 
 
 Imberbis juvenis, tandem custode remote, 
 Gaudet equis canibusque, et aprici gramine campi ; 
 Cereus in vitium flecti, monitoi-ibus asper, 
 Utilium tardus provisor, prodigus ceris, 
 Sublimis, cupidusque, et amata relinquere pernix. 
 
 Conversis studiis, stas anira usque virilis 
 Quserit opes, et amicitias, Inservit honori ; 
 Commisisse cavet quod mox mutare laboret. 
 
 Multa senem conveniunt incommoda ; vel quod 
 
 * Harvey, the circulator of the circulation of the blood, used to fling 
 away Virgil in his ecotacy of admiration, and say, "the book had a devil." 
 Now, such a character as I am copjnng would probably fling it away 
 ako, but rather wish that the devil had the book ; not from any dislike 
 to the poet, but a well-founded horror of hexameters. Indeed the public 
 echool penance of " long and short" is enough to beget an antipathy to 
 poetry for the residue of a man's life, and, perhaps, so far may be an ad- 
 vanta^. 
 
 t "Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem." I dare s«iv Mr. 
 T — r — 1 (to whom I mean no affront) will understand me ; and it is no 
 matter whether any one else does or no.— To the above eveuU, " quaeque 
 ipse miserrima vidi, et quorum pars magna fui," all times and terms bear 
 testimony. 
 
 ' X " Hell,"' a gaming-house so called, where you risk little, and are 
 cheated a g^xxl deal. "Chib," a pleasant purgatory, where you lose more, 
 and are not suiiposed to be cheated at all 
 
 Though women weep, and hardest hearts are stirr'd. 
 
 When what is done is rather seen than heard, 
 
 Yet many deeds preserved in history's page 
 
 Are better told than acted on the stage ; 
 
 The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, 
 
 And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
 
 True Briton all beside, I here am French — 
 
 Bloodshed 't is surely better to retrench ; 
 
 The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow 
 
 In tragic scene disgusts, though but in show , 
 
 We hate the carnage while we see the trick, 
 
 And find small sympadiy in being sick. 
 
 Not on the stage tlie regicide Macbeth 
 
 Appals an audience witli a monarch's death , 
 
 To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear 
 
 Young Arthur's eyes, can ours, or nature bear ? 
 
 A *halter'd heroine Johnson sought to slay — 
 
 We saved Irene, but half damn'd the play. 
 
 And (Heaven be praised I) our tolerating times 
 
 Stint metamorphoses to pantomimes, 
 
 And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, would quake 
 
 To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake ! 
 
 Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief, 
 
 We loathe the action which exceeds belief: 
 
 And yet, God knows ! what may not authors do. 
 
 Whose postcripts prate of dyeing " heroines blue ?"* 
 
 Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can. 
 Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man ; 
 Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
 Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. 
 Of all the monstrous things I 'd fain forbid, 
 I loathe an opera worse than Dennis did ; 
 Where good and evil persons, right or wrong. 
 Rage, love, and aught but moralize, in song. 
 Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends 
 Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends ! 
 Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
 On whores, spies, singers, wisely shipp'd away. 
 Our giant capital, whose squares are spread 
 Where rustics earn'd, and now may beg, their bread ; 
 In all, iniquity is grown so nice, 
 It scorns amusements which are not of price. 
 Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear 
 Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear, 
 Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore, 
 His anguish doubling by his own " encore ;" 
 Squeezed in " Fop's Alley," jostled by the beaux. 
 Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes ; 
 
 Quserit, et inventis miser abstinet, ac timet uti ; 
 Vel quod res omnes timide gelideque ministrat. 
 Dilator, spe longus, iners, avidusque futnrl ; 
 Dlfficilis, qiiterulus, laudator temporis acti 
 Se puero, castigator censorque ininorum. 
 Multa ferunt anni venientes commoda secum, 
 Multa recedentes adimunt. Ne forte seniles 
 Mandentur juveni partes, pueroque viriles, 
 Semper in adjunctls, fevoque morabimur aptis. 
 
 Atit agitnr res in scenis, aut acta refertur. 
 Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem 
 Quam qu£e sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, el quae 
 Ipse sibi tradit spectator. Non tamen intus 
 Digna geri, promes in scenam ; multaque toUes 
 Ex oculis, quae mox narret facundia prsesens. 
 Ne pueros coram popido Medea trucidet ; 
 Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Aureus ; 
 Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem. 
 Quodcunqtie ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. 
 
 Neve minor, neu sit quinto produetior actu 
 Fabula, quop posci vult, et spectata reponi. 
 Nee Deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus 
 Incident. * * * 
 
 * " Irene had to speak two hnes with the bowstring round her neck : 
 but the audience cried out ' Murder ! ' and she was obliged to be carried ofl 
 the siage." — BoswelVs Life of Johnson. 
 
 t In the postscript to the "Castle Spectre" Mr. Lewis tella us, that 
 though blacks were unknown in England at the period of his action, yet he 
 has made the anachronism to set off the scene ; and if he could have pro- 
 duced the effect " by making his heroine blue" — I quote hirn — " blue ha 
 would have made her ! ' ' 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 435 
 
 Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease 
 Till the dropp'd curtain gives a glad release ; 
 Why this, and more, he suffers — can ye guess ?— 
 Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress ! 
 
 So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools 
 Give us but fiddlers, and they 're sure of fools ! 
 Ere scenes were play'd by many a reverend clerk* 
 (What harm, if David danced before the ark ?) 
 In Christmas revels, simple country folks 
 Were pleas'd with morrice-mumm'ry and coarse jokes. 
 Improving years, with things no longer known, 
 Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan, 
 Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low, 
 'T is strange Benvolio suffers such a show ;-j- 
 Suppressing peer ! to whom each vice gives place, 
 Oathsj boxing, begging, — all, save rout and race. 
 
 Farce follow'd Comedy, and reach'd her prime 
 In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time ; 
 Mad wag ! who pardon'd none, nor spared the best 
 And turn'd some very serious things to jest. 
 Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers, 
 Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers; 
 " Alas, poor Yorick !" now for ever mute ! 
 Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. 
 
 We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes 
 Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens, 
 When " Chrononhotondiologos must die," 
 And Artliur struts in mimic majesty. 
 
 Moschus ! with whom once more I hope to sit 
 And smile at folly, if we can 't at wit ; 
 Yes, friend ! for thee I 'U quit my cynic cell, 
 And bear Swift's motto " Vive la bagatelle !" 
 Which charm'd our days in each JEgean clime, 
 As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme. 
 Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past. 
 Soothe thy life's scene's, nor leave thee in the last ; 
 But find in thine, like pagan JPlato's bed, 
 Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 
 
 Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes, 
 Where fetter'd by whig Walpole low she lies ; 
 Corruption foifd her, for she fear'd her glance ; 
 Decorum left her for an opera dance ! 
 Yet §Chesterfiekl, whose polish'd pen inveighs 
 'Gainst laughter, fjught for freedom to our plays ; 
 Uncheck'd by megrims of patrician brains. 
 And damning dulness of lord chamberlains. 
 Repeal that act I again let Humour roam 
 Wild o'er the stage — we 've time for tears at home ; 
 Let " Archer" plant the horns on '' Sullen' s" brows, 
 And " Estifania" gull her " Gopper||" spouse ; 
 
 Ex nolo fictum carmen sequar, ut sibi quivis 
 Speret i.Iem : sudet multnm, frustraque laboret 
 Ausus idem : tantum series juncturaque pollet ; 
 Tantum de medio sumtis accedit honoris. 
 
 Silvis deducti caveant, me judice, Fauni, 
 Ne velut innati triviis, ac pane forenses, 
 Aut nlmium teneris juvenentur versibus unquam, 
 Aut immun.la crepent, ignominiosaque dicta. 
 Offeaduntur enim, quibus est eqims, et pater, et res : 
 Nee, si quid fricti ciceris probat et nucis emtor, 
 
 • " The fii-st theatrical representations, entitled ' Mysteries and Moi-al- 
 ities,' were generally euacted at Christmas, by monks (as the only per- 
 sons who could read), and latterly by the clergy and students of the 
 universities. The dramatis persons wei-e usually Adam, Pater Ccelestis, 
 Faith, Vice," &c. ka.—Vide Warton's History of English Poptry, 
 
 T Benvolio does not bet ; but every man who maintains race-horses is a 
 promoter of all the concomitant evils of the turf. Avoiding to bet is a 
 little phai-isaical. Is it an exculpation ? I think not. I never yet heard 
 a bawd praised for ctiastitv because she herself &A not commit fornication. 
 
 + Under Plato's pillow'a volume of the Mimes of .Sophrou was found 
 the dtvy he Ci\eA.—Vide BarM'.emi , De Pauw, or Diogenes iMertius, 
 if agreeable. De P.auw calls it a jest book.— Cumberland, in his Observer, 
 terms it moral, like the savings of " Publius Syrus." 
 
 § His speech on the licensing act is one of his most eloquent efforts. 
 
 II Michael Perer., the " Copper Captain,'' in " Rule a Wife and have a 
 Wife." 
 
 The morals scant — but that m^ay be excused, 
 
 Men go not to be lectured, but amused. 
 
 He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 
 
 Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill ; 
 
 Ay, hut Macheath's example — psha ! — no more ! 
 
 It form'd no thieves — the thief was form'd before 
 
 And spite of puritans and Collier's curse,* 
 
 Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. 
 
 Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men ! 
 
 Nor bum damn'd Drury if it rise again. 
 
 But why to brain-scorch'd bigots thus appeal ! 
 
 Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal '' 
 
 For times of fire and faggot let them hope •, 
 
 Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 
 
 As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, 
 
 So would new sects on newer victims gaze. 
 
 E'en now the songs of Solyma begin ; 
 
 Faith cants, perplex'd apologist of sin ! 
 
 While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves, 
 
 And Simeon kicks where jBaxter only " shoves." 
 
 Whom nature guides, so writes, that every dunce, 
 Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once ; 
 But after inky thumbs and bitten nails, 
 And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb fails. 
 
 Let pastoral be dumb ; for who can hope 
 To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope ? 
 Yet his and Phillips' faults, of different kind, 
 For art too rude, for nature too refined, 
 Instruct how hard the medium 't is to hit 
 'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. 
 
 A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced 
 In this nice age, when all aspire to taste ; 
 The dirty language, and the noisome jest, 
 Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest , 
 Proscribed not only in the world polite, 
 But even too nasty for a city knight ! 
 
 Peace to Swift's faults ! his wit hath made them 
 Unmatch'd by all, save matchless Hudibras ! 
 Whose author is perhaps the first we meet, 
 Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet ; 
 Nor less in merit than the longer line, 
 This measure moves a favourite of the Nine. 
 Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain 
 Form'd, save in ode, to bear a serious strain. 
 Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late 
 This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight, 
 And, varied skilfully, surpasses far 
 Heroic rhyme, but most in love and war, 
 WTiose fluctuations, tender or sublime, 
 Are curb'd too much by long-recurring rhyme. 
 
 .Equis accipiunt animis, donantve corona. 
 
 Syllaba longa brevi subjecta, vocatur iambus, 
 Pes citus : unde etiam trimetris accrescere jussit 
 IV omen iambeis, cum senos redderet ictus, 
 rrinnis ad extremum similis sibi: non ita pridem, 
 Tardior ut paulo graviorque veniret ad aures, 
 Spondees stabiles in jura paternarecepit 
 Commodus et patiens ; non ut de sede secunda 
 Cederet aut quarta socialiter. Hie et in Acci 
 Nobilibus trimetris apparet rarus, et Enni. 
 In scenam missos magno cum pondere versus, 
 Aut opevce celeris nimium, curaque carentis, 
 Aut ignoratEB premit artis crimine turpi. 
 
 Non quivis videt immodulata poemata judex ; 
 Et data Romanis venia est indigna poetis. 
 Idcircoiie vager, scribamque licenter .' an omnes 
 
 * .Terrv Collier's controversy with Congreve, &c. on the subject of the 
 drama, is too well known to require fu)-ther comment. 
 
 t " Baxter's Shove to heavy-a — d Christians.'' The veritable title of 
 a book once in good repute, and likely enough to be so again.— Mr. Simeon 
 is the very bully of beliefs, and castigator of " good works." He is ably 
 supported bv John Stickles, a labourer in the same vineyard : — but I say 
 no more, for accoixling to Johnny in full congregation, " No hopes far 
 them as laughs." 
 
436 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 But many a skilful judge abhoi-s to see, 
 What few admire — irregularity. 
 This some vouchsafe lo pardon ; but 't is hard 
 When such a word contents a British bard. 
 
 And must the bard his glowing thoughts confine, 
 Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line I 
 Remove whate'er a critic may suspect, 
 To gain the paltry suffrage of" correct ?" 
 Or prune tlie spirit of each daring phrase, 
 To fly from error, not to merit praise ? 
 
 Ye who seek finish'd models, never cease. 
 By day and night, to read the works of Greece. 
 But our good fathers never bent their brains 
 To heathen Greek, content with native strains. 
 The few who read a page, or used a pen. 
 Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ; 
 The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
 Were quaint and careless, any tiling but chaste ; 
 Yet whether right or wrong the ancient rules, 
 It will not do to call our fathers fools ! 
 Though you and I, who eruditely know 
 To separate the elegant and low. 
 Can also, when a hob'oling line appears. 
 Detect with fingers in default of ears. 
 
 In sooth I do not know or greatly care 
 To learn, who our first English strollers were 5 
 Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art. 
 Our muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart. 
 But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's days, 
 There 's pomp enough, if little else, in plays ; 
 Nor will Melpomene ascend her throne 
 Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone. 
 
 Old comedies still meet with much applause, 
 Though too licentious for dramatic laws : 
 At least, we modems, w isely, 't is confest. 
 Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest. 
 
 Whate'er their follies, and their faults beside, 
 Our enterprising bards pass nought untried ; 
 Nor do they merit slight applause who choose 
 An English subject for an English muse. 
 And leave to minds w'hich never dare invent 
 French flippancy and German sentiment. 
 Where is that living language which could claim 
 Poetic more, as philosophic, fame, 
 If all our bards, more patient of delay. 
 Would stop, like Pope, to polish by tlie way? 
 
 Visuros peccata putem mea ; tutus, et intra 
 Spem venias cautus ? vitavi denique cuJpam, 
 ><"on laudem merui. Vos exemplaria Grasca 
 Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna. 
 At vestri proavi Plautinos et numeros et 
 Laudavere sales ; nimium padenter utrumque, 
 Ne dicam stulte, mirati ; si modo ego et vos 
 Scimus inurbanum lepido seponere dicto, 
 Legitimumque sonum digitis callemus et aure. 
 
 Ignotum tragica? genus invenisse Camenae 
 Dicitur, et plaustris^vexisse poemata Thespis, 
 Quae canerent agerentque peruncti ftecibus ora 
 Post hunc persoijffi pallceque repertor honestae 
 ^schylus, et modlcis instravit pulpita lignis, 
 Et docnit magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno. 
 
 Successit vetus his comoedia, non sine multa 
 Laude ; sed in vitium libertas excidit. et vim 
 Dignam lege regi ; lex est accepta, chorusque 
 Turpiter obticuit, sublato jure nocendi. 
 
 Nil intentatum nostri liquere poetae ; 
 Nfic minimum ineruere decus, vestigia Graeca 
 Aussi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta; 
 Vel qui prstextas, vel qui docuere togatas. 
 Nee virtute foretclarisve potentiiis armis. 
 Q,uam lingua, Latiiim, si non offenderet unum- 
 quemque poetarum limae labor, et mora. Vos. 6 
 Pompilius sanguis, carmen reprehendite, quod non 
 Multa dies et multa litura coercuit, atque 
 Fraesectum decies non castigavit ad unguem. 
 
 Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults 
 O'erthrow whole quartos with their quires of faults, 
 Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail, 
 And prove our marble with loo nice a nail ! 
 Democrltus himself was not so bad ; 
 He only thought, but you would make, us mad ! 
 
 But, truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard 
 Against that ridicule they deem so hard ; 
 In person negligent, they wear, from sloth, 
 Beards of a week, Emd nails of annual growth , 
 Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet, 
 And walk in alleys, rather than the street. 
 
 With little rhyme, less reason, if you please, 
 The name of poet may be got with ease, 
 So that not tuns of hclleboric juice 
 Shall ever turn your head to any use ; 
 Write but like Wordsworth, live beside a lake, 
 And keep your bushy locks a year fi-om Blake* 5 
 Then print your book, once more return to town, 
 And boys shall hunt your hardship up and down. 
 
 Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight. 
 To purge in spring (like Bayes) before I write? 
 If this precaution soften'd not my bile, 
 I know no scribbler with a madder style ; 
 But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice) 
 I cannot purchase fame at such a price, 
 I '11 labour gratis as a grinder's wheel, 
 And, blunt myself, give edge to others' steel, 
 Nor write at all, unless to teach the art 
 To those rehearsing for the poet's part ; 
 From Horace show the pleasing paths of song, 
 And from my own example, what is wrong. 
 
 Though modem practice sometimes differs quite. 
 'Tis just as well to think before you write ; 
 Let every book that suits your theme be read. 
 So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 
 
 He who has learnt the duty which he owes 
 To fi-iend and country, and to pardon foes ; 
 Who models his deportment as may best 
 Accord with brother, sire, or stranger guest ; 
 Who takes our lavrs and worship as they are, 
 Nor roars reform for senate, church, and bar ; 
 In practice, rather than loud precept, wise. 
 Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophise ; 
 Such is the man the poet should rehearse, 
 As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 
 
 Ingenium misera quia fortunatius arte 
 Credit, et excludit sanos Helicone poetas 
 Democritus ; bona pars non ungues ponere curat 
 Non barbam : secreta petit loca, balnea vital. 
 Nanciscetur enim pretium nomenque poetae, 
 Si tribus Anticyris caput insanabile nunquam 
 Tonsori Licino commiserit. O ego iaevus, 
 Qui purgor biiem sub verni temporis horam I 
 Non alius faceret meliora poemata : verum 
 Nil tanii est : erso fungar vice cotis, acutum 
 Reddere quae ferrum vaJet. exsors ipsa secandi : 
 Munus et officium, nil scribens ipse, docebo ; 
 Unde parentur opes ; quid alat formetque poetam ; 
 Quiddeceat, quid non ; quo virtus, quo ferat error. 
 
 Scribendi recte, sapere est et principium et fons. 
 Rem tibi Socraticae poterunt ostendere chartas : 
 Verbaque provisam rem non invita sequentur. 
 Qui didicit patriae quid debeat, etquidamicis ; 
 Quo sit amore parens, quo frater amandus, et hospes j 
 Quod sit conscripti. quod judicis officium; quae 
 Partes in bellum missi ducis : ille profecto 
 Reddere personae scit convenientia cuique. 
 Respicere exemplar vitae morumque jubebo 
 Doctum imitatorem, et vivas hinc ducei-e voces. 
 
 Interdum speciosa locis, niorataque recte 
 
 ' As famous a tonsor as Licinus himself, and better paiil, and may, like 
 him, be one day a senator, having a better qualificatior than one half ot 
 the heads he crops, tiz. — ^independence. 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 437 
 
 Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told, 
 Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold 
 A longer empire o'er the public mind 
 Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. 
 
 Unhappy Greece ! thy sons of ancient days 
 The muse may celebrate with peifect praise, 
 Whose generous children narrow'd not their hearts 
 With commerce, given alone to arms and arts. 
 Our boys (save those whom public schools compel 
 To " long and short" before they're taught to spell) 
 From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
 " A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." 
 Babe of a city birtJi ! from sixpence take 
 Two thirds, how much will the remainder make 7 — 
 " A groat." — " Ah, bravo ! Dick hath done the sum! 
 He '11 swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 
 
 They whose young souls receive this rust betimes, 
 'Tis clear, are fit for any thing but rhymes ; 
 And Locke will tell you, that the father's right 
 Who hides all verses from his children's sight ; 
 For poets (says this sage, and many more*,) 
 Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore ; 
 And Delphi now, however rich of old, 
 Discovers little silver and less gold. 
 Because Parnassus, though a mount divine. 
 Is poor as Irusf, or an Irish mine J. 
 
 Two objects always should the poet move. 
 Or one or both. — to please or to improve. 
 Wha'e'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
 For our remembrance your didactic line ; 
 Redundance places memory on the rack. 
 For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. 
 
 Fiction does best when taught to look like truth. 
 And fairy fables bubble none but youtli : 
 Expect no credit for too wond'rous tales, 
 Since Jonas only springs alive from whales ! 
 
 Young men with aught but elegance dispense 
 Maturer years require a little sense. 
 To end at once: — that bard for all is fit 
 Wlio mingles well instruction with his wit ; 
 
 Fabula, nuUius veneris, sine pondere et arte, 
 Valdius oblectat populum, meliusque moratur, 
 Q,uam versus inopes rerum nugaeque canorae. 
 
 Graiid ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo 
 Musa loqui, praeter laud em nullius avaris. 
 Romani pueri longis raiionibus assem 
 Discunt in partes centum diducere : dicat 
 Filius Albiiii, Si de quincunce remota est 
 Uncia, quid superat? poterat dixisse — Triens. Eu ! 
 Rem poteris servare tuam. Redit uncia : quid fit .' 
 Semis. An haec animos cerugo et cura peculi 
 Cum semel imbuerit, spevamiis cavmina flngi 
 Posse limmda cedro, et levi servanda cvipresso ? 
 
 Aut prodesse volant, aut delectare poetae; 
 Aut siniul et jucunda et idonea dicere vitae, 
 Quidquid pnecipies, esto brevis : ut cito dicta 
 Percipiant animi deciles, teiieantque fideles. 
 Omne supervacuum pleno de pectore manat. 
 
 Ficta voluptaiis causa, sint proxima veris : 
 Nee, quodcunqiie volet, poscat sibi fabula credi : 
 Neu pransfB Lami-e vivum pnerum extrahat alvo. 
 
 Centuri* semoriim agitant expertia frugis: 
 Celsi prcetereunt austera poemata Rhamnes. 
 Omne tulit puiictum, qui miscuit utile dulci, 
 Lectorem deleciando, pariterijue monendo. 
 Hie merei aera liber Sosiis ; hie et mare transit, 
 
 * I have not tbe original by me, hut the Italian translation runs as fol- 
 lows : — " E una cosa a mio credere molto sti-avagante, che uu padre- 
 desideri, o permetla, che sue figliuolo colliri e pert'ezioni questo talento.i' 
 A Utile further on : " Si ti-ovano di rado nel Parnaso le miniere d' oro e 
 d' argento." — Educazionu del FanciuUi del Signor Locke. Venetian 
 edition. 
 
 t " Iro pauperior :" this is the same beggar who boxed with Ulysses for 
 a pound of kid's fry, which he lost, and half a dozen teeth besides. — Se 
 Odyssey, b. 18. 
 
 t The Irish gold mine of Wicklow, which yields just ore enough to 
 swear by, or gild a bad gumea. 
 
 For him reviews shall smile, for him o'erflow 
 The patronage of Paternoster-row ; 
 His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass 
 (Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass); 
 Through three long weeks the taste of London lead, 
 And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed. 
 
 But every thing has faults, nor is 't unknown 
 That harps and fiddles often lose their tone, 
 And wayward voices, at their owner's call 
 With all his best endeavours, only squall ; 
 Dogs blink their cover, flints withhold their spark, 
 And double-barrels (danm them !) miss their mark*. 
 
 Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view 
 We must not quarrel for a blot or two ; 
 But pardon equally to books or men. 
 The slips of human nature, and the pen. 
 
 Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, 
 Despises all advice too much to mend, 
 But ever twangs the same discordant string, 
 Give him no quarter, howso'er he sing. 
 Let *Havard's fate o'ertake him, who, for once 
 Produced a play too dashing for a dunce : 
 At first none deem'd it his, but when his name 
 Announced the fact — what then ? — it lost its fame. 
 Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze. 
 In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose. 
 
 As pictures, so shall poems be ; some stand 
 The critic eye, and please when near at hand ; 
 But others at a distance strike the sight ; 
 This seeks the shade, but that demands the light. 
 Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view. 
 But, ten times scrutinized, is ten times new. 
 
 Parnassian pilgrims ! ye whom chance or choice 
 Hath led to listen to the muse's voice. 
 Receive this counsel, and be timely wise ; 
 Few reach the summit which before you lies. 
 Our church and state, our courts and camps, concede 
 Reward to very moderate heads indeed ! 
 In these plain common sense will travel far ; 
 All are not Erskines who mislead the bar : 
 
 Et longum noto scriptori prorogat gpvum. 
 
 Sunt delicta tamen, quibus ignovisse velimus ; 
 Nam neque chorda sonum reddit quern vult manus et 
 
 mens, 
 Poscentique gravem persTpe remittit acutum ; 
 Nee semper feriet quodcunqtie minabitur arcus. 
 Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis 
 OfFendar maculis, quas aut incuria fodit, 
 Aut humana parum cavit natura. Q,uid ergo ? 
 Ut scriptor si peccat idem librariiis usque, 
 Quamvis est monilus, venia caret ; ut citharcedus 
 Ridetur. chorda qui semper oberrat eadein : 
 Sic mihi, qui multum ccssat, fit Gha;rilus ille, 
 Quem bis terve bomun cum risu miror ; et idem 
 Indignor, quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus 
 Verum operi loiigo fas est obrepere somnum. 
 
 Ut pictura, poesis : erit qua-, si propius stes, 
 Te capiet magis ; et qu«?dam, si longius abstes : 
 Haec amat obs'curum ; volet hsc sub luce videri, 
 Judicis argutum qua; non formidat acumen : 
 Hfec placuit semel ; hscc decios repetita placebit. 
 
 O major juvenum, quamvis et voce paterna 
 Fingeris ad rectum, etper te sapis ; hoc tibi dictum 
 Telle memor : certis medium ettolerabile rebus 
 Pvecte concedi : consultus juris, et actor 
 Causarum me.liocris abest virtute diserti 
 Messals, nee scit quantum Ca-sellius Aulus : 
 Sed tamen in pretio est : mediocribus esse poetis 
 Non homines, non di, non concessere columnae. 
 
 * As Mr. Pope took the liberty of damning Homer, to whom he was 
 under great obligations — " A7id Homer (damn him!) caWs"— it maybe 
 presumed that any body or any thing may be damned in verse by poetical 
 licence ; and, in case of accident, I beg leave to plead so illustrious a pre- 
 cedent. 
 
 t For the story of Billy Havard's tragedy, see " Davies's Life of Gar- 
 rick." I believe it is " Regulus," or " Charles the First."— The moment 
 it was known to be his the theatre thinned, and the bookseller refused io 
 give the customary sum for tlie copyright. 
 
438 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 But poesy between the best and worst 
 
 No medium knows ; you must be last or first : 
 
 For middling pools' miserable volumes, 
 
 Are damn'd alike by gods, and men, and columns. 
 
 Again, my Jeffrey '.—as that sound inspires, 
 How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires ! 
 Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel. 
 When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel. 
 Or mild Eclectics*, when some, worse than Turks, 
 Would rob poor Faith to decorate " good works " 
 Such are the genial feelings thou canst claim 
 My falcon flies not at ignoble game. 
 Mightiest of all Dunedin's beast of chase ! 
 For tliee my Pegasus would mend his pace. 
 Arise, my Jeffrey ! or my inkless pen 
 Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men ; 
 Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 
 Alas ! I cannot " strike at wretched kernes." 
 Inhuman Saxon ! wilt thou then resign 
 A muse and heart by choice so wholly tliine ? 
 Dear, d— d contemner of my schoolboy songs. 
 Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood's wrongs ? 
 If unprovoked thou once couldst bid me bleed. 
 Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed ? 
 What ! not a word '.—and am I then so low ? 
 Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe ? 
 Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent ? 
 No wits for nobles, dunces by descent ? 
 No jest on " minors," quibbles on a name, 
 Nor one facetious paragraph of blame ? 
 Is it for this on Ilion I have stood, 
 And thought of Homer less than Holyrood ? 
 On shore of Euxine or ^Egean sea, 
 My hate untravell'd, fondly turned to thee. 
 Ah ! let me cease ; in vain my bosom bums, 
 From Corydon unkind Alexisf turns : 
 Thy rhymes are vain ; thy Jeffrey then forego, 
 Nor woo that anger which he will not show. 
 
 Ut gratas inter mensas symphonia discors, 
 
 Et crassum unguentum, et Sardo cum melle papaver 
 
 Offendunt, poterat duci quiacosna sine istis 
 
 Sic animis natum inventumque poema juvandie, 
 
 Si paulum a summo decessit, vergit ad imum. _ 
 
 Luderequi nescit, campestribus abstinet armis, 
 Indoctusque pilse, discive, trochive, quiescit, 
 Ne spissae risum toUant impune coronaj = 
 Qui nescit, versus tamen audetfingere !— Quid ni . 
 Liber et ingenuus praesertim census equestrem _ 
 Summam riummorum, vitioque remotus ab omni. 
 Tu nihil invita dices laciesve Minerva : 
 Id tibi judicium est, ea mens ; si quid tamen olim 
 Scripseris, in Metii descendant judicis aures, 
 Et patris, et nostras, nonumque prematur in annum 
 Merabranis intus positis, deiere licebit 
 Quod non edideris ; nescit vox missa reverti. 
 
 Sylvestres homines sacer ii;terpresque deorum 
 Cffidibus et victu fcedo deterruit Orpheus : 
 
 - To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewers I have to return thanks for 
 the fervour of that cliaritv which in 1809 induced them to express a hope, 
 »,hat a thm" then pablished by me might lead to certain consequences, 
 wliich, although natural enough, surely came but rashly from reverend 
 Ups. I refer them to their own page.=, where they congratulated tliem- 
 Belves on the prospect of a tilt between Mr. Jeffrey and myself, from 
 which some great good was to accrue, provided one or both were knocked 
 on the head. Having survived two yeas-s and a half those " Elegies 
 which they were kindly preparing to review, I have no peculiar gusto to 
 give them "so joyful a trouble," except, indeed, "upon compu sion, 
 Hal •" but if, as David says in the " Rivals," it should come to bloody 
 sword and gim fighting." we " won't run, wUl we, Sir I,ucius ?" I do 
 not know what I had done to these Eclectic gentlemen : my works are 
 Iheii- lawful perquisite, to be hewn in pieces like Agag, if it sno^ild seem 
 meet unto them ; but whv they should be in such a hurry to kill off then- 
 author, I am ignorant. " The race is not always to the swift, nor the 
 bailie to the strong :" and now, as these Christians have " smote me on 
 one cheek," I hold them up the other; and in return for their good wishes, 
 give them an opportunity of repeating them. Had any other set of men 
 expressed such sentiments, I should have smiled, and left thera to the 
 " recording angel." but from the pharisees of Chtistianity decency might 
 be expectexl. I can assure these brethren, that, publican and sinner as I 
 am. I would not have treated " mine enemy's dog thus." To showthem 
 the'superiorily of rav brotherly love, if ever the Reverend Messrs. Simeon 
 or Ramsden should be engaged in such a conflict as that in which they re- 
 quested me to fall, I hope they may escape with being " winged" only 
 and that Heaviside may be at liand to extract the ball. 
 
 t Tnvenied alium, si le hie faslidit. Alexin. 
 
 What then ? — Edina starves some lanker son, 
 To write an article tliou canst not shun : 
 Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found, 
 As bold in Billingsgate, though less renown'd. 
 
 As if at table some discordant dish 
 Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish , 
 As oil in lieu of butter men decry. 
 And poppies please not in a modern pie ; 
 If all such mixtures then be half a crime, 
 We must have excellence to relish rhyme. 
 Mere roast and boil'd no epicure invites ; 
 Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 
 
 Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun ; 
 Will he who swims not to the river run ? 
 And men unpractised in exchanging knocks 
 Must go to Jackson ere they dare to box. 
 Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil, 
 None reach expertness without years of toil ; 
 But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease. 
 Tag twenty thousand couplets when they please. 
 W'hy not ? — shall I, thus qualified to sit 
 For rotten boroughs, never show my wit ? 
 Shall I, whose fatliers v/ith the quorum sate. 
 And lived in freedom on a fair estate ; 
 Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, pack3, 
 To all their income, and to twice its tax ; 
 Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault, 
 Shall I, I say, suppress my attic salt? 
 
 Thus think " the mob of gentlemen ;" but you, 
 Besides all this, must have some genius too. 
 Be this your sober judgment, and a rule. 
 And print not piping hot from Southey's school. 
 Who (ere another Thalaba appears), 
 I trust, will spare us for at least nine years. 
 And hark'ye, Southey* ! pray — but don't be vext — 
 Burn all your last three works — and half the next. 
 
 * Ml-. Southey has lately tied another canister to his tail in the "Cui-sa 
 of Kehama," maugre the neglect of Madoc, &c., and has in one instance 
 had a wonderful effect. A literary friend of mine, walking out one lovely 
 evening last summer, on the eleventh bridge of the Paddingtou canal was 
 alarmed by the cry of " one in jeopardy :" he i-ushed along, collected a 
 body of Irish hayrnakers (supping on buttermilk in an adjacent paddock), 
 procured three rakes, one eel-spear, and a landing-net, and at last (horesco 
 referens) pulled out — !iis own publisher. The unfortunate man was gone 
 for ever, and so was a large quarto wherewith he had lal;cn the leap, 
 which proved, on inquiry, to have been Mr. Soutliey's last work. Its 
 " alacrity of sinking" was so gi-eat, that it has never since been heard of, 
 though some maintain that it is at this moment concealed at Alderman 
 Birch's pastry premises, Cornhill. Be this as it may, the coroner's in- 
 quest brought in a verdict of " Felo de hibUopoIa" against a "quarto 
 unknown ;" and circumstantial evidence being since strong against the 
 " Curse of Kehama" (of wliich the above words are an exact description), 
 it will be tried by its peers next session, in Grub-streel. — Arthur, Alfred, 
 Davideis, Richard Cceur de Lion, Exodus, Exodia, Epigonaid, Calvary, 
 Fall of Cambria, Siege of Acre, Don Roderick, and Tom Thumb the 
 Great, are the names of the twelve jurors. The judges are Pye, Bowles, 
 and the bellman of St. Sepulchre's. The same advocates, pro and con, 
 will be employed as are now engaged in Sir F. Burdett's celebrated cause 
 in the Scotch courts. The public anxiously await the result, and ajl live 
 publishei"s will be sub]iCEned as witnesses. 
 
 But Mr. Southey has published the " Curse of Kehama :" an inviting 
 title to quibblers. By the by, it is a good deal beneath Scott and Camp- 
 bell, and not much above Southey, to allow the booby Ballantyne to entitle 
 them, in the Edinburgh Annual Register (of which, by the by, Southey is 
 editor) " the grand poetical '.riumvirale of the day." But, on second 
 thoughts, it can be no great degree of praise to be the one-eyed leaders of 
 the blind, though they might as well keep to themselves " Scott's thirty 
 thousand copies sold," which must sadly discomfit poor Southey's unsale- 
 ables. Poor Soutliey, it should seem, is the " Lepidus" of this poetical 
 triumvirate. I am only surprised to see him in such good company. 
 
 " Such things we know are neither rich nor rare. 
 But wonder how the devil he came there." 
 
 The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition of Euclid : " Because, 
 in the triangles DEC, ACB, DB is equal to AC, and BC, common to both : 
 the two sides DB, BC, are equal to the two AC, CB, each to each, and 
 the angle DBC is equal to the angle -iCB : therefore, the base DC is equal 
 to the base AB, and the triangle DEC (Mr. Southey) is equal to the tri- 
 angle ACB, the less to the greater, which is ahiui'd," kc. — The editor ol 
 the Edinburgh Register will find the rest of the theorem hard by hia 
 stabling : he has only to cross the river ; 'tis the first turnpike t' other 
 side " Pons Asinorum."* 
 
 * This Latin has sorely puzzled the University of Edinburgh. Ballan- 
 tyne said it meant the "Bridge of Berwick," but Southey claimed it 
 as half English ; Scott swore it was the " Brig o' Stilling ;" he had just 
 passed two King James's and a dozen Douglasses over it. At last it wa« 
 decided by Jeffrey, that it meant nothing more nor less than thu " coiinta 
 j of Archy Constable's shop." 
 
HINTS FROM HORACE 
 
 439 
 
 But why this vain advice ? once published, books 
 Can never be recall'd — from pastry cooks ! 
 Though " Madoc/' with " Pucelle*," instead of Punch, 
 May travel back to Q,uito on a trunk"} ! 
 
 Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, 
 Led all wild beasts but women by the ear ; 
 And had he fiddled at the present hour, 
 We 'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower ; 
 And old Amphion, such were minstrels then, 
 Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren. 
 Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
 Did more than constables to keep the peace ; 
 Abolish'd cuckoldom with much applause, 
 Call'd county meetings, and enforced the laws, 
 Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes, 
 And served the church without demanding tithes ; 
 And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, 
 Each poet was a prophet and a priest, 
 Whose old-establish'd board of joint controls 
 Included kingdoms in the cure of souls. 
 
 Next rose the martial Homer, epic's prince, 
 And fighting 's been in fashion ever since 5 
 And old Tyrtseus, when the Spartans warr'd, 
 (A limping leader, but a lofty bard,) 
 Though wall'd Ithome had resisted long 
 Reduced the fortress by the force of song. 
 
 When oracles prevail'd, in times of old. 
 In song alone Apollo's will was told. 
 Then if your verse is what all verse should be, 
 And gods were not ashamed on 't, why should we ? 
 
 The muse, like mortal females, may be woo'd ; 
 In turns she '11 seem a Paphian or a prude ; 
 Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright, 
 Mild as the same upon the second night ; 
 Wild as the wife of alderman or peer, 
 Now for his grace, and now a grenadier ! 
 Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone, 
 Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 
 
 If verse be studied with some show of art, 
 Kind Nature always will perform her part 
 Though without genius, and a native vein 
 Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain ; 
 Y et art and nature join'd will win the prize, 
 Unless they act like us and our allies. 
 
 Dictus ob hoc lenire tigres, rabidosque leones ; 
 Dictns et Amphion, Thebanse conditor arcis, 
 Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blanda 
 Ducere quo vellet : fuit \\sec. sapientia quondam, 
 Publica privatis secernere ; sacra profanis ; 
 Concabku prohibere vago ; dare jura maritis ; 
 Oppida moliri ; leges incidere ligiio. 
 Sic honor etnomen divinis vatibus atque 
 Carminibus venlt. Posthos insignis Homerus 
 Tyrtajusque rnarp.s animos in Martia bella 
 Versibus exacuit ; dictee per carmina sortes : 
 Et vitas monstrata via est : et gratia regum 
 Pieriis tentata modis : ludusque repertus, 
 Et longorum operum finis : ne forte pudori 
 Sit libi Musa lyrse. solars, et cantor Apollo. 
 Naturafieret laudabile carmen, an arte, 
 Qucusitum est : ego nee studium sine divite vena, 
 Nee rude quid prosit video ingenium ; alterius sic 
 Altera poscit opern res, et conjurat amice. 
 Qui studet optatam cursu contingere metam. 
 Malta tulit fecitque puer ; sudavit, et alsit ; 
 Abstinuit Venere et vino : qui Pytbia cantat 
 Tibicen, didicit prias, extimuitque magistrum. 
 Nunc satis est dixisse ; ego mira poemata pang.o : 
 Occupet extremura scabies ; mihi turpe relinqui est, 
 Et, quod non didici, sane nescire fateri. 
 
 * Voltaire's " Pucelle" is not quite so immaculate as Mr. Southey's 
 " Joaa of Arc," and vet I am afraid the Frenchman has both more truth 
 and poetry too on his side— (they rarely go togetlier)— than our patriotic 
 minstrel, whose first essay was in praise of a fanatical French strumpet 
 whose title of witch would be correct with the change of the first letter. 
 
 t Like Sir B. Burgess's Richard, the tenth book of which I read at 
 Malta, on a trunk of Eyres, 19, Cockspur-sti-eet. If this be doubted, I 
 shall buy a pormanleau to ouole from. 
 
 The youth who trains to ride or run a race 
 Must bear privation with unruffled face. 
 Be call'd to labour when he thinks to dine. 
 And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine. 
 Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight. 
 Have follow'd music through her farthest flight ; 
 But rhymers tell you neither more nor less, 
 " I 've got a pretty poem for the press ;" 
 And that 's enough ; then write and print so fast ; — 
 If Satan take the hindmost, who 'd be last ? 
 They storm the types, they publish, one and all, 
 They leap the counter, and they leave the stall. 
 Provincial maidens, men of high command, 
 Yea, baronets have ink'd the bloody hand ! 
 Cash cannot quell them ; Poliia play'd this prank 
 (Then Phoebus first found credit in a bank !) 
 Not all the living only, but the dead, 
 P^ool on, as fluent as an Orpheus^ head* *, 
 Damn'd all their days, they posthumously thrive — 
 Dug up from dust, though buried when alive ! 
 Reviews record this epidemic crime, 
 Those " Books of Martyrs" to the rage for rhyme. 
 Alas ! woe worth the scribbler ! often seen 
 In Morning Post or Monthly Magazine. 
 There lurk his earlier lays ; but soon, hot-prest, 
 Behold a quarto ! — Tarts must tell the rest. 
 Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious chords 
 To muse-mad baronets or madder lords. 
 Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, 
 Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale ! 
 Hark to those notes, narcotically soft ! 
 The cobbler laureats singt to Capel Lofft| ! 
 Till, lo ! that modern Midas, as he hears. 
 Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears ! 
 
 There lives one druid, who prepares in time 
 'Gainst future fueds his poor revenge of rhyme 5 
 Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse, 
 To publish faults which friendship should excuse. 
 
 * Tarn quoque mannorea caput a cervice revulsiim, 
 fiurgite cum medio portans QEagi-ius Hebrus, 
 Volveret Enrydicen vox ipsa, et frigida lingua ; 
 Ah, miseram Eurydicen ! anima fugiente vocabat ; 
 Eurydicen toto referebant flumine ripae. — Georgia, iv. 523. 
 t 1 beg Nathaniel's pardon ; he is not a cobbler ; ii is a tailor, but 
 begged Capel Lofft to sink the profession in his preface to two pair of pan- 
 
 ta psha ! — of cantos, which he wished the public to try on ; but the 
 
 sieve of a patron let it out, and so far saved the expense of an advertise- 
 ment to his country customers. — Merry's " Moorfield's whine" was 
 nothing to all this. The " Delia Cruscans" were people of some educa- 
 tion, and no profession ; but these Arcadians ("Arcades ambo" — bump- 
 kins both) send out their native nonsense without the smallest alloy, and 
 leave all the shoes aud smallclothes in the parish unrepaired, to patch up 
 Elegies on Enclosures and Paans to Gunpowder. Sitting on a shopboard, 
 they describe fields of battle, when the only blood they ever saw was shed 
 from the finger . and an " Essay on War" is produced by the ninth part 
 of a " poet." 
 
 " And own that rdne such poets made a Tale." 
 Did Nsthan ever read that line of Pope ? and if he did, why not take it as 
 his motto .'* 
 
 J This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled some excellent shoe-makers, 
 and been accessary to the poetical undoing of many of the industrious poor. 
 Nathaniel Bloorafield and his brother Bobby have set all Somersetshire 
 singing ; nor has the malady confined itself to one county. Pratt too 
 (who once was wiser) has caught tlie contagion of patronage, and decoyed 
 a poor fellow named Blackett into poetry ; but he died during the opera- 
 tion, leaving one child and two volumes of " Remains" uttei-ly destitute. 
 The girl, if she don't take a poetical twist, and come forth as a shoe- 
 making Sappho, may do well ; but the " tragedies" are as rickety as if 
 they had been the offspring of an Earl or a Seatonian prize poet. The 
 patrons of this poor lad are certainly answerable for his end, and it ought 
 to be an indictable offence. But this is the least they have done, for, by a 
 refinement of barbarity, they have made the (late) man posthumously 
 ridiculous, by printing what he would have bad sense enough never to 
 print himself. Certes these rakers of " Remains" come under the statute 
 against '• resurrection men.' ' What does it signify whether a poor, dear, 
 dead dunce is to be sturk up in Surgeons' or in Stationers' Hall ? Is it so 
 bad to unearth his bones as his blunders ? Is it not better to gibbet his 
 body on a heath, than his soul in an octavo ? " We know what we are, 
 but we know not what we may be ; " and it is to be hoped we never shall 
 know, if a man who has passed througli life with a sort of eclat is to find 
 himself a mountebank on the other side of Styx, and made, like poor Joe 
 Blackett, the laughing-stock of purgatory. The plea of publication is to 
 provide for the child ; now, might not some of this " Sutor ultra Crepi- 
 duin's" friends and seducers have done a decent action without inveigling 
 Pratt into biography ? And then his inscription split into so many modi- 
 cums !—" To the Duchess of So-much, the Right Hon. So-and-So, and 
 Mrs. and Miss Someboily, these volumes are, &c. &c."— why, this is doling 
 out the " soft milk of dedication" in gills,— there is but a quart, and he 
 divides it among a dozen. Why, Pratt, hadst thou not a puff left .■' Dost 
 thou think six families of distinction can share this in quiet ?— There is a 
 child, a book, and a dedication ; send the girl to her grace, the volumes tu 
 the grocer, and the dedication to the devil. 
 
440 
 
 HINTS FROM HORACE. 
 
 If friendship's nothing, self-regard might teach 
 More polish'd usage of his parts of speech. 
 But what is shame, or what is aught, to him? 
 He vents his spleen or gratifies his whim. 
 Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate, 
 Some folly cross'd, some jest, or some debate ; 
 Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 
 The gather'd gall is voided in lampoon. 
 Perhaps at some pert speech you 've dared to frown, 
 Perhaps your poem may have pleased the town ; 
 If so, alas ! 't is nature in the man — 
 iVIay heaven forgive you, for he never can ! 
 Then be it so ; and may his withering bays 
 Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise ! 
 While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink, 
 The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, 
 But springing upwards from the sluggish mould. 
 Be, (what they never were before) be sold ! 
 Should some rich bard (but such a monster now, 
 [n modern physics, we can scarce allow). 
 Should some pretending scribbler of the court, 
 Some rhyming peer — there 's plenty of the sort* — 
 All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn, 
 (Ah ! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn!) 
 Condemn the unlucky curate to recite 
 Their last dramatic work by candle-light, 
 How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf, 
 Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief! 
 Yet, since 't is promised at the rector's death, 
 He '11 risk no living for a little breath. 
 Then spouts and foams, Eind cries at every line, 
 (The Lord forgive him!) "Bravo! grand! divine! 
 Hoarse with those praises (which, by flattVy fed 
 Dependence barters for her bitter bread). 
 He strides and stamps along with creaking boot. 
 Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot ; 
 Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye. 
 As when the dying vicar will not die ! 
 Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart ; — 
 But all dissemblers overact their part. 
 
 * Here will Mi-.Gifford aOow me to introdiKe once more to his notice the 
 sole suiTivor, the " ultimus Romanoram,'' the last of the " Cruscanti !" 
 — " Edwia" the "profound," by our Lady of Punishment ! here he is as 
 lively as in the davs of " well said Baviad t)ie Correct." I tliouglit Fitz- 
 gerald had been the taU of poesy, but, alas I be is only the penultunate. 
 
 A FA]\nLIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF THE 
 MORNING CHRONICLE. 
 
 " What reams of paper, floods of ink," 
 
 Do some men spoil, who never think ! 
 
 And so perhaps you "11 say of me, 
 
 In which your readers may agree. 
 
 Still I write on, and tell you why ; 
 
 Nothing 's so bad, you can't deny, 
 
 But may instruct or entertain 
 
 Without the risk of giving pain. 
 
 And should you doubt what I sissert, 
 
 The name of Camden I insert, 
 
 Who novels read, and oft maintain'd 
 
 He here and there s^me knowledge gain'd i 
 
 Then why not I indulge my pen, 
 
 Though I no fame or profii gain, 
 
 Yet may amuse your idle men ; 
 
 Of whom, though some may be severe, 
 
 Others may read without a' sneer ? 
 
 Thus much premised, I next proceed 
 
 To give you what I feel my creed, 
 
 And in what follows to display 
 
 Some humours of the passing day. 
 
 ON SOME MODERN aUACKS AND REFORMISTS. 
 
 In tracing of the human mind 
 
 Through all its various courses, 
 Though strange, 't is true, we often find 
 
 It knows not its resources ; 
 
 And men through life assume a part 
 
 For which no talents they possess. 
 Yet wonder that, with all their art, 
 
 They meet no better with success. 
 
 'T is thus we see, through life's cai'eer, 
 
 So few excel in their profession ; 
 Whereas, would each man but appear 
 
 In what 's within bis own possesion, 
 
 We should not see such daily quacks 
 
 (For quacks there are in every art) 
 Attempting, by their strange altacks 
 
 To meliorate the mind and heart. 
 
 Ye who aspire to build the lofty rhyme. 
 Believe not all who laud your false " sublime ;" 
 But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, 
 " Expunge that stanza, lop that line away," 
 And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
 Without amendment, and he answers, " Burn !" 
 That instant throw your paper in the fire. 
 Ask not his thoughts, or follow his desire ; 
 But if (true bard !) you scorn to condescend, 
 And will not alter v/hat you can't defend. 
 If you will breed this bastard of your brains*, — 
 We '11 have no words — 1 've only lost my pains. 
 
 Yet, if you only prize your favourite thought 
 As critics kindly do, and authors ought ; 
 If your cool friend annoy you now and then. 
 And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen ; 
 No matter, throw your ornaments aside — 
 Better let him than all the world deride. 
 Give light to passages too much in shade. 
 Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you 've made ; 
 Your friend 's '' a Johnson," not to leave one word, 
 However trifling, which may seem absurd ; 
 Such erring trifles lead to serious ills. 
 And furnish food for criticsf, or their quills. 
 
 As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune, 
 Or the sad influence of the angry moon. 
 All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues. 
 As yawning waiters flyj Fitzscribble's lungs ; 
 Yet on he mouths — ten minutes — tedious each 
 As prelate's homily or placeman's speech ; 
 Long as the last years of a lingering lease, 
 When riot pauses until rents increase. 
 While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 
 O'er hedge and ditch, through uiifrequented ways, 
 If by some chance he walks into a well, 
 And shouts for succour with stentorian yell, 
 " A rope ! help. Christians, as ye hope for grace!" 
 Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace ; 
 
 * * * Si carmina condes, 
 
 Nunquam te fallant animi sub vulpe latentes.- 
 
 Quintilio si quid recitares, Corrige, sodes, 
 Hoc (aiebat) et hoc : melius te posse uegares. 
 Bis terque expertum frustra, delere jubebat, 
 Et male tornatos incudi reddere versus. 
 Si defendere delictum quam vertere malles, 
 Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam insumebat inanem, 
 Q,uin sine rivali teque et tua solus amares. 
 
 Vir bonus et prudens versus reprehendet inertes 
 Culpabit duros; incomptis alJinet atrum 
 Transverse calamo signum ; ambitiosa I'ecidet 
 Ornamenta: parum Claris lucem dare coget; 
 Arguet ambigue dictum ; mntanda notabit ; 
 Fiet Aristarchus : nee dicet, Cur ego amicum 
 Offendam in nugis .' hae nugse seria duceht 
 In mala dei'isum semel exceptumque sinistre. 
 
 Nor mean I here the stage alone. 
 Where some desen-e th' applause they meet ; 
 
 For quacks there are, and they well known, 
 In either house, who hold a seat. 
 
 Reform 's the order of the day, I hear, 
 
 To which I cordially assent : 
 But then let tliis reform appear, 
 
 And ev'ry class of men cement. 
 
 For if you but reform a few, 
 
 And others leave to their full bent, 
 I fear you will but little do, 
 
 And find your time and pains mispent. 
 
 Let each man to his post assign'd 
 By Nature, take his part to act. 
 And then few causes shall we find 
 To call each man we meet — a quack.* 
 * Bastard of your brains. — Minerva being the first by Jupiter's head- 
 piece, and a variety of equally unaccountable parturitions upon earth, such 
 as Madoc, &c. &c. &c. 
 t '■ A crust for the critics." — Bayes, in the Rehearsal. 
 X And the " waiters" are the only fortunate people who can " fly" from 
 them ; all the rest, viz. the sad subscribei-s to the " Literary Fund," being 
 compelled, by courtesy, to sit out the recitation without a hope of exclaim- 
 ing, " Sic" (that is, by choaking Fitz. with bad wine or worse poetry) 
 " me servavit Apollo !" 
 
 * For such every man is who either appears ( 
 strives to be what he cannot. 
 
 be what he is uot, or 
 
THE CURSE OP MINERVA. 
 
 441 
 
 For there his carcass he might freely fling, 
 From frenzy, or the humour of the thing. 
 Though this has happen'd to more bards than one, 
 J. 'li tell you Budgeli's story, and have done. 
 
 Budgell a rogue and rhymester, for no good, 
 (Unless his case be much misunderstood) 
 When teased with creditors' continual claims, 
 * To die like Cato*," leapt into the Thames! 
 And therefore be it lawful through the town 
 For any bard to poison, hang, or drown, 
 Who saves the intended suicide receives 
 Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves ; 
 And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose 
 The glory of that death they freely choose. 
 
 Ut mala quern scabies aut morbus regiup urguet, 
 Aut fanaticus error et iracunda Diana, 
 Vesanum tetigisse timent fugiuntque poetam, 
 Qui sapiunc ; agitant pueri, incautique seqiiuntur. 
 Hie dum sublimes versus ructatiir, et errat 
 Si veluti merulis intentus decidit auceps 
 Inputeum, foveamve; Jicet, Succurrite, longum 
 Clamet, lo cives ! non sit qui tollere curat. 
 SI quis curat opem ferre, et demittere funem, 
 Q,u! scis an prudens hue se dejecerit, atque 
 Servari nolit? Dicam: Siculique poatse 
 Narrabo interitum. Daus immortalis baberi 
 Dum cupit Etr.pedoc]e3,ardentem frigidus iEtnam 
 Insiluit : sit jus liceatque parire poetis : 
 Invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti. 
 Nee seme] hoc fecit ; nee, si retractus erit. jam 
 Fiet homo, et ponet iamosa? mortis amorem. 
 Nee satis apparet cur versus tactitat; utrum 
 Minxeritin patrios cineres, an triste bidantal 
 Moverit incastus ; carte t'urit, ac velut ursus, 
 Objectos caveae valuit si frangere clathros, 
 Indoctum doctumque fugat racitator acerbus 
 Quern vero arripuit, tenet, occiditque lagendo, 
 Non missura cutem, nisi plena cruoris, hirudo. 
 
 • On his talile were found these words : What Cafo did and Addison 
 approved cannot be wrong." But Atklison did not " approve ;" and if 
 •le had, it would not nave mended the matter. He had invited his daughter 
 on the same water |)arty, but Miss Budgell, by some accident, escaped this 
 last paternal attention. Thus fell the sycophant of " Atticus," and the 
 enemy of Pope. 
 
 Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse 
 
 Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse ; 
 
 *Dosed with vile drams on Sunday he was found, 
 
 Or got a child on consecrated ground ! 
 
 And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage— 
 
 Fear'd like a bear just bursting from his cage. 
 
 If free, all fly his versifying fit. 
 
 Fatal at once to simpleton or wit. 
 
 But him, unhappy ! whom he seizes, — him 
 
 He flays with recitation limb by limb ; 
 
 Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach, 
 
 And gorges like a lawyer or a leech. 
 
 * If " dosed with," &c. be censured as low, I beg leave to refer to the 
 original for something still lower ; and if any reader will translate "Minx- 
 erlt in patrios cineres," &c. into a decent couplet, I wiU'insert said couplet 
 in lieu of the pr-eseut 
 
 "Difficile est proprie commimia dicere."—M<\e. Dacier, Mde. da 
 Sevign6, Boileau, and others, have left their dispute on the meaning of 
 this passage in a tract considerably longer than the poem of Horace. It U 
 printed at the close of the eleventh volume of Madame de SevignS'a 
 Letters, edited by Grovelle, Paris, 1806. Presuining that all who can 
 construe may venture an opinion on such subjects, particularly as so 
 many who can noi have taken the same liberty, I sliould have held my 
 " farthing candle" as awkwardly as another, had not my respect for the 
 wits of Louis the Fourteenth's Augitstan siecle induced me to subjoia 
 these illustrious authorities. 1st, Boileau : " II est difficile de traiter des 
 sujets qui sont a. la portfe de tout le monde d' une manifere qui vous Iss 
 reade propres, ce qui s'appelle s'approprier un sujet par le tour qu' on y 
 donne." 2dly, Batteux : " Mais il est bien difficile de donner des traits 
 propres et individuels aux 6tres purement possibles " 3dly, Dacier : " II 
 est difficile de traiter convenablement ces caractSres que tout le monde 
 pent inventer." Mde. de SevignS's opinion and translation, consisting of 
 some thirty pages, I omit, particularly as M. Grouvelle observes, " La 
 chose est bien remarquable, aucune de ces diverses interpretations ne pa- 
 rait 6tre la veritable." But, by way of comfort, it seems, fifty years after- 
 wards, " Le lumineux Dumarsais" made his appearance to set Horace on 
 his legs again , " dissiper tons les nuages, et concilier tons les dissenti- 
 rae ns ;" and, some fifty years hence,somebody, still more luminous, will 
 doubtless start up and demolish Dumarsais and his system on this weighty 
 affair, as if he were no better than Ptolemy and Tycho, or comments of no 
 more consequence than astronomical calculations on the present comet. I 
 am happy to say, " la longueur de la dissertation" of M. D. prevents 
 M. G. from saying any more on the matter. A better poet than Boileau, 
 and at least as good a scholar as Sevign^, has said, 
 
 " A little learning is a dangerous thing." 
 
 And by this comparison of comanents it may be perceived how a good deal 
 may be rendered as perilous to the proprietors. 
 
 THE CURSE OF MINERVA, 
 
 " Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas 
 Immolat, et poenam scslerato ex sanguine sumit." 
 
 iENIAD, I2tb. 
 
 *Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run. 
 Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
 Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 
 But one unclouded blaze of living light ; 
 O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws. 
 Gilds tne green wave that trembles as it glows ; 
 On old .^gina's rock and Hydra's isle 
 The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
 O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 
 Though there his altars are no more divine. 
 Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss 
 Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
 Their azure arches through the long expanse. 
 More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance. 
 And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
 Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven; 
 Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep. 
 Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 
 
 On such an eve his palest beam he cast 
 When, Athens ! here thy wisest looked his last. 
 
 • The lines with which this satire opens, to " As thus, within the walls 
 of Pallas' fane," are repealed, with some alterations, at the conunence- 
 nieut of the third canto of the Corsair. 
 
 3F 
 
 How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
 That closed their murder'd sage's* latest day ! 
 Nat yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill. 
 The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
 But sad his light to agonizing eyes. 
 And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 
 Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour. 
 The land where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
 But ere he sunk below Cithseron's head. 
 The cup of woe was quaiF'd — the spirit fled ; 
 The soul of him that scorned to fear or fly. 
 Who lived and died as none can live or die. 
 
 But, lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain 
 The queen of night asserts her silent reignt : 
 No murky vapour, herald of the storm, 
 Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form. 
 With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play. 
 There the white column greets her grateful ray. 
 
 * Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the hour of 
 execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the 
 sun went down. 
 
 t The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country ; the 
 days in winter are longer, but in summei of lesa duration. 
 
442 
 
 THE CURSE OP MINERVA. 
 
 And bright around with quivering beams beset, 
 Her emblem sparkled o'er the minaret : 
 The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide, 
 Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide, 
 The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque. 
 The glimmering turret of the gay kiosk*, 
 And sad and sombre mid the holy calm, 
 Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm ; 
 All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye ; 
 And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 
 
 Again the iEgean, heard no more afar. 
 Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
 Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
 Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, 
 Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle. 
 That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile. 
 
 As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane, 
 £ mark'd the beauties of the land and main, 
 Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore. 
 Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore ; 
 Oft as the matchless dome I tum'd to scan, 
 Sacred to gods, but not secure from man. 
 The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease, 
 And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece ! 
 
 Hours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on high 
 Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky ; 
 And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
 O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god 
 But chiefly, Pallas ! thine ; when Hecate's glare, 
 Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly fair 
 O'er tlie chill marble, where the starding tread 
 Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
 Long had I mused, and treasured every trace 
 The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, 
 When, lo ! a giant form before me strode, 
 And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode ! 
 
 Yes, 't was Minerva's self; but, ah ! how changed 
 Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ! 
 Not such as erst, by her divine command. 
 Her form appeared from Phidias' plastic hand : 
 Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, 
 Her idle aegis bore no Gorgon now ; 
 Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance 
 Seem'd weak and shafdess e'en to mortal glance ; 
 The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp. 
 Shrunk from her touch, and wither'd in her grasp 
 And, ah I though still the brightest of the sky, 
 Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye ; 
 Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow. 
 And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of woe! 
 
 " Mortal !" ('twas thus she spake) "that blush of shame 
 Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name ; 
 
 First of the mighty, foremost of the free. 
 
 Now honour'd less by all, and least by me : 
 Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found. 
 
 Seek'st thou the cause of loathing? — look around. 
 
 Lo ! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
 I saw successive tyrannies expire. 
 
 'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, 
 
 Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both. 
 
 Survey this vacant, violated fane ; 
 
 Recount the relics torn that yet remain; 
 
 These Cecrops placed, f^is Pericles adom'df. 
 
 That Adrian rear'd when drooping Science mourn'd. 
 
 What more I owe let gratitude attest — 
 
 Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
 
 That all may learn from whence the plunderer came, 
 
 The insulted v/all sustains his hated name : 
 
 * The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the palm is without the pre- 
 sent walls of Athrns, mt from the temple of Theseus, between which and 
 the tree the wall ioterrenes. — Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Lissus 
 has no stream at all. 
 
 t This is spoken of the city in general, and not of the Acropolis in par- 
 ticular : the temple of Jupiter Olympius, by some supposed the Pantheon, 
 was finished by Hadrian ; sixteen columns ere standing, of the most 
 beautiful marble and architecture. 
 
 For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads, 
 Below, his name — above, behold his deeds ! 
 Be ever hail'd with equal honour here 
 The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer : 
 Arms gave the first his right, the last had nonOj 
 But basely stole what less barbarians won. 
 So when the lion quits his fell repast. 
 Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last : 
 Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own; 
 The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone. 
 Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are cross'd: 
 See here what Elgin won, and what he lost ! 
 Another name with his pollutes my shrine : 
 Behold where Dian's beams disdained to shine ! 
 Some retribution still might Pallas claim. 
 When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame*.' 
 
 She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply, 
 To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye : 
 " Daughter of Jove ! in Britain's injured name, 
 A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim. 
 Frown not on England ; England owns him not; 
 Athena ! no ! thy plunderer was a Scot. 
 Ask'st thou the difference ? From fair Phyles' towers 
 Survey BcEOtia ; Caledonia's ours. 
 And well I know within that bastard landt 
 Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command: 
 A barren soil, where Nature's germs confined 
 To stem sterility, can stint the mind ; 
 Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth, 
 Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth ; 
 Each genial influence nurtured to resist: 
 A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. 
 Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain 
 Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain. 
 Till, burst at length, each wat'ry head o'erflows, 
 Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 
 Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride 
 Despatch her scheming children far and wide ; 
 Some east, some west, some every where but north, 
 In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 
 And thus — accursed be the day and year !— 
 She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 
 Yet Caledonia claims some native worth, 
 As dull Boeotia gave a Pindar birth ; 
 So may her few, the letter'd and the brave, 
 Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave, 
 Shake off the sordid dust of such a land, 
 And shine like children of a happier strand ; 
 As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place. 
 Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race." 
 
 " Mortal !" the blue-eyed maid resumed, " once more 
 Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. 
 Though fallen, alas ! this vengeance yet is mine, 
 To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 
 Hear then in silence Pallas' stem behest ; 
 Hear and believe, for time will teU the rest. 
 
 " First on the head of him who did this deed 
 My curse shall light, on him and all his seed : 
 Without one spark of intellectual fire, 
 Be all the sons as senseless as the sire : 
 If one with wit the parent brood disgrace. 
 Believe him bastard of a brighter race : 
 Still with his hireling artists let him prate 
 And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate ; 
 Long of their patron's gusto let them tell. 
 Whose noblest, native gusto is — to sell : 
 To sell, and make — may Shame record tlie day ! — 
 The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey. 
 Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard. West, 
 Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best. 
 
 * His lordship's name and that of one who no loneer bears it are carred 
 conspicuously on the Parthenon ; above, in a part not far distant, are the 
 torn remnants of the basso relievos destroyed in a vain attempt to reraore 
 them. 
 
 t " Irish bastards," according to Sir Callaghan O'Brallaghan. 
 
THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 
 
 443 
 
 With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, 
 
 And own himself an infant of fourscore*. 
 
 Be all the bruisers cull'd from all St. Giles' 
 
 That art and nature may compare their styles ; 
 
 While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 
 
 And marvel at his lordship's ' stone shopj' there. 
 
 Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs creep 
 
 To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep ; 
 
 While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, 
 
 On giant statues casts the curious eye ; 
 
 The room with transient glance appears to skim, 
 
 Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb ; 
 
 Mourns o'er the difference of now and then : 
 
 Exclaims, ' These Greeks indeed were proper men ' 
 
 Draws sly comparisons of these with those, 
 
 And envies Lais all her Attic beaux. 
 
 When shall a modern maid have swains like these ! 
 
 Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 
 
 And last of all, amidst the gaping crew, 
 
 Some calm spectator, as he takes his view, 
 
 In silent indignation mix'd with grief, 
 
 Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. 
 
 Oh, loathed in life, nor pardon'd in the dust, 
 
 May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust 1 
 
 Link'd with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome. 
 
 Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb, 
 
 And Eratostratus and Elgin shine 
 
 In many a branding page and burning line ; 
 
 Alike reserved for aye to stand accurst. 
 
 Perchance the second blacker than the first. 
 
 " So let him stand, through ageg yet unborn, 
 Fix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn ; 
 Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, 
 But fits thy country for her coming fate : 
 Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son 
 To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
 Look to the Baltic — blazing from afar, 
 Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war. 
 Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid. 
 Or break the compact which herself had made ; 
 Far from such councils, from the faithless field 
 She fled — ^but left behind her Gorgon shield : 
 A fatal gift, that turn'd your friends to stone, 
 And left lost Albion hated and alone. 
 
 *' Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy race 
 Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base ; 
 Lo ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, 
 And glares the Nemesis of native dead ; 
 Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood. 
 And claims his long arrear of northern blood. 
 So may ye perish ! — Pallas, when she gave 
 Your free-bom rights, forbade ye to enslave. 
 
 "Look on your Spain! — she clasps the hand she hates. 
 But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 
 Bear witness, bright Barossa ! thou canst tell 
 Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. 
 But Lusitania, kind and dear ally. 
 Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. 
 Oh glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won, 
 The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
 But when did Pallas teach that one retreat 
 Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat ? 
 
 " Look last at home — ye love not to look there 
 On the grim smile of comfortless despair : 
 Your city saddens : loud though Revel howls. 
 Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls. 
 See all alike of more or less bereft ; 
 No misers tremble when there 's nothing lefl. 
 
 ' Blest paper credit*,' who shall dare to sing? 
 It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. 
 Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear, 
 Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear ; 
 But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, 
 On Pallas calls, but calls, alas ! too late : 
 Then raves for * * ; to that Mentor bends, 
 Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. 
 Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, 
 Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
 So once of yore, each reasonable frog 
 Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign ' log.' 
 Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, 
 As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 
 
 " Now fare ye well ! enjoy your little hour ; 
 Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd power ; 
 Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme ; 
 Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream. 
 Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind, 
 And pirates barter all that 's left behindf. 
 No more the hirelings, purchased near and far, 
 Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war. 
 The idle merchant on the useless quay 
 Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away ; 
 Or back returning sees rejected stores 
 Rot piecemeal on his own encumber'd shores : 
 The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom, 
 And desperate mans him 'gainst the common doom. 
 Then in the senate of your sinking state 
 Show me the man whose councils may have weight. 
 Vain is each voice where tones could once command ; 
 E'en factions cease to charm a factious land: 
 Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle, 
 And light with maddening hands the mutual pile. 
 
 " 'T is done, 't is past, since Pallas warns in vain 
 The furies sieze her abdicated reign : 
 Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brands. 
 And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 
 But one convulsive struggle still remains. 
 And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains. 
 The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering files. 
 O'er whose gay trappings stern BeUona smiles ; 
 The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 
 That bid the foe defiance ere they come ; 
 The hero bounding at his country's call. 
 The glorious death that decorates his fall. 
 Swell the young heart with visionary charms. 
 And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
 But know a lesson you may yet be taught. 
 With death alone are laurels cheaply bought : 
 Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight. 
 His day of mercy is the day of fight. 
 But when the field is fought, the battle won. 
 Though drench'd with gore, his woes are but begun: 
 His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name ; 
 The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame. 
 The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 
 lU suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. 
 Say with what eye along the distant down 
 Would flying burghers mark the blazing town ? 
 How view the colunm of ascending flames 
 Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames ? 
 Nay, frowTi not, Albion ! for the torch was thine 
 That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine : 
 Now should they burst on thy devoted coast. 
 Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. 
 The law of heaven and earth is life for life, 
 And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife." 
 
 * Mr. West, on seeing ihe " Elgin Collection" (I suppose we shall hear 
 of the Abershaw and " Jack Shephai-d's" collection), declared himself •' a 
 mere tyro" in art. 
 
 t Poor Crib was sadl; 
 asked if it was not " a si 
 
 puzzled v/ben exhibited at E House ; ha 
 
 nne shop ?"— He was right ; it is a shop. 
 
 ' " Blest paper credit ! last and best supply, 
 
 That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly !" — Pope. 
 t The Deal and Dover traffickers in specie. 
 
THE WALTZ; 
 
 AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN. 
 
 " Q.uali3 in Eurota rii)is, aut per juga Cynthi, 
 Exercet Diana choros." 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 " Such oil Eurota's banks, or Cynthia's height, 
 Diana seems : and ao she charms the sight, 
 When ill the dance the raceful goddess leads 
 The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads. ** 
 Dryden's Viygif, 
 
 TO THE PUBLISHER. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 I AM a country gentleman of a midland county. I 
 might have been a parliament-man for a certain borough, 
 having had the offer of as many votes as General T. at 
 the general election in 1812.* But I was all for domes- 
 tic happiness ; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, 
 I married a middle-aged maid of honour. We lived 
 happily at Hornem Hall till last season, when my wife 
 and T were invited by the Countess of Waltzaway (a dis- 
 tant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in town. 
 Thinking no harm, and our girls being come to a mar- 
 riageable (or, as they call it, marketable) age, and having 
 besides a Chancery suit inveteraiely entailed upon the 
 family estate, we came up in our old chariot, of wliich, by 
 the by, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than a 
 week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, 
 of which 1 might mount the box, Mrs. H. says, if I could 
 drive, but never see the inside — that place being reserved 
 for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner-general 
 and opera-knight. Hearmg great praises of Mrs. H.'s 
 dancing, (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the 
 latter end of the last century,) I unbooted, and went to a 
 ball at the countess's, expecting to see a country dance, 
 or, at most, cotillions, reels, and all the old paces to the 
 newest times. But, judge of my surprise, on arriving, to 
 see poor dear Mrs. Hornem va\h her arms half round 
 the loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman I never set 
 eyes on before ; and his, to say truth, rather more than 
 half round her waist, turning round, and round, and round, 
 
 to a d d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that 
 
 reminded me of the "Black joke," only more '■'■ affettuosol'' 
 till it made me quite giddy with wondering they were not 
 so. By and by they stopped a bit, and I thought they 
 would sit or fall down : — but, no ; with Mrs. H.'s hand on 
 his shoulder, '^quam famiUariter,''-\ (as Terence said, 
 when I was at school,) they walked about a minute, 
 and then at it again, like two cockchafers spitted on 
 the same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, 
 with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina 
 (a name I never heard but in the Vicar of Wakefield, 
 though her mother would call her after the Princess of 
 Swappenbach) said, "Lord I Mr. Hornem, can't you see 
 they arevaltzing!" or waltzing, (I forjet which ;) and then 
 up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they went, 
 and round-abouted it till supper-time. Now that I know 
 what it is, I like it of all things, and so does Mrs. H. 
 (though I have broken my shins, and four times over- 
 turned Mrs. Hornem's maid, in practising the preliminary 
 steps in a morning.) Indeed, so much do I like it, that 
 having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed in some elec- 
 
 tion ballads, and songs in honour of all the victories, (but 
 till lately I have had little practice in that way,) I sat 
 down, and with the aid of W. F. Esq. and a few hints 
 from Dr. B. (whose recitations I attend, and am mon- 
 strous fond of Master B.'s manner of delivering his father's 
 late successful "D. L. Address,") 1 composed the follow- 
 ing hymn, wherewithal to make my sentiments known to 
 the public, whom, nevertheless, I heartily despise as well 
 as the critics. 
 
 I am. Sir, yours, &c, &c. 
 
 HORACE HORNEM. 
 
 Muse of the many- twinkling feet!* whose charms 
 Are now extended up from legs to arms ; 
 Terpsichore ! — too long misdeem'd a maid — 
 Reproachful term — bestow'd but to upbraid — 
 Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, 
 The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 
 Far be from tliee and thine the name of prude ; 
 Mock'd, yet triumphant ; sneer'd at, unsubdued ; 
 Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, 
 If but tliy coats are reasonably high ; 
 Thy breast — if bare enough — requires no shield ; 
 Dance forth — san^ armour thou shalt take the field. 
 And own — impregnable to most assaults^ 
 Thy not too lawfully begotten " Waltz." 
 
 Hail, nimble njTnph ! to whom the young hussar, 
 
 The whisker'd votary of waltz and war, 
 
 His night devotes, despite of spur and boots ; 
 
 A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes: 
 
 Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz ! — beneath whose banners 
 
 A modern hero fought for modish manners ; 
 
 On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley'sf fame, 
 
 Cock'd — fired — and miss'd his man — but gain'd his aim ; 
 
 • state of the poll, (last day,) 5. 
 
 t My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have forgotten what 
 he never remembered ; but I bought my titlepage motto of a Catholic 
 priest foraihi-ee shilling bank token, after much haggling for the even 
 sixpence. I grudged the money to a papist, being alffor the memory of 
 Perceval and "No popery," and quite regretting Uie downfall of the 
 pope, becauee we can't burn him any more. 
 
 * " Glance their many-iwinkling feet. "—Gray. 
 
 t To rival Lord W/s, or his nephew's, as the reader pleases :— the one 
 gained a pretty woman, whom he deserved, by fighting for ; and the other 
 has been fighting in the Peninsula many a long day, "by Shrewsbury 
 clock," without gaining any tiling in that country but the title of " the 
 Great Lord," and " the Lord," wtiich savours of profanation, having been 
 hitherto applied only to that Being to whom " Te DeuTns" for carnage 
 are the rankest blasphemy. — It is to be presumed the general will one day 
 return to Ms Sabine farm ; there 
 
 " To tame the genius of the stubborn plain. 
 Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain !" 
 
 The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a summer ; we do 
 more — we contrive both to conquer and lose them in a shorter season. If 
 the " great Lord's" Cincimiatian \)rogress in agriculture be no speedier 
 than the proportional average of time in Pope's couplet, it will, according 
 to the farmer's proverb, be "ploughing with dogs." 
 
 By the by— one of this illustrious person's new titles is forgotten — it is, 
 however, worth remembering— ''SalvadordelmunJol" ciedile,posteri.' 
 If this be the apfiellatiou annexed by the inhabitants of the Peninsula to 
 the name of a man who has not yei saved them — querv — are they worth 
 saving even in this world ? for, according to the mildest motlifications of 
 any Christian creed, those three words make the odds much against them 
 in the next.—" Saviour of the world," quotha !— it were to be wished 
 that he, oi- any one else, could save a corner of it — his country. Yet this 
 stupid misnomer, although it shows the near connexion between super- 
 stition and impiety, so far has its use, that it proves there can be little to 
 dread from those Catholics (inqnisiiorial Catholics too) wlm can confer 
 such an appellation on a Protestant. I suppose next vear he will bs 
 entitled the "Virgin Mary :" if so. Lord George Gordon himself would 
 have nothing to ob'ect to such liberal bastards of our Lady of Babylon. 
 
THE WALTZ. 
 
 445 
 
 Hail moving muse ! to whom the fair one's breast 
 
 Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. 
 
 Oh ! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 
 
 The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, 
 
 To " energise the object I pursue," 
 
 And give both Belial and his dance their due! 
 
 Imperial Waltz ! imported from the Rhine, 
 (Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine,) 
 Long be thine import from all duty free. 
 And hock itself be less esteemed than thee ; 
 In some few qualities alike — for hock 
 Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. 
 The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
 Intoxicates alone the heedless heart: 
 Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, 
 And wake-s to wantonness the willing limbs. 
 
 Oh Germany ! how much to thee we owe, 
 As heaven-born Pitt can testify below, 
 Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, 
 And only left us thy d — d debts and dances ! 
 Of subsidies and Hanover bereft. 
 We bless thee still — for George the Third is left ! 
 Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth, 
 For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 
 To Germany, and highnesses serene. 
 Who owe us millions — don't we owe the queen? 
 To Germany, what owe we not besides ? 
 So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides ; 
 Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood. 
 Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud : 
 Who sent us — so be pardon'd all her faults — 
 A dozen dukes — some kings — a queen — and Waltz. 
 
 But peace to her — her emperor and diet. 
 Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's " fiat !" 
 Back to my theme — O Muse of motion ! say. 
 How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way ? 
 
 Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales. 
 From Hamburg's port, (while Hamburg yet had mails,) 
 Ere yet unlucky Fame — compell'd to creep 
 To snowy Gottenburg — was chill'd to sleep ; 
 Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 
 Heligoland! to stock thy mart with lies; 
 While unbumt Moscow* yet had news to send, 
 Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend. 
 She came — Waltz came — and with her certain sets 
 Of true despatches, and as true gazettes; 
 Then flamed of Austerlilz the blest despatch. 
 Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match ; 
 And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news — 
 Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 
 One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, 
 And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs; 
 Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, 
 Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind; 
 Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it. 
 Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. 
 Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest freight, 
 Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate. 
 
 * The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be sufBciently com- 
 mended — nor subscribed for. Among other details omitted in the various 
 despatches of our eloquent ambassador, he did not slate, (being too much 
 
 occupied with the exploits of Col. C , in swimming rivers frozen, 
 
 ai;d galloping over roads impassable,) that one entire province perished 
 by famine in the most melancholy manner, as follows : — In General Ro- 
 Etopchin's consummate conflagration, the consumption of tallow and 
 train oil was so great, that the market was inadequate to the demand : 
 aud thus one hundred and thirty-three thousand persons were starved to 
 death, by being reduced to wholesome diet ! The lamplighters of London 
 have since subscribed a pint (of oil) a piece, and the tallow-chandlers have 
 unanimously voted a quantity of best moulds (four to the pound) to the 
 relief of the surviving Scythians— the scarcity will soon, by such exer- 
 tions, and a proper attention to the quality x!).\\\&r than the quantity of 
 provision, be totally alleviated. It is said, in return, that the untouched 
 Ukraine has subscribed sixty thousand beeves for a day's meal to our suf- 
 fering manufacturers. 
 
 The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, 
 
 And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. 
 
 Not decent David, when, before the ark, 
 
 His grand pas-seul excited some remark ; 
 
 Not love-lorn Gtuixote, when his Sancho thought 
 
 The knight's fandango friskier than it ought ; 
 
 Not soft Herodias, when with winning tread 
 
 Her nimble feet danced off another's head ; 
 
 Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 
 
 Display'd so much of leg, or more of neck, 
 
 Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 
 
 Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune! 
 
 To you, ye husbands of ten years ! whose brows 
 
 Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse ; 
 
 To you of nine years less, who only bear 
 
 The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear, 
 
 With added ornaments around them roU'd 
 
 Of native brass, or law-awarded gold ; 
 
 To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 
 
 To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match; 
 
 To you, ye children of— whom chance accords — 
 
 Always the ladies, and sometimes their lords ; 
 
 To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek 
 
 Torments for life, or pleasures for a week ; 
 
 As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide, 
 
 To gain your own, or snatch another's bride 
 
 To one and all the lovely stranger came. 
 
 And every ball-room echoes v/ith her name. 
 
 Endearing Wahz ! — to thy more melting tune 
 Bow Irish jig and ancient rigadoon. 
 Scotch reels, avaunt ! and country-dance, forego 
 Your future claims to each fantastic toe ! 
 Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs and arms demands, 
 Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands ; 
 Hands which may freely range in public sight 
 Where ne'er before — but— pray " put out the light." 
 Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier 
 Shines much too far — or I am much too near ; 
 And true, though strange — Waltz whispers this remark, 
 " My slippery steps are safest in the dark !" 
 But here the muse with due decorum halts, 
 And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 
 
 Observant travellers of every time ! 
 Ye quartos publish'd upon every clime ! 
 O say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round, 
 Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's boimd ; 
 Can Egypt's Almas* — tantalizing group — 
 Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop — 
 Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn 
 With Waltz compare, or after waltz be borne? 
 Ah no ! from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
 Each tourist pens a paragraph for "Waltz." 
 
 Shades of those belles whose reign began of yore, 
 AVith George the Third's — and ended long before ! — 
 Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive. 
 Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive! 
 Back to the ball-room speed your spectred host : 
 Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. 
 No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake; 
 No stiff-starchM stays make meddling fingers ache , 
 (Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape 
 Goals in their visage,f women in their shape ;) 
 
 * Dancing girls— who do for hire what Waltz doth gratis. 
 
 t It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Baussiere's time, of the 
 " Sieur de la Groix," that there be " no whiskers ;" but how far these 
 are indications of valour in the field, or elsewhere, may still be qiiestion 
 able. Much may be and hath been avouched on both sides. In the olden 
 time philosophers had whiskers, aud soldiers none— Scipio himself waa 
 shaven— Hannibal thought his one eye handsome enough without a 
 beard; but Adrian, the emperor, wore a beard (having warts on his 
 chin, which neither the Empress Sabina nor even the courtiers could 
 abide)— Turenne had whiskers, Marlborough none— Buonaparte is un- 
 whiskered, the Regent whiskered; '' argaV greatness of mind and 
 whiskers may or may not go together : but certainly the different occur- 
 rences, since the growth of the last-mentioned, go further in behalf of 
 
446 
 
 THE WALTZ. 
 
 No damsel faints when rather closely press'd, 
 But more caressing seems when most caress'd ; 
 Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts, 
 BotJi banish'd by the sovereign cordial " Waltz." 
 
 Seductive Waltz ! — though on thy native shore 
 Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a whore; 
 Werter — to decent vice though much inclined. 
 Yet warm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not blind — 
 Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Stael, 
 Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball ; 
 The fashion hails — from countesses to queens. 
 And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes ; 
 Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads, 
 And turns — if nothing else — at least our heads; 
 With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce, 
 And cockneys practise what they can't pronounce. 
 Gods ! how the glorious theme my strain exalts. 
 And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of " Waltz 1" 
 Blest was the lime Waltz chose for her debut; 
 The court, the Regent, like herself were new ;* 
 New face for friends, for foes some new rewards ; 
 New ornaments for black and royal guards ; 
 New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread ; 
 New coins (most newf ) to follow those that fled ; 
 New victories — nor can we prize them less, 
 Though Jenky wonders at his own success ; 
 New wars, because the old succeed so well. 
 That most survivors envy those who fell ; 
 New mistresses — no, old — and yet 't is true, 
 Though they be old, the thing is something new ; 
 Each new, quite new — (except some ancient tricks,|) 
 New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all new 
 With vests or ribands — deck'd alike in hue, [sticks ! 
 
 New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue : 
 
 So saith tlie muse — my ,§ what say you ? 
 
 Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain 
 Her new preferments in this novel reign ; 
 Such was the time, nor ever yet was such ; 
 Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much ; 
 Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays. 
 And tell-tale powder — all have had their days. 
 The ball begins — the honours of the house 
 First duly done by daughter or by spouse. 
 Some potentate — or royal or serene — 
 With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloucester's mien. 
 Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 
 Might once have been mistaken for a blush. 
 From where the garb just leaves the bosom free. 
 That spot where hearts|| were once supposed to be ; 
 
 whiskers than the anathema of Anselm did against long hair in the reign 
 of Heury I. 
 
 Formerly red was a favourite colour. See Lodowick Bairey's comedy 
 of Ram Alley, 1661, Act I. Scene 1. 
 
 " Taffeta. Now, for a wager— 'What coloured beard comes next by 
 the window .' 
 
 " Adriano. A black man's, I think. 
 
 " Taffeta. I think not so : I think a red, for that is most in fashion." 
 
 There is "nothing new under the sun ;" hat red, theaa./avourite, has 
 now subsided into a favourite's colour. 
 
 " Aa anachronism — Waltz and the battle of Austerlitz are before said 
 to have opened the ball together : tlie bard means, (if he means anv thing.) 
 Waltz was not so much in vogue till the Regent attained Uie acme of his 
 popularity. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, and the new government, illu- 
 minated heaven and earth, in all their glory, much about the same time : 
 of these the comet only has disappeared ; the other three continue to 
 astonish us still. — PHnter's Devil. 
 
 t Among oihers a new ninepence— a creditable coin now forthco- 
 ming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest calculation. 
 
 X " Oh that rig/it should thus overcome might.'" Who does not re- 
 member the " dehcate investigation" in the " Mei-ry Wives of Wind- 
 sor?" 
 
 "Ji'ord. Pray you, come near : if I suspect without cause, w-hy then 
 make sport at me ; then let me be your jest ; J deserve it. How now ? 
 whither bear you this ? 
 
 " Mrs. Ford. What have you to do whither they bear it .'—you were 
 best meddle with buck-washing." 
 
 § The gentle, or ferocious reader, may fill up the blank a.? he pleases 
 
 there are several dissyllabic names at his service, (being already in the 
 Regent's:) it would not be fair to back any peculiar initial against the 
 alphabet, as every month will add to the list now entered for the sweep- 
 Btakes -.—a distinguished consonant is said to be the favourite, much 
 (Lgainat the wishes of the knoioin^ ones. 
 
 II " We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor— 't is all gone— 
 A«modeu8 knows where. After all, it is of no great importance how wo- 
 meo'jheartB are disposed of ; they have nature's privilege to distribute 
 
 Round all the confines of the yielded waist, 
 
 The strangest hand may wander undisplaced; 
 
 The lady's in return may grasp as much 
 
 As princely paunches offer to her touch. 
 
 Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, 
 
 One hand reposing on the royal hip ; 
 
 The other to the shoulder no less royal 
 
 Ascending with affection truly loyal ! 
 
 Thus front to front the partners move or stand, 
 
 The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand ; 
 
 And all in turn may follow in their rank, 
 
 The Earl of— Asterisk— and Lady— Blank ; 
 
 Sir — Such-a-one — with those of fashion's host, 
 
 For whose blest surnames — vide " Morning Post;" 
 
 (Or if for that impartial print too late, 
 
 Search Doctors' Commons sLx months from my date,)— 
 
 Thus all and each, in movement soft or slow, 
 
 The genial contact gently undergo ; 
 
 Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 
 
 If" nothing follows all this palming work?"* 
 
 True, honest Mirza ! — you may trust my rhyme — 
 
 Something does follow at a fitter time ; 
 
 The breast thus publicly resign'd to man. 
 
 In private may resist him if it can. 
 
 O ye who loved our grandmothers of yore, 
 Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more ! 
 And thou, my prince! whose sovereign taste and will 
 It is to love the lovely beldames still ! 
 Thou ghost of dueensberry ! whose judging sprite 
 Satan may spare to peep a single night, 
 Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss 
 Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this ; 
 To teach the young ideas how to rise, 
 Flush in the cheek and languish in the eyes 
 Rush to the heart and lighten through the frame, 
 With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame ; 
 For prurient nature still will storm the breast — 
 Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? 
 
 But ye — who never felt a single thought 
 For what our morals are to be or ought ; 
 Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap. 
 Say — would you make those beauties quite so cheap "^ 
 Hot from the hands promiscuously applied. 
 Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side, 
 Where were the rapture then to clasp the form 
 From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm ? 
 At once love's most endearing thought resign. 
 To press the hand so press'd by none but thine ; 
 To gaze upon that eye which never met 
 Another's ardent look without regret ; 
 Approach the lip which all, without restraint, 
 Come near enough — if not to touch — to taint ; 
 If such thou lovest — love her then no more. 
 Or give — like her — caresses to a score ; 
 Her mind with these is gone, and with it go 
 The little left behind it to bestow. 
 Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme? 
 Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. 
 Terpsichore, forgive ! — at every ball 
 My wife noiu waltzes — and my daughters shall ; 
 My son — (or stop — 't is needless to inquire — 
 These little accidents should ne'er transpire ; 
 Some ages hence our genealogic tree 
 Will wear as green a bough for him as me) — 
 Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends. 
 Grandsons for me — in heirs to all his friends. 
 
 them as absurdly as possible. But there are also some men with hearts 
 so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those phenomena often mentioned 
 in natural history ; viz. a mass of solid stone— only to be opened by force 
 —and when divided, you discover a toad in the centre, Uvely, and with 
 the reputation of being venomous. 
 
 * In Turkey a pertinent, here an impertinent and guperfluoui quei- 
 tion— literally put, as in the text, by a Persian to Morier, on leeing « 
 waltz in Pera.— Fide Morier's Travels. 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS. 
 
 • Impar Conp'sssus Achilli. 
 
 The " good old times" — all times when old are good- 
 Are gone ; the present might be if they would ; 
 Great things have been, and are, and greater still 
 Want little of mere mortals but their will ; 
 A wider space, a greener field, is given 
 To those who play their " tricks before high heaven." 
 I know not if the angels weep, but men 
 Have wept enough — for what ? — to weep again. 
 
 IX. 
 
 All is exploded — ^be it good or bad. 
 Reader! remember when thou wert a lad, 
 Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much, 
 His very rival almost deem'd him such. 
 We, we have seen the intellectual race 
 Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 
 Athos and Ida, with a datshing sea 
 Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free, 
 As the deep billows of the Mgea.n roar 
 Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore. 
 But where are they — the rivals ? — a few feet 
 Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet. 
 How peaceful and how powerful is the grave 
 Which hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wave 
 Which oversweeps the world. The theme is old 
 Of *' Dust to dust ;" but half its tale untold : 
 Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 
 Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form 
 Varied above, but still alike below ; 
 The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow, 
 Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea 
 O'er which from empire she lured Antony ; 
 Though Alexander's urn a show be grown 
 On shore's he wept to conquer, though unknown — 
 How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear 
 The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear ! 
 He wept for worlds to conquer — half the earth 
 Knows not his name, or but his death, and birth, 
 And desolation ; while his native Greece 
 Hath all of desolation, save its peace. 
 He " wept for worlds to conquer !" he who ne'er 
 Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare ! 
 With even tjie busy Northern Isle unknowT), 
 Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne. 
 
 in. 
 
 But where is he, the modem, mightier far, 
 
 Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car ; 
 
 The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings. 
 
 Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings. 
 
 And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd of late, 
 
 Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state? 
 
 Yes ! where is he, the champion and the child 
 
 Of ati that 's great or little, wise or wild ? 
 
 Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were 
 
 thrones? 
 Whose table earth — whose dice were human bones ? 
 
 Behold the grand result in yon lone isle, 
 
 And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. 
 
 Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 
 
 Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage; 
 
 Smile to sun'ey the queller of the nations 
 
 Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations ; 
 
 Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, 
 
 O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines ; 
 
 O'er petty quarrels upon petty things. 
 
 Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings? 
 
 Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, 
 
 A surgeon's statement, and an earl's harangues 
 
 A bust delay'd, a book refused, can shake 
 
 The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 
 
 Is this indeed the tamer of the great, 
 
 Now slave of all could tease or irritate — 
 
 The paltry gaoler and the prying spy, 
 
 The staring stranger with his notebook nigh ? 
 
 Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great ; 
 
 How low, how little was this middle state, 
 
 Between a prison and a palace, where 
 
 How few could feel for what he had to bear ! 
 
 Vain his complaint, — my lord presents his bill. 
 
 His food and wine were doled out duly still ; 
 
 Vain was his sickness, never was a clime 
 
 So free from homicide — to doubt 's a crime ; 
 
 And the stiff surgeon, who maintain'd his cause. 
 
 Hath lost his place, and gain'd the world's applause. 
 
 But smile — though all the pangs of brain and heart 
 
 Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art; 
 
 Though, save the few fond friends, and imaged face 
 
 Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace. 
 
 None stand by his low bed — though even the mind 
 
 Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind ; 
 
 Smile — for the fetter'd eagle breaks his chain. 
 
 And higher worlds than this are his again. 
 
 IV. 
 
 How, if that soaring spirit still retain 
 A conscious twilight of his blazing reign. 
 How must he smile, on looking down, to see 
 The little that he was and sought to be ! 
 What though his name a wider empire found 
 Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound ; 
 Though first in glory, deepest in reverse. 
 He tasted empire's blessings and its curse ; 
 Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 
 From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape ; 
 How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave. 
 The proudest seamark that o'ertops the wave! 
 What though his gaoler, duteous to the last, 
 Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him fast. 
 Refusing one poor line along the lid. 
 To date the birth and death of all it hid ; 
 That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 
 A talisman to all save him who bore : 
 The fleets that svveep before the eastern blast 
 Shall hear their seaboys hail it fi-om the mast; 
 
448 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise, 
 
 Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies, 
 
 The rocky isle that holds or held his dust 
 
 Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, 
 
 And mighty nature o'er his obsequies 
 
 Do more than niggard envy still denies. 
 
 But what are thes^e to him? Can glory's lust 
 
 Touch the freed spirit or the fetter'd dust ? 
 
 Small care hath he of what his tomb consists ; 
 
 Naught if he sleeps — nor more if he exists : 
 
 Alike the better-seeing Shade will smile 
 
 On the rude cavern of the rocky isle, 
 
 As if his ashes found their latest home 
 
 In Rome's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic dome. 
 
 He wants not this 5 but France shall feel the want 
 
 Of this last consolation, though so scant; 
 
 Her honour, fame, and faith demand his bones, 
 
 To rear above a pyramid of thrones ; 
 
 Or carried onward in the battle's van, 
 
 To form, like Guesclin's* dust, her talisman. 
 
 But be it as it is — the time may come 
 
 His name shall beat the alarm, like Ziska's drum. 
 
 Oh heaven ! of which he was in power a feature ; 
 
 Oh earth ! of which he was a noble creature ; 
 
 Thou isle ! to be remember'd long and well, 
 
 That saw'st the unfledg'd eaglet chip his shell ! 
 
 Ye Alps, which view'd him in his dawning flights 
 
 Hover, the victor of a hundred fights ! 
 
 Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Caesar's deeds outdone 
 
 Alas ! why past he too the Rubicon — 
 
 The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights, 
 
 To herd with vulgar kings and parasites ? 
 
 Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose 
 
 Forgotten Pharaohs from tlieir long repose, 
 
 And shook within their pyramids to hear 
 
 A new Cambysis thundering in their ear ; 
 
 While the dark shades of forty ages stood 
 
 Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood ; 
 
 Or fi-om the pyramid's tall pinnacle 
 
 Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell, 
 
 With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sand 
 
 To re-manure the uncultivated land ! 
 
 Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 
 
 Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid ! 
 
 Austria ! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital 
 
 Twice spared, to be the traitress of his fall ! 
 
 Ye race of Frederic ! — Frederics but in name 
 
 And falsehood — heirs to all except his fame ; 
 
 Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell 
 
 First, and but rose to follow ! Ye who dwell 
 
 Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 
 
 The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt ! 
 
 Poland ! o'er which the avenging angel past, 
 
 But left thee as he found thee, still a waste, 
 
 Forgetting all thy still enduring claim. 
 
 Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name, 
 
 Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear, 
 
 That souud that crashes in the tyrant's ear — 
 
 Kosciusko ! On— on — on — the thirst of war 
 
 Gasps for the gore of serfs, and of their czar. 
 
 The half barbaric Moscow's minarets 
 
 Gleam in the sun, but 't is a sun that sets ! 
 
 Moscow ! thou limit of his long career, 
 
 F^which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear 
 
 To see in vain — he saw thee — how ? with spire 
 
 And padace fuel to one common fire. 
 
 To this the soldier lent his kindling match, 
 
 To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch, 
 
 To this the merchant flung his hoarded store. 
 
 The prince his hall — and Moscow \\d& no more ' 
 
 •Guesclin died during the siege ofacity ; it surrendered, and the keys 
 were brought and laid upon his bier, so that the place might appear 
 rendered to his ashes. 
 
 Sublimest of volcanos ! Etna's flame 
 
 Pales before ihine, and quenchless Hecla's tame; 
 
 Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 
 
 For gaping tourists, from his hackney'd height : 
 
 Thou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the fire 
 
 To come, in which all empires shall expire ! 
 
 Thou other element ! as strong and stern, 
 
 To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn ! 
 
 Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe, 
 
 Till fell a hero with each flake of snow ; 
 
 How did they numbing beak and silent fang 
 
 Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang! 
 
 In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 
 
 For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks ! 
 
 In vain shall France recall beneath her vines 
 
 Her youth — their blood flows faster than her wines ; 
 
 Or stagnant in their human ice remains 
 
 In frozen mummies on the Polar plains. 
 
 In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 
 
 Her offspring chill'd ; its beams are now forsaken. 
 
 Of all the trophies gather'd from the war. 
 
 What shall return ? — the conqueror's broken car : 
 
 The conqueror's yet unbroken heai-t ! Again 
 
 The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 
 
 Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory. 
 
 Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die : 
 
 Dresden surveys three despots fly once more 
 
 Before their sovereign, — sovereign as before ; 
 
 But there exhausted Fortune quits the field, 
 
 And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield 
 
 The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side 
 
 To turn the bear's, and w-olf 's, and fox's, guide ; 
 
 And backward to the den of his despair 
 
 The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair 
 
 Oh ye ! and each, and all ! Oh France ! who found 
 
 Thy long fair fields, plough'd up as hostile ground 
 
 Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still 
 
 His only victor, from Montmartre's hill 
 
 Look'd down o'er trampled Paris ! and thou Isle, 
 
 Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile 
 
 Thou momentary shelter of his pride. 
 
 Till woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride 
 
 Oh France ! retaken by a single march, 
 
 Whose path was through one long triumphal arch ! 
 
 Oh bloody and most bootless Waterloo I 
 
 Which proves how fools may have their fortune too, 
 
 Won half by blunder, half by treachery: 
 
 Oh dull Saint Helen ! with thy gaoler nigh — 
 
 Hear ! hear Prometheus* from his rock appeal 
 
 To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel 
 
 His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 
 
 A name eternal as the rolling year ; 
 
 He teaches them the lesson taught so long, 
 
 So oft, so vainly — ^leam to do no wrong ! 
 
 A single step into the right had made 
 
 This man the Washington of worlds betray'd , 
 
 A single step into the wrong has given 
 
 His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven ; 
 
 The reed of Fortune, and of thrones the rod, 
 
 Of fame the Moloch or the demigod ; 
 
 His country's Caesar, Europe's Hannibal, 
 
 Without their decent dignity of fall. 
 
 Yet Vanity herself had better taught 
 
 A surer path even to the fame he sought, 
 
 By pointing out on history's fruitless page 
 
 Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 
 
 While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, 
 
 Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven, 
 
 Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 
 
 Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth ; 
 
 While Washington's a watchword, such as ne'er 
 
 Shall sink while there 's an echo left to air : 
 
 I refer the reader to the first address of Prometheus in .flSschyltw, 
 when he is left alone by his attendants, and before the arrival of the 
 Chorus of Seanymphs. 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 449 
 
 While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 
 Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar ! 
 Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 
 ^Vliich wrafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave — 
 The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave, 
 Who bursts the chains of millions to renew 
 The very fetters which his arm broke through, 
 And crush'd the rights of Europe and his own, 
 To flit between a dungeon and a throne ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 But 't will not be — the spark 's awaken'd — lo ! 
 
 The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow ; 
 
 The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 
 
 Through eight long ages of alternate gore 
 
 Revives — and where? in that avenging clime 
 
 Where Spain was once synonymous with crime, 
 
 Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew, 
 
 The infant world redeems her name of " iVew." 
 
 'T is the old aspiration breathed afresh, 
 
 To kindle souls within degraded flesh, 
 
 Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 
 
 Where Greece was — No ! she still is Greece once more 
 
 One common cause makes myriads of one breast, 
 
 Slaves of the east, or helots of the west ; 
 
 On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unRirl'd, 
 
 The self-same standard streams o'er either world ; 
 
 The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword ; 
 
 The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord ; 
 
 The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek, 
 
 Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique ; 
 
 Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore, 
 
 Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar ; 
 
 Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance. 
 
 Sweep slightly by the half-tamed land of France, 
 
 Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain 
 
 Unite Ausonia to the mighty main : 
 
 But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye 
 
 Break o'er th' ^gean, mindful of the day 
 
 Of Salamis ! — there, there the waves arise, 
 
 Not to be luU'd by tyrant victories. 
 
 Lone, lost, abaiidon'd in their utmost need 
 
 By Christians, unto whom they gave their creed, 
 
 The desolated lands, the ravaged isle, 
 
 The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile 
 
 The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 
 
 Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey ; — 
 
 These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can show 
 
 The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. 
 
 But this is well: Greeks only should free Greece, 
 
 Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. 
 
 How should the autocrat of bondage be 
 
 The king of serfs, and set the nations free ? 
 
 Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 
 
 Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan ; 
 
 Better still toil for masters, than await, 
 
 The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, — 
 
 Number'd by hordes, a human capital, 
 
 A live estate, existing but for thrall, 
 
 Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward 
 
 For the first courtier in the czar's regard ; 
 
 While their immediate owner never tastes 
 
 His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes ; 
 
 Better succumb even to their own despair, 
 
 And drive the camel than purvey the bear. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But not alone within the hoariest clime 
 "V^'^)ere Freedom dates her birth with that of Time, 
 And not alone where, plunged in night, a crowd 
 Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud. 
 The dawn revives: renown'd, romantic Spain 
 Holds back the invader from her soil again. 
 Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde 
 Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword ; 
 Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 
 Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both ; 
 3G 
 
 Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears 
 
 The warlilce fathers of a thousand years. 
 
 That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor 
 
 Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 
 
 Long m the peasant's song or poet's page 
 
 Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage ; 
 
 The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung 
 
 Back to the barbarous realm from whence they sprung. 
 
 But these are gone — their faith, their swords, their sway, 
 
 Yet left more anlichristian foes than they ; 
 
 The bigot monarch and the butcher priest. 
 
 The Inquisition, with her burning feast. 
 
 The faitli's red " aiilo," fed with human fuel. 
 
 While sate the Catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, 
 
 Enjoying, with inexorable eye. 
 
 That fiery festival of agony ! 
 
 The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 
 
 By turns ; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth : 
 
 The long degenerate noble : the debased 
 
 Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced. 
 
 But more degraded; the unpeopled realm; 
 
 The once proud navy which forgot the helm ; 
 
 The once impervious phalanx disarray'd ; 
 
 The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade ; 
 
 The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore. 
 
 Save hers who earn'd it with the natives' gore ; 
 
 The very language which might vie with Rome's, 
 
 And once was known to nations like tlieir home's, 
 
 Neglected or forgotten: — such was Spain; 
 
 But such he is not, nor shall be again. 
 
 These worst, these ho7ne invaders, felt and feel 
 
 The new Numantine soul of old Castile. 
 
 Up ! up again ! undaun'.ed Tauridor ! 
 
 The bull of Phalaris renews his roar ; 
 
 Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not in vain 
 
 Revive the cry — "lago! and close Spain!"* 
 
 Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round, 
 
 And form the barrier which Napoleon found, — 
 
 The exterminating war, the desert plain. 
 
 The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 
 
 The wild sierra, with its wilder troop 
 
 Of vulture-plumed guerillas, on the stoop 
 
 For their incessant prey ; the desperate wall 
 
 Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall ; 
 
 The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 
 
 Waving her more than Amazonian blade 
 
 The knife of Arragon,"[ Toledo's steel; 
 
 The famous lance of chivalrous Castile; 
 
 The unerring rifle of the Catalan; 
 
 The Andalusian courser in the van ; 
 
 The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid ; 
 
 And in each heart the spirit of the Cid: — 
 
 Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, 
 
 And win — not Spain, but thine own freedom, France ! 
 
 Till. 
 
 But lo ! a congress ! What ! that hallow'd name 
 Which freed the Atlantic ? May we hope the same 
 For outworn Europe ? With the sound arise. 
 Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, 
 The prophets of young Freedom, summon'd far 
 From climes of Washington and Bolivar ; 
 Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, 
 Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas ; 
 And stoic Franklin's energetic shade, 
 Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd ; 
 And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake. 
 To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. 
 But who compose this senate of the few 
 That should redeem the many ? Who renew 
 This consecrated name, till now assign'd 
 To councils held to benefit mankind ? 
 
 * " St. lago ! and close Spain !" tlie old Spanish war-cry. 
 t The Arragonians are peculiarly dexterous in the use of this weapon, 
 and displayed it particularly ia former French wars. 
 
450 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 Who now assemble at the holy call? 
 
 The blest Alliance, which says three are ail ! 
 
 An earthly trinity ! which wears the shape 
 
 Of heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. 
 
 A pious unity! in purpose one — 
 
 To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 
 
 Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these ; 
 
 Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, 
 
 And, quiet in their kennel or their shed, 
 
 Cared little, so that they were duly fed ; 
 
 But these, more hungry, must have something more, 
 
 The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore. 
 
 Ah ! how much happier were good iEsop's frogs 
 
 Than we ! for ours are animated logs. 
 
 With ponderous malice swaying to and fro, 
 
 And crushing nations with a stupid blow ; 
 
 All dully anxious to leave little work 
 
 Unto the revolutionary stock. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thrice blest Verona ! since the holy three 
 
 With their imperial presence shine on thee ; 
 
 Honour'd bv them, thy treacherous site forgets 
 
 The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets;" 
 
 Thy fe'caligers— for what was " Dog the Great," 
 
 " Can Grande," (which I venture to translate,) 
 
 To these sublimer pugs ? Thy poet too, 
 
 Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new ; 
 
 Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate ; 
 
 And Dante's exile shelter'd by thy gate ; 
 
 Thy good old man,* whose world was all within 
 
 Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in: 
 
 Would that the royal guests it girds about 
 
 Were so far like, as never to get out ! 
 
 Ay, shout ! inscribe ! rear monuments of shame, 
 
 To tell Oppression that the world is tame ! 
 
 Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage, 
 
 The comedy is not upon the stage ; 
 
 The show is rich in ribandry and stars, 
 
 Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars ; 
 
 Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 
 
 For thus much still thy fettered hands are free. 
 
 X. 
 
 Resplendent sight! Behold the coxcomb czar, 
 
 The autocrat of waltzes and of war I 
 
 As eager for a plaudit as a realm, 
 
 And just as fit for flirting as the helm; 
 
 A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit, 
 
 And generous spirit, when 't is not frostbit ; 
 
 Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw. 
 
 But harden'd back whene'er the morning's raw; 
 
 With no objection to true liberty. 
 
 Except that it would make the nations free. 
 
 How well the imperial dandy prates of peace. 
 
 How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece! 
 
 How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 
 
 Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 
 
 How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 
 
 With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain ! 
 
 How royally show off in proud Madrid 
 
 His goodly person, from the South long hid ! 
 
 A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows, 
 
 By having Muscovites for friends or foes. 
 
 Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son 
 
 La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on ; 
 
 And that which Scythia was to him of yore 
 
 Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 
 
 Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, 
 
 Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth ; 
 
 Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine. 
 
 Many an old woman, but no Catherine. f 
 
 * The famous old man of Verona. 
 
 t The dexlerity of Catherine extricated Peter (called the Great by 
 Courtesy) when surrounded by the Mussulmans on the banks of the river 
 Pruth. 
 
 Spain too hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles — 
 
 The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 
 
 Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields; 
 
 Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ? 
 
 Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 
 
 To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir horcegj 
 
 Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, 
 
 Than follow headlong in the fatal route, 
 
 To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure 
 
 With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure ; 
 
 Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe ; 
 
 Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago ; 
 
 And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey ? 
 
 Alas ! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 
 
 I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 
 
 Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun j 
 
 But were I not Diogenes, I 'd wander 
 
 Rather a worm than such an Alexander! 
 
 Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free ; 
 
 His tub hath tougher walls than Sinopfe: 
 
 Still will he hold his lantern up to scan 
 
 The face of monarchs for an " honest man." 
 
 And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
 OTne plus ultra ultras and their band 
 Of mercenaries ? and her noisy chambers 
 And tribune, which each orator first clambers 
 Before he finds a voice, and when 't is found, 
 Hears " the lie" echo for his answer round ! 
 Our British commons sometimes deign to " hear !" 
 A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear; 
 Even Constant, their sole master of debate, 
 Must fight next day his speech to vindicate. 
 But this costs little to true Franks, who had rather 
 Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
 What is the simple standing of a shot, 
 To listening long, and interrupting not ? 
 Though this was not the method of old Rome, 
 When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome, 
 Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction. 
 In saying eloquence meant " Action, action!" 
 
 XII. 
 
 But where 's the monarch ? hatli he dined ? or yet 
 
 Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt? 
 
 Have revolutionary pates risen, 
 
 And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison ? 
 
 Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops? 
 
 Or have no movements follow'd traitorous soups ? 
 
 Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed 
 
 Each course enough ? or doctors dire dissuaded 
 
 Repletion? Ah! in thy dejected looks 
 
 I read all France's treason in her cooks ! 
 
 Good classic Louis ! is it, canst thou say, 
 
 Desirable to be the " Desire?" 
 
 Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green abode, 
 
 Apician table, and Horatian ode. 
 
 To rule a people who will not be ruled. 
 
 And love much rather to be scourged than school'd ? 
 
 Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste 
 
 For thrones ; the table sees thee better placed : 
 
 A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best. 
 
 To be a kind host and as good a guest. 
 
 To talk of letters, and to know by heart 
 
 One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art ; 
 
 A scholar always, now and then a wit. 
 
 And gentle when digestion may permit ; — 
 
 But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 
 
 The gout was martyrdom enough for thee. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 
 
 From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? 
 
 " Arts — arms — and George — and glory — and the isles— 
 
 And happy Britain — wealth — and freedom's smile« 
 
THE AGE OP BRONZE. 
 
 461 
 
 White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof- 
 Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof — 
 Proud Wellington, with Eagle beak so curl'd, 
 That nose, the hook where he suspends the world!* 
 
 And Waterloo — and trade — and (hush ! not yet 
 
 A syllable of imposts or of debt) 
 
 And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, 
 Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t' other day — 
 And ' pilots who have weather'd every storm'. — 
 (But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform.") 
 These are the themes thus sung so oft before, 
 Methinks we need not sing them any more ; 
 Found in so many volumes far and near, 
 There 's no occasion you should find them here. 
 Yet something may remain perchance to chime 
 With reason, and, what 's stranger still, widi rhyme. 
 Even this thy genius, Canning ! may permit, 
 Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit, 
 And never, even in that dull house, couldst tame 
 To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame ; 
 Our last, our best, our only orator, 
 Even I can praise thee — tories do no more ; 
 Nay, not so much; — ^they hate thee, man, because 
 Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. 
 The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo. 
 And where he leads the duteous pack will follow ; 
 But not for love mistake their yelling cry ; 
 Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; 
 Less faithful far than the fourfooted pack, 
 A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 
 Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure, 
 Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; 
 The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
 To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
 With his great self and rider in the mud ; 
 But what of that ? the animal shows blood. 
 
 Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen 
 
 Bewail her now wncountry gentlemen ? 
 
 The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 
 
 The first to make a malady of peace. 
 
 For what were all these country patriots born ? 
 
 To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of com ? 
 
 But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall. 
 
 Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 
 
 And must ye fall with every ear of grain ? 
 
 Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign? 
 
 He was your great Triptolemus ; his vices 
 
 Destroy'd but realms, and stiU maintain'd your prices 
 
 He amplified to every lord's content ' 
 
 The grand agrarian alchymy, hight rent. 
 
 Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 
 
 And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ? 
 
 Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 
 
 The man was worth much more upon his throne. 
 
 True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt ; 
 
 But what of that ? the Gaul may bear the guilt ; 
 
 But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, 
 
 And acres told upon the appointed day. 
 
 But where is now the goodly audit ale ? 
 
 The purseproud tenant, never known to fail ? 
 
 The farm which never yet was left on hand ? 
 
 The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land ? 
 
 The impatient hope of the expiring lease ? 
 
 The doubling rental ? What an evil's peace I 
 
 In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, 
 
 In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill ; 
 
 The landed interest — (you may understand 
 
 The phrase much better leaving out the land) — 
 
 * •' Naso susptnditadunco.'' — Horacn. 
 (The Roman applies ii to one who merely waa imperious to his 
 quaintance.) 
 
 The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, 
 
 For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 
 
 Up, up again, yc rents ! exalt your notes, 
 
 Or else the ministry will lose their votes, 
 
 And patriotism, so delicately nice. 
 
 Her loaves will lov,'er to the market price ; 
 
 For ah! " the loaves and fishes," once so high, 
 
 Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry, 
 
 And naught remains of all the millions spent, 
 
 Excepting to grow moderate and content. 
 
 They who are not so, had their turn — and turn 
 
 About still Hows from Fortune's equal urn ; 
 
 Now let their virtue be its own reward. 
 
 And share the blessings which themselves prepared. 
 
 See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, 
 
 Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ; 
 
 TVieir ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, 
 
 Their fields manured by gore of other lands ; 
 
 Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 
 
 Their brethren out to batde — why ? for rent ! 
 
 Year after year they voted cent, per cent.. 
 
 Blood, sweat, and tear- wrung millions — why? for rent 
 
 They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they 
 
 meant 
 
 To die for England — why then live ? for rent ! 
 The peace has made one general malecontent 
 Of these high-market patriots; war was rent! 
 Their love of country, millions all mispent, 
 How reconcile ? by reconciling rent ! 
 And will they not repay the treasures lent? 
 No: down with every thing, and up with rent ! 
 Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 
 Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent! 
 Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess ; 
 Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less ; 
 Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands 
 Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. 
 Such, landlords ! was your appetite for war, 
 And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar ! 
 What ! would they spread their earthquake even o'er cash? 
 And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash ? 
 So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall. 
 And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital ? 
 Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes. 
 Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring. Tithes ; 
 The prelates go to — where the saints have gone. 
 And proud pluralities subside to one ; 
 Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, 
 Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. 
 Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, 
 Another Babel soars — ^but Britain ends. 
 And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants. 
 And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 
 "Goto these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise;" 
 Admire their patience through each sacrifice. 
 Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride. 
 The price of taxes and of homicide ; 
 Admire their justice, which would fain deny 
 The debt of nations : — pray xvho made it high ? 
 
 Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks, 
 The new Symplegades— the crushing Stocks, 
 Where Midas might again his wish behold 
 In real paper or imagined gold. 
 That magic palace of Alcina shows 
 More wealth than Britain ever had to lose. 
 Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore, 
 And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 
 There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds the stake, 
 And the world trembles to bid brokers break. 
 How rich is Britain! not indeed in mines, 
 Or peace or plenty, corn or oil, or wines ; 
 INo land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, 
 Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : 
 
462 
 
 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 But let us not to own the truth refuse, 
 
 Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews ? 
 
 Those parted with their teeth to good King John, 
 
 And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own ; 
 
 All states, all things, all sovereigns they control, 
 
 And waft a loan " from Indus to the pole." 
 
 The banker — broker — baron — ^brethren, speed 
 
 To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 
 
 Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less 
 
 Fresh speculations follow each success ; 
 
 And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 
 
 Her mild percentage from exhausted Spain. 
 
 Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march ; 
 
 'T is gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch. 
 
 Two Jews, a chosen people, can command 
 
 In every realm their scripture-promised land : — 
 
 Two Jews keep do\vn the Romans, and uphold 
 
 The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old : 
 
 Two Jews — but not Samaritans — direct 
 
 The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 
 
 What is the happiness of earth to them? 
 
 A. congress forms their " New Jerusalem," 
 
 Where baronies and orders both invite — 
 
 Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight ? 
 
 Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, 
 
 Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine," 
 
 But honour them as portion of the show — 
 
 (Where now, oh pope ! is thy forsaken toe ? 
 
 Could it not favour Judah with some kicks? 
 
 Or has it ceased to " kick against the pricks ?") 
 
 On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh. 
 
 To cut from nations' hearts their " pound of flesh." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Strange sight this congress ! destined to unite 
 
 All that 's incongruous, all that's opposite. 
 
 I speak not of the sovereigns — they 're alike, 
 
 A common coin as ever mint could strike : 
 
 But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, 
 
 Have more of motley than their heavy kings. 
 
 Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine. 
 
 While Europe wonders at the vast design : 
 
 There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, 
 
 Cajoles ; there Wellington forgets to fight ; 
 
 There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs ;* 
 
 And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars ; 
 
 There Montmorency, the sworn foe to charters, 
 
 Turns a diplomatist of great eclat. 
 
 To furnish articles for " the Debats ;" 
 
 Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure 
 
 As his dismissal in the *' Moniteur." 
 
 Alas ! how could his cabinet thus err ? 
 
 Can peace be worth an ultra-minister? 
 
 He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again 
 
 " Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain.' 
 
 • Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the author in the 
 minister, received a handsome compliment at Verona from a literary 
 sovereign : "Ah ! Monsieur C , are you related to that Chateau- 
 briand who — who — who lias written sometkingV {kcnlquelqup. chose .') 
 It is said that the author of Atala repented him for a moment of his 
 legitimacy. 
 
 Enough of this — a sight more mournful woos 
 
 The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 
 
 The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 
 
 The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride ; 
 
 The mother of the hero's hope, the boy, 
 
 The young Astyanax of modern Troy; 
 
 The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 
 
 That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen ; 
 
 She flits amid the phantoms of the hour, 
 
 The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. 
 
 Oh, cruel mockery ! Could not Austria spare 
 
 A daughter ? What did France's widow there ? 
 
 Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave, 
 
 Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 
 
 But, no, — she still must hold a petty reign, 
 
 Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ; 
 
 The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 
 
 Must watch her through these paltry pageantries. 
 
 What though she share no more, and shared in vain, 
 
 A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 
 
 Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas ! 
 
 Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, 
 
 Where Parma views the traveller resort 
 
 To note the trappings of her mimic court. 
 
 But she appears I Verona sees her shorn 
 
 Of all her beams — while nations gaze and mourn— 
 
 Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time 
 
 To chill in their inhospitable clime ; 
 
 (If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold ; 
 
 But no, — their embers soon will burst the mould ;) 
 
 She comes ! — the Andromache (but not Racine's, 
 
 Nor Homer's) — Lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans ! 
 
 Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 
 
 AVhich cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through, 
 
 Is off'er'd and accepted! Could a slave 
 
 Do more ? or less ? — and he in his new grave I 
 
 Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, 
 
 And the ej7-empress grows as er a wife I 
 
 So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 
 
 Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests ? 
 
 xvni. 
 But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home, 
 And sketch the group — the picture 's yet to come. 
 My muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt, 
 She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt! 
 While throng'd the chiefs of every Highland clan 
 To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman ! 
 Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar, 
 While all the Common Council cry " Claymore 1" 
 To see proud Albyn's tartan's as a belt 
 Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt, 
 She burst into a laughter so extreme. 
 That I awoke — and lo ' 't was no dream ! 
 
 Here, reader, will we pause : — if there 's no harm in 
 This first — ^you '11 have, perhaps, a second " Carmen.** 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 
 
 BY ClUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 
 
 SUGGESTED BT THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF " WAT TYLER." 
 
 " A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel 1 
 I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 It hath been wisely said, that " One fool makes many ;" 
 and it hath been poetically observed, 
 
 " That fools rush in where angels fear to tread."— Po^e. 
 
 If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had no 
 business, and where he never was before, and never will 
 be again; the following poem would not have been 
 written. It is not impossible that it may be as good as 
 his own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupi- 
 dity, natural or acquired, be worse. The gross flattery 
 the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance and im- 
 pious cant of the poem by the author of Wat Tyler, 
 are something so stupendous as to form the sublime of 
 himself — containing the quintessence of his own attri- 
 butes. 
 
 So much for his poem, a word on his preface. In 
 this preface it has pleased the magnanimous laureate to 
 draw the picture of a supposed *' Satanic School," the 
 which he doth recommend to the notice of the legislature ; 
 thereby adding to his other laurels the ambition of those 
 of an informer. If there exists any where, excepting in 
 his imagination, such a school, is he not sufficiently 
 armed against it by his own intense vanity ? The truth 
 is, that there are certain writers whom Mr.S. imagines, 
 like Scrub, to have '"'talked of him; for they laughed 
 consumedly." 
 
 I think I know enough of most of the writers to whom 
 he is supposed to allude, to assert, that ihey, in their in- 
 dividual capacities, have done more good in the chari- 
 ties of life to their fellow-creatures in anyone year, than 
 Mr. Southey has done harm to himself by his absurdities 
 in his whole life ; and this is saying a great deal. But 
 I have a few questions to ask. 
 
 Istly. Is Mr. Southey the author of Wat Tyler? 
 
 2dly. Was he not refused a remedy at law by the 
 highest judge of his beloved England, because it was a 
 blasphemous and seditious publication ? 
 
 Sdly. Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full 
 parliament, " a rancorous renegado?" 
 
 4thly. Is he not poet laureate, with his own lines on 
 Martin the regicide staring him in the face? 
 
 And 5thly. Putting the four preceding items together, 
 with what conscience dare he call the attention of the 
 laws to the publications of others, be they what they 
 may? 
 
 I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding ; 
 its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to touch upon 
 the motive, which is neither more nor less than that Mr. S. 
 has been laughed at a little in some recent publications, 
 as he was of yore in the " Anti-jacobin " by his present 
 patrons. Hence all this " skimble scamble stuff" about 
 " Satanic," and so forth. However, it is worthy of him — 
 " Qualis ab iricepto P 
 
 If there is any thing obnoxious to the political opinions 
 of a portion of the public in the following poem, they 
 
 may thank Mr. Southey. He might have wi-itten hexa- 
 meters, as he has written every thing else, for aught that 
 the writer cared — had they been upon another subject. 
 But to attempt to canonize a monarch, who, whatever 
 were his household virtues, was neither a successful nor 
 a patriot king, — inasmuch as several years of his reign 
 passed in war with America and Ireland, to say nolhinc 
 of the aggression upon France, — like all other exagge- 
 ration, necessarily begets opposition. In whatever man- 
 ner he may be spoken of in this new " Vision," his 
 public career will not be more favourably transmitted by 
 history. Of his private virtues (although a litde expen- 
 sive to the nation) there can be no doubt. 
 
 With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, 
 I can only say that I know as much about them, and (as 
 an honest man) have a better right to talk of them than 
 Robert Southey. I have also treated them more tole- 
 rantly. The way in which that poor insane creature, the 
 laureate, deals about his judgments in the next world, is 
 like his own judgment in this. If it was not completely 
 ludicrous, it would be something worse. I do n't tliink 
 that there is much more to say at present. 
 
 aUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 
 
 P. S. — It is possible that some readers may object, in 
 these objectionable times, to the freedom with which 
 saints, angels, and spiritual persons discourse in this 
 " Vision." But for precedents upon such points I must 
 refer him to Fielding's " Journey from this World to the 
 next," and to the Visions of myself, the said duevedo, 
 in Spanish or translated. The reader is also requested 
 to observe, that no doctrinal tenets are insisted upon or 
 discussed ; that the person of the Deity is carefully with- 
 held from sight, which is more than can be said for the 
 laureate, who hath thought proper to make him talk, not 
 " like a school divine," but like the unscholarlike Mr. 
 Southey. The whole action passes on the outside of 
 heaven; and Chaucer's Wife of Bath, Pulci's Morgante 
 Maggiore, Swift's Tale of a Tub, and the other works 
 above referred to, are cases in point of the freedom with 
 which saints, &c. may be permitted to converse in works 
 not intended to be serious. 
 
 Q.R. 
 
 [*^* Mr. Southey being, as he says, a good Christian 
 and vindictive, threatens, I understand, a reply to this 
 our answer. It is to be hoped that his visionary faculties 
 will in the meantime have acquired a little more judg- 
 ment, properly so called : otherwise he will get himself 
 into new dilemmas. These apostate jacobins furnish 
 rich rejoinders. Let him take a specimen. Mr. Southey 
 laudeth grievously " one Mr. Landor," who cultivates 
 much private renown in the shape of Latin verses ; and 
 not long ago, the poet laureate dedicated to him, it ap- 
 peareth, one of his fugitive lyrics, upon the strength ot 
 a poem called Gehir. Who could suppose, that in this 
 
454 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 same Gebir the aforesaid Savage Laindor (for such is his 
 grim cognomen) putteth into the infernal regions no less 
 a person than the hero of his friend Mr. Southey's 
 heaven, — yea, even George the Third! See also how 
 personal Savage becometh, when he hath a mind. The 
 following is his portrait of our late gracious sovereign : 
 
 {Prince Gebir ?uLving descended into the infernal regions, 
 the shades of his royal ancestors are, at hia request, called up 
 to his view, and he exclaims to his ghostly guide) — 
 
 •« Aroar, what wretch that nearest us ? what wretch 
 Is that with eyebrows white and slanting brow ? 
 Listen ! him yonder, who, bound down supine, 
 Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-hung. 
 He loo among my ancestors ! I hate 
 The despot, but the dastard I despise. 
 Was he our countryman ?" 
 
 "Alas, O king! 
 Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst 
 Inclemeut winds blew blighting from northeast." 
 ■" He was a warrior then, nor fear'd the gods?" 
 " Gebir, he fear'd the demons, not the gods, 
 Though them indeed his daily face adored ; 
 And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives 
 Squander'd, as stones to exercise a sling, 
 And the tame cruelty and cold caprice — 
 Oh madness of mankind! address'd, adored !"— GeSzV, p. 28. 
 
 I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics of Savagius, 
 wishing to keep the proper veil over them, if his grave 
 but somewhat indiscreet worshipper will suffer it ; but 
 certainly these teachers of " great moral lessons " are apt 
 to be found in strange company.] 
 
 Saist Peter sat by the celestial gate ; 
 
 His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 
 So little trouble had been given of late ; 
 
 Not that the place by any means was full, 
 But since the Gallic era " eighty-eight" 
 
 The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull. 
 And " a pull altogether," as they say 
 At sea — which drew most souls another way. 
 
 II. 
 
 The angels aU were singing out of tune, 
 And hoarse with having little else to do, 
 
 Excepting to wind up the sun ajid moon, 
 Or curb a runaway young star or two, 
 
 Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 
 Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, 
 
 Splitting some planet with its playful tail, 
 
 As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 
 
 III. 
 The guardian seraphs had retired on high. 
 
 Finding their charges past all care below; 
 Terrestrial business fiU'd naught in the sky 
 
 Save the recording angel's black bureau ; 
 Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 
 
 With such rapidity of vice and wo. 
 That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills, 
 And yet was in arrear of human ills. 
 
 IV. 
 
 His business so augmented of late years, 
 
 That he was forced, against his will, no doubt, 
 
 (Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,) 
 For some resource to turn himself about 
 
 And claim the help of his celestial peers. 
 To aid him ere he should be quite worn out 
 
 By the increased demand for his remarks ; 
 
 Sk angels and twelve saints were named his clerks. 
 
 V, 
 
 This was a handsome board — at least for heaven 
 And yet they had even then enough to do, 
 
 So many conquerors' cars were daily driven. 
 So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 
 
 Each day too slew its thousands six or seven, 
 Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 
 
 They threw their pens down in divine disgust — 
 
 The pa;T3 was so besmear'd with blood and dust. 
 
 This by the way ; 't is not mine to record 
 
 What angels shrink from: even the very devil 
 
 On this occasion his own work abhorr'd. 
 So surfeited with the infernal revel ; 
 
 Thouoh he himself had sharpen'd every sword, 
 It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil. 
 
 (Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion^ 
 
 'T is, that he hath both generals in reversion.) 
 
 VII. 
 
 Let 's skip a few short years of hollow peace, 
 Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont, 
 
 And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease. 
 With nothing but new names subscrib'd upon 't ; 
 
 'T will one day finish : meantime they increase, 
 
 " With seven heads and ten horns," and all in frcoit, 
 
 Like Saint John's foretold beast ; but ours are bom 
 
 Less formidable in the head than horn. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 In the first year of freedom's second davra 
 Died George the Third ; although no tyrant, one 
 
 Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn 
 Left him nor mental nor external sun : 
 
 A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn, 
 A worse king never left a realm undone ! 
 
 He died — but left his subjects still behind. 
 
 One half as mad — cuid t' other no less blind. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He died ! — his death made no great stir on earth ; 
 
 His burial made some pomp ; there was profiision 
 Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 
 
 Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion. 
 For these things may be bought at their true worth : 
 
 Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
 Bought also ; and the tv)rches, cloaks, and banners, 
 Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 
 
 X. 
 
 Form'd a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all 
 
 The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show, 
 
 Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
 Made the attraction, and the black the wo. 
 
 There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced the 
 
 [pall; 
 And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, 
 
 It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold i 
 
 The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 
 
 XI. 
 
 So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
 Return to what it must far sooner, were 
 The natural compound left alone to fight 
 
 Its way back into earth, and fire, and air; 
 •But the unnatural balsams merely blight 
 
 What nature made him at his birth, as bare 
 As the mere million's base unraummied clay- 
 Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 
 
 XII. 
 
 He 's dead — and upper earth with him has done : 
 He 's buried ; save the undertaker's bill, 
 
 Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 
 For him, unless he left a German will ; 
 
 But where 's the proctor who will ask his son? 
 In whom his qualities are reigning still, 
 
 Except that household virtue, most uncommon, 
 
 Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 "God save the king!" It Li a large economy 
 
 In God to save the like ; but if he will 
 Be saving, all the better ; for not one am I 
 
 Of those who think damnation better still : 
 I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 
 
 In this small hope of bettering future ill 
 By circumscribing, with some slight restriction, 
 The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 465 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I know this is unpopular ; I know 
 
 'T is blasphemous ; I know one may be damn'd 
 For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 
 
 I know my catechism ; I know we are cramm'd 
 With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow ; 
 
 I know that all save England's church have shamm'd. 
 And that the other twice two hundred churches 
 And synagogues have made a damned bad purchase. 
 
 XV. 
 
 God help us all ! God help me too ! I am, 
 God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, 
 
 And not a whit more difficult to damn 
 Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish, 
 
 Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb ; 
 Net that I 'm fit for such a noble dish 
 
 As one day will be that immortal fi-y 
 
 Of almost every body bom to die. 
 
 XVI, 
 
 Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, 
 
 And nodded o'er his keys ; when lo ! there came 
 A wond'rous noise he had not heard of late — 
 
 A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame ; 
 In short, a roar of things extremely great, 
 
 Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim ; 
 But he, with first a start and then a wink. 
 Said, *' There 's another star gone out, I think !" 
 
 xvir. 
 But ere he could return to his repose, 
 
 A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes — 
 At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his nose ; 
 
 " Saint porter," said the angel, " prithee rise !" 
 Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 
 
 An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes : 
 To which the saint replied, " Well, what 's the matter? 
 Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?" 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " No," quoth the cherub ; " George the Third is dead." 
 " And who is George the Third ?" replied the apostle : 
 
 " What George ? what Third?" " The king of Eng- 
 land," said 
 The angel. " Well ! he won't find kings to jostle 
 
 Him on his way; but does he wear his head? 
 Because the last we saw here had a tustle, 
 
 And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces. 
 
 Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " He was, if I remember, king of France ; 
 
 That head of his, which could not keep a crown 
 On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance 
 
 A claim to those of martyrs — like my ovra : 
 If I had had my sword, as I had once 
 
 When I cut ears oflf, I had cut him down; 
 But having but my keys, and not my brand. 
 I only knock'd his head from out his hand. 
 
 XX. 
 
 « And then he set up such a headless howl. 
 That all the saints came out, and took him in; 
 
 And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl ; 
 That fellow Paul — the parvenu I The skin 
 
 Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 
 In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin 
 
 So as to make a martyr, never sped 
 
 Better than did this weak and wooden head. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " But had it come up here upon its shoulders, 
 There would have been a different tale to tell : 
 
 The fellow-feeling in the saints beholders 
 Seems to have acted on them like a spell ; 
 
 And so this very foolish head heaven solders 
 Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 
 
 And seems the custom here to overthrow 
 
 Whatever has been wisely done below." 
 
 I XXII. 
 
 The angel answer'd, "Peter! do not pout: 
 The king who comes has head and all entire, 
 
 And never knew much what it was about — 
 He did as doth the puppet — by its wire. 
 
 And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt : 
 My business and your own is not to inquire 
 
 Into such matters, but to mind our cue — 
 
 Which is to act as we are bid to do." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 While thus they spake, the angelic caravan, 
 
 Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, 
 Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 
 
 Some silver stream, (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, 
 Or Thames, or Tweed,) and raid them an old man 
 
 With an old soul, and both extremely blind, 
 Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
 Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 But bringing up the rear of this bright host 
 
 A spirit of a different aspect waved 
 His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast 
 
 Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved ; 
 His brow was like the deep when tempest-tost ; 
 
 Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
 Eternal wrath on his immortal face. 
 And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
 Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or sin, 
 
 With such a glance of supernatural hate, 
 As made Saint Peter wish himself within ; 
 
 He patter'd with his keys at a great rate, 
 And sweated through his apostolic skin 
 
 Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 
 
 Or some such other spiritual liquor. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The very cherubs huddled altogether. 
 Like birds when soars the falcon ; and they felt 
 
 A tingling to the tip of every feather, 
 And form'd a circle like Orion's belt 
 
 Around their poor old charge ; who scarce knew whither 
 His guards had led him, though they gently dealt 
 
 With royal manes, (for by many stories, 
 
 And true, we learn the angels all are tories.') 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 As things were in this posture, the gate flew 
 
 Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 
 Flung over space an universal hue 
 
 Of 'raany-colour'd flame, until its tinges 
 Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new 
 
 Aurora borealis spread its fringes 
 O'er the North Pole ; the same seen, when ice-bound, 
 By Captain Parry's crews, in " Melville's Sound." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 And from the gate throv.'n open issued beaming 
 A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 
 
 Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 
 Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight : 
 
 My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 
 With earthly likenesses, for here the night 
 
 Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 
 
 Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey ravmg. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 'T was the archangel Michael : all men know 
 The make of angels and archangels, since 
 
 There 's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, 
 From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince. 
 
 There also are some altar-pieces, though 
 I really can 't say that they much evince 
 
 One 's inner notions of immortal spirits ; 
 
 But let the connoisseurs explain i/ieir merits. 
 
456 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 
 
 A goodly work of him from whom all glory 
 And good arise; the portal past — he stood ; 
 
 Before him the young cherubs and saint hoary, 
 (I say young, begging to be understood 
 
 By' looks, not years ; and should be very sorry 
 To state, they were not older than Saint Peter, 
 But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter.) 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The cherubs and the saints bow'd dowTi before 
 
 That archangelic hierarch, the first 
 Of essences angelical, who wore 
 
 The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nurst 
 Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 
 
 No thought, save for his Maker's service, durst 
 Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
 He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 He and the sombre silent Spirit met — 
 
 They knew each other both for good and ill ; 
 
 Such was their power, that neither could forget 
 His former friend and future foe ; but still 
 
 There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
 In cither's eye, as if 't were less their will 
 
 Than destiny to make the eternal years 
 
 Their date of war, and their " champ clos" the spheres. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 But here they were in neutral space : we know 
 From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay 
 
 A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 
 
 And that " the sons of God," like those of clay, 
 
 Must keep him company ; and we might shov/, 
 From the same book, in how polite a way 
 
 The dialogue is held between the Powers 
 
 Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up hours. 
 
 XXXIV, 
 
 And this is not a theologic tract, 
 
 To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic 
 
 If Job be allegory or a fact. 
 
 But a true narrafive ; and thus I pick 
 
 From out the whole but such and such an act 
 As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 
 
 'T is every tittle true, beyond suspicion 
 
 And accurate as any other vision. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 The spirits were in neutral space, before 
 
 The gate of heaven; like eastern thresholds is 
 The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er, 
 
 And souls despatch'd to that world or to this ; 
 And therefore Michael and the other wore 
 
 A civil aspect : though they did not kiss, 
 Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 
 There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness. 
 
 xxxvx. 
 The Archangel bow'd, not like a modem beau, 
 
 But with a graceful Oriental bend, 
 Pressing one radiant arm just where below 
 
 The heart in good men is supposed to tend. 
 He turn'd as to an equal, not too low, 
 
 But kindly ; Satan met his ancient fi-iend 
 With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 
 Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 He merely bent his diabolic brow 
 
 An instant ; and then raising it, he stood 
 
 In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 
 
 Cause why King George by no means could or should 
 
 Make out a case to be exempt from wo 
 Eternal, more than other kings, endued 
 
 With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions, 
 
 Wlvo long have " paved hell with their good intentions." 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Michael began • " What wouldst thou with this man, 
 Now dead, and brought before the Lord? What ill 
 
 Hath he wrought since his mortal race began, 
 
 That thou can'st claim him? Speak 1 and do thy will, 
 
 If it be just : if in this earthly span 
 He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 
 
 His duties as a king and mortal, say, 
 
 And he is thine; if not, let hira have way." 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 "Michael !" replied the Prince of Air, "even here, 
 Before the gate of him thou servest, must 
 
 I claim my subject ; and will make appear 
 That as he was my worshipper in dust, 
 
 So shall he be in spirit, although dear 
 
 To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 
 
 Were of his weaknesses ; yet on the throne 
 
 He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 
 
 XL. 
 
 " Look to our earth, or rather mine; it was. 
 Once, more thy master's : but I triumph not 
 
 In this poor planet's conquest ; nor, alas ! 
 Need he thou servest envy me my lot : 
 
 With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass 
 In worship round him, he may have forgot 
 
 Yon weak creation of such paltry things : 
 
 I think few worth damnation save their kings,— 
 
 XLI. 
 
 " And these but as a kind of quitrent, to 
 
 Assert my right as lord ; and even had 
 I such an inclination, 'twere (as you 
 
 Well know) superfluous ; they are grovm so bad. 
 That hell has nothing better left to do 
 
 Than leave them to themselves : so much more mad 
 And evil by their own internal curse. 
 Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 " Look to the earth, I said, and say again: 
 
 When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor worm 
 
 Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign, 
 The world and he both wore a different form, 
 
 And much of earth and all the watery plain 
 
 Of ocean call'd him king: through many a storm 
 
 His isles had floated on the abyss of time ; 
 
 For the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 " He came to his sceptre young ; he leaves it old: 
 Look to the state in which he found his realm, 
 
 And left it ; and his annals too behold. 
 How to a minion first he gave the helm ; 
 
 How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold, 
 The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm 
 
 The meanest hearts ; and for the rest, but glance 
 
 Thine eye along America and France. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 " 'T is true, he was a tool from first to last, 
 (I have the workmen sELfe ;) but as a tool 
 
 So let him be consumed. From out the past 
 Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 
 
 Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amass'd 
 Of sin and slaughter — from the Caesars' school. 
 
 Take the worst pupil ; and produce a reign 
 
 More drench'd wth gore, more cumber'd with the slain . 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " He ever warr'd with freedom and the free : 
 Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes. 
 
 So that they utter'd the word ' Liberty!' 
 
 Found George the Third their first opponent. Whose 
 
 History was ever stain'd as his will be 
 With national and individual woes ? 
 
 I grant his household abstinence ; I grant 
 
 His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want ; 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 457 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 " I know he was a constant consort ; own 
 He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 
 
 All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 
 As temperance, if at Apicius' board, 
 
 Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 
 I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 
 
 And this was well for him, but not for those 
 
 Millions who found him what oppression chose. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 *' The New World shook him off; the Old yet groans 
 Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 
 
 Completed : he leaves heirs on many thrones 
 To all his vices, without what begot 
 
 Compassion for him — his tame virtues ; drones 
 Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 
 
 A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 
 
 Upon the thrones of earth ; but let them quake ! 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 " Five millions of the primitive, who hold 
 
 The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored 
 
 Apart of that vast all they held of old, — 
 Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 
 
 Michael, but you, and you. Saint Peter ! Cold 
 Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd 
 
 The foe to catholic participation 
 
 In all the licence of a Christian nation. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 " True ! he allow'd them to pray God ; but as 
 A consequence of prayer, refused the law 
 
 Which would have placed them upon the same base 
 With those who did not hold the saints in awe." 
 
 But here Saint Peter started from his place, 
 And cried, <' You may the prisoner withdraw: 
 
 Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph, 
 
 While I am guard, may I be damn'd myself! 
 
 L. 
 
 " Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 
 
 My office (and his is no sinecure) 
 Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 
 
 The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure !" 
 " Saint !" replied Satan, " you do well to avenge 
 
 The wrongs he made your satellites endure ; 
 And if to this exchange you should be given, 
 I 'U try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven." 
 
 LI. 
 
 Here Michael interposed: " Good saint! and devil ! 
 
 Pray, not so fast : you both outrun discretion. 
 Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil : 
 
 Satan! excuse this warmth of his expression. 
 And condescension to the vulgar's level : 
 
 Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 
 Have you got more to say?"—" No."—" If you please, 
 1 '11 trouble you to call your witnesses." 
 
 LII. 
 
 Then Satan turn'd and waved his swarthy hand, 
 
 Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 
 Clouds farther off than we can understand, 
 
 Although we find him sometimes in our skies ; 
 Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 
 
 In all the planets, and hell's batteries 
 Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 
 As one of Satan's most sublime inventions. 
 
 LIU. 
 
 This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 
 As have the privilege of their damnation 
 
 Extended far beyond the mere controls 
 
 Of worlds past, present, or to come ; no station 
 
 Is theirs particularly in the rolls 
 
 Of hell assign'd ; but where their inclination 
 
 Or business carries them in search of game, 
 
 They may range freely — ^being damn'd the same. 
 S H 
 
 They are proud of this — as very well they may, 
 It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 
 
 Stuck in their loins ; or like to an " entre' 
 Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry. 
 
 I borrow my comparisons from clay, 
 Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 
 
 Offended with such base low likenesses ; 
 
 We know their posts are nobler far than these. 
 
 LV. 
 
 When the great signal ran from heaven to hell- 
 About ten million times the distance reckon'd 
 
 From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 
 
 How much time it takes up, even to a second, 
 
 For every ray that travels to dispel 
 
 The fogs of London, through which, dimly beacon'd, 
 
 The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year, 
 
 If that the summer is not too severe : — 
 
 LVI. 
 
 I say that I can tell — 't was half a minute : 
 I know the solar beams take up more time 
 
 Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it ; 
 But then their telegraph is less sublime. 
 
 And if they ran a race, they would not win it 
 'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their own clime. 
 
 The sun takes up some years for every ray 
 
 To reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Upon the verge of space, about the size 
 
 Of half-a-crown, a little speck appear'd, 
 (I 've seen a something like it in the skies 
 
 In the ^gean, ere a squall ;) it near'd, 
 And, growing bigger, took another guise; 
 
 Like an aerial ship it tack'd, and steer'd, 
 Or was steer'd, (I am doubtful of the grammar 
 Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer;— 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 But take your choice ;) and then it grew a cloud ; 
 
 And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 
 But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a crowd 
 
 Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these ; 
 They shadow 'd with their myriads space ; their loud 
 
 And varied cries were like those of wild-geese, 
 (If nations may be liken'd to a goose,) 
 And realized the phrase of " hell broke loose." 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 
 
 Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore : [wull ?" 
 
 There Paddy brogued"By Jasus !"— " What 's your 
 The temperate Scot exclaim'd : the French ghost swore 
 
 In certain terms I shan't translate in full. 
 As the first coachman will ; and mid the war 
 
 The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 
 
 " Our President is going to war, I guess." 
 
 LX. 
 
 Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane ; 
 
 In short, an universal shoal of shades. 
 From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 
 
 Of all climes and professions, years and trades, 
 Ready to swear against the good king's reign. 
 
 Bitter as clubs in cards are agamst spades : 
 All summon'd by this grand " subpoena," to 
 To try if kings may n't be damn'd like me or you. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale. 
 As angels can ; next, like Italian twilight, 
 
 He turn'd all colours — as a peacock's tail, 
 Or sunset streaming through a gothic skylight 
 
 In some old abbey, or a trout not stale, 
 
 Or distant lightning on the horizon by night. 
 
 Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 
 
 Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 
 
458 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 I-XII. 
 
 Then he address'd himself to Satan: '* Why— 
 My good old friend, for such I deem you, though 
 
 Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
 I ne'er mistalie you for a persanal foe ; 
 
 Our difference is political, and I 
 
 Trust that, whatever may occur below, 
 
 You know my great respect for you ; and this 
 
 Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss — 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 " Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 
 My call for witnesses ? I did not mean 
 
 That you should half of earth and hell produce ; 
 'Tis even superfluous, since two honest, clean, 
 
 True testimonies are enough : we lose 
 Our time, nay, our eternity, between 
 
 The accusation and defence: if we 
 
 Hear both, 't will stretch our immortality." 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Satan replied, " To me the matter is 
 Indifferent, in a personal point of view: 
 
 I can have fifty better souls than this 
 
 With far less trouble than we have gone through 
 
 Ah'eady ; and I merely argued his 
 
 Late majesty of Britain's case with you 
 
 Upon a point of form: you may dispose 
 
 Of him; I 've kings enough below, God knows!" 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Thus spoke the Demon, (late call'd " multifaced" 
 By multo-scribbling Southey.) " Then we '11 call 
 
 One or two persons of the myriads placed 
 Around our congress, and dispense with all 
 
 The rest," quoth Michael: " Who may be so graced 
 As to speak first? there's choice enough — who shall 
 
 It be?" Then Satan answer'd, " There are many ; 
 
 But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any." 
 
 LXTI, 
 
 A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking sprite, 
 Upon the instant started from the throng, 
 
 Drest in a fashion now forgotten quite ; 
 For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 
 
 By people in the next world ; where unite 
 
 All the costumes since Adam's, right or wrong. 
 
 From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 
 
 Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 The spirit look'd around upon the crowds 
 
 Assembled, and exclaim'd, " My friends of all 
 
 The spheres, we shall catch cold among these clouds ; 
 So let 's to business : why this general call? 
 
 If those are freeholders I see in shrouds, 
 And 't is for an election that they bawl, 
 
 Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat ! 
 
 Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote ?" 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 " Sir," replied Michael, " you mistake : these things 
 
 Are of a former life, and what we do 
 Above is more august ; to judge of kings 
 
 Is the tribunal met : so now you know." 
 " Then I presume those gentlemen with wings," 
 
 Said Wilkes, " are cherubs ; and that soul below 
 Looks much like George the Third, but to my mind 
 A good deal older — Bless me! is he blind ?" 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 " He is what you behold him, and his doom 
 Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said. 
 
 •' If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 
 Gives licence to the humblest beggar's head 
 
 To lift itself against the loftiest." — " Some," 
 Said Wilkes, " do n't wait to see them laid in lead, 
 
 For such a liberty — and I, for one, 
 
 Have told them what I thought beneath the sun." 
 
 " Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 
 
 To urge against him," said the Archangel. " Why, 
 
 Replied the spirit, " since old scores are past, 
 Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. 
 
 Besides, I beat him hollow at the last, 
 
 With all his Lords and Commons : in the sky 
 
 I do n't like ripping up old stories, since 
 
 His conduct w^as but natural in a prince. 
 
 rxxi. 
 
 " Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
 A poor unlucky devil without a shilling ; 
 
 But then I blame the man himself much less 
 Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 
 
 To see him punish'd here for their excess. 
 
 Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in 
 
 Their place below : for me, I have forgiven, 
 
 And vote his 'habeas corpus' into heaven." 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 " Wilkes," said the Devil, " I understand all this , 
 You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died, 
 
 And seem to think it would not be amiss 
 To grow a whole one on the other side 
 
 Of Charon's ferry ; you forget that his 
 Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide, 
 
 He won't be sovereign more : you 've lost your laboiUj 
 
 For at the best he will but be your neighbour. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 " However, I knew what to think of it, 
 When I beheld you in your jesting way 
 
 Flitting and whispering round about the spit 
 Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 
 
 With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 
 His pupil 5 I knew what to think, I say : 
 
 That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills ; 
 
 I '11 have him gagged — 't was one of his own bills. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 " Call Junius ! From the crowd a shadow stalk'd, 
 And at the name there was a general squeeze, 
 
 So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 
 In comfort, at their own aerial ease. 
 
 But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd, (but to be balk'd, 
 As we shall see.) and jostled hands and knees, 
 
 Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder, 
 
 Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 The shadow came — a tall, thin, gray-hair'd figure, 
 
 That look'd as it had been a shade on earth ; 
 Quick in its motions, with an air of vigour, 
 
 But naught to mark its breeding or its birth ; 
 Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger, 
 
 With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth; 
 But as you gazed upon its features, they 
 Changed every instant — to what, none could say. 
 
 rxxvi. 
 The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 
 
 Could they distinguish whose the features were; 
 The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess; 
 
 They varied like a dream — now here, now there ; 
 And several people swore from out the press, 
 
 They knew him perfectly ; and one could swear 
 He was his father : upon which another 
 Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother: 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Another, that he was a duke or knight. 
 
 An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
 A nabob, a man-midwife ; but the wight, 
 
 Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
 As oft as they their minds : though in full sight 
 
 He stood, the puzzle only was increased 
 The man was a phantasmagoria in 
 Himself— he was so volatile and thin. 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 469 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 The moment that you had pronounced him one, 
 Presto! his face changed, and he was another; 
 
 And when that change was hardly well put on, 
 It varied, till I don't think his own mother 
 
 (If that he had a mother) would her son 
 Have known, he shifted so from one to t' other ; 
 
 Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 
 
 At this epistolary " Iron Mask." 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
 " Three gentlemen at once," (as sagely says 
 
 Good Mrs. Malaprop :) then you might deem 
 That he was not even one ; now many rays 
 
 Were flashing round him ; and now a thick steam 
 Hid him from sight — like fogs on London days : 
 
 Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies, 
 
 And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 I 've an hypothesis — 't is quite my own ; 
 
 I never let it out till now, for fear 
 Of doing people harm about the throne, 
 
 And injuring some minister or peer. 
 On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown ; 
 
 It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
 'T is, that what Junius we are wont to call 
 Was really, truly, nobody at all. 
 
 Lxxxr. 
 
 I do n't see wherefore letters should not be 
 Written without hands, since we daily view 
 
 Them written without heads ; and books, we see, 
 Are fill'd as well without the latter too : 
 
 And really till we fix on somebody 
 
 For certain sure to claim them as his due, 
 
 Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother 
 
 The world to say if there be mouth or author. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 " And who and what art thou ?" the Archangel said. 
 
 *' For that you may consult my title page," 
 Replied this mighty shadow of a shade : 
 
 *' If I have kept my secret half an age, 
 I scarce shall tell it now." — " Canst thou upbraid," 
 
 Continued Michael, " George Rex, or allege 
 Aught further?" Junius answer'd, "You had better 
 First ask him for his answer to my letter: 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 " My charges upon record will outlast 
 The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 
 
 " Repent'st thou not," said Michael, " of some past 
 Exaggeration ? something which may doom 
 
 Thyself if false, as him if true? Thou wast 
 Too bitter — is it not so? — in thy gloom 
 
 Of passion?" — "Passion!" cried the phantom dim, 
 
 " I loved my country, and I hated him. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 " What I have written, I have written : let 
 The rest be on his head or mine !" So spoke 
 
 Old "Nominis Umbra;" and while speaking yet, 
 Away he melted in celestial smoke. 
 
 Then Satan said to Michael, " Do n't forget 
 
 To call George Washington, and John Home Tooke, 
 
 And Franklin ;" — but at this time there was heard 
 
 A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 
 
 Of cherubim appointed to that post, 
 The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
 
 His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 
 Some trouble. When his burden dovm he laid, 
 
 "What's this?" cried Michael; "why, 'tis not a 
 « I know it," quoth the incubus; "buthe [ghost?" 
 Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 
 
 rxxxvi. 
 
 " Confound the renegado ! I have sprain'd 
 
 My left wing, he 's so heavy ; one would think 
 Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 
 
 But to the point : while hovering o'er the Brink 
 Of Skiddaw, (where as usual it still rain'd,) 
 
 I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 
 And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel- 
 No less on history than the Holy Bible. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 " The former is the devil's scripture, and 
 The latter yours, good Michael ; so the affair 
 
 Belongs to all of us, you understand. 
 
 I snatch'd him up just as you see him there, 
 
 And brought him off for sentence out of hand : 
 I 've scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 
 
 At least a quarter it can hardly be : 
 
 I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Here Satan said, " I know this man of old, 
 And have expected him for some time here , 
 
 A sillier fellow you will scarce behold. 
 Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 
 
 But surely it was not worth while to fold 
 
 Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear ; 
 
 We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 
 
 With carriage) coming of his own accord. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 " But since he 's here, let 's see what he has done." 
 
 " Done!" cried Asmodeus, "he anticipates 
 The very business you are now upon. 
 
 And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 
 Who knows to what his ribaldry may run. 
 
 When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates ?" 
 " Let's hear," quoth Michael, " what he has to say; 
 You know we 're bound to that in every way." 
 
 xc. 
 Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which 
 
 By no means often was his case below. 
 Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 
 
 His voice into that awful note of wo 
 To all unhappy hearers within reach 
 
 Of poets when the tide of rhyme 's in flow 
 But stuck fast with his first hexameter. 
 Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 
 
 xci. 
 But ere the spavui'd dactyls could be spurr'd 
 
 Into recitative, in great dismay 
 Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 
 
 To murmur loudly through their long array ; 
 And Michael rose ere he could get a word 
 
 Of all his founder'd verses under way. 
 And cried, « For God's sake stop, my friend ! 't were best — 
 Nm Di, non homines — you know the rest." 
 
 xcii. 
 A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 
 
 Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation ; 
 The angels had of course enotigh of song 
 
 When upon service ; and the generation 
 Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long 
 
 Before, to profit by a new occasion ; 
 The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, " What! what! 
 Pye come again ? No more — no more of that !" 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 The tumult grew ; an universal cough 
 Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 
 
 When Castlereagh has been up long enough, 
 
 (Before he was first minister of state, ^^ 
 
 I mean— the slaves hear now ;) some cried " Off, off 1 
 As at a farce ; till grown quite desperate, 
 
 The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 
 
 (Himself an author) only for his prose. 
 
460 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 The varlet was not an ill-favour'd knave ; 
 
 A good deal like a vulture in the face, 
 With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 
 
 A smart and sharper looking sort of grace 
 To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, 
 
 Was by no means so ugly as his case ; 
 But that indeed was hopeless as can be, 
 duile a poetic felony " de se." 
 xcv. 
 Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise 
 
 With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
 On earth besides ; except some grumbling voice, 
 
 Which now and then will make a slight inroad 
 Upon decorous silence, few will twice 
 
 Lift up their lungs when fairly over-crow'd ; 
 And now the bard could plead his own bad cause, 
 With all the attitudes of self-applause. 
 
 xcvi. 
 He said— (I only give the heads) — he said. 
 
 He meant no harm in scribbling ; 't was his way 
 Upon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread. 
 
 Of which he butter'd both sides; 'twould delay 
 Too long the assembly, (he was pleased to dread,) 
 
 And take up rather more time than a day, 
 To name his works — he would but cite a few — 
 Wat Tyler — Rhymes on Blenheim — Waterloo. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 He had viritten praises of a regicide ; 
 
 He had vn-itten praises of all kings whatever ; 
 •He had written for republics far and wide, 
 
 And then against them bitterer than ever ; 
 For pantisocracy he once had cried 
 
 Aloud, a scheme less moral than 't was clever ; 
 Then grew a hearty antijacobin — 
 Had tum'd his coat — and would have tum'd his skin. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 He had sung against all battles, and again 
 In their high praise and glory ; he had call'd 
 
 Reviewing* *' the ungentle craft," and then 
 Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd — 
 
 Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men 
 
 By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd : 
 
 He had writtten much blank verse, and blanker prose, 
 
 And more of both than any body knows. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 He had written Wesley's life : — ^here, turning round 
 
 To Satan, *' Sir, I 'm ready to write yours. 
 In two octavo volumes, nicely bound, 
 
 With notes and preface, all that most allures 
 The pious purchaser ; and there 's no ground 
 
 For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers: 
 So let me have the proper documents. 
 That I may add you to my other saints." 
 
 c, 
 Satan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, if you. 
 
 With amiable modesty, decline 
 My offer, what says Michael ? There are few 
 
 Whose memoirs could be render'd more divine. 
 Mine is a pen of all work ; not so new 
 
 As it was once, but I would make you shine 
 Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own 
 Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. 
 
 ' See " Life of H. Kirke White. 
 
 "But talking about trumpets, here's my Vision! 
 
 Now you shall judge, all people ; yes, you shall 
 Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 
 
 Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. 
 I settle all these things by intuition, 
 
 Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all} 
 Like King Alfonso.* When I thus see double, 
 I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 
 
 CII. 
 
 He ceased, and drew forth an MS, ; and no 
 Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, 
 
 Or angels, now could stop the torrent ; so 
 He read the first three lines of the contents ; 
 
 But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 
 Had vanish'd, with variety of scents. 
 
 Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang. 
 
 Like lightning, off from his " melodious twang."f 
 
 cm. 
 
 Those grand heroics acted as a spell : 
 
 The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions ; 
 The devils ran howling, deafen'd, dovm to hell ; 
 
 The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions— 
 (For 't is not yet decided where they dwell, 
 
 And I leave every man to his opinions ;) 
 Michael took refuge in his trump — but lo ! 
 His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow • 
 
 CIV. 
 
 Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known 
 For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys 
 
 And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down; 
 Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, 
 
 Into his lake, for there he did not drown 
 A different web being by the Destinies 
 
 Woven for the laureate's final wreath, when'er 
 
 Reform shall happen either here or there. 
 
 CY. 
 
 He first sank to the bottom — ^like his works. 
 
 But soon rose to the surface — like himself; 
 For all corrupted things are buoy'd, like corks,J 
 
 By their own rottenness, light as an elf, 
 Or wisp that flits o'er a morass : he lurks, 
 
 It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf. 
 In his own den, to scrawl some " Life" or " Vision," 
 As Wellborn says — " the devil tum'd precisian." 
 
 cvi. 
 As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 
 
 Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 
 Which kept my optics free from all delusion. 
 
 And show'd me what I in my turn have shown ; 
 All I saw farther, in the last confusion. 
 
 Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one { 
 And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 
 I left him practismg the hundredth psalm. 
 
 * King Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolemean system, said, that "had he 
 been consulted at the creation of the world, he would have spared the 
 Maker some absurdities." 
 
 t See Aubrey's account of the apparition which disappeared " with a 
 curious perfume and a melodious twang ;" or see the Antiqunry, vol, I. 
 
 J A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten ; it then floats, u moe 
 people know. 
 
MORGANTE MAGGIORE, 
 
 DI MESSER LUIGI PULCI. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The- Morgante Maggiore, of the first canto of which 
 this translation is offered, divides with the Orlando In- 
 namorato the honour of having formed and suggested the 
 style and story of Ariosto. The great defects of Boiardo 
 were his treating too seriously the narratives of chivalry, 
 and his harsh style. Ariosto, in his continuation, by a 
 judicious mixture of the gayety of Puici, has avoided the 
 one, and Berni, in his reformation of Boiardo's poem, has 
 corrected the other. Pulci may be considered as the pre- 
 cursor and model of Berni altogether, as he has partly 
 been to Ariosto, however inferior to both his copyists. 
 He is no less the founder of a new style of poetry very 
 lately sprung up in England. I allude to that of the in- 
 genious Whistlecraft. The serious poems on Ronces- 
 valles in the same language, and more particularly the 
 excellent one of Mr. Merivale, are to be traced to the 
 same source. It has never yet been decided entirely 
 whether Pulci's intention was or was not to deride the 
 religion which is one of his favourite topics. It appears 
 to me, that such an intention would have been no less 
 hazardous to the poet than to the priest, particularly in 
 that age and country ; and the permission to publish the 
 poem, and its reception among the classics of Italy, prove 
 that it neither was nor is so interpreted. That he in- 
 tended to ridicule the monastic life, and suffered his 
 imagination to play with the simple dullness of his con- 
 verted giant, seems evident enough ; but surely it were 
 as unjust to accuse him of irreligion on this account, as 
 to denounce Fielding for his Parson Adams, Barnabas, 
 Thwackum, Supple, and the Ordinary in Jonathan Wild, 
 —or Scott, for the exquisite use of his Covenanters in 
 the <' Tales of my Landlord." 
 
 In the following translation I have used the liberty of 
 the original with the proper names ; as Pulci uses Gan, 
 Ganellon, or Ganellone ; Carlo, Carlomagno, or Carlo- 
 mano ; Rondel, or Rondello, &c. as it suits his conve- 
 nience ; so has the translator. In other respects the 
 version is faithful to the best of the translator's ability in 
 combining his interpretation of the one language with the 
 not very easy task of reducing it to the same versification 
 in the other. The reader, on comparing it with the ori- 
 ginal, is requested to remember that the antiquated lan- 
 guage of Pulci, however pure, is not easy to the gene- 
 rality of Italians themselves, from its great mixture of 
 Tuscan proverbs ; and he may therefore be more indul 
 gent to the present attempt. How far the translator has 
 succeeded, and whether or no he shall continue the work, 
 are questions which the public will decide. He was in- 
 duced to make the experiment partly by his love for, and 
 partial intercourse with, the Italian language, of which 
 it is so easy to acquire a slight Imowledge, and with which 
 it is so nearly impossible for a foreigner to become accu- 
 rately conversant. The Italian language is like a capri- 
 cious beauty, who accords her smiles to all, her favours 
 to few, and sometimes least to those who have courted 
 her longest. The translator wished also to present in an 
 English dress a part at least of a poem never yet ren- 
 dered into a northern language ; at the same time that it 
 has been the original of some of the most celebrated pro- 
 ductions on this side of the Alps, as well as of those 
 recent experiments in poetry in England which have 
 been already mentioned. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 In the beginning was the Word next God ; 
 
 God was the Word, the Word no less was he : 
 This was in the beginning, to my mode 
 
 Of thinking, and without him naught could be ; 
 Therefore, just Lord! from out thy high abode, 
 
 Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, 
 One only, to be my companion, who 
 Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through. 
 
 II. 
 
 And thou, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, bride, 
 
 Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key 
 Of heaven, and hell, and every thing beside. 
 
 The day thy Gabriel said " All hail!" to thee, 
 Since to thy servants pity 's ne'er denied, 
 
 With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free, 
 Be to my verses then benignly kind, 
 And to the end illiuninate my mind. 
 
 III. 
 'T was in the season when sad Philomel 
 
 Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 
 Deplores the ancient woes which both befell, 
 
 And makes the nymphs enamour'd, to the hand 
 Of Phaeton by Phoebus loved so well 
 
 His car (but temper'd by his sire's command) 
 Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now 
 Appear 'd, so that Tithonus scratch'd his brow : 
 
 IV. 
 
 When I prepared ray bark first to obey. 
 As it should still obey, the helm, my mind. 
 
 And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 
 Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will find 
 
 By several pens already praised ; but they 
 Who to diffuse his glory were inclined. 
 
 For all that I can see in prose or verse, 
 
 Have understood Charles badly— and wrote worse. 
 
 V. 
 
 Leonardo Aretino said already, 
 
 That if, like Pepin, Charles had had a writer 
 Of genius quick, and diligently steady, 
 
 No hero would in history look brighter ; 
 He in the cabinet being always ready. 
 
 And in the field a most victorious fighter, 
 Who for the church and christian faith had wrought 
 Certes far more than yet is said or thought. 
 
 VI. 
 
 You still may see at Saint Liberatore 
 
 The abbey, no great way from Manopell, 
 
 Erected in the Abruzzi to his glory, 
 
 Because of the great battle in which fell 
 
 A pagan king, according to the story. 
 
 And felon people whom Charles sent to hell : 
 
 And there are bones so many, and so many, 
 
 Near them Giusaffa's would seem few, if any 
 
462 
 
 TRANSLATION OF MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 Caicto I. 
 
 But the world, blind and ignorant, do n't prize 
 His virtues as I wish to see them: thou, 
 
 Florence, by his great bounty dost arise 
 And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow, 
 
 All proper customs and true courtesies : 
 
 Whate'er thou hast acquired from then till now, 
 
 With knightly courage, treasure, or the lance, 
 
 Is sprung from out the noble blood of France. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Twelve paladins had Charles in court, of whom 
 The wisest and most famous was Orlando ; 
 
 Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 
 
 In Roncesvalles, as the villain plann'd too, 
 
 Wliile the horn rang so loud, and knell'd the doom 
 Of their sad rout, though he did all knight can do, 
 
 And Dante in his comedy has given 
 
 To him a happy seat with Charles in heaven. 
 
 IX. 
 
 'T was Christmas-day ; in Paris all his court 
 Charles held ; the chief, I say, Orlando was, 
 
 The Dane ; Astolfo there too did resort, 
 Also Ansuigi, the gay time to pass 
 
 In festival and in triumphal sport, 
 The much-renown'd St. Dennis being the cause ; 
 
 Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, 
 
 And gentle Belinghieri too came there : 
 
 X. 
 
 Avolio, and Arino, and Othone 
 
 Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, 
 Wise Hamo, and the ancient Salemone, 
 
 Walter of Lion's Mount and Baldovin, 
 Who was the son of the sad Ganellone, 
 
 Were there, exciting too much gladness in 
 The son of Pepin : — when his knights came hither. 
 He groan'd with joy to see them altogether. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But watchful Fortune, lurking, takes good heed 
 Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to bring. 
 
 While Charles reposed him thus, in word and deed, 
 Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every thing ; 
 
 Curst Gan, with envy bursting, had such need 
 To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the king 
 
 One day he openly began to say, 
 
 " Orlando must we always then obey ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 " A thousand times I 've been about to say, 
 Orlando too presumptuously goes on ; 
 
 Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway, 
 Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, 
 
 Each have to honour thee and to obey ; 
 
 But he has too much credit near the throne, 
 
 Which we won't suffer, but are quite decided 
 
 By such a boy to be no longer guided. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " And even at Aspramont thou didst begin 
 To let him know he was a gallant knight. 
 
 And by the fount did much the day to win ; 
 But I know who that day had won the fight^ 
 
 If it had not for good Gherardo been : 
 
 The victory was Almonte's else ; his sight 
 
 He kept upon the standard, and the laurels 
 
 In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 *' If thou rememberest being in Gascony, 
 When there advanced the nations out of Spain, 
 
 The Christian cause had suffered shamefully. 
 Had not his valour driven them back again. 
 
 Best speak the truth when there 's a reason why : 
 Know then, oh emperor! that all complain: 
 
 As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 
 
 O'er which I cross'd with two and sixty counts. 
 
 " 'T is fit thy grandeur should dispense relief, 
 So that each here may have his proper part, 
 
 For the whole court is more or less in grief: 
 
 Perhaps thou deem'st this lad a Mars in heart ?" 
 
 Orlcuido one day heard this speech in brief. 
 As by himself it chanced he sate apart : 
 
 Displeased he was with Gan because he said it. 
 
 But much more still that Charles should give him credit. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And with the sword he would have murder'd Gan, 
 
 But Oliver thrust in between the pair, 
 And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 
 
 And thus at length they separated were 
 Orlando, angry too with Carloman, 
 
 Wanted but little to have slain him there 
 Then forth alone from Paris went the chief. 
 And burst and madden'd with disdain and grief. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, 
 He took Cortana, and then took Rondell, 
 
 And on towards Brara prick'd him o'er the plain; 
 And when she saw him coming, Aldabelle 
 
 Stretch'd forth her arms to clasp her lord again : 
 Orlando, in whose brain all was not well. 
 
 As " Welcome, my Orlando, home," she said. 
 
 Raised up his sword to smite her on the head. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 
 On Gan in that rash act he seem'd to take, 
 
 Which Aldabella thought extremely strange \ 
 But soon Orlando found himself awake ; 
 
 And his spouse took his bridle on this change. 
 And he dismounted from his horse, and spake 
 
 Of every thing which pass'd without demur, 
 
 And then reposed himself some days with her. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Then full of wrath departed from the place. 
 And far as pagan countries roam'd astray ; 
 
 And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
 The traitor Gan remember'd by the way ; 
 
 And wandering on in error a long space, 
 An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 
 
 'Mid glens obscure, and distant lands, he found. 
 
 Which form'd the Christian's and the pagan's bound. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The abbot was call'd Clermont, and by blood 
 Descended from Angrante : under cover 
 
 Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood. 
 But certain savage giants look'd him over ; 
 
 One Passaraont was foremost of the brood, 
 And Alabaster and Morgante hover 
 
 Second and third, with certain slings, and throw 
 
 In daily jeopardy the place below. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The monks could pass the convent gate no more, 
 Nor leave their cells for water or for wood ; 
 
 Orlando knock'd, but none would ope, before 
 Unto the prior it at length seem'd good ; 
 
 Enter'd, he said that he was taught to adore 
 Him who was born of Mary's holiest blood. 
 
 And was baptized a Christian ; and then show'd 
 
 How to the abbey he had found his road. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Said the abbot, " You are welcome ; what is mine 
 We give you freely, since that you believe 
 
 With us in Mary Mother's Son divine ; 
 And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 
 
 The cause of our delay to let you in 
 To be rusticity, you shall receive 
 
 The reason why our gate was barr'd to you 
 
 Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 TRANSLATION OP MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 463 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " When hither to inhabit first we came 
 
 These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, 
 
 As you perceive, yet without fear or blame 
 They seem'd to promise an asylum sure : 
 
 From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 
 'T was fit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 
 
 But now, if here we 'd stay, we needs must guard 
 
 Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch ; 
 
 For late there have appear'd three giants rough 
 What nation or what kingdom bore the batch 
 
 I know not, but they are all of savage stuff; 
 When force and malice with some genius match, 
 
 You know, they can do all— we are not enough : 
 And these so much our orisons derange, 
 I know not what to do, till matters change. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " Our ancient fathers living the desert in, 
 
 For just and holy works were duly fed ; 
 Think not they lived on locusts sole, 't is certain 
 
 That manna was rain'd down from heaven instead ; 
 But here 't is fit we keep on the alert in [bread, 
 
 Our bounds, or taste the stones shower'd down for 
 From off yon mountain daily raining faster, 
 And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 " The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far ; he 
 Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, 
 
 And flings them, our community to bury ; 
 And aU that I can do but more provokes." 
 
 While thus they parley in the cemetery, 
 A stone from one of their gigantic strokes. 
 
 Which nearly crush'd Rondell, came tumbling over, 
 
 So that he took a long leap under cover. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " For God sake, cavalier, come in with speed; 
 
 The manna's falling now," the abbot cried. 
 " This fellow does not wish my horse should feed. 
 
 Dear abbot," Roland unto him replied. 
 '* Of restiveness he 'd cure him had he need ; 
 
 That stone seems with good will and aim applied." 
 The holy father said, " I do n't deceive : 
 They '11 one day fling the mountain, I believe." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 
 
 And also made a breakfast of his own : 
 " Abbot," he said, " I want to find that fellow 
 
 Who flung at my good horse yon corner-stone. 
 Said the abbot, " Let not my advice seem shallow ; 
 
 As to a brother dear I speak alone ; 
 I would dissuade you, baron, from this strife. 
 As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " That Passamont has in his hand three darts — 
 
 Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield you must ; 
 
 You know that giants have much stouter hearts 
 Than us, with reason, in proportion just; 
 
 If go you will, guard well against their arts. 
 For these are very barbarous and robust." 
 
 Orlando answer'd, " This I '11 see, be sure, 
 
 And walk the wild on foot to be secure." 
 
 The abbot sign'd the great cross on his front, 
 " Then go you with God's benison and mine :" 
 
 Orlando, after he had scaled the mount. 
 As the abbot had directed, kept the line 
 
 Right to the usual haunt of Passamont ; 
 Who, seeing him alone in this design, 
 
 Survey'd him fore and aft with eyes observant, 
 
 Then ask'd him, " If he wish'd to stay as servant ?" 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And promised him an office of great ease. 
 But, said Orlando, " Saracen insane ! 
 
 I come to kill you, if it shall so please 
 
 God, not to serve as footboy in your train; 
 
 You with his monks so oft have broke the peace- 
 Vile dog ! 't is past his patience to sustain." 
 
 The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious. 
 
 When he received an answer so injurious. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 And being return'd to where Orlando stood, 
 
 Who had not moved him from the spot, and swinging 
 
 The cord, he hurl'd a stone with strength so rude, 
 As show'd a sample of his skill in slinging ; 
 
 It roll'd on Count Orlando's helmet good 
 And head, and set both head and helmet ringing, 
 
 So that he swoon'd with pain as if he died, 
 
 But more than dead, he seem'd so stupified. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Then Passamont, who thought him slain outright. 
 Said, " I will go, and while he lies along, 
 
 Disarm me : why such craven did I fight ?" 
 But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long 
 
 Especially Orlando, such a knight. 
 
 As to desert would almost be a wrong. 
 
 While the giant goes to put off his defences, 
 
 Orlando has recall'd his force and senses ; 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 And loud he shouted, " Giant, where dost go ? 
 
 Thou thought'st me doubtless for the bier outlaid ; 
 To the right about — without wings thou 'rt too slow 
 
 To fly my vengeance — currish renegade ! 
 'T was but by treachery thou laid'st me low." 
 
 The giant his astonishment betray'd, 
 And turn'd about, and stopp'd his journey on, 
 And then he stoop'd to pick up a great stone. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Orlando had Cortana bare in hand, 
 
 To split the head in twain was what he schemed:— 
 Cortana clave the skull like a true brand. 
 
 And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd. 
 Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he bann'd. 
 
 And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed ; 
 But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
 Orlando thank'd the Father and the Word, — 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Saying, " What grace to me thou 'st given ! 
 
 And I to thee, oh Lord ! am ever bound. 
 I know my life was saved by thee from heaven, 
 
 Since by the giant I was fairly down'd. 
 All things by thee are measured just and even ; 
 
 Our power without thine aid would naught be found: 
 I pray thee take heed of me, till I can 
 At least return once more to Carloman." 
 
 XXXVll. 
 
 And having said thus much, he went his way ; 
 
 And Alabaster he found out below, 
 Doing the very best that in hun lay 
 
 To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
 Orlando, when he reach'd him, loud 'gan say 
 
 ' How think'st thou, glutton, such a stone to throw ?" 
 When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring, 
 He suddenly betook him to his sling, 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 And hurl'd a fragment of a size so large. 
 That if it had in fact fulfill'd its mission, 
 
 And Roland not avail'd him of his targe, 
 
 There would have been no need of a physician. 
 
 Orlando set himself in turn to charge, 
 And in his bulky bosom made incision 
 
 With all his sword. The lout fell ; but, o'erthrown, ho 
 
 However by no means forgot Macone. 
 
464 
 
 TRANSLATION OP MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Morgante had a palace in his mode, 
 Composed of branches, logs of wood, and earth, 
 
 And stretch'd himself at ease in this abode, 
 And shut himself at night within his berth. 
 
 Orlando knock'd, and knock'd again, to goad 
 The giant from his sleep ; and he came forth, 
 
 The door to open, like a crazy thing, 
 
 For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 
 
 XL. 
 
 He thought that a fierce serpent had attack'd him, 
 And Mahomet he call'd ; but Mahomet 
 
 Is nothing wortli, and not an instant back'd him ; 
 But praying blessed Jesu, he was set 
 
 At liberty from all the fears which rack'd him ; 
 And to the gate he came with great regret — 
 
 " Who knocks here ?" grumbling all the while, said he. 
 
 "That," said Orlando, "you will quickly see. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 " I come to preach to you, as to your brothers, 
 Sent by the miserable monks— repentance ; 
 
 For Providence divine, in you and others. 
 Condemns the evil done by new acquiantance. 
 
 'T is writ on high — your wrong must pay another's ; 
 From heaven itself is issued out this sentence. 
 
 Know then, that colder now than a pilaster 
 
 I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Morgante said, " Oh gentle cavalier! j 
 
 Now by thy God say me no villany ; 
 The favour of your name I fain would hear. 
 
 And if a Christian, speak for courtesy." 
 Replied Orlando, " So much to your ear 
 
 I by my faith disclose contentedly ; 
 Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 
 And, if you please, by you may be adored." 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 The Saracen rejoin'd in humble tone, 
 
 "I have had an extraordinary vision; 
 A savage serpent fell on me alone. 
 
 And Macon would not pity my condition ; 
 Hence to thy God, who for ye did atone 
 
 Upon the cross, preferr'd I my petition; 
 His timely succour set me safe and fi-ee, 
 And I a Christian am disposed to be." 
 
 XLIT. 
 
 Orlando answer'd, " Baron just and pious, 
 If this good wish your heart can really move 
 
 To the true God, who will not then deny us 
 Eternal honour, you will go above, 
 
 And, if you please, as friends we will ally us, 
 And I will love you with a perfect love. 
 
 Your idols are vain liars, full of fraud ; 
 
 The only true God is the Christian's God. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " The Lord descended to the virgin breast 
 
 Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine ; 
 If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest. 
 
 Without whom neither sun nor star can shine, 
 Abjure bad Macon's false and felon test, 
 
 Your renegado god, and worship mine, — 
 Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent." 
 To which Morgante answer'd, " I 'm content." 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 And then Orlando to embrace him flew, 
 And made much of his convert, as he cried, 
 
 " To the abbey I will gladly marshal you." 
 To whom Morgante, " Let us go," replied; 
 
 '* I to the friars have for peace to sue." 
 
 Which thing Orlando heard with inward pride, 
 
 Saying, " My brother, so devout and good, 
 
 ^sk the abbot pardon, as I wish you would: 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 " Since God has granted your illumination, 
 
 Accepting you in mercy for his own. 
 Humility should be your first oblation." 
 
 Morgante said, " For goodness' sake, make known— 
 Since that your God is to be mine — your station, 
 
 And let your name in verity be shown ; 
 Then will I every thing at your command do." 
 On which the other said, he was Orlando. 
 
 XLTIII. 
 
 " Then," quoth the giant, " blessed be Jesu 
 A thousand times with gratitude and praise ! 
 
 Oft, perfect baron ! have I heard of you 
 
 Through all the different periods of my days : 
 
 And, as I said, to be your vassal too 
 I wish, for your great gallantry ah'^ays." 
 
 Thus reasoning, they continued much to say, 
 
 And onwards to the abbey went their way. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 And by the way about the giants dead 
 Orlando with Morgante reason'd : *' Be, 
 
 For their decease, I pray you, comforted; 
 And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me. 
 
 A thousand wrongs unto the monks they bred, 
 And our true Scripture soundeth openly, 
 
 Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill, 
 
 Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil : 
 
 L. 
 
 "Because his love of justice unto all 
 Is such, he wills his judgment should devour 
 
 All who have sin, however great or small ; 
 But good he well remembers to restore. 
 
 Nor without justice holy could we call 
 Him, whom I now require you to adore. 
 
 All men must make his will their wishes sway, 
 
 And quickly and spontaneously obey. 
 
 LI. 
 
 " And here our doctors are of one accord, 
 Coming on this point to the same conclusion,— 
 
 That in their thoughts who praise in heaven the Lord, 
 If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 
 
 For their unfortunate relations stored 
 
 In hell below, and damn'd in great confusion,— 
 
 Their happiness would be reduced to naught. 
 
 And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought. 
 
 LII. 
 
 " But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 
 Which seems to him, to them too must appear 
 
 Well done ; nor could it other wise befall : 
 He never can in any purpose err. 
 
 If sire or mother suffer endless thrall. 
 
 They do n't disturb themselves for him or her ; 
 
 What pleases God to them must joy inspire ;— 
 
 Such is the observance of the eternal choir." 
 
 LIU. 
 
 " A word unto the wise," Morgante said, 
 " Is wont to be enough, and you shall see 
 
 How much I grieve about my brethren dead ; 
 And if the will of God seem good to me, 
 
 Just, as you tell me, 't is in heaven obey'd — 
 Ashes to ashes, — merry let us be ! 
 
 I will cut off the hands from both their trunks, 
 
 And carry them unto the holy monks. 
 
 Lir. 
 
 "So that all persons may be sure and certain 
 That they are dead, and have no further fear 
 
 To wander solitary this desert in. 
 And that they may perceive my spirit clear 
 
 By the Lord's grace, who hath withdrawn the curtain 
 Of darkness, making his bright realm appear." 
 
 He cut his brethren's hands off at these words, 
 
 And left them to the savage beasts and birds. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 465 
 
 Then to the abbey they went on together, 
 Where waited them the abbot in great doubt. 
 
 The monks who knew not yet the fact, ran thither 
 To their superior, all in breathless rout, 
 
 Saying with tremor, " Please to tell us whether 
 You wish to have this person in or out ?" 
 
 The abbot, looking through upon the giant, 
 
 Too greatly fear'd, at first, to be compliant. 
 
 I- VI. 
 
 Orlando, seeing him thus agitated, 
 
 Said quickly, " Abbot, be thou of good cheer ; 
 
 He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated. 
 And hath renounced his Macon false ;" which here 
 
 Margante with the hands corroborated, 
 A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear 
 
 Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God adored, 
 
 Saying, '< Thou hast contented me, oh Lord!" 
 
 I. VII. 
 
 He gazed ; Morgante's height he calculated, 
 And more than once contemplated his size ; 
 
 And then he said, " Oh giant celebrated ! 
 Know that no more my wonder will arise, 
 
 How you could tear and fling the trees you late did, 
 when 1 behold your form with my ov?n eyes. 
 
 You now a true and perfect friend will show 
 
 Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 " And one of our apostles, Saul once named, 
 Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 
 
 Till, one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 
 
 ' Why dost thou persecute me thus !' said Christ; 
 
 And then from his offence he was reclaim'd. 
 And went for ever after preaching Christ, 
 
 And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding 
 
 O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 " So, my Morgante, you may do likewise ; 
 
 He who repents — thus writes the Evangelist 
 Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 
 
 Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
 You may be sure, should each desire arise 
 
 With just zeal for the Lord, that you Ml exist 
 Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
 But you were lost and danm'd to hell before !" 
 
 And thus great honour to Morgante paid 
 The abbot : many days they did repose. 
 
 One day, as with Orlando they both stray'd, 
 
 And saunter'd here and there, where'er they chose, 
 
 The abbot show'd a chamber, where array'd 
 Much armour was, and hung up certain bows ; 
 
 And one of these Morgante for a whim 
 
 Girt on, though useless, he believed, to hira. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 There being a want of water in the place, 
 
 Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 
 " Morgante, I could wish you in this case 
 
 To go for water." " You shall be obey'd, 
 In all commands," was the reply, " straightways." 
 
 Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid, 
 And went out on his way unto a fountain, 
 Where he was wont to drink below the moimtain. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears, 
 Which suddenly along the forest spread; 
 
 Whereat from out his quiver he prepares 
 An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 
 
 And lo! a monstrous herd of swine appears. 
 And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, 
 
 And to the fountain's brink precisely pours; 
 
 So that the giant's join'd by all the boars. 
 31 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, 
 Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear, 
 
 And pass'd unto the other side quite thorough.; 
 So that the boar, defunct, lay tripp'd up near. 
 
 Another, to revenge his fellow farrow. 
 Against the giant rush'd in fierce career, 
 
 And reach'd the passage with so swift a fiwt, 
 
 Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 
 
 I-XIV. 
 
 Perceiving that the pig was on him close, 
 He gave him such a punch upon the head* 
 
 As floor'd him so that he no more arose, 
 Smashing the very bone ; and he fell dead 
 
 Next to the other. Having seen such blows. 
 The other pigs along the valley fled ; 
 
 Morgante on his neck the bucket took. 
 
 Full from the spring, which neitlier swerved nor shook. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 The ton was on one shoulder, and there were 
 
 The hogs on t' other, and he brush'd apace 
 On to the abbey, though by no means near, 
 
 Nor spilt one drop of water in his race. 
 Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 
 
 With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase, 
 Marvell'd to see his strength so very great; 
 So did the abbot, emd set wide the gate. 
 
 rxvi. 
 The monks, who saw the water fresh and good, 
 
 Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the pork ;— 
 All animals are glad at sight of food: 
 
 They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 
 With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood, 
 
 That the flesh needs no salt beneath their fork. 
 Of rankness and of rot there is no fear, 
 For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 As though they wish'd to burst at once, they ate ; 
 
 And gorged so that, as if the bones had been 
 In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat, 
 
 Perceiving that they aU were pick'd too clean. 
 The abbot, who to all did honour great, 
 
 A few days after this convivial scene, 
 Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well train'd. 
 Which he long time had for himself maintain'd. 
 
 rxviii. 
 The horse Morgante to a meadow led. 
 
 To gallop, and to put him to the proof. 
 Thinking that he a back of iron had, 
 
 Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough ; 
 But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, 
 
 And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoo£ 
 Morgante said, " Get up, thou sulky cur 1" 
 And stiU continued pricking with the spur. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 But finally he thought fit to dismount. 
 
 And said, " I am as light as any feather. 
 And he has burst ; — to this what say you, count?" 
 
 Orlando answer'd, " Like a ship's mast rather 
 You seem to me, and with the truck for front:— 
 
 Let him go ; Fortune wills that we together 
 Should march, but you on foot Morgante still.'* 
 To which the giant answer'd, " So I will. 
 
 rxx. 
 " When there shall be occasion, you will see 
 
 How I approve my courage in the fight." 
 Orlando said, " I really think you'll be, 
 
 If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight; 
 Nor will you napping there discover me. 
 
 But never mind your horse, though out of sight 
 'T were best to carry him into some wood, 
 If but the means or way I understood." 
 
 • " Gli dette in sulla testa un gran punzone." It is strange that Pulci 
 should have literally anticipated the technical terms of my old friend 
 and master, Jackson, and the avt which be has carried to ita highisi 
 
466 
 
 TRANSLATION OF MORGxlNTE MAGGIORE. 
 
 Caxto I. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 The giant said, " Then carry him I will, 
 Since tliat to carry me he was so slack — 
 
 To render, as the gods do, good for ill ; 
 But lend a hand to place him on my back." 
 
 Orlando answer'd, " If my counsel stiU 
 May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake 
 
 To lift or carr}' this dead courser, who, 
 
 As you have done to him, will do to you. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 •' Talve care he don't revenge himself, though dead, 
 As Nessus did of old beyond all cure. 
 
 I do n't know if the fact you \e heard or read ; 
 But he will make you burst, you may be sure." 
 
 " But help him on my back," Morgante said, 
 "And you shall see what weight I can endure. 
 
 In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey, 
 
 With all the bells, I 'd carry yonder belfry." 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 The abbot said, "The steeple may do well, 
 But, for the bells, you 've broken them, I wot." 
 
 Morgante answer'd, " Let them pay in hell 
 The penalty who lie dead in yon grot ;" 
 
 And hoisting up the horse from where he fell, 
 He said, " Now look if I the gout have got, 
 
 Orlando, in the legs — or if I have force ;" — 
 
 And then he made two gambols with the horse. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Morgante was like any mountain framed ; 
 
 So if he did this, 't is no prodigy ; 
 But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 
 
 Because he wcis one of his family ; 
 And fearing that he might be hurt or maim'd, 
 
 Once more he bade him lav his burden by : 
 " Put do«Ti, nor bear him further the desert in." 
 Morgante said, '-'I '11 carry him for certain." 
 
 ZXXT. 
 
 He did ; and stow'd him in some nook away, 
 And to the abbey then return'd with speed. 
 
 Orlando said, " Why longer do we stay? 
 " Morgante, here is naught to do indeed." 
 
 The abbot by the hand he took one day, 
 And said, with great respect, he had agreed 
 
 To leave his reverence ; but for this decision 
 
 He wish'd to have his pardon and permission. 
 
 I.XXVI. 
 
 The honours they continued to receive 
 Perhaps exceeded what his merits claira'd : 
 
 He said, " I mean, and quickly, to retrieve 
 
 The lost days of time past, which may be blamed ; 
 
 Some days ago I should have ask'd your leave, 
 Kind father, but I really was ashamed, 
 
 And kflow not how to show my sentiment, 
 
 So much I see you with our stay content. 
 
 I^XXVII. 
 
 " But in my heart I bear through every clime 
 The abbot, abbey, and this solitude — 
 
 So much I love you in so short a time • 
 
 For me, from heaven reward you with all good 
 
 The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime ! 
 Whose kingdom at the last hath open stood. 
 
 Meantime we stand expectant of your blessing. 
 
 And recommend us to your prayers with pressing." 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Now when the abbot Count Orlando heard, 
 His heart grew soft with inner tenderness, 
 
 Such fervour in his bosom bred each word ; 
 And, " Cavalier," he said, " if I have less 
 
 Courteous and kind to your great worth appear'd, 
 Than fits me for such gende blood to express, 
 
 I know I 've done too little in this case ; 
 
 But blame our ignorance, and this poor place. 
 
 pitch. " A punch cni the head," or " a punch in the head,"—" un pun- 
 ipne in euUa lesta,"— Is Uie exact and frequent phrase of our best pugi- 
 lisU, who hule dream that ihej are talking the purest Tuscan. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 '• We can indeed but honour you with masses, 
 And sermons, thanksgivings, and pater-nosters, 
 
 Hot suppers, dinners, (fitting other places 
 In verity much rather than the cloisters ;) 
 
 But such a love for you my heart embraces, 
 For thousand virtues which your bosom fosters, 
 
 That wheresoe'er you go I too shall be, 
 
 And, on the other part, you rest with me. 
 
 I,XXX. 
 
 " This may involve a seeming contradiction ; 
 
 But you I laiow are sage, and feel, and taste. 
 And understand my speech with full conviction. 
 
 For your just pious deeds may you be graced 
 With the Lord's great reward and benediction 
 
 By whom you were directed to this waste : 
 To his high mercy is our freedom due. 
 For which we render dianks to him and you. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 " You saved at once our life and soul : such fear 
 The giants caused us, tliat die way was lost 
 
 By which we could pursue a fit career 
 In search of Jesus and the saintly host ; 
 
 And your departure breeds such sorrow here, 
 That comfortless we all are to our cost ; 
 
 But months and years you could not stay in sloth, 
 
 Nor are you form'd to wear our sober clodi ; 
 
 iXXXII. 
 
 " But to bear arms, and wield the lance ; indeed. 
 With these as much is done as with this cowl: 
 
 In proof of which the Scripture you may read. 
 This giant up to heaven may bear his soul 
 
 By your compassion : now in peace proceed. 
 Your state and name I seek not to unroll ; 
 
 But, if I 'm ask'd, this answer shall be given, 
 
 That here an angel was sent down fi-om heaven. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 " If you want armour or aught else, go in, 
 Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you choose, 
 
 And cover with it o'er this giant's skin." 
 Orlando answer'd, " If there should lie loose 
 
 Some armour, ere our journey we begin, 
 Which might be turn'd to my companion's use, 
 
 The gift wouid be acceptable to me." 
 
 The abbot said to him, " Come in and see." 
 
 I.XXXIV. 
 
 And in a certain closet, where the wall 
 Was covered with old annour like a crust. 
 
 The abbot said to them, " I give you all." 
 Morgante i-ummaged piecemeal fi-om the dust 
 
 The whole, which, save one cuirass, was too smaB, 
 And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. 
 
 They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly, 
 
 Which ne'er has suited others so compactly. 
 
 rxxxv. 
 'T was an immeasurable giant's, who 
 
 By the great Milo of Agrante fell 
 Before the abbey many years ago. 
 
 The story on the wall was figured well ; 
 In the last moment of the abbey's foe. 
 
 Who long had waged a war implacable : 
 Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew him, 
 And there was Milo as he overthrew him. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Seeing this history, Count Orlando said 
 In his own heart, " Oh God, who in the sky 
 
 Know'st all things ! how was Milo hither led ? 
 Who caused the giant in this place to die ?" 
 
 And certain letters, weeping, then he read, 
 So that he could not keep his visage dry, — 
 
 As I will tell in the ensuing story. 
 
 From evil keep you the high King of glory! 
 
 I 
 
POEMS 
 
 NOT INCLUDED IN ANY COLLECTION OF LORD BYRON'S WORKS 
 UNTIL AFTER HIS DEATH. 
 
 THE BLUES. 
 
 A LITERARY ECLOGUE. 
 
 " Nitnium ne crede colon."— Virgil. 
 O trust not, ye beautiful creatures, to hue, 
 Though your /lair were as i-ed as your stockings are / 
 
 ECLOGUE FIRST. 
 
 London — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 
 Enter Tracy, meeting Inkel. 
 
 Ink. You 're too late. 
 
 Tra. Is it over ? 
 
 Ink. Nor will be this hour. 
 
 But the benches are cramm'd, like a garden in flower, 
 With the pride of our belles, who have made it the fashion ; 
 So instead of " beaux arts," we may say " la belle passion" 
 For learning, which lately has taken the lead in 
 The world, and set all the fine gentlemen reading. 
 
 TVa. I know it too well, and have worn out my patience 
 With studying to study your new publications. 
 There 's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Wordswords 
 
 and Co. 
 With their damnable — 
 
 Ink. Hold, my good friend, do you know 
 
 Whom you speak to ? 
 
 Tra. Right well, boy, and so does "the Row :" 
 
 You're an author — a poet — 
 
 Ink. And think you that I 
 
 Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry 
 The Muses ? 
 
 Tra. Excuse me ; I meant no offence 
 
 To the Nine ; though the number who make some pretence 
 
 To their favours is such but the subject to drop, 
 
 I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop, 
 (Next door to the pastry-cook's ; so that when I 
 Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy 
 On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces, 
 As one finds every author in one of those places,) 
 Where I just had been skimming a charming critique, 
 So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with Greek ! 
 Where your friend — you know who — has just got such a 
 
 threshing. 
 That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely ''refreshing.''^ 
 What a beautiful word ! 
 
 Ink. Very true ; 't is so soft 
 
 And so cooling — they use it a little too oft ; 
 And the papers have got it at last — ^but no matter. 
 So they 've cut up our friend then ? 
 
 TVa. Not left him a tatter- 
 
 Not a rag of his present or past reputation. 
 Which they call a disgrace to the age and the nation. 
 
 Ink. I 'm sorry to hear this ; for friendship, you know — 
 Our poor friend ! — but I thought it would terminate so. 
 Our friendship is such, I '11 read nothing to shock it. 
 You do n't happen to have the Review in your pocket ? 
 
 TVa. No : I left a round dozen of authors and others 
 
 (Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brother's) 
 All scrambling and jostling, like so many imps, 
 And on fire with impatience to get the next glimpse. 
 
 Ink. Let us join them. 
 
 Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture ? 
 
 Ink. Why, the place is so cramm'd, there 's not room 
 for a spectre. 
 Besides, our fi-iend Scamp is to-day so absurd — 
 
 Tra. How can you know that till you hear him ? 
 
 Ink. I heard 
 
 Gluite enough ; and to tell you the truth, my retreat 
 Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat. 
 
 Tra. I have had no great loss then ? 
 
 Ink. Loss ! — such a palaver ! 
 
 I 'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver 
 Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours 
 To the torrent of trash which around him he pours, 
 Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with such labour. 
 
 That come — do not make me speak ill of one's 
 
 neighbour. 
 
 Tra. /make you! 
 
 Ink. Yes, you ! I said nothing until 
 You compell'd me, by speaking the truth 
 
 Tra. To speak ill? 
 
 Is that your deduction? 
 
 Ink. When speaking of Scamp ill, 
 
 I certainly /o&io, not set an example. 
 The fellow 's a fool, an impostor, a zany. 
 
 Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that one fool 
 makes many. 
 But we two will be wise. 
 
 Ink. Pray, then, let us retire. 
 
 Tra. I would, but 
 
 Ink. There must be attraction much higher 
 
 Than Scamp, or the Jews'-hai-p he nicknames his lyre, 
 To call you to this hotbed. 
 
 Tra. I own it — 't is true — 
 
 A fair lady 
 
 Ink. A spinster ? 
 
 Tra. Miss Lilac ! 
 
 Ink. The Blue! 
 
 The heiress ? 
 
 Tra. The angel! 
 
 Ink. The devil ! why, man ! 
 
 Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can. 
 You wed with Miss Lilac ! 't would be your perdition: 
 She 's a poet, a chymist, a mathematician. 
 
 Tra. I say she 's an angel. 
 
 Ink. Say rather an angle. 
 
 If you and she marry, you 'U certainly wrangle 
 I say she 's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. 
 
 Tra. And is that any cause for not coming together ? 
 
 Ink. Humph ! I can't say I know any happy alliance 
 Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with science. 
 She 's so learned in all things, and fond of concerning 
 Herself in all matters connected with learning. 
 That 
 
 Tra. What? 
 
 Ink. I perhaps may as well hold my tongue ; 
 
468 
 
 POEMS 
 
 But there 's five hundred people can tell you you 're 
 wrong. 
 Tra. You forget Lady Lilac's as rich as Jew. 
 Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you pursue ? 
 Tra. "Why, Jack, I '11 be frank with you — something 
 of both. 
 The girl 's a fine girl. 
 
 Ink. And you feel nothing loth 
 
 To her good lady-mother's reversion ; and yet 
 Her life is as good as your own, I will bet. 
 
 Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes ; I demand 
 
 Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and hand. 
 
 Ink. Why, that heart 's in the inkstand — that hand 
 
 on the pen. 
 Tra. Apropos — ^Will you write me a song now and 
 
 then? 
 Ink. To what purpose ? 
 
 Tra. You know, my dear friend, that in prose 
 
 My talent is decent, as far as it goes ; 
 
 But in rh)Tne 
 
 Ink. You 're a terrible stick, to be sure. 
 
 Tra. I own it ; and yet, in these times, there 's no lure 
 For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two ; 
 And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few ? 
 Ink. In your name ? 
 
 Tra. In my name. I will copy them out, 
 
 To slip into her hand at the very next rout. 
 Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard this ? 
 Tra. Why, 
 
 Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye, 
 So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme 
 What I 've told her in prose, at the least, as sublime ? 
 Ink. As sublime ! If it be so, no need of my Muse. 
 SfVa. But consider, dear Inkel, she 's one of the 
 
 " Blues." 
 Ink. As sublime ! — Mr. Tracy — I 've nothing to say. 
 Stick to prose — As sublime ! ! — but I wish you good day 
 Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow — consider — I 'm 
 wrong ; 
 I own it ; but, prithee, compose me the song. 
 Ink. As sublime ! ! 
 
 TVa. I but used the expression in haste, 
 
 Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows danm'd 
 
 bad taste. 
 Tra. I ovra it — I know it — acknowledge it — what 
 Can I say to you more ? 
 
 Ink. I see what you 'd be at ; 
 
 You disparage my parts with insidious abuse, 
 Till you think you can turn them best to your own use. 
 Tra. And is that not a sign I respect them ? 
 Ink. Why that 
 
 To be sure makes a difference. 
 
 Tra. I know what is what : 
 
 And you, who 're a man of the gay world, no less 
 Than a poet of t' other, may esisily guess 
 That I never could mean, by a word, to offend 
 A genius like you, and moreover my friend. 
 
 Ink. No doubt ; you by this time should know what 
 is due 
 
 To a man of but come — ^let us shake hands. 
 
 Tra. You knew. 
 
 And you know, my dear fellow, how heartily I, 
 Whatever you publish, am ready to buy. 
 
 Ink. That 's ray bookseller's business ; I care not for 
 sale; 
 Indeed the test poems at first rather fail. 
 There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's plays, 
 
 And my own grand romance 
 
 'TVa. Had its full share of praise. 
 
 I myself saw it puff'd in the " Old Girl's Review." 
 Ink. What Review ? 
 
 Tra. 'T is the English " Journal de Trevoux ;" 
 
 A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. 
 Have you never yet seen it ? 
 InJb That pi 
 
 Tra. Make haste then. 
 
 Ink. Why so ? 
 
 TVa. I have heard people say 
 
 That it threaten'd to give up the ghost t' other day. 
 
 Ink. Well, that is a sign of some spirit. 
 
 Tra. No doubt. 
 
 Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's rout ? 
 
 Ink. I 've a card, and shall go : but at present, as soon 
 As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from the 
 
 moon. 
 (Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits,) 
 And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, 
 I 'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation, 
 To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation: 
 'T is a sort of reunion for Scamp, on the days 
 Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and praise. 
 And I o\vn, for my own part, that 't is not unpleasant. 
 Will you go ? There 's Miss Lilac will also be present. 
 
 Tra. That «' metal 's attractive." 
 
 Ink. No doubt — to the pocket. 
 
 Tra. You should rather encourage my passion than 
 shock it. 
 But let us proceed ; for I think, by the hum 
 
 Ink. Very true ; let us go, then, before they can come, 
 Or else we '11 be kept here an hour at their levy, 
 On the rack of cross questions, by all the blue bevy. 
 Hark ! Zounds, they '11 be on us ; I know by the drono 
 Of old Botherby's spouting, ex-cathedra tone. 
 Ay ! there he is at it. Poor Scamp ! better join 
 Your friends, or he '11 pay you back in your own coin. 
 
 Tra. All fair; 't is but lecture for lecture. 
 
 Ink. That 's clear. 
 
 But for God's sake let 's go, or the bore will be here. 
 Come, come : nay, I 'm off. [Exit Inkel, 
 
 Tra. You are right, and I '11 follow ; 
 
 'T is high time for a " Sic me servavit ApoUo.''^ 
 And yet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes. 
 Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand scribes, 
 All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles 
 With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. 
 
 [Exit Tkact. 
 
 ECLOGCTE SECOND. 
 
 An Apartment in the House of Lady Blttebottle.— 
 A Table prepared. 
 
 Sir Richard Bluebottle soltis. 
 
 Was there ever a man who was married so sorry ? 
 Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry. 
 My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd ; 
 My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void. 
 Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd ; 
 The twelve, do I say? — of the whole twenty- four. 
 Is tliere one which I dare call ray own any more ? 
 What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining, 
 What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling, and 
 
 shining, 
 In science and art, I '11 be curst if I know 
 Myself from my wife ; for although we are two, 
 Yet she somehow contrives that all things shall be done 
 In a style that proclaims us eternally one. 
 But the thing of all things which distresses me more 
 Than the bills of the week (though they trouble me sore) 
 Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew 
 Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue, 
 Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost 
 — For the bill here, it seems, is defray'd by the host — 
 No pleasure ! no leisure ! no thought for ray pains, 
 But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains ; 
 A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of reviews. 
 By the rag, tag, and bobtail, of those they call "Blues;'* 
 
 A rabble who know not But soft, here they come ! 
 
 's to come. I Would to God I were deaf! as I'm not, I '11 be dumb. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 469 
 
 Enter Lady Bluebottle, Miss Lilac, Lady Blue- 
 MotTNT, Mr. Botherby, Inkel, Tracy, Miss Ma- 
 zarine, and others, with Scamp the Lecturer, S^c. fyc. 
 Lady Blueb. Ah ! Sir Richard, good morning ; I 've 
 
 brought you some friends. 
 Sir Rich, {bows, and afterwards aside.) If friends, 
 
 they 're the first. 
 Lady Blueb. But the luncheon attends. 
 
 I pray ye be seated, " sans cerernonie." 
 Mr. Scamp, you 're fatigued ; take your chair there, next 
 me. [They all sit. 
 
 Sir Rich, (aside.) If he does, his fatigue is to come. 
 Lady Blueb. Mr. Tracy- 
 
 Lady Bluemount — ^Miss Lilac — be pleased, pray, to place 
 
 ye; 
 
 And you, Mr. Botherby — 
 
 Both. Oh, my dear Lady, 
 
 I obey. 
 
 Lady Blueb. Mr. Inkel, I ought to upbraid ye : 
 You were not at the lecture. 
 
 Ink. Excuse me, I was ; 
 
 But the heat forced me out in the best part — alas ! 
 
 And when 
 
 Lady Blueb. To be sure it was broiling ; but then 
 You have lost such a lecture ! 
 Both. The best of the ten. 
 
 2Va. How can you know that? there are two more. 
 Both. Because 
 
 I defy him to beat this day's wondrous applause. 
 The very walls shook. 
 
 Ink. Oh, if that be the test, 
 
 I allow our friend Scamp has this day done his best. 
 Miss Lilac, permit me to help you; — a wing? 
 
 Miss Lil. No more, sir, I thank you. Who lectures 
 
 next spring ? 
 Both. DickDunder. 
 Ink. That is, if he lives. 
 
 Miss Lil. And why not? 
 
 Ink. No reason whatever, save that he 's a sot. 
 Lady Bluemount ! a glass of Madeira? 
 Lady Bluem. With pleasure. 
 
 Ink. How does your friend Wordswords, that Winder- 
 mere treasure ? 
 Does he stick to his lakes, like the leeches he sings, 
 And their gatherers, as Homer sung warriors and kings? 
 Lady Blueb. He has just got a place. 
 Ink. As a footman? 
 
 Lady Blu^m. For shame ! 
 
 Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a name. 
 
 Ink. Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied his master; 
 For the poet of pedlars 'twere, sure, no disaster 
 To wear a new livery ; the more, as 't is not 
 The first time he has turn'd both his creed and his coat. 
 Lady Bluem. For shame ! I repeat. If Sir George 
 
 could but hear 
 
 Lady Blueb. Never mind our friend Inkel ; we all know, 
 my dear, 
 'T is his way. 
 
 Sir Rich. But this place 
 
 Ink. Is perhaps like friend Scamp's, 
 
 A lecturer's. 
 
 Lady Blueb. Excuse rae — 'tis one in " the Stamps :" 
 He is made a collector. 
 
 Tra. Collector ! 
 
 Sir Rich. How ? 
 
 ML^s LU. What ? 
 
 Ink. I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat: 
 There his works will appear — - 
 Lady Bluem. Sir, they reach to the Ganges. 
 
 Ink. I shan't go so far — I can have them at Grange's.* 
 Lady Blueb. Oh fie! 
 Miss Lil. And for shame ! 
 
 Lady Bluem. You 're too bad . 
 
 Grange is or was a famous pastry-cook and Traiterer in Piccadilly. 
 
 Both. Very good ! 
 
 Lady Bluem. How good ? 
 
 Lady Blueb. He means naught — 't is his phrase. 
 
 Lady Bluem. He grows rude. 
 
 iMdy Blueb. He means nothing ; nay, ask him. 
 Lady Bluem. Pray, sir ! did you mean 
 
 What you say ? 
 
 Ink. Never mind if he did ; 't will be seen 
 
 That whatever he means won't alloy what he says. 
 Both. Sir ! 
 
 Ink. Pray be content with your portion of praise ; 
 'T was in your defence. 
 
 Both. If you please, with submission, 
 
 I can make out my own. 
 
 Ink. It would be your perdition. 
 
 While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend 
 Yourself or your works ; but leave both to a friend. 
 Apropos — Is your play then accepted at last ? 
 Both. At last ? 
 
 Ink. Why I thought — that 's to say — there had past 
 A few green-room whispers, which hinted — you know 
 That the taste of the actors at best is so so. 
 Both. Sir, the green-room 's in rapture, and so 's the 
 
 committee. 
 Ink. Ay — yours are the plays for exciting our '' pity 
 And fear," as the Greek says : for " purging the mind,'' 
 I doubt if you '11 leave us an equal behind. 
 Both. I have written the prologue, and meant to have 
 pray'd 
 For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. 
 
 Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the play 's to be 
 play'd. 
 Is it cast yet ? 
 
 Both. The actors are fighting for parts, 
 
 As is usual in that most litigious of arts. 
 
 Lady Blueb. We '11 all make a party, and go the Jirst 
 
 night. 
 Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. 
 Ink. Not quite. 
 
 However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, 
 I '11 do what I can, though my pains must be double. 
 Tra. Why so? 
 
 Ink. To do justice to what goes before. 
 
 Both. Sir, I 'm happy to say, 1 've no fears on that 
 score. 
 
 Your parts, Mr. Inkel, are 
 
 Ink. Never mind mine; 
 
 Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own line. 
 Lady Bluem. You 're a fugitive writer, I think, sir, 
 
 of rhymes ? 
 Ink. Yes, ma'am; and a fugitive reader sometimes. 
 On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight, 
 Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to flight. 
 Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common; but 
 time and posterity 
 Will right these great men, and this age's severity 
 Become its reproach. 
 
 Ink. I 've no sort of objection. 
 
 So I 'm not of the party to take the infection. 
 
 Lady Blueb. Perhaps you have doubts that they ever 
 
 will take ? 
 Ink. Not at all ; on the contrary, those of the lake 
 Have taken already, and still will continue 
 To take — what they can, from a groat to a guinea, 
 Of pension or place ; — but the subject 's a bore. 
 Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the time 's coming. 
 Ink. Scamp ! do n't you feel sore ? 
 
 What say you to this ? 
 
 Scamp. They have merit, I own ; 
 
 Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown. 
 Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of your lectures ? 
 Scamp. It is only time past which comes under my 
 
 strictures. 
 Lady Blueb. Gome, a truce with all tartness : — the 
 joy of my heart 
 
470 
 
 Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is ait. 
 Wild Nature 1 — Grand Shakspeare ! 
 
 Both. And down Aristotle ! 
 
 Lady Bluem. Sir George thinks exactly with Lady 
 Bluebottle ; 
 And my Lord Seventy-four, who protects our dear Bard, 
 And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard 
 For the poet, who, singing of pedlars and asses, 
 Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. 
 
 Tra. And you. Scamp! — 
 
 Scamp. I needs must confess I 'm embarrass'd. 
 
 Ink. Do n't call upon Scamp, who 's already so harass'd 
 With old schools, and new scJiools, and no schools^ and all 
 schools. 
 
 Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that some must be 
 fools. 
 I should like to know who. 
 
 Ink. And I should not be sorry 
 
 To know who are not : — it would save us some worry. 
 
 Lady Blueb. A truce with remark, and let nothing 
 control 
 This " feast of our reason, and flow of the soul." 
 Oh, my dear Mr. Botherby ! sympathise ! — I 
 Now feel such a rapture, I 'm ready to fly, 
 I feel so elastic — " so buoyant — so buoyant .'"* 
 
 Ink. Tracy ! open the window. 
 
 Tra. I wish her much joy on 't. 
 
 Both. For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, check not 
 This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot 
 Upon earth. Give it way ; 't is an impulse which lifts 
 Our spirits from earth ; the sublimest of gifts ; 
 For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his moun- 
 tain. 
 'T is the source of all sentiment — feeling's true fountain: 
 'T is the Vision of Heaven upon Earth: 't is the gas 
 Of the soul : 't is the seizing of shades as they pass, 
 And making them substance : 't is something divine : — 
 
 Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more wine ? 
 
 Both. I thank you; not any more, sir, till I dine. 
 
 Ink. Apropos — Do you dine with Sir Humphrey to- 
 day '} 
 
 Tra. I should think with Duke Humphrey was more 
 in your way. 
 
 Ink. It might be of yore ; but we authors now look 
 To the knight, as a landlord, much more than the Duke. 
 The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is. 
 And (except with his publisher) dines where he pleases. 
 But 't is now nearly five, and I must to the Park. 
 
 TVa. And I'll talce a turn with you there till 'tis 
 dark. 
 And you, Scamp — 
 
 Scamp. Excuse^me ; I must to my notes, 
 
 For my lecture next week. 
 
 Ink. He must mind whom he quotes 
 
 Out of " Elegant Extracts." 
 
 Lady Blueb. Well, now we break up ; 
 
 But remember Miss Diddle invites us to sup. 
 
 Ink. Then at two hours past midnight we all meet 
 again. 
 For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and champagne ! 
 
 Tra. And the sweet lobster salad ! 
 
 Both. I honour that meal ; 
 
 For 't is then that our feelings most genuinely — feel. 
 
 Ink. True ; feeling is truest then, far beyond question : 
 1 wish to the gods 't was the same with digestion ! 
 
 Lady Blueb. Pshaw ! — never mind that ; for one mo- 
 ment of feeling 
 Is worth — God knows what. 
 
 Ink. 'T is at least worth concealing 
 For itself or what follows But here comes your car- 
 riage. 
 
 Sir Rich, (aside.) I wish all these people were d — d 
 with rny marriage ! [Exeunt. 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE THIRD ACT OF MANFRED, IN ITS 
 ORIGINAL SHAPE, AS FIRST SENT TO 
 U'HE PUBLISHER.* 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene J.— A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 
 
 Manfred and Herman. 
 
 Man. What is the hour ? 
 
 Her. It wants but one till sunset, 
 
 And promises a lovely twilight. 
 
 Man. Say, 
 
 Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
 As I directed ? 
 
 Her. All, my lord, are ready : 
 
 Here is the key and casket. 
 
 3Ian. It is well : 
 
 Thou mayst retire. [Exit Hebman. 
 
 Man. (alone.) There is a calm upon me— 
 Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
 Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
 If that I did not know philosophy 
 To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
 The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
 From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
 The golden secret, the sought "Kalon" found, 
 And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
 But it is well to have known it, though but once : 
 It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, 
 And I within my tablets would note down 
 That there is such a feeling. WTio is there ? 
 
 Re-enter Herman. 
 
 Her. My lord, the Abbot of St. Maurice craves 
 To greet your presence. 
 
 Enter the Abbott of St. Maurice. 
 
 Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! 
 
 Man. Thanks, holy father! welcome to these walls; 
 Thy presence honours them, and blesses those 
 Who dwell within them. 
 
 Abbot. Would it were so. Count ! 
 
 But I would fain confer with thee alone. 
 .^Man. Herman retire. What would my reverend 
 guest ? [Exit Herman. 
 
 Abbot. Thus, without prelude; — ^Age and zeal, my 
 office. 
 And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
 Our near, though not acquainted, neighbourhood 
 May also be my herald. Rumours strange, 
 And of unholy nature, are abroad. 
 And busy with thy name — a noble name 
 For centuries ; may he who bears it now 
 Transmit it unimpaired ! 
 
 Man. Proceed, — I listen. 
 
 Abbot. 'T is said thou holdest converse with the things 
 Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
 That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
 The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
 Which walk the valley of the shade of death. 
 Thou communest. I know that with mankind, 
 Thy fellows in creation, tliou dost rarely 
 Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
 Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 
 
 Man. And what are they who do avouch these things ? 
 
 Abbot. My pious brethren — the scared peasantry — 
 Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
 With most unquiet eyes. Thy life 's in peril. 
 
 Man. Take it. 
 
 Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy— 
 
 I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
 But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
 For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
 With the true church, and through the church to heaven. 
 
 Fact from life, with the teords. 
 
 See Letter to Mr. Murray, jlpril 14, 1817, page 
 
POEMS. 
 
 471 
 
 Man. I hear thee. This is my reply ; whate'er 
 I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
 Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a mortal 
 To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
 Against your ordinances ? prove and punish !* 
 
 Abbot. Then, hear and tremble ! For the headstrong 
 wretch 
 Who in the mail of innate hardihood 
 Would shield himself, and battle for his sins, 
 There is the stake on earth, and beyond earth eternal 
 
 Man. Charity, most reverend father, 
 Becomes thy lips so much more than this menace, 
 That I would call thee back to it ; but say, 
 What wouldst thou with me ? 
 
 Abbot. It may be there are 
 
 Things that would shake thee — but I keep them back, 
 And give the till to-morrow to repent. 
 The)i if thou dost not all devote thyself 
 To penance, and with gift of all thy lands 
 To the monastery 
 
 Man. I understand thee, — well 
 
 Abbot. Expect no mercy ; I have warned thee. 
 
 Man. {opening the casket.) Stop — 
 
 There is a gift for thee within this casket. 
 
 [Manfred opens the casket, strikes a light, 
 and burns some incense. 
 Ho! Ashtaroth! 
 
 The Demon Ashtakoth appears, singing as follows : 
 
 The raven sits 
 
 On the raven stone, 
 And his black wing flits 
 
 O'er the milkwhite bone ; 
 To and fro, as the night winds blow. 
 
 The carcass of the assassin swings ; 
 And there alone, on the raven-stone,* 
 
 The raven flaps his dusky wings. 
 
 The fetters creak — and his ebon beak 
 
 Croaks to the close of the hollow sound ; 
 And this is the tune by the light of the moon 
 
 To which the witches dance their round. 
 Merrily, merrily, cheerily, cheerily. 
 
 Merrily, merrily, speeds the ball : 
 The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in clouds. 
 
 Flock to the witches' carnival. 
 
 Abbot. I fear thee not — hence — hence — 
 Avaunt thee, evil one ! — help, ho ! without there ! 
 
 Man. Convey this man to the Shreckhorn — to its 
 peak — 
 To its extremest peak — watch with him there 
 From now till sunrise ; let him gaze, and know 
 He ne'er again will be so near to heaven. 
 But harm him not ; and, when the morrow breaks. 
 Set him down safe in his cell — away with him ! 
 
 Ash. Had I not better bring his brethren too, 
 Convent and all, to bear him company? 
 
 Man. No, this will serve for the present. Take him up. 
 
 Ash. Come, friar ! now an exorcism or two. 
 And we shall fly the lighter. 
 
 Ashtaroth disappears with the Abbot, singing as 
 follows : 
 A prodigal son and a maid undone, 
 
 And a widow re-wedded within the year 5 
 And a worldly monk and a pregnant nun. 
 Are things which every day appear. 
 
 Manfred alone. 
 
 Man. Why would this fool break in on rae, and force 
 My art to pranks fantastical? — no matter, 
 
 • It will be perceived that, as far as this, the original matter of the I 
 Third Act has been retained. j 
 
 * " Raven-stone, (Raheiistein,1 a translation of (he German word for ! 
 the gibbet, which in Germany and Switzerland is permanent, and made I 
 of stone." , 
 
 It was not of my seeking. My heart sickens 
 And weighs a fix'd foreboding on my soul ; 
 But it is calm — calm as a sullen sea 
 After the hurricane ; the winds are still, 
 But the cold waves swell high and heavily, 
 And there is danger in them. Such a rest 
 Is no repose. My life hath been a combat, 
 And every thought a wound, till I am scarr'd 
 In the immortal part of me. — What now ? 
 
 Re-enter Herman. 
 
 Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset : 
 
 He sinks behind the mountain. 
 
 Man. Doth he so ? 
 
 I will look on him. 
 
 [Manfred advances to the window of the hall. 
 Glorious orb !* the idol 
 Of early nature, and the vigorous raco 
 Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons 
 Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
 More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
 The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 
 Most glorious orb I that wert a worship, ere 
 The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! 
 Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
 Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 
 Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
 Themselves in orisons ! thou material God ! 
 And representative of the Unknown — 
 Who chose thee for his shadow ! thou chief star ! 
 Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
 Endurable, and temperest the hues 
 And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
 Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes. 
 And those who dwell in them ! for, near or far, 
 Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee. 
 Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise, 
 And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
 I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
 Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
 My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
 To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
 Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
 I follow. [Eont Manfred. 
 
 Scene II.— The Mountains— The Castle of Manfred at 
 some distance — A Terrace before a Tower. — Time, 
 Twilight. . 
 
 Herman, Manuel, and other Dependants of Manfr-ed. 
 
 Her. 'Tis strange enough; night after night, for 
 years. 
 He hath pursued long vigils in this tower. 
 Without a witness. I have been within it,— 
 So have we all been ofttimes ; but from it, 
 Or its contents, it were impossible 
 To draw conclusions absolute of aught 
 His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
 One chamber where none enter ; I would give 
 The fee of what I have to come these three years, 
 To pore upon its mysteries. 
 
 Manuel. ' T were dangerous ; 
 
 Content thyself with what thou Isnow'st already. 
 
 Her. Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise. 
 And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the 
 
 castle — 
 How many years is 't? 
 
 Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 
 
 I served his father, whom he naught resembles. 
 
 Her. There be more sons in like predicament. 
 But wherein do they differ ? 
 
 Manuel. I speak not 
 
 * This soliloquy, and a. great part of the subsequaut scene, have been 
 retained in the present form of the drama. 
 
472 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Of features or of form, but mind and habits : 
 Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and free, — 
 A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
 With books and solitude, nor made the night 
 A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
 Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks 
 And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
 From men and their delights. 
 
 Her. Beshrew the hour, 
 
 But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
 Would visit the old walls again; they look 
 As if they had forgotten them. 
 
 Manuel. These walls 
 
 Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
 Some strange things in these few years.* 
 
 Her. Come, be friendly ; 
 
 Relate me some, to while away our watch : 
 I 've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
 Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 
 
 Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do remember 
 'T was twilight, as it may be now, and such 
 Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which rests 
 On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
 So like it that it might be the same ; the wind 
 Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
 Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
 Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
 How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
 The sole companion of his wanderings 
 And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
 That lived, the only thing seem'd to love. 
 As he, indeed, by blood was boimd to do, 
 The lady Astarte, his 
 
 Her. Look — look — the tower— 
 
 The tower 's on fire. Oh, heavens and earth ! what sound, 
 What dreadful sound is that ? [A crash like thunder. 
 
 Manuel. Help, help, there! — to the rescue of the 
 Count, — 
 The Count 's in danger, — what ho ! there ! approach ! 
 
 [The Servants, Vassals, and Peasantry approach, 
 stupified ivith terror. 
 If there be any of you who have heart 
 And love of human kind, and will to aid 
 Those in distress — pause not — but follow me — 
 The portal 's open, follow. [Manuel goes in. 
 
 Her. Come — who follows? 
 
 What, none of ye? — ye recreants! shiver then 
 Without. I will not see old Manuel risk 
 His few remaining years unaided. [Herman goes in. 
 
 Vassal. Hark ! — 
 
 No — all is silent — not a breath — the flame 
 Which shot forth such a blaze is also gone ; 
 What may this mean? let 's enter ! 
 
 Peasant. Faith, not I, — 
 
 Not that, if one, or two, or more, will join, 
 I then will stay behind ; but, for my part, 
 I do not see precisely to what end. 
 
 Vassal. Cease your vain prating — come. 
 
 Manuel, {speaking within.) 'T is all in vain — 
 
 He 's dead. 
 
 Her. {vnthin.) Not so — even now methought he moved ; 
 But it is dark — so bear him gently out — 
 Softly — how cold he is! take care of his temples 
 In winding down the staircase. 
 
 Re-enter Manuel and Herman, bearing Manfred in 
 their arms. 
 
 Manuel. Hie to the castle, some of ye, and bring 
 What aid you can. Saddle the barb, and speed 
 For the leach to the city — quick ! some water there ! 
 
 Her. His cheek is black — but there is a faint beat 
 Still lingering about the heart. Some water. 
 
 ■ Altered, in the present form to " Some strange things in them, Her- 
 
 [They sprinkle Manfred with water; after apause 
 he gives some signs of life. 
 Manuel. He seems to strive to speak — come — cheerly, 
 Count ! 
 He moves his lips — canst hear him ? I am old. 
 And cannot catch faint sounds. 
 
 [Herman inclining his head and listening* 
 Her. I hear a word 
 
 Or two — ^but indistinctly — what is next ? 
 What 's to be done ? let 's bear him to the castle. 
 
 [Manfred motions with his hand not to remove him» 
 Manuel. He disapproves — and 't were of no avail — 
 He changes rapidly. 
 Her, 'T will soon be over. 
 
 Manuel. Oh ! what a death is this ! that I should live 
 To shake my gray hairs over the last chief 
 Of the house of Sigismund. — And such a death ! 
 Alone — we know not how — unshrived — untended— 
 With strange accompaniments and fearful signs — 
 I shudder at the sight — but must not leave him. 
 
 Manfred, (speaking faintly and slowly.) Old man ! 
 't is not so difficult to die. 
 
 [Manfred, having said this, expires. 
 Her. His eyes are fix'd and lifeless. — He is gone. 
 Manuel. Close them. — My old hand quivers. — ^He de- 
 parts — 
 Whither ? I dread to think — But he is gone ! 
 
 TO MY DEAR MARY ANNE. 
 
 [the following lines are the earliest written by 
 lord byron. they were addressed to miss cha- 
 
 WORTH, afterwards MRS. MUSTERS, IN 1804, ABOUT 
 A YEAR BEFORE HER MARRIAGE.] 
 
 Adieu to sweet Mary for ever ! 
 
 From her I must quickly depart ; 
 Though the fates us from each other sever, 
 
 Still her image will dwell in my heart. 
 
 The flame that within my heart bums 
 If unlike what in lovers' hearts glows ; 
 
 The love which for Mary I feel 
 Is far purer than Cupid bestows. 
 
 I wish not your peace to disturb, 
 
 I wish not your joys to molest ; 
 Mistake not my passion for love, 
 
 'T is your friendship alone I request. 
 
 Not ten thousand lovers could feel 
 
 The friendship my bosom contains ; 
 It will ever within my heart dwell, 
 
 While the warm blood flows through my veins. 
 
 May the Ruler of Heaven look down, 
 
 And my Mary from evil defend ! 
 May she ne'er know adversity's frown, 
 
 May her happiness ne'er have an end ! 
 
 Once more, my sweet Mary, adieu ! 
 
 Farewell ! I with anguish repeat. 
 For ever Ij'U think upon you 
 
 While this heart in my bosom shall beat. 
 
 TO MISS CHA WORTH. 
 
 Oh Memory, torture me no more, 
 The present 's all o'ercast ; 
 
 My hopes of future bliss are o'er, 
 In mercy veil the past. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 473 
 
 Why bring those images to view 
 
 I henceforth must resign ? 
 Ah ! why those happy hours renew, 
 
 That never can be mine ? 
 Past pleasure doubles present pain, 
 
 To sorrow adds regret, 
 Regret and hope are both in vain, 
 
 I ask but to — forget." 
 
 1804. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 1. 
 
 Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren, 
 Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd. 
 
 How the northern tempests, warring, 
 Howl above thy tufted shade ! 
 
 2. - 
 Now no more, the hours beguiling, 
 
 Former favourite haunts I see ; 
 Now no more my Mary smiling 
 
 Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 
 
 1805. 
 
 THE PRAYER OF NATURE. 
 
 Father of Light ! gi-eat God of Heaven I 
 
 Hear'st thou the accents of despair ? 
 Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ? 
 
 Can vice atone for crimes by prayer ? 
 Father of Light, on thee I call ! 
 
 Thou see'st my soul is dark within ; 
 Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall. 
 
 Avert from me the death of sin. 
 No shrine I seek to sects unknown; 
 
 Oh point to me the path of truth ! 
 Thy dread omnipotence I own ; 
 
 Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 
 Let bigots rear a gloomy fane. 
 
 Let superstition hail the pile. 
 Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 
 
 With tales of mystic rites beguile. 
 Shall man confine his Maker's sway 
 
 To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? 
 Thy temple is the face of day ; 
 
 Earth, ocean, heaven thy boundless throne. 
 Shall man condemn his race to hell 
 
 Unless they bend in pompous form ; 
 Tell us that all, for one who fell. 
 
 Must perish in the mingling storm ? 
 Shall each pretend to reach the skies. 
 
 Yet doom his brother to expire, 
 Whose soul a different hope supplies, 
 
 Or doctrines less severe inspire ? 
 ShaU these, by creeds they can't expound, 
 
 Prepare a fancied bliss or wo ? 
 ShaU reptiles^ groveling on the ground, 
 
 Their great Creator's purpose know ? 
 Shall those, who live for self alone. 
 
 Whose years float on in daily crime — 
 Shall they by Faith for guilt atone, 
 
 And Uve beyond the bounds of Time 7 
 Father ! no prophet's laws I seek, — 
 
 Thy laws in Nature's works appear;— 
 I own myself corrupt and weak, 
 
 Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear ! 
 Thou, who canst guide the wandering star 
 
 Through trackless realms of ether's space ; 
 Who calm'st the elemental war. 
 
 Whose hand from pole to pole I trace : — 
 Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, 
 
 Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence, 
 Ah ! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, 
 
 Extend to me thy wide defence. 
 3K 
 
 To Thee, my God, to Thee I call ! 
 
 Whatever weal or wo betide, 
 By thy command I rise or fall. 
 
 In thy protection I confide. 
 If, when this dust to dust restored. 
 
 My soul shall float on airy wing, 
 How shall thy glorious name adored 
 
 Inspire her feeble voice to sing ! 
 But, if this fleeting spirit share 
 
 With clay the grave's eternal bed, 
 While life yet throbs I raise my prayer. 
 
 Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 
 To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 
 
 Grateful for all thy mercies past, 
 And hope, my God, to thee again 
 
 This erring life may fly at last. 
 
 2dth Dec. 1806. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 [When Lord Bjrron first went toNewstead on his arrival from Aber- 
 deea, he planted a young oak in some part of the grounds, and had an 
 dea that as u flourished, eo should he. Some six or seven years after, 
 in revisiting the spot, he found his oak choked up by weeds, and almost 
 lestroyed. The following opening lines are a specimen of the poem he 
 wrote on the occasion.] 
 
 Young Oak, when I planted thee deep in the ground, 
 I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 
 
 That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around. 
 And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 
 
 Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, 
 On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride ; 
 
 They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, 
 Thy decay not the weeds, that surround thee, can hide. 
 
 I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 
 A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire, &c. &c. 
 
 ON REVISITING HARROW. 
 
 [Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on 
 a particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a 
 memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the 
 author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On rerisiting 
 the place in 1807, he wrote under it the following stanzas.] 
 
 1. 
 
 Here once engaged the stranger's view 
 Young Friendship's record simply traced 
 
 Few were her words, — but yet though few, 
 Resentment's hand the line defaced. 
 
 2. 
 Deeply she cut — ^but, not erased. 
 
 The characters were still so plain. 
 That Friendship once return'd, and gazed,— 
 
 TiU Memory hail'd the words again. 
 
 3. 
 
 Repentance placed them as before ; 
 
 Forgiveness join'd her gentle name ; 
 So fair the inscription seem'd once more. 
 
 That Friendship thought it still the same. 
 
 Thus might the Record now have been ; 
 
 But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour. 
 Or Friendship's tears. Pride rush'd between, 
 
 And blotted out the line for ever ! 
 
 L'AMITIE EST L' AMOUR SANS AILES. 
 
 1. 
 
 Why should my anxious breast repine, 
 
 Because my youth is fled ? 
 Days of delight may still be mine ; 
 
 Affection is not dead. 
 
474 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 In tracing back the years of youth, 
 One firm record, one lasting truth 
 
 Celestial consolation brings ; 
 Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, 
 Where first my heart responsive beat, — 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings!" 
 
 2. 
 Through few, but deeply chequer'd years, 
 
 What moments have been mine ! 
 Now, half obscured by clouds of tears, 
 
 Now, bright in rays divine ; 
 Howe'er my future doom be cast. 
 My soul, enraptured with the past, 
 
 To one idea fondly clings ; 
 Friendship ! that thought is all thine own, 
 Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone, 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings !" 
 
 3. 
 
 Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave 
 
 Their branches on tlie gale, 
 Unheeded heaves a simple grave. 
 
 Which tells the common tale ; 
 Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, 
 Till the dull knell of childish play 
 
 From yonder studious mansion rings ; 
 But here whene'er my footsteps move, 
 My silent tears too plainly prove 
 
 " Friendship is Love wiliiout his wings 1" 
 
 4. 
 Oh Love ! before thy glowing shrine 
 
 My early vows were paid ; 
 My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, 
 
 JBut these are now decay'd ; 
 For thine are pinions like the wind, 
 No trace of thee remains behind. 
 
 Except, alas ! thy jealous stings. 
 Away, away ! delusive power, 
 Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour ; 
 
 " Unless, indeed, without thy wi,«gs I" 
 
 6. 
 
 Seat of my youth ! thy distant spire 
 
 Recalls each scene of joy ; 
 My bosom glows with former fire,— 
 
 In mind again a boy. 
 Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, 
 Thy every path delights me still. 
 
 Each flower a double fragrance flings ; 
 Again, as once, in converse gay, 
 Each dear associate seems to say 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings !" 
 
 6. 
 
 My Lycus ! wherefore dost thou weep ? 
 
 Thy falling tears restrain ; 
 Affection for a time may sleep. 
 
 But, oh, 't will wake again. 
 Think, think, my friend, when next we meet. 
 Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet! 
 
 From this my hope of rapture springs ; 
 While youthful hearts thus fondly swell. 
 Absence, my friend, can only tell, 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings !" 
 
 7. 
 
 In one, and one alone deceived, 
 
 Did I my error mourn ? 
 No — from oppressive bonds relieved, 
 
 I left the wretch to scorn. 
 1 tum'd to those my childhood knew, 
 With feelings warm, with bosoms true, 
 
 Twined with my heart's according strings ; 
 And till those vital chords shall break. 
 For none but these my breast shall wake, 
 
 '• Friendship, the power deprived of wings !" 
 
 8. 
 
 Ye few! my soul, my life is yours. 
 
 My memory and my hope ; 
 Your worth a lasting love ensures, 
 
 Unfetter'd in its scope ; 
 From smooth deceit and terror sprung. 
 With aspect fair and honey'd tongue, 
 
 Let Adulation wait on kings. 
 With joy elate, by snares beset, 
 We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings !'* ^ 
 
 9. 
 
 Fictions and dreams inspire the bard 
 
 Who rolls the epic song ; 
 Friendship and Truth be my reward, 
 
 To me no bays belong ; 
 I^aurell'd Fame but dwells with lies, 
 IVIfe the enchantress ever flies, 
 
 Whose heart and not whose fancy sings: 
 Simple and young, I dare not feign, 
 Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, 
 
 " Friendship is Love without his wings !" 
 
 December, 1806. 
 
 TO MY SON.* 
 
 1. 
 
 Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, 
 Bright as thy mother's in their hue ; 
 Those rosy lips, whose dimples play 
 And smile to steal the heart away, 
 Recall a scene of former joy, 
 And touch thy Father's heart, my Boy ! 
 
 And thou canst lisp a father's name — 
 Ah, William, were thine own the same, 
 No self-reproach — but, let me cease — •■ 
 My care for tliee shall purchase peace ; 
 Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, 
 And pardon all the past, my Boy. 
 
 Her lowly grave the turf has prest, 
 And thou hast known a stranger's breast. 
 Derision sneers upon thy birth, 
 And yields thee scarce a name on earth ; 
 Yet shall not these one hope destroy,— • 
 A Father's heart is thine, my Boy ! 
 
 4. 
 Why, let the world imfeeling fi-ovra. 
 Must I fond Nature's claim disown ? 
 Ah, no — though moralists reprove, 
 I hail thee, dearest child of love, 
 Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy— 
 A Father guards thy birth, my Boy ! 
 
 * " The only circumstance I know, that bears even remotely on the sub- 
 ject of this poem, is the foilowing. About a year or two before the date 
 affixed to it, he wrote to his mother, from Harrow, (as I have been told by 
 a person, to whom Mrs. Byron herself communicated the circumstance,) 
 to say , that he had lately had a good deal of uneasiness on account of a young 
 woman, whom he knew to have been a favourite of his late friend, Curzon, 
 and who, finding herself after his death in a state of progress towards 
 maternity, had declared Lord Byron was the father of lier child. This, 
 he positively assured his mother was not the case; but, believing, as be 
 did firmly, that, the child belonged to Curzon, it was his wish that it 
 should be brought up with all possible care, and he therefore entreated 
 that his mother would have the kindness to take charge of it. Though 
 such a request might well (as my informant expresses it) have discom- 
 posed a temper more mild than Mrs. Byron's, she notwithstanding 
 
 answered her son in the kindest terms, saying that she would willingly 
 receive the child as soon as it was born, and bring it up in whatever 
 manner he desired. Happily, however, the infant died almost immedi- 
 
 tely, and was thua spared the being a tax on the good oature of cugr 
 body."— iV/oore. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 475 
 
 Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace 
 Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, 
 Ere half my glass of life is run, 
 At once a brother and a son ; 
 And all my wane of years employ 
 In justice done to thee, my Boy ! 
 
 6. 
 
 Although so young thy heedless sire, 
 Youth will not damp parental fire ; 
 And, wert thou still less dear to me. 
 While Helen's form revives in thee, 
 The breast, which beat to former joy, 
 Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy ! 
 
 1807. 
 
 EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OP 
 SOUTHWELL, 
 
 A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. 
 
 John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, 
 A Carrier, who carried his can to his mouth well ; 
 He carried so much, and he carried so fast. 
 He could carry no more — so was carried at last ; 
 For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one, 
 He could not carry off, — so he 's now carri-oru. «m 
 
 Sept. 1807. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 (_The following lines form the conclusion of a poem written by Lord 
 Byron under the melancholy impression that he should soon die.'] 
 
 Forget this world, my restless sprite. 
 
 Turn, turn thy thoughts to heaven : 
 
 There must thou soon direct thy flight. 
 
 If errors are forgiven. 
 To bigots and to sects unknown, 
 Bow down beneath th' Almighty's Throne ,— 
 
 To him address thy trembling prayer 
 He, who is merciful and just. 
 Will not reject a child of dust, 
 
 Although his meanest care. 
 Father of Light ! to thee I call, 
 
 My soul is dark within ; 
 Thou, who canst mark the sparrow fall. 
 
 Avert the death of sin. 
 Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, 
 Who calm'st the elemental war, 
 
 Whose mantle is yon boiuidless sky. 
 My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive ; 
 And, since I soon must cease to live, 
 
 Instruct me how to die. 
 
 1807. 
 
 ^ TO MRS. * * *, 
 
 ON BBING ASKED MY REASON FOR ftUITTING ENGLAND* 
 THE SPRING. 
 
 When man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 
 
 A moment linger'd near the gate, 
 Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours, 
 
 And bade him curse his future fate. 
 
 But, wandering on through distant climes, 
 He learnt to bear his load of grief; 
 
 Just gave a sigh to other times. 
 And found in busier scenes relief. 
 
 ' This and the five following poems were first published in HoWiouie's * In the original this line stands, " Without a wish to enter thers. 
 Miscellany. The reading given above is from a MS. correction by Lord Byron. 
 
 Thus, Mary, will it be with me, 
 And I must view thy charms no more ; 
 
 For, while I linger near to thee, 
 I sigh for all I knew before. 
 
 In flight I shall be surely wise, 
 Escaping from temptation's snare ; 
 
 I cannot view my paradise 
 Without the wish of dwelling there.* 
 
 Dec. 2, 1808. 
 
 A LOVE-SONG. 
 
 TO*******. 
 
 Remind me not, remind me not, 
 
 Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours 
 WTien all my soul was given to thee ; 
 Hours that may never be forgot, 
 
 TiU time unnerves our vital powers, 
 And thou and I shall cease to be. 
 
 Can I forget — canst thou forget, 
 
 When playing with thy golden hair, 
 How quick thy fluttering heart did move ? 
 Oh, by my soul, I see thee yet, 
 
 With eyes so languid, breast so fair, 
 And lips, though silent^ breathing love. 
 
 When thus reclining on my breast. 
 Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, 
 As half reproach'd yet raised desire, 
 And still we near and nearer prest. 
 And still our glowing lips would meet, 
 As if in kisses to expire. 
 
 And then those pensive eyes would close. 
 
 And bid their lids each other seek, 
 
 Veiling the azure orbs below ; 
 
 While their long lashes darkening gloss 
 
 Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek. 
 
 Like raven's plumage sciooth'd on snow. 
 
 I dreamt last night our love retum'd. 
 And, sooth to say, that very dream 
 Was sweeter in its phantasy 
 Than if for other hearts I bum'd. 
 For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 
 In rapture's wild reality. 
 
 Then tell me not, remind me not, 
 
 Of hours which, though for ever gone, 
 Can still a pleasing dream restore, 
 Till thou and I shall be forgot, 
 
 And senseless as the mouldering stone 
 Which tells that we shall be no more. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 TO*******. 
 
 There was a time, I need not name, 
 Since it will ne'er forgotten be. 
 
 When all our feelings were the same 
 As still my soul hath been to thee. 
 
 And from that hour when first thy tongue 
 Confess'd a love which equall'd mine. 
 
 Though many a grief my heart hath wrung. 
 Unknown and thus unfelt by thine, 
 
 None, none hath sunk so deep as this — 
 To think how all that love hath flown ; 
 
 Transient as every faithless kiss, 
 But transient in thy breast alone. 
 
476 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 And yet my heart some solace knew, 
 When late I heard thy lips declare, 
 
 In accents once imagined true, 
 Remembrance of the days that were. 
 
 Yes ! my adored, yet most unkind ! 
 
 Though thou wilt never love again. 
 To me 't is doubly sweet to find 
 
 Remembrance of that love remain. 
 
 Yes ! 't is a glorious thought to me. 
 Nor longer shall my soul repine, 
 
 Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be, 
 Thou hast been dearly, solely mine ! 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 And wilt thou weep when I am low? 
 
 Sweet lady I speak those words again : 
 Yet if Ihey grieve thee, say not so— 
 
 I would not give that bosom pain. 
 
 My heart is sad, my hopes are gone. 
 
 My blood runs coldly through my breast ; 
 
 And when I perish, thou alone 
 Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 
 
 And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace 
 
 Doth through my cloud of anguish shine ; 
 
 And for awhile my sorrows cease, 
 To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 
 
 Oh lady ! blessed be that tear — 
 It falls for one who cannot weep : 
 
 Such precious drops are doubly dear 
 To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 
 
 Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
 With every feeling soft as thine ; 
 
 But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
 A wretch created to repine. 
 
 Yet wilt thou weep when I am low ? 
 
 Sweet lady ! speak those words again ; 
 Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 
 
 I would not give that bosom pain. 
 
 SONG 
 
 Fill the goblet again, for I never before 
 
 Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core ; 
 
 Let us drink! — who would not? — since, through life's 
 
 varied round, 
 In the goblet alone no deception is found. 
 
 I have'tried in its turn all that life can supply ; 
 
 I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; 
 
 I have loved ! — who has not? — but what heart can declare 
 
 That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 
 
 In the days of my youth, when the heart 's in its spring, 
 
 And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
 
 I had friends! — ^who has not? — ^but what tongue will 
 
 avow. 
 That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as thou ? 
 
 The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
 Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never canst 
 
 change : 
 Thou grow'st old — who does not? — ^but on earth what 
 
 appears. 
 Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years ? 
 
 Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
 Should a rival bow down to our idol below. 
 We are jealous !— who 's not ?— thou hast no such alloy ; 
 For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 
 
 Then the season of youth and its vanities past. 
 For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; 
 There we find— do we not?— in tlie flow of the soul, 
 That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 
 
 When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth. 
 And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
 Hope was left, was she not ?— but the goblet we kiss, 
 And care not for hope, who are certain of bliss. 
 
 Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown. 
 The age of our nectar shall gladden our own : 
 We must die — who shall not ? — May our sins be forgiven, 
 And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 TO ** *, ON LEAVING ENGLAND. 
 
 'T IS done — and shivering in the gale 
 
 The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
 And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
 Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast ; 
 And I must from this land be gone, 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 But could I be what I have been, 
 And could I see what I have seen— 
 Could I repose upon the breast 
 Which once my warmest wishes blest— 
 I should not seek another zone 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 'T is long since I beheld that eye 
 Which gave me bliss or misery ; 
 And I have striven, but in vain, 
 Never to think of it again ; 
 For though I fly from Albion, 
 I still can only love but one. 
 
 As some lone bird, without a mate, 
 My weary heart is desolate ; 
 I look around, and cannot trace 
 One friendly smile or welcome face. 
 And even in crowds am still alone , 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 And I will cross the whitening foam. 
 And I will seek a foreign home ; 
 TiU I forget a false fair face, 
 I ne'er shall find a resting-place ; 
 My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 
 But ever love, and love but one. 
 
 The poorest veriest wretch on earth 
 Still finds some hospitable hearth. 
 Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
 May smile in joy or sooth in wo ; 
 But friend or leman I have none. 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 I go — ^but wheresoe'er I flee. 
 There 's not an eye will weep for me ; 
 There 's not a kind congenial heart, 
 Where I can claim the meanest part ; 
 Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone, 
 Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 477 
 
 To think of every early scene, 
 
 Of what we are, and what we 've been, 
 
 Would whelm some softer hearts with wo— 
 
 But mine, aJas ! has stood the blow ; 
 
 Yet still beats on as it begun, 
 
 And never truly loves but one. 
 
 And who that dear loved one may be 
 Is not for vulgar eyes to see, 
 And why that early love was crost, 
 Thou know' St the best, I feel the most ; 
 But few that dwell beneath the sun 
 Have loved so long, and loved but one. 
 
 I 've tried another's fetters too. 
 With charms perchance as fair to view ; 
 And I would fain have loved as well, 
 But some unconquerable spell 
 Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
 A kindred care for aught but one. 
 
 'T would sooth to take one lingering view, 
 And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
 Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
 For him that wanders o'er the deep ; 
 His home, his hope, his youth are gone, 
 Yet still he loves, and loves but one.* 
 
 LINES TO MR. HODGSON. 
 
 Falmouth Roads, June 30th, 1809. 
 1. 
 HtrzzA ! Hodgson, we are going, 
 
 Our embargo 's off at last 
 Favourable breezes blowing 
 
 Bend the canvass o'er the mast 
 From aloft the signal's streaming, 
 Hark! the farewell gun is fired; 
 Women screeching, tars blaspheming, 
 Tell us that our time 's expired. 
 Here 's a rascal 
 Come to task all, 
 Prying from the custom-house 
 Trunks unpacking, 
 Cases cracking. 
 Not a corner for a mouse 
 'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, 
 Ere we sail on board the Packet. 
 
 2. 
 Now our boatmen quit their mooring, 
 
 And all hands must ply the oar ; 
 Baggage from the quay is lowering. 
 
 We 're impatient — push from shore. 
 " Have a care ! that case holds liquor — 
 Stop the boat — I 'm sick — oh Lord 1" 
 " Sick, ma'am, damme, you '11 be sicker 
 Ere you 've been an hour on board." 
 Thus are screaming 
 Men and women, 
 Gemmen, ladies, servants. Jacks ; 
 Here entangling. 
 All are wrangling, 
 Stuck together close as wax.— 
 Such the general noise and racket, 
 Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 
 
 * Thui corrected by himself in a copy of the Miscellany— the two last 
 line* being, originally, as follows :— 
 
 " Though whereso'er my bark may run, 
 I love but thee, I loTB bat one." 
 
 3. 
 
 Now we 've reach'd her, lo ! the captain, 
 
 Gallant Kidd, commands the crew ; 
 Passengers their berths are clapt in, 
 
 Some to grumble, some to spew, 
 " Hey day ! call you that a cabin ? 
 
 Why 't is hardly three feet square ; 
 Not enough to stow Q,ueen Mab in — 
 Who the deuce can harbour there ?" 
 " Who, sir? plenty — 
 Nobles twenty 
 Did at once my vessel fill." — 
 " Did they ? Jesus, 
 How you squeeze us ! 
 Would to God they did so still: 
 Then I 'd scape the heat and racket 
 Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 
 
 4. 
 Fletcher ! MuiTay ! Bob ! where are you ? 
 
 Stretch'd along the deck like logs — 
 Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you I 
 
 Here 's a rope's end for the dogs. 
 Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, 
 
 As the hatchway down he rolls. 
 Now his brealifast, now his verses. 
 Vomits forth — and damns our souls 
 " Here 's a stanza 
 On Braganza — 
 Help !"— " a couplet?"—" No, a cup 
 Of warm water — " 
 "What's the matter?" 
 " Zounds ! my liver 's coming up; 
 I shall not survive the racket 
 Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 
 
 5. 
 
 Now at length we 're off for Turkey, 
 
 Lord knows when we shall come back ! 
 Breezes foul and tempests murky 
 
 May unship us in a crack. 
 But, since life at most a jest is. 
 
 As philosophers allow. 
 Still to laugh by far the best is, 
 Then laugh on — as I do now. 
 Laugh at all things. 
 Great and small things. 
 Sick or well, at sea or shore ; 
 While we 're quaffing, 
 Let 's have laughing — 
 Who the devil cares for more? — 
 Some good wine ! and who would lack it, 
 Even on board the Lisbon Packet ? 
 
 LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT 
 ORCHOMENUS. 
 
 INTHIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN :— ' 
 
 " Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart 
 To trace the birth and nursery of art : 
 Noble his object, glorious is his aim: 
 He comes to Athens, and he writes his name." 
 
 BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING 
 REPLY : — 
 
 The modest bard, like many a bard unknown, 
 Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own ; 
 But yet whoe'er he be, to say no worse. 
 His name would bring more credit than his verse. 
 
478 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE. 
 
 ■ A FARCICAL EPIGRAM. 
 
 Sept. 14, 1811. 
 
 Good plays are scarce, 
 
 So Moore writes farce : 
 The poet's feime grows brittle— 
 
 We knew before 
 
 That Little 's Moore 
 But now 't is Moore that 's tittle 
 
 EPISTLE TO MR. HODGSON, 
 
 XH ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING HIM TO BE 
 CHEERFUL AND TO " BANISH CARE." 
 
 Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811 
 <' Oh ! banish care"— such ever be 
 The motto of thy reveby ! 
 Perchance of mine, when wassail nights 
 Renew those riotous delights, 
 Wherewith the children of Despair 
 Lull the lone heart, and " banish care." 
 But not in morn's reflecting hour. 
 When present, past, and future lower, 
 When all I loved is changed or gone, 
 Mock with such taunts the woes of one, 
 Whose every thought— but let them pass— 
 Thou know'st T am not what I was. 
 But, above all, if thou wouldst hold 
 Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, 
 By all the powers that men revere, 
 By all unto thy bosom dear. 
 Thy joys below, thy hopes above. 
 Speak — speak of any thing but love. 
 
 'T were long to tell, and vain to hear. 
 
 The tale of one who scorns a tear ; 
 
 And there is little in that tale 
 
 Which better bosoms would bewail. 
 
 But mine has suifer'd more than well 
 
 'T would suit philosophy to tell. 
 
 I've seen my bride another's bride, — 
 
 Have seen her seated by his side, — 
 
 Have seen the infant, which she bore, 
 
 Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, 
 When she and I in youth have smiled 
 As fond and faultless as her child ;— 
 Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, 
 Ask if I felt no secret pain, 
 And / have acted well my part. 
 And made my cheek belie my heart, 
 Return'd the freezing glance she gave. 
 Yet felt the while that woman's slave ; — 
 Have kiss'd, as if without design, 
 The babe which ought to have been mine. 
 And show'd, alas ! in each caress 
 Time had not made me love the less. 
 
 But let this pass — I '11 whine no more. 
 Nor seek again an eastern shore ; 
 The world befits a busy brain,- — 
 I '11 hie me to its haunts again. 
 But if, in some succeeding year. 
 When Britain's " May is in the sere," 
 Thou hear' St of one, whose deepening crimes 
 Suit with the sablest of the times. 
 Of one, whom love nor pity sways. 
 Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise. 
 One, who in stern ambition's pride. 
 Perchance not blood shall turn aside. 
 One rank'd in some recording page 
 With the worst anarchs of the age. 
 Him wilt thou know — and knowing pause, 
 Not with the ^ect forget the cause. 
 
 ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 
 
 DEDICATED TO MR. ROGERS. 
 
 May, I81S. 
 
 When Thurlow this danm'd nonsense sent, 
 
 (I hope I am not violent,) 
 
 Nor men nor gods knew what he meant, 
 
 2. 
 And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise 
 To common sense his thoughts could i 
 Why woiUd they let him print his lays ? 
 
 To me, divine Apollo, grant — O ! 
 Hermilda's first and second canto, 
 I 'm fitting up a new portmanteau ; 
 
 6. 
 
 And thus to furnish decent lining, 
 
 My own and others' bays I 'm twining — 
 
 So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. 
 
 TO LORD THURLOW. 
 
 " I lay my branch of laurel down, 
 Then thua to form Apollo's crown 
 Let every other bring his own." 
 
 Lord Thurlow^s Linet to Mr. Rog»r$. 
 
 ^^ Hay my branch of laurel dmimP 
 Thou " lay thy branch oi laurel do\vn !" 
 
 Why, what thou 'st stole is not enow ; 
 And, were it lawfully thine own, 
 
 Does Rogers want it most, or thou 
 Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough. 
 
 Or send it back to Doctor Donne — 
 Were justice done to both, I trow. 
 He 'd have but little, and thou — ^none. 
 2. 
 " Then thus to form Apollo's crotvn." 
 A crown ! why, twist it how you will, 
 Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. 
 When next you visit Delphi's town. 
 
 Inquire among your fellow-lodgers. 
 They '11 tell you Phoebus gave his crown. 
 Some years before your birth, to Rogers. 
 
 3. 
 
 " ZM every other bring his own." 
 When coals to Newcasde are carried. 
 
 And owls sent to Athens as wonders. 
 From his spouse when the Regent 's unmarried. 
 
 Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ; 
 When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrels, 
 
 When Castlereagh's wife has an heir. 
 Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel, 
 
 And thou shalt have plenty to spare. 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT, IN COMPANY 
 WITH LORD BYRON, TO MR. LEIGH HUNT IN COLD BATH 
 FIELDS PRISON, MAY 19, 1813. 
 
 Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town, 
 Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,— 
 
POEMS. 
 
 479 
 
 For hang me if I know of which you may moslhrag, 
 Your Q,uarto two-pounds, or your Twopenny Post Bag ; 
 
 ******* 
 
 But now to my letter — to yours h is an answer — 
 
 To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, 
 
 All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on 
 
 (According to compact) the wit in the dungeon — 
 
 Pray Phcebus at length our political malice 
 
 May not get us lodgings within the same palace ! 
 
 I suppose that to-night you 're engaged with some 
 
 codgers. 
 And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sara Rogers ; 
 And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, 
 Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote. 
 But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra, 
 And you '11 be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS 
 MOORE. 
 
 June, 1814 
 
 1. 
 
 " What say I?" — not a syllable further in prose ; 
 
 I 'm your man " of all measures," dear Tom, — so, here 
 
 goes! 
 Here goes, for a swirn on the stream of old Time, 
 On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. 
 If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the 
 
 flood. 
 We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud. 
 Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap, 
 And Southey's last Paean has pillow'd his sleep ; — 
 That " Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malmsey, 
 Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea. 
 Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza, 
 The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never man 
 
 The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses. 
 The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Russes, — 
 Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Hetman, — 
 And what dignity decks the flat face of the great man. 
 I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, — 
 For a prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty. 
 You know, we are used to quite different graces, 
 He * * * * * 
 
 3. 
 
 The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker, 
 
 But then he is sadly deficient in whisker; 
 
 And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey- 
 
 -mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the Jersey, 
 
 Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 
 
 With majesty's presence as those she invited. 
 
 ****** 
 
 THE DEVIL'S DRIVE. 
 
 [Of this strange, wild poem, wliich extends to about two hundred and 
 fifty lines, the only copy that Lord Byron, 1 believe, ever wrote, he 
 presented to Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigour and 
 imagination, it is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting 
 the point and condensation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge 
 which Lord Byron, adopting a notion long prevalent, has attributed to 
 Professor Porson. There are, however, some of the stanzas of " The 
 Devil's Drive" well worth preserving.] — Moore. 
 
 1. 
 
 The Devil retum'd lo hell by two, 
 
 And he staid at home till five ; 
 When he dined on some homicides done in ragout, 
 
 And a rebel or so in an Irish stew. 
 And sausages made of a self-slain Jew, 
 And bethought himself what next to do, 
 
 "And," quoth he, " I '11 take a drive. 
 I walk'd in the morning, I '11 ride to-night ; 
 In darkness my children take most delight, 
 
 And I '11 see how my favourites thrive. 
 
 2. 
 " And what shall I ride in ?" quoth Lucifer, then— 
 
 "If I follow'd my taste, indeed, 
 I should mount in a wagon of wounded men, 
 
 And smile to see them bleed. 
 But these will be furnish'd again and again. 
 
 And at present my purpose is speed; 
 To see my manor as much as I may, 
 And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away. 
 
 3. 
 
 " I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 
 
 A chariot in Seymour-place ; 
 But they 're lent to two friends, who make me amends 
 
 By driving my favourite pace : 
 And they handle their reins with such a grace, 
 I have something for both at the end of their race. 
 
 4. 
 " So now for the earth to take my chance." 
 
 Then up to the earth sprung he ; 
 And making a jump from Moscow to France, 
 
 He stepp d across the sea. 
 And rested his hoof on a turnpike road, 
 No very great way from a bishop's abode. 
 
 5. 
 
 But first as he flew, I forgot to say, 
 That he hover'd a moment upon his way 
 
 To look upon Leipsic plain ; 
 And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare 
 And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair, 
 
 That he perch'd on a mountain of slain ; 
 And he gazed with delight from its growing height 
 Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight. 
 
 Nor his work done half as well : 
 For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead, 
 
 That it blushed like the waves of hell! 
 Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he : 
 
 Methinks they have here little need of me!" 
 
 ***** 
 
 8. 
 But the softest note that soothed his ear 
 
 Was the sound of a widow sighing ; 
 And the sweetest sight was the icy tear, 
 Which horror froze in the blue eye clear 
 
 Of a maid by her lover lying — 
 As round her fell her long fair hair : 
 And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air 
 Which seem'd to ask if a God were there!. 
 And, stretch' d by the wall of a ruin'd hut, 
 With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut, 
 
 A child of famine dying : 
 And the carnage begun, when resistance is done,' 
 
 And the fall of the vainly flying ! 
 ****** 
 
 10. 
 But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white, ^ 
 
 And what did he there, I pray ? 
 If his eyes were good, he but saw by night 
 
 What we see every day ; 
 But he made a tour, and kept a journal 
 Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal, 
 And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row, 
 Who bid pretty well — ^but they cheatedhim, though! 
 
 11. 
 
 The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail 
 
 Its coachman and his coat ; 
 So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail. 
 
 And seized him by the throat : 
 " Aha," quoth he, " what have we here? 
 'T is a now barouche, and an ancient peer! ' 
 
480 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 12. 
 
 So he sat him on his box again, 
 
 And bade him have no fear, 
 But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein, 
 
 His brothel, and his beer ; 
 " Next to seeing a lord at the council board, 
 
 I would rather see him here." 
 
 *** + *♦ 
 
 17. 
 The Devil gat next to Westminster, 
 
 And he turn'd " to the room" of the Commons ; 
 But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there, 
 
 That " the Lords" had received a summons 5 
 And he thought as a " quondam aristocrat," 
 He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were 
 
 flat; 
 And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own, 
 That they say that he stood pretty near the throne. 
 
 18. 
 He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise. 
 
 The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly. 
 And Johnny of Norfolk — a man of some size — 
 
 And Chatham, so like his friend Billy; 
 And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, 
 
 Because the Catholics would not rise, 
 
 In spite of his prayers and his prophecies ; 
 And he heard— which set Satan himself a staring — 
 A certain chief justice say something like swearing. 
 And the Devil was shock' d— and quoth he, " I must go. 
 For I find we have much better manners below. 
 If thus he harangues when he passes my border, 
 I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order." 
 
 December, 1813. 
 
 19. 
 
 WINDSOR POETICS. 
 
 Lines composed on the occasion of His Royal Highness the Prince Reeent 
 being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIIl. and Charles I 
 m the royal vault at Windsor. 
 
 March, 1814. 
 
 Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, 
 By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies ; 
 Between them stands another sceptred thine — 
 It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king: 
 
 Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, 
 —In him the double tyrant starts to life : 
 Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain. 
 Each royal vampire wakes to life again. 
 Ah, what can tombs avail ! — since these disgorge 
 The blood and dust of both — to mould a G — ge. 
 
 ADDITIONAL STANZAS, TO THE ODE TO 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 17. 
 There was a day — there was an hour. 
 
 While earth was Gaul's— Gaul thine — 
 When that immeasurable power 
 
 Unsated to resign 
 Had been an act of purer fame 
 Than gathers round Marengo's name 
 
 And gilded thy decline, 
 Through the long twilight of all time, 
 Despite some passing clouds of crime. 
 
 18. 
 But thou forsooth must be a king 
 
 And don the purple vest, 
 As if that foolish robe could wring 
 
 Remembrance from thy breast. 
 Where is that faded garment ? where 
 
 The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 
 
 The star — the string — ihe crest ? 
 "Vain fi-oward child of empire ! say 
 Are all thy playthings snatch'd away ? 
 
 Where may the wearied eye repose 
 
 When gazing on the great ; 
 Where neither guilty glory glows. 
 
 Nor despicable state ? 
 Yes— one— tlie first — the last— the best— 
 The Cincinnatus of the West, 
 
 Whom envy dared not hate, 
 Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 
 
 To make man blush there was but one ! 
 
 April, 1814. 
 
 TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. 
 And say'st thou that I have not felt. 
 
 Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me ? 
 Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt 
 
 On one unbroken dream of thee ? 
 But love like ours must never be, 
 
 And I will learn to prize thee less ; 
 As thou hast fled, so let me flee. 
 
 And change the heart thou mayest not bless. 
 
 They '11 tell thee, Clara! I have seem'd, 
 
 Of late, another's charms to woo. 
 Nor sigh'd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd 
 
 That thou wert banish'd from my view 
 Clara ! this struggle— to undo 
 
 What thou hast done too well, for m© 
 This mask before the babbling crew — 
 
 This treachery — was truth to thee ! 
 
 I have not wept while thou wert gone. 
 
 Nor worn one look of sullen wo ; 
 But sought, in many, all that one 
 
 (Ah ! need I name her ?) could bestow. 
 It is a duty which I owe 
 
 To thine— to thee— to man — to God, 
 To crush, to quench this guilty glow. 
 
 Ere yet the path of crime be trod. 
 
 But since my breast is not so pure. 
 
 Since still the vulture tears my heart. 
 Let me this agony endure. 
 
 Not thee — oh ! dearest as thou art ! 
 In mercy, Clara ! let us part, 
 
 And I will seek, yet know not how, 
 To shun, in time, the threatening dart 
 
 Guilt must not aim at such as thou. 
 
 But thou must aid me in the task. 
 
 And nobly thus exert thy power ; 
 Then spurn me hence — 't isjall I ask — 
 
 Ere time mature a guiltier hour ; 
 Ere wrath's impending vials shower 
 
 Remorse redoubled on my head ; 
 Ere fires unquenchably devour 
 
 A heart, whose hope has long been dead. 
 
 Deceive no more thyself and me. 
 
 Deceive not better hearts than mine ; 
 Ah ! shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee, 
 
 From wo like ours— from shame like thine? 
 And, if there be a wrath divine, 
 
 A pang beyond this fleeting breath. 
 E'en now all future hope resign. 
 
 Such thoughts are guilt— such guilt is death. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 I. 
 
 I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name. 
 There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame : 
 But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart 
 The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 481 
 
 2. 
 
 Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, 
 Were those hours — can their joy or their bitterness cease 
 We repent — we abjure — we will break from our chain, — 
 We will part, — we will fly to — unite it again ! 
 
 3. 
 
 Oh ! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt ! 
 Forgive me, adored one ! — forsake, if thou wilt ; — 
 But the heart which is thine shaJl expire undebased. 
 And man shall not break it — whatever tnou mayst. 
 
 4. 
 And stem to the haughty, but humble to thee. 
 This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be ; 
 And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet, 
 With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. 
 
 5. 
 
 One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, 
 Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove ; 
 And the heartless may wonder at all I resign— 
 Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. 
 
 May, 1814. 
 
 ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT 
 
 THE CALEDONIAN MEETING. 
 Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame 
 Hath fix'd high CaJedon's unconquer'd name ; 
 The mountain-land which spum'd the Roman chain, 
 And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane, 
 Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand 
 No foe could tame — no tyrant could command ? 
 That race is gone — but still their children breathe. 
 And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath : 
 O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine. 
 And England ! add their stubborn strength to thine. 
 The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free 
 But now 't is only shed for fame and thee ! 
 Oh ! pass not by the northern veteran's claim,- 
 But give support — the world hath given him fame ! 
 
 The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled 
 
 While cheerly following where the mighty led 
 
 Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod 
 
 Where happier comrades in their triumph trod. 
 
 To us bequeath — 't is all their fate allows — 
 
 The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse : 
 
 She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
 
 The tearful eye in melancholy gaze, 
 
 Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose 
 
 The Highland- seer's anticipated woes, 
 
 The bleeding phantom of each msirtial form 
 
 Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm ; 
 
 While sad, she chants the solitary song. 
 
 The sofl lament for him who tarries long — 
 
 For him, whose distant relics vainly crave 
 
 The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave . 
 
 'T is Heaven — not man — must charm away the wo 
 
 Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow ; 
 
 Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 
 
 Of half its bitterness for one so dear ; 
 
 A nation's gratitude perchance may spread 
 
 A thornless pillow for the widow'd head ; 
 
 May lighten well her heart's maternal care, 
 
 And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 
 
 May, 1814. 
 
 ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETURNING 
 THE PICTURE OF SARAH, COUNTESS OF 
 JERSEY, TO MRS. MEE. 
 When the vain triumph of the imperial lord, 
 Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd 
 Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust, 
 That left a likeness of the brave or iust : 
 3L ^ 
 
 What most admired each scrutinizing eye 
 Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry? 
 What spread from face to face that wondering air? 
 The thought of Brutus — ^for his was not there ! 
 That absence proved his worth, — that absence fix'd 
 His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd ; 
 And more decreed his glory to endure, 
 Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 
 
 If tlaus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
 Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, 
 Amid those pictured charms, whose loveliness, 
 Bright though they be, thine ovv'n had render'd less , 
 If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits 
 Heir of his father's throne and shatter'd wits. 
 If his corrupted eye and wither'd heart 
 Could with thy gentle image bear depart. 
 That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief, 
 To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 
 Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts. 
 We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 
 
 What can his vaulted gallery now disclose ? 
 A garden with aU flowers — except the rose ; — 
 A fount that only wants its living stream ; 
 And night with every star, save Dian's beam. 
 Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be. 
 That turn from tracing them to dream of thee ; 
 And more on that recall'd resemblance pause, 
 Than all he shall not force on our applause. 
 Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, 
 With all.that Virtue asks of Homage thine : 
 The symmetry of youth — the grace of mien — 
 The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene ; 
 The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, 
 Whicli shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair 
 Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws 
 A spell which will not let our looks repose, 
 But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
 Some charm that well rewards another view. 
 These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright^ 
 Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
 And these must wait till every charm is gone 
 To please the paltry heart that pleases none, 
 That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
 In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by ; 
 Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
 Its hate of Freedom! s loveliness, and tlune. 
 
 July, 1814. 
 
 TO BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 1. 
 
 Belshazzar ! from the banquet turn, 
 
 Nor in thy sensual fulness fall : 
 Behold ! while yet before thee burn 
 
 The graven words, the glowing wall. 
 Many a despot men miscall • 
 
 Crovm'd and anointed from on high ; 
 But thou, the weakest, worst of all — 
 
 Is it not written, thou must die ? 
 
 Go ! dash the roses from thy brow — 
 
 Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them ; 
 Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, 
 
 More than thy very diadem. 
 Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem : — 
 
 Then throw the worthless bauble by. 
 Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn; 
 
 And learn like better men to die 
 
 3. 
 
 Oh ! early in the balance weigh'd. 
 And ever light of word and worth, 
 
 Whose soul expired ere youth decay 'd^ 
 And left thee but a mass of earth. 
 
482 
 
 POEMS, 
 
 To see thee moves the scorner's mirth : 
 But tears in Hope's averted eye 
 
 Lament that even thou hadst birth — 
 Unfit to govern, live, or die. 
 
 HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 In the valley of waters we wept o'er the day 
 When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey : 
 And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay, 
 And our hearts were so full of the land far away. 
 
 The song ihey demanded in vain— it lay still 
 In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill, 
 They called for the harp, but our blood they shall spill. 
 Ere our right hands shall teach them one tone of their skill. 
 
 All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree, 
 As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be, 
 Our hands may be fettered, our tears still are free, ' 
 For our God and our glory, and Sion ! for thee. 
 
 October, 1814. 
 
 They say that Hope is happiness, 
 
 But genuine Love must prize the past ; 
 
 And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless— 
 They rose the first, they set the last. 
 
 And all that Memory loves the most 
 
 Was once our only hope to be ; 
 And all that hope adored and lost 
 
 Hath melted into memory. 
 
 Alas ! it is delusion all, 
 
 The future cheats us from afar, 
 Nor can we be what we recall, 
 
 Nor dare we think on what we are. 
 
 October, 1814. 
 
 LINES INTENDED FOR THE OPENING OF 
 " THE SIEGE OF CORINTH." 
 In the year since Jesus died for men, 
 Eighteen hundred years and ten, 
 We were a gallant company. 
 Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 
 Oh ! but we went merrily ! 
 We forded the river and clomb the high hill, 
 Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 
 Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 
 Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed ; 
 Whether we couch'd in our rough capote, 
 On the rougher plank of our gliding boat, 
 Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread 
 As a pillow beneath the resting head, 
 Fresh we woke upon the morrow: 
 
 All our thoughts and words had scope, 
 
 We had health, and we had hope, 
 Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 
 We were of all tongues and creeds ;— 
 Some were those who counted beads. 
 Some of mosque, and some of church. 
 
 And some, or I mis-say, of neither ; 
 Yet through the wide world might ye search 
 
 Nor find a mother crew nor blither. 
 
 But some are dead, and some are gone, 
 And some are scatter'd and alone. 
 And some are rebels on the hills * 
 
 folloled ^ 1 l./hirr K^ '"*'■'' °*^i °''^"'' f°°« °f 'he Amaouu who 
 irfwm\o?.ii«ht H ° ^^ •'" r^'o'lupon the mountains, at the head 
 cK tome of the bands common in that country in times of trouble. 
 
 That look along Epirus' valleys, 
 
 Where freedom still at moments rallies, 
 And pays in blood oppression's ills ; 
 
 And some are in a far countree, 
 And some all restlessly at home ; 
 
 But never more, oh! never we 
 Shall meet to revel and to roam. 
 
 But those hardy days flew cheerily, 
 
 And when they now fall drearily. 
 
 My thoughts, like cwallows, skim the main, 
 
 And bear my spirit back again 
 
 Over the earth, and through the air, 
 
 A wild bird, and a wanderer. 
 
 'T is this that ever wakes my strain, 
 
 And oft, too oft, implores again 
 
 The few who may endure my lay, 
 
 To follow me so far away. 
 
 Stranger— wilt thou follow now. 
 
 And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow ? 
 
 December, 1815. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM 
 Could I remount the river of my years. 
 To the first fountain of our smiles and tears 
 I would not trace again the stream of hours 
 Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers. 
 But bid it flow as now— until it glides 
 Into the number of the nameless tides. 
 *^ * * * * * - 
 
 What is this death ?— a quiet of the heart ? 
 The whole of that of which we are a part? 
 For life is but a vision— what I see 
 Of all which lives alone is life to me, 
 And being so— the absent are the dead, 
 Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
 A dreary shroud around us, and invest 
 With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 
 
 The absent are the dead— for they are cold, 
 And ne'er can be what once we did behold ; 
 And they are changed, and cheerless,— or if yet 
 The unforgotten do not all forget. 
 Since thus divided— equal must it be 
 
 If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea ; 
 
 It may be both— but one day end it must 
 
 In the dark union of insensate dust. 
 
 The under-earth inhabitants— are they 
 
 But mingled millions decomposed to clay ? 
 
 The ashes of a thousand ages spread 
 
 Wherever man has trodden or shall tread ? 
 
 Or do they in their silent cities dwell 
 
 Each in his incommunicative cell ? 
 
 Or have they their own language ? and a sen 
 
 Of breathless being ?— darken'd and intense 
 
 As midnight in her solitude ?— Oh Earth ! 
 
 Where are the past?— and wherefore had'they birth ? 
 
 The dead are thy inheritors — and we 
 
 But bubbles on thy surface ; and the key 
 
 Of thy profundity is in the grave, 
 
 The ebon portal of thy peopled cave, 
 
 Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
 
 Our elements resolved to things untold, 
 
 And fathom hidden wonders, and ejtplore 
 
 The essence of great bosoms now no more. 
 
 ♦ 3k * J. . 
 
 October, 1816. 
 
 TO AUGUSTA. 
 
 Mr sister! my sweet sister ! if a name 
 Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
 Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
 No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : 
 
POEMS. 
 
 483 
 
 Go where I will, to me thou art the same— 
 
 A loved regret which I would not resign. 
 There yet are two things in my destiny, — 
 A world to roam through, and a home with thee. 
 II. 
 
 The first were nothing—had I still the last. 
 
 It were the haven of my happiness ; 
 
 But other claims and other ties thou hast, 
 
 And mine is not the wish to make them less. 
 
 A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 
 
 Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
 
 Reversed for him our grandsire's* fate of yore,— 
 He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 
 III. 
 
 If my inheritance of storms hath been 
 
 In other elements, and on the rocks 
 
 Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 
 
 I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, 
 
 The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 
 
 My errors with defensive paradox ; 
 
 I have been cunning in mine overthrow, 
 The CEU-eful pilot of my proper wo. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. 
 My whole life was a contest, since the day 
 That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd 
 The gift, — a fate, or will, that walk'd astray : 
 And I at times have found the struggle hard. 
 And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay : 
 But now I fain would for a time survive, 
 If but to see what next can well arrive. 
 
 V. 
 
 Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
 I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
 And when I look on this the petty spray 
 Of my own years of trouble, which have roU'd 
 Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : 
 Something — I know not what — does still uphold 
 A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain. 
 Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
 Within me, — or perhaps a cold despair. 
 Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
 Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
 (For even to this may change of soul refer, 
 And with light armour we may learn to bear,) 
 Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 
 The chief companion of a calmer lot. . 
 
 VII. 
 
 I feel almost at times as I have felt 
 In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and brooks, 
 T\Tiich do remember me of where I dwelt 
 Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
 Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
 My heart with recognition of their looks ; 
 And even at moments I could think I see 
 Some living tiling to love — but none like thee. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
 A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 
 Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
 But something worthier do such scenes inspire : 
 Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
 For much I view which I could most desire, 
 And, above all, a lake I can behold 
 Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 
 
 • Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making a voyage without a 
 tempest. He wa» known to the sailors by the facetious name of " Foul- 
 weather Jack." 
 
 " But though it were tempest-tost, 
 
 Still his bark could not be lost." 
 He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager, (in Anson's voyage,) 
 and subsequently circumnavigated the world, many years after, as com. 
 mander of a similar expedition . 
 
 Oh that thou wert but with me I — but I grow 
 The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
 The solitude which I have vaunted so 
 Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
 There may be others which I less may show ; — 
 I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
 I feel an ebb in my philosophy. 
 And the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 
 
 X. 
 
 I did remind thee of our own dear lake,* 
 By the old haU which may be mine no more, 
 Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
 The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
 Sad havoc Time must with my memory maka 
 Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ; 
 Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 
 Resign'd forever, or divided far. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The world is all before me ; I but ask 
 Of Nature that with which she will comply— 
 It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
 To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
 To see her gentle face without a mask, 
 And never gaze on it with apathy. 
 She was my early friend, and now shall be 
 My sister — till I look again on thee. 
 
 XII. 
 
 I can reduce all feelings but this one : 
 And that I would not ; — for at length I see 
 Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. 
 The earliest — even the only paths for me — 
 Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
 I had been better than I now can be ; 
 The passions which have torn me would have slept , 
 / had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 With false ambition what had I to do ? 
 Little with love, and least of all with fame; 
 And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, 
 And made me all which they can make — a name. 
 Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
 Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
 But all is over — I am one the more 
 To baffled millions which have gone before. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And for the future, this v/orld's future may 
 From me demand but little of my care ; 
 I have outlived myself by many a day ; 
 Having survived so many things that were ; 
 My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
 Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
 Of life which might have fill'd a century, 
 Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And for the remnant which may be to come 
 I am content ; and for the past I feel 
 Not thankless, — ^for within the crowded sum 
 Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, 
 And for the present I would not benumb 
 My feelings farther. — Nor shall I conceal 
 That with all this I still can look around 
 And worship nature with a thought profound. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
 I know myself secure, as thou in mine ; 
 We were and are- — I am, even as thou art — 
 Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 
 It is the same, together or apart. 
 From life's commencement to its slow decline 
 We are entwined — let death come slow or fast, . 
 The tie which bound the first endures the last ! 
 
 October, I8I6. 
 
 * The lake of Newgtead Abbey. 
 
484 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA. 
 
 In this beloved marble view, 
 
 Above the works and thoughts of man, 
 What Nature could, but would not, do, 
 
 And beauty and Canova can ! 
 Beyond imagination's power, 
 
 Beyond the bard's defeated art. 
 With immortality her dower, 
 
 Behold the Helen of the heart ! 
 
 November. 1816. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF A POEM ON HEARING 
 THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.— 1816. 
 
 And thou wert sad — yet Avas I not with thee ; 
 
 And thou wert sick — and yet I was not near. 
 Methought that joy and health alone could be 
 
 Where I was not, and pain and sorrow here. 
 And is it thus ? — It is as I foretold, 
 
 And shall be more so : — &c. &c. 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 1. 
 
 My boat is on the shore, 
 And my bark is on the sea ; 
 
 But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
 Here 's a double health to thee ! 
 
 Here 's a sigh to those who love me, 
 And a smile to those who hate ; 
 
 And, whatever sky 's above me, 
 Here 's a heart for every fate. 
 
 3. 
 Though the ocean roar around me. 
 
 Yet it still shall bear me on; 
 Though a desert should surround me. 
 
 It hath springs that may be won. 
 
 4. 
 Were 't the last drop in the well, 
 
 As I gasp'd upon the brink, 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
 
 'T is to thee that I would drink. 
 
 5. 
 
 With that water as this wine, 
 
 The libation I would pour 
 Should be — peace with thine and mine, 
 
 And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 
 
 July, 
 
 1817. 
 
 STANZAS TO THE RIVER PO. 
 
 1. 
 River, that rollest by the ancient walls. 
 
 Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 
 Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls 
 
 A faint and fleeting memory of me ; 
 
 2. 
 What if thy deep and ample stream should be 
 
 A mirror of my heart, where she may read 
 The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee. 
 
 Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ! 
 
 3. 
 
 What do I say — a mirror of ray heart? 
 
 Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong ? 
 Such as my feelings were and are, thou art ; 
 
 And such as thou art were my passions long. 
 
 Tims may have somewhat tamed them,— not for ever, 
 Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye 
 
 Thy bosom overboils, congenial river ! 
 Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away, 
 
 5. 
 
 But left long wrecks behind, and now again. 
 
 Borne in our old unchanged career, we move ; 
 Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main, 
 
 And I — to loving ane I should not love. 
 6. 
 The current I behold will sweep beneath 
 
 *Her native walls and murmur at her feet ; 
 Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe 
 
 The twilight air, unharm'd by sunmier's heat. 
 
 7. 
 
 She will look on thee, — I have look'd on thee, 
 
 Full of that thought ; and, from that moment, ne'er 
 Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, 
 
 Without the inseparable sigh for her ! 
 8. 
 Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream, — 
 
 Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now; 
 Mine cannot witness, even in a dream. 
 
 That happy wave repass me in its flow ! 
 
 9. 
 The wave that bears my tears returns no more : 
 
 Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep ?— 
 Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore, 
 
 I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 
 10. 
 But that which keepeth us apart is not 
 
 Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earthj 
 But the distraction of a various lot. 
 
 As various as the climates of our birth. 
 
 11. 
 
 A stranger loves the lady of the land. 
 
 Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood 
 
 Is aU meridian, as if never fann'd 
 
 By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. 
 
 12. 
 
 My blood is all meridian; were it not, 
 I had not left my clime, nor should I be, 
 
 In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, 
 A slave again of love, — at least of thee. 
 
 13. 
 
 'T is vain to struggle — let me perish young — 
 Live as I lived, and love as I have loved ; 
 
 To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, 
 And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. 
 
 June, 1819. 
 
 SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, 
 
 ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD's 
 FORFEITURE. 
 
 To be the father of the fatherless. 
 
 To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise 
 
 His offspring, who expired in other days 
 To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less, — 
 This is to be a monarch, and repress 
 
 Envy into unutterable praise. 
 
 Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits. 
 For who would Uft a hand, except to bless ? 
 
 Were it not easy, sire ? and is 't not sweet 
 
 To make thyself beloved ? and to be 
 Omnipotent by mercy's means ? for thus 
 
 Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete, 
 A despot thou, and yet thy people free, 
 
 And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 
 
 Augua, 1819. 
 
 The CouDtes« Guiccioll. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 485 
 
 FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE, 
 CANTO FIFTH. 
 
 " The land where I was bom sits by the seas, 
 
 Upon that shore to which the Po descends. 
 
 With all his followers, in search of peace. 
 Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, 
 
 Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en 
 
 From me, and me even yet the mode offends. 
 Love, who to none beloved to love again 
 
 Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, 
 
 That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 
 Love to one death conducted us along. 
 
 But Caina waits for him our life who ended :" 
 
 These were the accents utter'd by her tongue. 
 
 Since first I listened to these souls offended, 
 
 I boVd my visage and so kept it till — 
 
 C then ) J 
 
 « What think'st thou?" said the bard ; } when S 
 unbended. 
 And recommenced : " Alas ! unto such ill 
 
 How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies 
 
 Led these their evil fortune to fulfil !" 
 And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes. 
 
 And said, " Francesca, thy sad destinies 
 
 Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 
 But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs. 
 
 By what and how thy love to passion rose, 
 
 So as his dim desires to recognise ?" 
 Then she to me : " The greatest of all woea 
 < recall to mind ) 
 
 Is to \ remind us of J our happy days 
 ^ this i 
 
 In misery, and ( tliat > thy teacher knows. 
 But if to learn our passion's first root preys 
 
 Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 
 ^ relate ) 
 
 1 will \ do* even 5 as he who weeps and says. 
 
 We read one day for pastime, seated nigh. 
 
 Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too. 
 
 We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. 
 But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 
 
 All o'er discolour'd by Uiat reading were ; 
 
 ( overthrew > 
 
 But one point only wholly ( us o'erthrew ; > 
 i desired ) 
 
 When we read the ( long-sighed for ) smile of her, 
 < a fervent \ 
 
 To be thus kiss'd by such \ devoted J lover. 
 
 He who from me can be divided ne'er 
 Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over. 
 
 Accursed was the book and he who wrote I 
 
 That day no further leaf we did uncover. 
 
 While thus one spirit told us of their lot. 
 
 The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 
 
 I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote, 
 And fell down even as a dead body falls." 
 
 March, 1820. 
 
 THE IRISH AVATAR.j 
 
 1. 
 
 Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, 
 And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, 
 
 Lo ! George the triumphant speeds over the wave. 
 To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like his — 
 bride. 
 
 • In some of the editions, it is" diro," in others " faro;"— an essential 
 difference between "saying" and " doing," which I know not how to 
 decide. Ask Fnscolo. The d— d editions drive me road. 
 
 t On the King's risit to Ireland io 1821. 
 
 2. 
 True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, 
 
 The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause 
 For the few litde years, out of centuries won, 
 
 Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her 
 cause. 
 
 3. 
 
 True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, 
 The castle still stands, and the senate 's no more. 
 
 And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags 
 Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. 
 
 4. 
 
 To her desolate shore — where the emigrant stands 
 For a moment to gaze ere he flies fi-ora his hearth , 
 
 Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands, 
 For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth. 
 
 5. 
 
 But he comes ! the Messiah of royalty comes ! 
 
 Like a goodly Leviathan roU'd from the waves ! 
 Then receive him as best such an advent becomes. 
 
 With a legion of cooks and an army of slaves ! 
 
 He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, 
 To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part — 
 
 But long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er ! 
 Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to hxsheartl 
 
 7. 
 Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, 
 
 And a new spring of noble affections arise — 
 Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain, 
 
 And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies. 
 
 8. 
 Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now ! 
 
 Were he God — as he is but the commonest clay. 
 With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow — 
 
 Such servile devotion might shame him away. 
 
 Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash 
 Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride — 
 
 Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash 
 His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. 
 
 10. 
 Ever glorious Grattan I the best of the good ! 
 
 So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest I 
 With all which Demosthenes wanted endued, 
 
 And his rived or victor in all he possess'd. 
 
 11. 
 
 Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, 
 
 Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun — 
 But Grattan sprung up like a God from the tomb 
 
 Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one I 
 
 12. 
 
 With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute ; 
 
 With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind ; 
 Even Tyrarmy listening sate melted or mute, [mind. 
 
 And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of his 
 
 13. 
 
 But back to our theme ! Back to despots and slaves ! 
 
 Feasts furnish'd by Famine ! rejoicings by Pain ! 
 True Freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raveSf 
 
 When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain. 
 
 14. 
 
 Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford 
 (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) 
 
 Gild over the palace. Lo! Erin, thy lord I 
 Kiss his foot with thy blessing for blessings denied. 
 
486 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 15. 
 
 Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, 
 
 If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay, 
 Must what terror or policy •OTing forth be class'd 
 
 With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield 
 their prey ? 
 
 16. 
 Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reigTi, — 
 
 To reign! in that word see, ye ages, comprised 
 The cause of the curses all annals contain. 
 
 From Coesar the dreaded to George the despised 
 
 17. 
 
 Wear, Fingal, thy trappings ! O'Connell, proclaim 
 His accomplishments ! His ! ! ! and thy country con- 
 vince 
 
 Half an age's contempt was an error of fame, 
 
 And that ''Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young 
 
 prmce I 
 
 18. 
 
 Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall 
 The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs? 
 
 Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all 
 
 The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns ? 
 
 19. 
 Ay ! " build him a dwelling !" let each give his mite ! 
 
 Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen ! 
 Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite — 
 
 And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison ! 
 
 20. 
 Spread — spread, for Vitellius, tlie royal repast. 
 
 Till the gluttonous despot be stufTd to the gorge ! 
 And the roar of his drunkards proclaims him at last 
 
 The Fourth of the fools and oppressors cail'd " George !'' 
 
 21. 
 
 Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan ! 
 
 Till they groan like thy people, through ages of wo! 
 Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, 
 
 Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has 
 to flow. 
 
 22. 
 But let not his name be thine idol alone — 
 
 On his right hemd behold a Sejanus appears ! 
 Thine own Casdereagh! let him still be thine own ! 
 
 A wretch, never named but with curses and jeers, 
 
 23. 
 Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth. 
 
 Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil. 
 Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her earth. 
 
 And for murder repays him with shoute and a smile 
 
 24. 
 Without one single ray of her genius, without 
 
 The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race — 
 The miscreant w^ho well might plunge Erin in doubt 
 
 If she ever gave birth to a being so base, 
 
 25. 
 If she did — let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, 
 
 TVhich proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring — 
 See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd. 
 
 Still warming its folds in the breast of a king ! 
 
 26. 
 Shout, drink, feast, and flatter ! On ! Erin, how low 
 
 Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tvranny, till 
 Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below 
 
 The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still. 
 
 27. 
 My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right. 
 
 My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free. 
 This hand, though but feeble, would arm, in thy fight. 
 And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for 
 thee' 
 
 28. 
 Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land, 
 
 I have knowTi noble hearts and great souls in thy sons, 
 And 1 wept with the world o'er the patriot band 
 
 Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once. 
 
 29. 
 For happy are they now reposing afar, — 
 
 Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all 
 Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, 
 
 And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. 
 
 30. 
 Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves ! 
 
 Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day, — 
 Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves 
 
 Be stamp'd in tlie turf o'er their fetterless clay. 
 
 31. 
 
 TUl now I had envied thy sons and their shore. 
 
 Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled 
 
 There was something so warm and sublime in the core 
 Of an Irishman's heart, tliat I envy — thy dead. 
 
 32. 
 Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour 
 
 My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, 
 Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon 
 power, 
 'T is the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore. 
 
 Stptemberim, IBI21. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 TO HER WHO BEST CAN UNDERSTAND THEM. 
 
 Be it so ! we part for ever ! 
 
 Let the past as nothing be ; — 
 Had I only loved thee, never 
 
 Hadst thou been thus dear to me. 
 
 Had I loved and thus been slighted, 
 That I better could have borne ; — 
 
 Love is quelled, when unrequited, 
 By the rising pulse of scorn. 
 
 Pride may cool what passion heated. 
 Time will tame the wavward will; 
 
 But the heart in friendship cheated 
 
 Throbs with wo's most maddening thrill. 
 
 Had I loved, I now might hate thee, 
 
 In that hatred solace seek. 
 Might exult to execrate thee. 
 
 And, in words, ray vengeance wreak. 
 
 But there is a silent sorrow. 
 
 Which can find no vent in speech, 
 
 Which disdains relief to borrow 
 From the heights that song can reach. 
 
 Like a clankless chain enthralling, — 
 Like the sleepless dreams that mock, — 
 
 Like the frigid ice-drops falling 
 From the surf-surrounded rock. 
 
 Such the cold and sickening feeling 
 Thou hast caused this heart to know, 
 
 Stabbed the deeper by concealing 
 From the world its bitter wo. 
 
 Once it fondly, proudly, deemed thee 
 All that fancy's self could paint, 
 
 Once it honoured and esteemed thee, 
 As its idol and its saint ! 
 
POEMS/ 
 
 487 
 
 More than woman thou wast to me ; 
 
 Not as man I looked on thee ; — 
 Why like woman then imdo me! 
 
 Why " heap man's worst curse on me.'' 
 
 Wast thou but a fiend, assuming 
 
 Friendship's smile, and woman's art, 
 
 And, in borrow'd beauty blooming, 
 Trifling with a trusted heart ! 
 
 By that eye which once could glisten 
 With opposing glance to me ; 
 By that ear which once could listen 
 To each tale I told to thee ; — 
 
 By that lip, its smile bestowing, 
 
 Which could soften sorrow's gush ; — 
 
 By that cheek, once brightly glowing 
 
 With pure friendship's well-feigned blush j 
 
 By all those false charms united, — 
 Thou hast wrought thy wanton will, 
 
 And, without compunction, blighted 
 What " thou wouldst not kindly kill," 
 
 Yet I curse thee not in sadness, 
 Still, I feel how dear thou wert ; 
 
 Oh ! I could not — e'en in madness- 
 Doom thee to thy just desert! 
 
 Live ! and when my life is over, 
 Should thine own be lengthened long, 
 
 Thou may'st then, too late, discover 
 By thy feelings, all my wrong. 
 
 When thy beauties all are faded, — 
 When thy flatterers fawn no more, — 
 
 Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded 
 Some regardless reptile's store,— 
 
 Ere that hour, false syren, hear me ! 
 
 Thou may'st feel what I do now. 
 While my spirit, hovering near thee, 
 
 Whispers friendship's broken vow. 
 
 But — 'tis useless to upbraid thee 
 
 With thy past or present state ; 
 What thou wast, my fancy made thee, 
 
 What thou art, I know too late. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA. 
 
 December, 1S21. 
 1. 
 On, talk not to me of a name great in story ; 
 The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
 And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
 Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 
 
 What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 
 
 wrinkled ? 
 T is but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled. 
 Then away with all such from the head that is hoary ! 
 What care I for the wreaths that can ordy give glory ? 
 
 3. 
 Oh Fame ! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
 'T was less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases. 
 Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
 She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 
 
 4. 
 There chiefly I sought thee, time only I found thee ; 
 Her glance was the best of the rays tihat surround thee; 
 Wh6n it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
 [ knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 
 
 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 ON LADY BLESSINGTON EXPRESSING HER INTENTION OP 
 
 TAKING THE VILLA CALLED "iL PARADISO," 
 
 NEAR GENOA. 
 
 Beneath Blessington's eyes 
 
 The reclaim'd Paradise 
 Should be free as the former from evil ; 
 
 But if the new Eve 
 
 For an apple should grieve, 
 What mortal would not play the Devil ?* 
 
 April, 1823. 
 
 TO THE COUNTESS OP BLESSINGTON. 
 
 1. 
 
 Yotr have ask'd for a verse : — the request 
 In a rhymer 't were strange to deny ; 
 
 But my Hippocrene was but my breast. 
 And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. 
 
 2. 
 Were I now as I was, I had sung 
 
 What Lawrence has painted so well ; 
 But the strain would expire on my tongue, 
 
 And the theme is too soft for my shell. 
 
 3. 
 
 I am ashes where once I was fire, 
 And the bard in my bosom is dead ; 
 
 What I loved I now merely admire, 
 And my heart is as gray as my head. 
 
 4. 
 
 My life is not dated by years — 
 
 There are moments which act as a plough, 
 And there is not a fuiTow appears 
 
 But is deep in my soul as my brow. 
 
 5. 
 
 Let the young and the brilliant aspire 
 
 To sing what I gaze on in vain ; 
 For sorrow has torn from my lyre 
 
 The string which was worthy the strain. 
 
 April, 1823. 
 
 ,1834. 
 
 ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 
 SIXTH YEAR. 
 
 Missolonghi, Jan. 
 I. 
 
 'T IS time this heart should be unmoved. 
 
 Since others it hath ceased to move! 
 Yet, though I cemnot be beloved, 
 Still let me love! 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf; 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone'; 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief 
 Are mine alone ! 
 
 * The Genoese wits had already applied thit threadbare jest to him 
 self. Taking it into their heads that this rilla had been fixed on for hi* 
 own residence, theysaid, "IlDiavolo e ancoraentratoin Paradiso." 
 
 Moore. 
 
488 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 3. 
 
 The fire that on my bosom preys 
 Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze— 
 A funeral pile ! 
 
 4. 
 The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 
 
 The exalted portion of the pain 
 And power of love, I cannot share, 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 't is not thus — and 't is not here — 
 
 Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor Ttow, 
 Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field, 
 Glory and Greece around me see ! 
 The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
 Was not more free. 
 
 Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake!) 
 
 Awake, my spirit I Think through whom 
 Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, 
 And then strike home ! 
 
 Tread those reviving passions down, 
 
 Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 
 Indifferent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 If thou regret' St thy youth, vbhy live: 
 
 The land of honourable death 
 
 Is here : — up to the field, and give 
 
 Away thy breath ! 
 
 10. 
 
 Seek out — less often sought than found— 
 
 A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
 Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
 And take thy rest. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING POEMS FROM MANUSCRIPTS COLLECTED AFTER THE DEATH 
 OF LORD BYRON WERE FIRST PUBLISHED IN LONDON IN 1833. 
 
 TO A LADY WHO PRESENTED THE AU- 
 THOR WITH THE VELVET BAND WHICH 
 BOUND HER TRESSES. 
 
 This Band, which bound thy yellow hair, 
 Is mine, sweet girl ! thy pledge of love? 
 
 It claims my warmest, dearest care, 
 Like relics left of saints above. 
 
 Oh ! I will wear it next my heart , 
 
 'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee ; 
 From me again 't will ne'er depart, 
 But mingle in the grave with me. 
 
 The dew I gather from thy lip 
 
 Is not so dear to me as this ; 
 Thatl but for a moment sip, 
 
 And banquet on a transient bliss : 
 
 This wiU recall each youthful scene, 
 E'en when our lives are on the wane ; 
 
 The leaves of Love will still be green 
 When Memory bids them bud again. 
 
 Oh ! little lock of golden hue, 
 
 In gently waving ringlet curl'd, 
 By the dear head on which you grew, 
 
 I would not lose you for a world. 
 
 Not though a thousand more adorn 
 
 The polish'd brow where once you shone, 
 
 Like rays which gild a cloudless mom, 
 Beneath Columbia's fervid zone. 
 
 1806. 
 
 REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 'T is done ! — I saw it in my dreams : 
 
 No more with Hope the future beams ; 
 My days of happiness are few : 
 
 Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast, 
 
 My dawn of life is overcast ; 
 Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu : — 
 Would I could add Remembrance too. 
 
 1806. 
 
 THE ADIEU. 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AU- 
 THOR VTOULD SOON DIE. 
 
 Adieu, thou Hill !* where early joy 
 
 Spread roses o'er my brow ; 
 Where Science seeks each loitering boy 
 
 With knowledge to endow. 
 Adieu my youthful friends or foes, 
 Partners of former bliss or woes ; 
 
 No more through Ida's paths we stray ; 
 Soon must I share the gloomy cell. 
 Whose ever slumbering inmates dwell 
 
 Unconscious of the day. 
 
 Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, 
 
 Ye spires of Granta's vale, 
 Where Learning robed in sable reigns, 
 
 And Melancholy pale. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 489 
 
 Ye comrades of the jovial hour, 
 
 To humble in the dust my face, 
 
 Ye tenants of the classic bower, 
 
 And mingle with the dead. 
 
 On Cama's verdant margin placed, 
 
 
 Adieu ! while memory still is mine, 
 
 Oh Fame ! thou goddess of my heart ; 
 
 For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine, 
 
 On him who gains thy praise, 
 
 These scenes must be effaced. 
 
 Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, 
 
 
 Consumed in Glory's blaze ; 
 
 Adieu, ye rnountains of the clime 
 
 But me she beckons from the earth, 
 
 Where grew my youthful years ; 
 
 My name obscure, unmark'd my birth, 
 
 Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime 
 
 My life a short and vulgar dream : 
 
 His giant summit rears. 
 
 Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, 
 
 Why did my childhood wander forth 
 
 My hopes recline within a shroud, 
 
 From you, ye regions of the North, 
 
 My fate is Lethe's stream. 
 
 With sons of pride to roam ? 
 
 
 Why did I quit my Highland cave, 
 
 When I repose beneath the sod, 
 
 Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, 
 
 Unheeded in the clay. 
 
 To seek a Sotheroa home ? 
 
 Where once my playful footsteps trod. 
 
 Hall of my Sires !* a long farewell — 
 
 Yet why to thee adieu ? 
 Thy vaults will echo back my knell. 
 
 Thy towers my tomb will view : 
 The faltering tongue which sung thy fall. 
 And former glories of thy Hall 
 
 Forgets its wonted simple note — 
 But yet the Lyre retains the strings. 
 And sometimes on -Eolian wings, 
 
 In dying strains may float. 
 
 Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, 
 
 While yet I linger here, 
 Adieu ! you are not now forgot. 
 
 To retrospection dear. 
 Streamlet If along whose rippling surge, 
 My youthful limbs were wont to urge 
 
 At noontide heat their pliant course ; 
 Plunging with ardour from the shore, 
 Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, 
 
 Deprived of active force. 
 
 And shall I here forget the scene. 
 
 Still nearest to my breast ? 
 Rocks rise, and rivers roll between 
 
 The spot which passion blest ; 
 Yet, Mary,J all thy beauties seem 
 Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, 
 
 To me in smiles display'd ; 
 Till slow disease resigns his prey 
 To Death, the parent of decay, 
 
 Thine image cannot fade. 
 
 And thou, my Friend !§ whose gentle love 
 
 Yet thrills my bosom's chords, 
 How much thy friendship was above 
 
 Description's power of words ! 
 Still near my breast thy gift I wear, 
 Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear. 
 
 Of Love the pure, the sacred gem ; 
 Our souls were equal, and our lot 
 In that dear moment quite forgot 5 
 
 Let pride alone condemn! 
 
 All, all, is dark and cheerless now ! 
 
 No smile of Love's deceit. 
 Can warm my veins with wonted glow, 
 
 Can bid Life's pulses beat : 
 Not e'en the hope of future fame 
 Can wake my faint, exhausted frame. 
 
 Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. 
 Mine is a short inglorious race, — 
 
 * Newstead. 
 t The river Grete, 
 i Mary Duff. 
 § £ddlestone. 
 
 Where now my head must lay ; 
 The meed of Pity will be shed 
 In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed, 
 
 By nightly skies and storms alone ; 
 No mortal eye will deign to steep 
 With tears the dark sepulchral deep 
 
 Which hides a name unknown. 
 
 Forget this world, my restless sprite, 
 
 Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven : 
 There must thou soon direct thy flight, 
 
 If en-ors are forgiven. 
 To bigots and to sects unknown, 
 Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne 
 
 To Him address thy trembling prayer 
 He, who is merciful and just, 
 Will not reject a child of dust, 
 
 Although his meanest care. 
 
 Father of Light ! to Thee I call,* 
 
 My soul is dark within : 
 Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall. 
 
 Avert the death of sin. 
 Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, 
 Who calm'st the elemental war. 
 
 Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 
 My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive : 
 And, since I soon must cease to live. 
 
 Instruct me how to die. 
 
 1807. 
 
 TO A VAIN LADY. 
 
 Ah, heedless girl ! why thus disclose 
 What ne'er was meant for other ears ? 
 
 Why thus destroy thine own repose 
 And dig the source of future tears ; 
 
 Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid. 
 While lurking envious foes will smile 
 
 For all the follies thou hast said 
 Of those who spoke but to beguile. 
 
 Vain girl ! thy ling' ring woes are nigh, 
 If thou believ'st what striplings say : 
 
 Oh, from the deep temptation fly. 
 Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. 
 
 Dost thou repeat, in childish boast. 
 The words man utters to deceive ? 
 
 Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost, 
 If thou canst venture to believe. 
 
 See Prayer of Nature, page 473. 
 
 3M 
 
490 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 While now amongst thy female peers 
 Thou tell'st again the soothing tale 
 
 Canst thou not mark the rising sneers 
 Duplicity in vain would veil ? . 
 
 These tales in secret silence hush. 
 Nor make thyself the public gaze: 
 
 What modest maid without a blush 
 
 Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise ? 
 
 Will not the laughing boy despise 
 Her who relates each fond conceit— 
 
 Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes, 
 Yet cannot see the slight deceit ? 
 
 For she who takes a soft delight 
 
 These amorous nothings in revealing, 
 
 Must credit all we say or write, _ 
 While vanity prevents concealing. 
 
 Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign ! 
 
 No jealousy bids me reprove : 
 One, who is thus from nature vain, 
 
 I pity, but I cannot love. 
 
 January 15, ISQI, 
 
 TO ANNE. 
 
 that the Fates have de- 
 
 Oh, Anne ! your offences to me have been grievous ; 
 
 l' thought from my wrath no atonement could save 
 you ; 
 But woman is made to command and deceive us — 
 
 I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. 
 
 I vowed I could ne'er for a moment respect you. 
 Yet thought that a day's separation was long : 
 
 When we met, I determined again to suspect you — 
 Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong, 
 
 I swore, in a transport of young indignation, 
 With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you : 
 
 I saw you — my anger became admiration ; 
 And now, all my wish, all my hope,'s to regain you. 
 
 With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention ! 
 
 Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you ;— 
 At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension. 
 
 Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore 
 
 ^°" ■ Janiuiry 16, 1807. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 Oh say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed 
 The heart which adores you should wish to dissever ; 
 
 Such Fates weie to me most unkind ones indeed,— 
 To bear me from love and from beauty for ever. 
 
 Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone 
 Could bid me from fond admiration refrain ; 
 
 By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown, 
 Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. 
 
 As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined. 
 The rage of the tempest united must weather, 
 
 My love and ray life were by nature design'd 
 To flourish alike, or to perish together. 
 
 Then say not, sweet Anrie, 
 creed, 
 
 Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu ; 
 
 Till Fate can ordain that this bosom shall bleed 
 
 His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 
 
 1807» 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING, 
 
 " ' SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, ' AND YET NO TEAR.' » 
 
 Thy verse is " sad"'enough, no doubt ; 
 
 A devilish deal more sad than witty 1 
 Why we should weep I can 't find out, 
 
 Unless for thee we weep in pity. 
 
 Yet there is one I pity more •, 
 
 And much, alas ! 1 think he needs it : 
 
 For he, I 'm sure, will suffer sore. 
 Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. 
 
 Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, 
 
 May 07ice be read — but never after ; 
 
 Yet their effect 's by no means tragic, 
 
 Although by far too dull for laughter. 
 
 But would you make our bosoms bleed. 
 And of no common pang complain — 
 
 If you would make us weep indeed. 
 Tell us, you '11 read them o'er again. 
 
 March 8,1S01. 
 
 ON FINDING A FAN. 
 
 In one who felt as once he felt. 
 
 This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame ; 
 But now his heart no more will melt, 
 
 Because that heart is not the same. 
 
 As when the ebbing flames are low. 
 
 The aid which once improved their light 
 
 And bade them burn with fiercer glow. 
 Now quenches all their blaze in night. 
 
 Thus has it been with passion's fires — 
 As many a boy and girl remembers — 
 
 While every hope of love expires, 
 Extingaish'd with the dying embers. 
 
 Thejirst though not a spark survive. 
 Some careful hand may teach to burn ; 
 
 The last, alas ! can ne'er survive ; 
 No touch can bid its warmth return. 
 
 Or, if it chance to wake again. 
 
 Not always doomed its heat to smother, 
 It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) 
 
 Its former warmth around another. 
 
 1807. 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 
 
 Thou Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's 
 days. 
 
 Young offspring of Fancy, 'f is time we should part ; 
 Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays. 
 
 The coldest efl'usion which springs from my heart 
 
POEMS. 
 
 491 
 
 This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, 
 
 Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing ; 
 
 The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, 
 Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 
 
 Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, 
 Yet even these themes are departed for ever ; 
 
 No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire. 
 My visions are flown, to return, — alas, never ! 
 
 When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, 
 How vain is the effort delight to prolong ! 
 
 When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, 
 What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song ? 
 
 Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, 
 
 Of kisses and smiles v/hich they now must resign ? 
 
 Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown ? 
 Ah, no ! for those hours can no longer be mine. 
 
 Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love ? 
 
 Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain ! 
 But how can my numbers in sympathy move, 
 
 When I scarcely can hope to behold them again ? 
 
 Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers hg,ve done, 
 And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires ? 
 
 For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone ! 
 For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires ! 
 
 Untouched then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast — 
 'T is hush'd ; and my feeble endeavours are o'er ; 
 
 And those who have heard it will pardon the past. 
 When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no 
 
 And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot. 
 
 Since early affection and love is o'ercast ; 
 Oh ! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot. 
 
 Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last. 
 Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er 
 meet; 
 
 If our songs have been languid, they surely are few : 
 Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet — 
 
 The present — which seals our eternal Adieu. 
 
 1807. 
 
 TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.* 
 
 Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, 
 I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 
 
 That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, 
 And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 
 
 Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, 
 On the land of my fathers I reared thee with pride , 
 
 They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, — 
 Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. 
 
 I left thee, my Oak, and since that fatal hour, 
 A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire ; 
 
 Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power. 
 But his whose neglect may have made thee expire, 
 
 Oh ! hardy thou wert — even now little care 
 Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently 
 heal; 
 
 But thou wert not fated affection to share — 
 For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel ? 
 
 Ah, droop not, my Oak ! lift thy head for a while ; 
 
 Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, 
 The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, 
 
 When Infancy's years of probation are done. 
 
 Oh, live then, my Oak ! tow'r aloft from the weeds, 
 That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, 
 
 For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds. 
 
 And still may thy branches their beauty display. 
 
 Oh ! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, 
 Though / shall lie low in the cavern of death, 
 
 On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, 
 Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. 
 
 For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave 
 O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid ; 
 
 While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, 
 The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. 
 
 And as he with his boys shall revisit this spot. 
 He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. 
 
 Oh ! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot : 
 Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. 
 
 And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, 
 Perhaps he has poured forth his young simple lay, 
 
 And here must he sleep, till the moments of time 
 Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 
 
 1807. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 ON HEARING THAT LADY BTRON WAS ILL.* 
 
 And thou wert sad — yet I was not with thee ; 
 
 And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near ; 
 Methought that joy and health alone could be 
 
 Where I was not — and pain and sorrow here ! 
 And is it thus ? — it is as I foretold. 
 
 And shall be more so ; for the mind recoils 
 Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold. 
 
 While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. 
 It is not in the storm nor in the strife 
 
 We feel benumb'd and wish to be no more, 
 
 But in the after-silence on the shore. 
 When all is lost, except a little life. 
 
 I am too well avenged ! — but 't was my right ; 
 
 Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent 
 To be the Nemesis who should requite — 
 
 Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. 
 
 Mercy is for the merciful ! — If thou 
 
 Hast been of such, 't will be accorded now. 
 
 Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep !— 
 
 Yes ! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel 
 
 A hollow agony which, will not heal. 
 For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep ; 
 Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 
 
 The bitter harvest in a woe as real ! 
 I have had many foes, but none like thee ; 
 
 For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend, 
 
 And be avenged, or turn them into friend ; 
 But thou in safe implacability 
 
 Hadst nought to dread — in thy own weakness shielded, 
 And in my love, which hath but too much yielded. 
 
 ' See Fragment, page 473. 
 
 • See Fragment, page 484. 
 
492 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare— 
 
 A formal paction 
 
 And thus upon the world— trust in thy trulh— 
 
 That cilrbs his reigu, 
 
 And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth— 
 
 Obscures his glory. 
 
 On things that were not, and on things that are- 
 
 Despot no more, he 
 
 Even upon such a basis hast thou built 
 
 Such territory 
 
 A monument, whose cement hath been guilt ! 
 
 Q,uits with disdain. 
 
 The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord. 
 
 Still, still advancing, 
 
 And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword, 
 
 With banners glancing, 
 
 Fame, peace, and hope — and all the better life 
 
 His power enhancing. 
 
 Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, 
 
 He must move on — 
 
 Might still have risen from out the grave of strife, 
 
 Repose but cloys him. 
 
 And found a nobler duty than to part. 
 
 Retreat destroys him, 
 
 But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice, 
 
 Love brooks not a degraded throne. 
 
 Trafficking with them in a purpose cold, 
 
 
 For present anger, and for future gold — 
 
 IV. 
 
 And buying other's grief at any price. 
 
 Wait not, fond lover: 
 
 And thus once enter'd into crooked ways, 
 
 Till years are over, 
 
 The early truth, which was thy proper praise. 
 
 And then recover, 
 
 Did not still walk beside thee— but at times. 
 
 As from a dream. 
 
 And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, 
 
 While each bewailing 
 
 Deceit, averments incompatible. 
 
 The other's failing, 
 
 Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell 
 
 Widi wrath and railing 
 
 In Janus-spirits — the significant eye 
 
 All hideous seem — 
 
 Which learns to lie with silence — the pretext 
 
 While first decreasing. 
 
 Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd — 
 
 Yet not quite ceasing. 
 
 The acquiescence in all things which tend. 
 
 Wait not till teasing 
 
 No matter how, to the desired end— 
 
 All passion blight : 
 
 All found a place in thy philosophy. 
 
 If once diminish'd 
 
 The means were worthy, and the end is won— 
 
 Love's reign is finish'd — 
 
 I would not do by thee as thou hast done ! 
 
 Then part in friendship, — and bid good-night. 
 
 September, 1816 
 
 V. 
 
 
 So shall Affection, 
 
 
 
 To recollection 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 The dear connection ; 
 
 
 Bring back with joy : 
 
 "COULD LOVE FOR EVER." 
 
 You had not waited 
 
 
 Till, tired or hated. 
 
 I. 
 
 Your passions sated 
 
 CoiTLD Love for ever 
 
 Began to cloy. 
 
 Run like a river, 
 
 Your last embraces 
 
 And Time's endeavour 
 
 Leave no cold traces— 
 
 Be tried in vain — 
 
 The same fond faces 
 
 No other pleasure 
 
 As through the past ; 
 
 With this could measure ; 
 
 And eyes, the mirrors 
 
 And like a treasure 
 
 Of your sweet errors 
 
 We 'd hug the chain. 
 
 Reflect but rapture— not least though last. 
 
 But since our sighing 
 
 
 Ends not in dying. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And, form'd for flying, 
 
 True, separations 
 
 Love plumes his wing 5 
 
 Ask more than patience ; 
 
 Then for this reason 
 
 What desperations 
 
 Let 's love a season ; 
 
 From such have risen ! 
 
 But let that season be only Spring. 
 
 But yet remaining, 
 
 II. 
 
 What is 't but chaining 
 
 
 Hearts which, once waning, 
 
 When lovers parted 
 
 Beat 'gainst their prison 1 
 
 Feel broken-hearted 
 
 Time can but cloy love. 
 
 And all hopes thwarted, 
 
 And use destroy love : 
 
 Expect to die ; 
 
 The winged boy. Love, 
 
 A few years older. 
 
 Is but for boys — 
 
 Ah ! how much colder 
 
 You '11 find it torture 
 
 They might behold her 
 
 Though sharper, shorter, 
 
 For whom they sigh ! 
 
 To wean, and not wear out your joys. 
 
 When link'd together, 
 
 
 In every weather. 
 
 
 They pluck Love's feather 
 
 
 From out his wing — 
 He'll stay for ever, 
 
 STANZAS: 
 
 But sadly shiver 
 Without his plumage, when past the Spring. 
 
 TO A HINDOO AIR 
 
 
 Oh ! — my lonely— lonely — lonely— Pillow '. 
 
 m. 
 
 Where is my lover ? where is my lover ? 
 
 Like Chiefs of Faction, 
 
 Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover ? 
 
 His life is action — 
 
 Far— far away ! and alone along the billow ? 
 
POEMS. 
 
 493 
 
 Oh! my lonely — ^lonely — lonely — Pillow! 
 Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay ? 
 How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, 
 And my head droops over thee like the willow. — 
 
 Oh ! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow ! 
 Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking, 
 In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking : 
 Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.— 
 
 Then if thou wilt — no more my lonely Pillow, 
 In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, 
 And then expire of the joy — but to behold him ! 
 Oh ! my lone bosom ! — oh ! my lonely Pillow.' 
 
 In the original manuscript of the first Canto of Childe 
 Harold's Pilgrimage were the following lines, for which 
 those to Inez, page 10, were substituted : 
 
 1. 
 
 Oh never talk again to me 
 
 Of northern climes and British ladies ; 
 It has not been your lot to see, 
 
 Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
 Although her eyes be not of blue, 
 
 Nor fair her locks, like English lasses, 
 How far its own expressive hue 
 
 The languid azure eye surpasses ! 
 
 2. 
 
 Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 
 
 The fire, that through those silken lashes ; 
 In darkest glances seems to roll, 
 
 From eyes that cannot hide their flashes : 
 And as along her bosom steal 
 
 In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses. 
 You 'd swear each clustering lock could feel. 
 
 And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 
 
 Our English maids are long to woo, 
 And frigid even in possession ; 
 
 And if their charms be fair to view, 
 Their lips are slow at Love's confession : 
 
 But bom beneath a brighter sun, 
 
 For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is, 
 
 And who, — when fondly, fairly won, — 
 Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz? 
 
 The Spanish maid is no coquette, 
 
 Nor joys to see a lover tremble. 
 And if she love, or if she hate. 
 
 Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
 Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 
 
 Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely; 
 And, though it will not bend to gold, 
 
 'T will love you long and love you dearly. 
 
 The Spanish girl that meets your love 
 
 Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial, 
 For every thought is bent to prove 
 
 Her passion in the hour of trial. 
 When thronging foemen menace Spain, 
 
 She dares the deed and shares the danger ; 
 And should her lover press the plain, 
 
 She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 
 
 And when, beneath the evening star. 
 
 She mingles in the gay Bolero, 
 Or sings to her attuned guitar 
 
 Of Christian knight or Moorish hero. 
 Or counts her beads with fairy hand 
 
 Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, 
 Or joins devotion's choral band. 
 
 To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd vesper. 
 
 7. 
 
 In each her charms the heart must move 
 
 Of all who venture to behold her ; 
 Then let not maids less fair reprove 
 
 Because her bosom is not colder : 
 Through many a clime 't is mine to roam 
 
 Where many a soft and melting maid is, 
 But none abroad, and few at home. 
 
 May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz. 
 
DON JUAN. 
 
 Difficile est proprie communia dicere. 
 
 HOR. Epist. ad. Pison. 
 Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more 
 Cakes and Ale?— Yes, by St. Anne ; and Ginger shall be hot i' the 
 monih,tjoo.— Twelfth Night ; or What you^ Will.— 
 
 SHAKSPEARE, 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 1 WANT a hero : — an uncommon want, 
 
 When every year and month sends forth a new one, 
 Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, 
 
 The age discovers he is not the true one ; 
 Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 
 
 I '11 therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan; 
 We all have seen him in the pantomime 
 Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 
 
 II. 
 Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, 
 
 Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne,Keppel, Howe, 
 Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk. 
 
 And fiU'd their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now ; 
 Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, 
 
 Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow: 
 France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier, 
 Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. 
 
 III. 
 
 Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, 
 Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, 
 
 Were French, and famous people, as we know ; 
 And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 
 
 Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Dessaix, Moreau, 
 With many of the military set, 
 
 Exceedingly remarkable at times. 
 
 But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Nelson was once Britannia's god of war, 
 And stiU should be so, but the tide is tum'd ; 
 
 There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 
 'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd ; 
 
 Because the army 's grown more popular, 
 At which the naval people are concem'd : 
 
 Besides, the prince is all for the land-service, 
 
 Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis. 
 
 V. 
 
 Brave men were living before Agamemnon, ^ 
 And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 
 
 A good deal like him too, though quite the same none, 
 But then they shone not on the poet's page. 
 
 And so have been forgotten : — I condemn none, 
 But can't find any in tlie present age 
 
 Fit for my poem, (diat is, for my new one ;) 
 
 So, as I said, I '11 take my friend Don Juan. 
 
 Most epic poets plunge in " medias res," 
 (Horace makes tliis the heroic turnpike road,^ 
 
 And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 
 What went before — by way of episode, 
 
 While seated after dinner at his ease, 
 Beside his mistress in some soft abode. 
 
 Palace or garden, paradise or cavern. 
 
 Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. 
 
 VII. 
 
 That is the usual method, but not mine — 
 My way is to begin with the beginning ; 
 
 The regularity of my design 
 Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, 
 
 And therefore I shall open with a line, 
 
 (Although it cost me half an hour in spinning,) 
 
 Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, 
 
 And also of his mother, if you 'd rather, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 In Seville was he born, a pleasant city, 
 Famous for oranges and women — he ■ 
 
 Who has not seen it will be much to pity, 
 So says the proverb — and I quite agree ; 
 
 Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 
 Cadiz perhaps, but that you soon may see:-— 
 
 Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 
 
 A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir. 
 
 IX. 
 
 His father's name was Jose — Don, of course 
 
 A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 
 Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 
 
 Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain ; 
 A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse. 
 
 Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, 
 Than Jose, who begot our hero, who 
 Begot — ^but that 's to come — Well, to renew : 
 
 X. 
 
 His mother was a learned lady, famed 
 
 For every branch of every science kno\vn— 
 
 In every Christian language ever named. 
 With virtues equalled by her wit alone, 
 
 She made the cleverest people quite ashamed. 
 And even the good with inward envy groan, 
 
 Finding themselves so very much exceeded 
 
 In their own way by all the things that she did. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart 
 All Calderon and greater part of Lope, 
 
 So that if any actor miss'd his part. 
 
 She could have served him for the prompter's copy ; 
 
 For her Feinagle's were an useless art, 
 And he himself obliged to shut up shop — he 
 
 Could never make a memory so fine as 
 
 That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez. 
 
496 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 Her favourite science was the mathematical, 
 Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, 
 
 Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, 
 Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity ; 
 
 In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 
 A prodigy — her morning dress was dimity, 
 
 Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, 
 
 And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 She knew the Latin— that is, " the Lord's prayer," 
 And Greek, the alphabet, I 'm nearly sure ; 
 
 She read some French romances here and there. 
 Although her mode of speaking was not pure: 
 
 For native Spanish she had no great care. 
 At least her conversation was obscure ; 
 
 Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem, 
 
 As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue, 
 And said there was analogy between 'em ; 
 
 She proved it somehow out of sacred song. 
 
 But I must leave the proofs to those who 've seen 'em : 
 
 But this I 've heard her say, and can't be wrong. 
 
 And all may think which way their judgments lean 'em, 
 
 '" 'Tis strange — the Hebrew noun which means ' I am,' 
 
 The English always use to govern d — n." 
 
 XV. 
 
 Some women use their tongues — she looked a lecture, 
 Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily, 
 
 An all-in-all sufficient self-director. 
 
 Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly, 
 
 The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector, 
 Whose suicide was almost an anomaly — 
 
 One sad example more, that " All is vanity," — 
 
 (The jury brought their verdict in " Insanity.") 
 
 xvi. 
 
 In short, she was a walking calculation, 
 
 Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers, 
 Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education. 
 
 Or " Coeleb's Wife" set out inquest of lovers, 
 Morality's prim personification, 
 
 In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers ; 
 To others' share let " female errors fall," 
 For she had not even one — the worst of all. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel — 
 Of any modem female saint's comparison; 
 
 So far above the cunning powers of hell, 
 
 Her guardian angel had given up his garrison ; 
 
 Even her minutest motions went as well 
 
 As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison 
 
 In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her. 
 
 Save thine " incomparable oil," Macassar ! ^ 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Perfect she was, but as perfection is 
 
 Insipid in this naughty world of ours, 
 Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss 
 
 Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers. 
 Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss, 
 
 (I wonder how they got through the tv^elve hours,) 
 Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve, 
 Went plucking various fruit without her leave. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 He was a mortal of the careless kind, 
 With no great love for learning, or the learn'd, 
 
 Who chose to go where'er he had a mind. 
 And never dream'd his lady was concem'd ; 
 
 The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
 To see a kingdom or a house o'ertum'd, 
 
 Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said tim^ 
 
 But for domestic quarrels one will do. 
 
 Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
 A great opinion of her own good qualities ; 
 
 Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it, 
 And such indeed she was in her moralities ; 
 
 But then she had a devil of a spirit. 
 And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities, 
 
 And let few opportunities escape 
 
 Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 This was an easy matter with a man 
 
 Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard ; 
 
 And even the wisest, do the best they can. 
 
 Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, 
 
 That you might " brain them with their lady's fan ;" 
 And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, 
 
 And fans turn into falchions in fair hands. 
 
 And why and wherefore no one understands. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 'T is pity learned virgins ever wed 
 With persons of no sort of education, 
 
 Or gentlemen who, though well-born and bred, 
 Grow tired of scientific conversation: 
 
 I do n't choose to say much upon this head, 
 I 'm a plain man, and in a single station, 
 
 But— oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual. 
 
 Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all ? 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd — why 
 
 Not any of the many could divine, 
 Though several thousand people chose to try, 
 
 'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine ; 
 I loathe that low vice curiosity ; 
 
 But if there 's any thing in which I shine, 
 'T is in arranging all my friend's affairs, 
 Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And so I interfered, and with the best 
 Intentions, but their treatment was not kind ; 
 
 I think the foolish people were possess'd, 
 For neither of them could I ever find, 
 
 Although their porter afterwards confess'd — 
 But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind. 
 
 For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, 
 
 A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing. 
 And mischief^making monkey from his birth ; 
 
 His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 
 Upon the most unquiet imp on earth ; 
 
 Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in 
 Their senses, they 'd have sent young maCster forth 
 
 To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home, 
 
 To teach him manners for the time to come. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Don Jose and the Donna Inez led 
 
 For some time an unhappy sort of life, 
 
 Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; 
 They lived respectably as man and wife. 
 
 Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred. 
 And gave no outward signs of inward strife, 
 
 Until at length the smother'd fire broke out, 
 
 And put the business past all kind of doubt. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians, 
 And tried to prove her loving lord was mouiy 
 But as he had some lucid intermissions. 
 
 She next decided he was only bad', 
 Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions. 
 
 No sort of explanation could be had, 
 j Save that her duty both to man and God 
 I Required this conduct — which seem'd very odd. 
 
Caivto I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 497 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 She kept a journal, where his faults were noted, 
 And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, 
 
 All which might, if occasion served, be quoted 5 
 And then she had all Seville for abettors, 
 
 Besides her good old grandmother, (who doted ;) 
 The hearers of her case became repeaters, 
 
 Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, 
 
 Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And then this best and meekest woman bore 
 With such serenity her husband's woes, 
 
 Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, 
 
 "Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose 
 
 Never to say a word about them more — 
 Calmly she heard each calumny that rose. 
 
 And saw his agonies with such sublimity, 
 
 That all the world exclaim'd, " What magnanimity !" 
 
 XXX. 
 
 No doubt, this patience, when the world is damning us, 
 
 Is philosophic in our former friends ; 
 'T is also pleasant to be deemed magnanimous, 
 
 The more so in obtaining our own ends ; 
 And what the lawyers call a " malus animus," 
 
 Conduct like this by no means comprehends ; 
 Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue, 
 But then 't is not my fault if others hurt you. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And if our quarrels should rip up old stories. 
 And help them with a lie or two additional, 
 
 / 'm not to blame, as you well know, no more is 
 Any one else — they were become traditional ; 
 
 Besides, their resurrection aids our glories 
 By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all ; 
 
 And science profits by this resurrection — 
 
 Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. 
 
 XXXII, 
 
 Their friends had tried at reconciliation, 
 
 Then their relations, who made matters worse ; 
 
 ('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion 
 To whom it may be best to have recourse — 
 
 I can't say much for friend or yet relation :) 
 The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, 
 
 But scarce a fee was paid on either side 
 
 Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 He died : and most unluckily, because. 
 
 According to all hints I could collect 
 From counsel learned in those kinds of laws, 
 
 (Although their talk 's obscure and circumspect,) 
 His death contrived to spoil a charming cause ; 
 
 A thousand pities also with respect 
 To public feeling, which on this occasion 
 Was manifested in a great sensation. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But ah ! he died ; and buried with him lay 
 The public feeling and the lawj'ers' fees : 
 
 His house was sold, his servants sent away, 
 A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 
 
 A priest the other — at least so they say : 
 I ask'd the doctors after his disease — 
 
 He died of the slow fever called the tertian, 
 
 And left his widow to her own aversion. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Yet Jose was an honourable man, 
 
 That I must say, who knew him very well ; 
 
 Therefore his frailties I '11 no further scan, 
 Indeed there were not many more to tell ; 
 
 And if his passions now and then outran 
 Discretion, and were not so peaceable 
 
 As Numa's, (who was also named Pompilius,) 
 
 He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious. 
 3 N 
 
 Xxxvi. 
 
 Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, 
 . Poor fellow ! he had many things to wound him, 
 Let 's own, since it can do no good on earth ; 
 
 It was a trying moment that which found him, 
 Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, 
 
 Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round him ; 
 No choice was left his feelings or his pride 
 Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he died. 
 
 xxxvii. 
 
 Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 
 
 To a chancery-suit, and messuages, and lands, 
 
 Which, with a long minority and care. 
 Promised to turn out well in proper hands : 
 
 Inez became sole guardian, which was fair. 
 And answer'd but to nature's just demands ; 
 
 An only son left with an only mother 
 
 Is brought up much more wisely than another. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Sagest of women, even of widows, she 
 Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon, 
 
 And worthy of the noblest pedigree, 
 
 (His sire was of Castile, his dam from Arragon:) 
 
 Then for accomplishments of chivalry, 
 In case our lord the king should go to war again. 
 
 He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, 
 
 And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery. 
 
 But that which Donna Inez most desired. 
 And saw into herself each day before all 
 
 The learned tutors whom for him she hired, 
 Was that his breeding should be strictly moral ; 
 
 Much into all his studies she inquired, 
 And so they were submitted first to her, all, 
 
 Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery 
 
 To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. 
 
 XL. 
 
 The languages, especially the dead, 
 
 The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, 
 
 The arts, at least all such as could be said 
 To be the most remote from common use. 
 
 In all these he was much and deeply read ; 
 But not a page of any thing that 's loose. 
 
 Or hints continuation of the species, 
 
 Was ever suffered, lest he should grow vicious. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 His classic studies made a little puzzle, 
 
 Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, 
 
 Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, 
 But never put on pantaloons or boddices ; 
 
 His reverend tutors had at times a tussle. 
 And for their ^neids, Iliads, and Odysseys, 
 
 Were forced to make an odd sort of apology. 
 
 For Donna Inez dreaded the mythology. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him ; 
 
 Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample ; 
 Catullus scarcely has a decent poem ; 
 
 I do n't think Sappho's Ode a good example. 
 Although 3 Longinus tells us there is no hymn 
 
 Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample ; 
 But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one 
 Beginning with " Formosum pastor Cory don J' 
 
 XLIII, 
 
 Lucretius' irreligion is too strong 
 
 For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food, 
 I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong. 
 
 Although no doubt his real intent was good, 
 For speaking out so plainly in his song. 
 
 So much indeed as to be downright rude ; 
 And then what proper person can be partial 
 To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial ? 
 
498 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto 1. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Juan was taught from out the best edition, 
 Expurgated by learned men, who place, 
 
 Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision, 
 The grosser parts ; but, fearful to deface 
 
 Too much their modest bard by this omission, 
 And pitying sore his mutilated case. 
 
 They only add them all in an appendix,* 
 
 Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index ; 
 
 XLV. 
 
 For there we have them all " at one fell swoop," 
 Instead of being scatter'd through the pages ; 
 
 They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop 
 To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 
 
 Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 
 
 To call them back into their separate cages. 
 
 Instead of standing staring altogether. 
 
 Like garden gods — and not so decent, either. 
 
 XLVI, 
 
 The Missal too (it was the family Missal) 
 
 Was ornamented in a sort of way 
 Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all 
 
 Kinds of grotesques illumined ; and how they 
 Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all. 
 
 Could turn their optics to the text and pray 
 Is more than 1 know — but Don Juan's mother 
 Kept this herself, and gave her son another. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 Sermons he read, and lectures he endured. 
 And homilies, and lives of all the saiuts ; 
 
 To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured, 
 
 He did not take such studies for restraints ; 
 
 But how faith is acquired, and llien insured, 
 So well not one of the aforesaid paints 
 
 As Saint Augustine, in his fine Confessions, 
 
 Which make the reader envy his transgressions. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan — 
 I can't but say that his mamma was right, 
 
 If such an education was the true one. 
 
 She scarcely trusted him from out her sight ; 
 
 Her maids were old, and if she took a new one 
 
 You might be sure she was a perfect fright ; 
 
 She did this during even her husband's life — 
 
 1 recommend as much to every wife. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace: 
 At six a charming child, and at eleven 
 
 With all the promise of as fine a face 
 
 As e'er to man's maturer growth was given : 
 
 He studied steadily and grew apace, 
 
 And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven ; 
 
 For ha'f his days were pass'd at church, the other 
 
 Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 
 
 I,. 
 
 At six, I said he was a charming child, 
 At twelve, he was a fine, but quiet boy ; 
 
 Although in infancy a litde wild, 
 
 They tamed him down among them : to destroy 
 
 His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd. 
 At least it seem'd so ; and his mother's joy 
 
 Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, 
 
 Her young philosopher was gro%\'n already. 
 
 LI. 
 
 I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still, 
 
 But what I say is neither here nor there ; 
 
 I knew his father well, and have some skill 
 
 In character — but it would not be fair 
 From sire to son to augur good or ill: 
 
 He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair- 
 But scandal 's my aversion — I protest 
 Against all evil speaking, even in jest. 
 
 For my part I say nothing — nothing — but 
 This I will say — my reasons are my own — 
 
 That if I had an only son to put 
 
 To school (as God be praised that I have none) 
 
 'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut 
 Him up to learn his catechism alone ; 
 
 No — no — I 'd send him out betimes to college, 
 
 For there it was I pick'd up my o%vn knowledge. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 For there one learns — 't is not for me to boast, 
 Though I acquired — but I pass over that, 
 
 As well as all the Greek I since have lost : 
 
 I say that there 's the place — but " Verbum sat." 
 
 I think I pick'd up, too, as well as most, 
 
 Kjiowledge of matters — but, no matter what— 
 
 I never married — but I think, I know. 
 
 That sons should not be educated so. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Young Juan now was sixteen years of age, 
 
 Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit ; he seem'd 
 
 Active, though not so sprightly, as a page ; 
 And every body but his mother deem'd 
 
 Him almost man; but she flew in a rage. 
 
 And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd) 
 
 If any said so, for to be precocious 
 
 Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Among her numerous acquaintance, all 
 
 Selected for discretion and devotion. 
 There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 
 
 Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 
 Of many charms, in her as natural 
 
 As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, 
 Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid, 
 (But this last simile is trite and stupid.) 
 
 LVI. 
 
 The darkness of her oriental eye 
 
 Accorded with her Moorish origin ; 
 (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; 
 
 In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) 
 When proud Grenada fell, and, forced to fly, 
 
 Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 
 Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 
 Her great-great-grandmamma chose to remain. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 She married (I forget the pedigree) 
 With an Hidalgo, who transmitted dov>n 
 
 His blood less noble than such blood should be; 
 At such alliances his sires would frown, 
 
 In that point so precise in each degree 
 
 That they bred in and in, as might be shown. 
 
 Marrying their cousins — nay, their aunts and nieces, 
 
 Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 
 Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh ; 
 
 For, from a root, the ugliest in Old Spain, 
 Sprung up a branch as beautiflil as fresh ; 
 
 The sons no more were short, the daughters plain : 
 But there 's a rumour which I fain would hush — 
 
 'T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 
 
 Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 However this might be, the race went on 
 Improving still through every generation, 
 
 Until it center'd in an only son. 
 
 Who left an only daughter ; my narration 
 
 May have suggested that this single one 
 Could be but Julia, (whom on this occasion 
 
 I shall have much to speak about,) and she 
 
 Was married, chai-ming, chaste, and twenty-three. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 499 
 
 Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes) 
 Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 
 
 Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise 
 Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 
 
 And love than either ; and there would arise 
 A something in them which was not desire, 
 
 But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 
 
 Which struggled through and chasten'd down the whole. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 
 
 Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth ; 
 
 Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow. 
 Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, 
 
 Mounting at times to a transparent glow, 
 As if her veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, 
 
 Possess'd an air and grace by no means common ; 
 
 Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Wedded she was some years, and to a man 
 Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty ; 
 
 And yet, I think, instead of such a one, 
 
 'T were better to have two of five-and-twenty ^ 
 
 Especially in countries near the sun : 
 
 And now I think on 't, " mi vien in mente," 
 
 Ladies, even of the most uneasy virtue. 
 
 Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. 
 
 I-XIII. 
 
 'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, 
 
 And all the fault of that indecent sun 
 Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, 
 
 But will keep baking, broiling, burning on, 
 That, howsoever people fast and pray, 
 
 The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone : 
 What men call gallantry, and gods adultery. 
 Is much more common where the climate 's sultry. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Happy the nations of the moral north ! 
 
 Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
 Sends sin without a rag on, shivering forth, 
 
 ('T was snow that brought St. Anthony to reason ;) 
 Where juries cast up what a wife is worth. 
 
 By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please on 
 The lover, who must pay a handsome price, 
 Because it is a marketable vice. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 
 
 A man well looking for his years, and who 
 
 Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd : 
 They lived together as most people do. 
 
 Suffering each others' foibles by accord, 
 And not exactly either one or two; 
 
 Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, 
 
 For jealousy dislikes the w^orld to know it. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Julia was — yet I never could see why — 
 With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend ; 
 
 Between their tastes their was small sympathy. 
 For not a line had Julia ever penn'd : 
 
 Some people whisper (but no doubt they lie, 
 For malice still imputes some private end) 
 
 That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, 
 
 Forgot with him her very prudent carriage ; 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 And that, still keeping up the old connexion. 
 
 Which time had lately render'd much more chaste. 
 
 She took his lady also in affection, 
 
 And certainly this course was much the best : 
 
 She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection, 
 And complimented Don Alfonso's taste ; 
 
 And if she could not (who can?) silence scandal, 
 
 At least she left it a more slender handle. 
 
 Lxviir. 
 
 I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 
 With other people's eyes, or if her own 
 
 Discoveries made, but none could be aware 
 Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown ; 
 
 Perhaps she did not know, or did not care. 
 Indifferent from the first or callous gro'vvn : 
 
 I 'm really puzzled what to think or say, 
 
 She kept her counsel in so close a way. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 
 
 Caress'd him often, such a thing might be 
 
 duite innocently done, and harmless styled 
 When she had twenty years, and thirteen he ; 
 
 But I am not so sure I should have smiled 
 When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-tiiree : 
 
 These few short years make wondrous alterations, 
 
 Particularly among sun-burnt nations. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Whate'er the cause might be, they had become 
 
 Changed ; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy, 
 
 Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, 
 And much embarrassment in either eye ; 
 
 There surely will be little doubt with some 
 That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 
 
 But as for Juan, he had no more notion 
 
 Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind. 
 
 And tremulously gentle her small hand 
 Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 
 
 A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 
 And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 
 
 T' was but a doubt ; but ne'er magician's wand 
 Wrought change with all Armida's fiery art 
 Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 And if she met him, though she smiled no more. 
 She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, 
 
 As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 
 
 She must not own, but cherish'd more the while, 
 
 For that compression in its burning core ; 
 Even innocence itself has m.any a wile, 
 
 And will not dare to trust itself with truth, 
 
 And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 
 Even by its darkness ; as the blackest sky 
 
 Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 
 Its workings through the vainly-guarded eye, 
 
 And in whatever aspect it arrays 
 Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy ; 
 
 Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate. 
 
 Are masks it often wears, and still too late. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, 
 And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, 
 
 And burning blushes, though for no transgression, 
 Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left: 
 
 All these are little preludes to possession, 
 Of Vv'hich young passion cannot be bereft, 
 
 And merely tend to show how greatly love is 
 
 Embarrass'd at first starting witli a novice. 
 
 LXXY. 
 
 Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state 
 She felt it going, and resolved to make 
 
 The noblest efforts for herself and mate. 
 For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake: 
 
 Her resolutions were most truly great, 
 
 And almost might have made a Tarquin quake — 
 
 She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace. 
 
 As being the best judge of a lady's case. 
 
 / 
 
500 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 txxvi. 
 
 She vow'd she never would see Juan more, 
 And next day paid a visit to his mother, 
 
 And look'd extremely at the opening door, 
 Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another ; 
 
 Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 
 Again it opens, it can be no other, 
 
 'T is surely Juan now — No I I 'm afraid 
 
 That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 She now determined that a virtuous woman 
 Should rather face and overcome temptation ; 
 
 That flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
 Should ever give her heart the least sensation, 
 
 That is to say a thought, beyond the common 
 Preference that we must feel upon occasion 
 
 For people who are pleasanter than others, 
 
 But then they only seem so many brothers. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 And even if by chance — and who can tell ? 
 
 The devil 's so very sly — she should discover 
 That all within was not so very well. 
 
 And if, still free, that such or such a lover 
 Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell 
 
 Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're over. 
 And, if the man should ask, 't is but denial. 
 I recommend young ladies to make trial. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 And then there are such things as love divine, 
 Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure, 
 
 Such as the angels think so very fine, 
 
 And matrons, who would be no less secure, 
 
 Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine ;" 
 Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sure, 
 
 And so I 'd have her think, were I the man 
 
 On whom her reveries celestial ran. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Such love is innocent, and may exist 
 
 Between young persons without any danger ; 
 
 A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd ; 
 For my part, to such doings I 'm a stranger, 
 
 But hear these freedoms for the utmost list . 
 Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger : 
 
 If people go beyond, 't is quite a crime, 
 
 But not my faull — I tell them all in time. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Love, then, but love within its proper limits, 
 
 Was Julia's innocent determination 
 In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its 
 
 Exertion might be useful on occasion ; 
 And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 
 
 Etherial lustre, with what sweet persuasion 
 He might be taught, by love and her together — 
 I really do n't know what, nor Julia either. 
 
 rxxxii. 
 
 Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced 
 
 In mail of proof— her purity of soul. 
 She, for the future, of her strength convinced. 
 
 And that her honour was a rock, or mole. 
 Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 
 
 With any kind of troublesome control. 
 But whether Julia to the task was equal 
 Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel. 
 
 rxxxixi. 
 
 Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible, 
 
 And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen 
 Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that 's seizable ; 
 
 Or, if they did so, satisfied to mean 
 Nothing but what was good, her breast was peaceable — 
 
 A quiet conscience makes one so serene ! 
 Christians have burned each other, quite persuaded 
 That all the apostles would have done as they did. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 And if, in the mean time, her husband died. 
 
 But heaven forbid that such a thought should cross 
 
 Her brain, though in a dream, (and then she sigh'd !) 
 Never could she survive that common loss ; 
 
 But just suppose that moment should betide, 
 I only say suppose it — inter nos 
 
 (This should be entre nous, for Julia thought 
 
 In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.) 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 I only say suppose this supposition : 
 
 Juan, being then grown up to man's estate, 
 
 Would fully suit a widow of condition ; 
 
 Even seven years hence it would not be too late ; 
 
 And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 
 The mischief, after all, could not be great, 
 
 For he would learn the rudiments of love, 
 
 I mean the seraph way of those above. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 So much for Julia. Now we '11 turn to Juan. 
 
 Poor little fellow ! he had no idea 
 Of his ovra case, and never hit the true one ; 
 
 In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, 
 He puzzled over what he found a new one. 
 
 But not as yet imagined it could be a 
 Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, 
 Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow, 
 His home deserted for the lonely wood, 
 
 Tormented with a wound he could not know. 
 His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude. 
 
 I 'm fond myself of solitude or so. 
 But then I beg it may be understood 
 
 By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 
 
 A hermit's, with a harem for a grot. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 " Oh love ! in such a wilderness as this. 
 Where transport and security entwine. 
 
 Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 
 And here thou art a god indeed divine." 
 
 The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,* 
 With the exception of the second line, 
 
 For that same twining " transport and security" 
 
 Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 
 To the good sense and senses of mankind, 
 
 The very thing which every body feels. 
 As all have found on trial, or may find. 
 
 That no one likes to be disturbed at meals 
 Or love : — I won't say more about "entwined" 
 
 Or " transport," as we know all that before, 
 
 But beg " security" will bolt the door. 
 
 xc. 
 Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks, 
 
 Thinking unutterable things : he threw 
 Himself at length within the leafy nooks 
 
 Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew ; 
 There poets find materials for their books, 
 
 And every now and then we read them through, 
 So that their plan and prosody are eligible. 
 Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 
 
 xci. 
 
 He, Juan, (and not Wordsworth,) so pursued 
 His self-communion with his own high soul, 
 
 Until his mighty heart, in its great mood. 
 Had mitigated part, though not the whole 
 
 Of its disease ; he did the best he could 
 With things not very subject to control, 
 
 And turn'd, without perceiving his condition, 
 
 Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 
 
H_E XHOITCHT 
 
 OT jvrA?; T 
 
 AKD MOW I n 
 
 HT\f<?EI.F. ASB TWE "VVJlOi.E JiARTH . 
 iia'.RPUl,. AND 03-- THE STARS. 
 
 MOW nil ijini, Tiii-;y TTVER coTiLij iiAVJi'. jn"RTTr-, 
 
 .N J ) I H 1 ■. Ill I 1 1 1 )\ 1 11 1 1 T Ol-' TJiRT H QH AKi; S , KN D OT WAR S 
 MAAY Mil. IS lllr. MOON JTIGIIT IIAV.K IN OUVni. 
 T ATU BAlXOo:0S.j\NJ) OF THl: MANY .IVAltS 
 ■KRJ-'KCT KNOWI.KDGr. (If XJrIi; BOU NJU.i: SS SKIKS: 
 MOTJTKN UK THOtTGIIT OP UON N.A .) IIJ.I A S KYKS. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 50i 
 
 He thought about himself, and the whole earth, 
 Of man, the wonderful, and of the stars, 
 
 And how the deuce they ever could have birth ; 
 And then he thought of earthquakes and of wars, 
 
 How many miles the moon might have in girth, 
 Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 
 
 To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies ; 
 
 And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 
 Longings sublime, and aspirations high, 
 
 Which some are bom with, but the most part learn 
 To plague themselves withal, they know not why : 
 
 'T was strange that one so young should thus concern 
 His brain about the action of the sky ; 
 
 Tfyou think 'twas philosophy that this did, 
 
 I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 
 
 xciv. 
 He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, 
 
 And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 
 He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, 
 
 And how the goddesses came down to men : 
 He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours, 
 
 And, when he looked upon his watch again, 
 He found how much old Time had been a winner- 
 He also found tliat he had lost his dirmer. 
 
 xcy. 
 Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book, 
 
 Boscan, or Garcilasso ; — by the wind 
 Even as the page is rustled while we look, 
 
 So by the poesy of his own mind 
 Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, 
 
 As if 't were one whereon magicians bind 
 Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, 
 According to some good old woman's tale. 
 
 xcvi. 
 Thus would he while his lonely hours away 
 
 Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted ; 
 Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay, 
 
 Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, — 
 A bosom whereon he his head might lay. 
 
 And hear the heart beat with the love it granted, 
 With — several other thmgs, which I forget, 
 Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 
 
 xcvii. 
 Those lonely walks and lengthening reveries 
 
 Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes ; 
 She saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 
 
 But that which chiefly may and must surprise. 
 Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 
 
 Her only son with question or surmise ; 
 Whether it was she did not see, or would not, 
 Or, like all very clever people, could not. 
 
 XCTIII. 
 
 This may seem strange, but yet 't is very common ; 
 
 For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take 
 Leave to o'erstep the \\Titten rights of woman. 
 
 And break the — which commandment is 't they break ? 
 (I have forgot the number, and think no man 
 
 Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) 
 I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous, 
 They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. 
 
 xcix. 
 A real husband always is suspicious, 
 
 But still no less suspects in the wrong place, 
 Jealous of some one who had no such wishes. 
 
 Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace, 
 By harbouring some -dear friend extremely vicious ; 
 
 The last indeed 's infallibly the case : 
 And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly, 
 He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 
 
 Thus parents also are at times shortsighted ; 
 
 Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover. 
 The while the wicked world beholds, delighted, 
 
 Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover, 
 Till some confounded escapade has blighted 
 
 The plan of twenty years, and all is over ; 
 And then the mother cries, the father swears. 
 And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 
 
 CI. 
 
 But Inez was so anxious, and so clear 
 
 Of sight, that I must think on this occasion. 
 
 She had some other motive much more near 
 For leaving Juan to this new temptation ; 
 
 But what that motive was, I shan't say here ; 
 Perhaps to finish Juan's education, 
 
 Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes. 
 
 In case he thought his wife too great a prize. 
 
 cii. 
 It was upon a day, a summer's day ; 
 
 Summer 's indeed a very dangerous season, 
 And so is spring about the end of May; 
 
 The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason ; 
 But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say, 
 
 And stand convicted of more truth than treason, 
 That there are months which nature grows more merry in— 
 March has its hares, and JNIay must have its heroine. 
 
 cm. 
 T was on a summer's day — the sixth of June ; 
 
 I like to be particular in dates. 
 Not only of the age, and year, but moon ; 
 
 They are a sort of posthouse, where the Fates 
 Change horses, making history change its tune. 
 
 Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, 
 Leaving at last not much besides chronology, 
 Exceptmg the post-obits of theology. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour 
 Of half-past sLx — perhaps still nearer seven. 
 
 When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 
 As ere held houri in that heathenish heaven 
 
 Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, 
 To whom the lyre and laurels have been given, 
 
 With all the trophies of triumphant song — 
 
 He won them well, and may he wear them long. 
 
 cv. 
 She sate, but not alone ; I Iniow not well 
 
 How this same interview had taken place, 
 And even if I knew, I should not tell — 
 
 People should hold their tongues in any case 
 No matter how or why the thing befell, 
 
 But there were she and Juan face to face — 
 When two such faces are so, 't would be wise, 
 But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 
 
 CTI. 
 
 How beautiful she looked ! her conscious heart 
 Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong : 
 
 Oh love ! how perfect is thy mystic art, 
 
 Strengthening the wealc and trampling on the strong, 
 
 How self-deceitful is the sagest part 
 
 Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along : 
 
 The precipice she stood on was immense— 
 
 So was her creed in her omi innocence. 
 
 cvii. 
 She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth, 
 
 And of the folly of all prudish fears, 
 Victorious virtue, and domestic truth. 
 
 And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years : 
 I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth. 
 
 Because that number rarely much endears, 
 And through all climes, the sno\vy and the sunny, 
 Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money. 
 
502 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto 1, 
 
 When people say, "I Ve told yo\x fifty times," 
 They mean to scold, and very often do ; 
 
 When poets say, " I 've wr'inen fifty rhymes," 
 
 They make you dread that they '11 recite them too ; 
 
 In gangs oi fifty, thieves commit their crimes ; 
 Ai fifty, love for love is rare, 't is true ; 
 
 But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, 
 
 A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis. 
 
 cix. 
 Julia had honour, virtue, trutli, and love 
 
 For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore, 
 By all the vows below to powers above, 
 
 She never would disgrace the ring she wore, 
 Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove : 
 
 And while she ponder'd this, besides much more, 
 One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown. 
 Quite by mistake — she thought it was her ovra ; 
 
 ex. 
 
 Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other. 
 
 Which play'd within the tangles of her hair; 
 
 And to contend with thoughts she could not smother. 
 She seem'd, by the distraction of her air 
 
 'T was surely very %vrong in Juan's mother 
 To leave togetlier this imprudent pair, 
 
 She who for many years had watch'd her son so — 
 
 I 'm very certain mine would not have done so. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 
 Gently, but palpably, confinn'd its grasp. 
 
 As if it said " detain me, if you please ;" 
 Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp 
 
 His fingers wuth a pure Platonic squeeze : 
 She would have shrunk as from a toad or asp, 
 
 Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 
 
 A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 
 
 CXII. 
 
 I cannot know what Juan thought of this. 
 But what he did is much what you would do ; 
 
 His young lip thank'd it with a gratefiil kiss, 
 And then, abash'd at his own joy, withdrew 
 
 In deep despair, lest he had done amiss, 
 Love is so very timid when 't is new : 
 
 She blush'd and fi-own'd not, but she strove to speak 
 
 And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon . 
 
 The devil 's in the moon for mischief; they 
 Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon 
 
 Their nomenclature : there is not a day, .. 
 The longest, not the twenty-first of June," 
 
 Sees half the business in a wicked way 
 On which three single hours of moonshine smile — 
 And then she looks so modest all the while. 
 
 cxiv. 
 There is a dangerous silence in that hour, 
 
 A stillness which leaves room for the full soul 
 To open all itself, without the power 
 
 Of calling wholly back its self-control ; 
 The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, 
 
 Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole. 
 Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 
 A loving languor, which is not repose. 
 
 cxv. 
 And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced. 
 
 And half retiring from the glowing arm. 
 Which trembled like the bosom where 'twas placed: 
 
 Yet still she must have thought there was no harm. 
 Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist ; 
 
 But then the situation had its charm. 
 
 And then God knows what next — I can't go on ; 
 
 I 'ra almost sorry that I e'er begun. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 Oh, Plato ! Plato! you have paved the way, 
 With your confounded fantasies, to more 
 
 Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 
 Your system feigns o'er the controUess core 
 
 Of human hearts, than all the long array 
 Of poets and romancers : — You 're a bore, 
 
 A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been, 
 
 At best, no better than a go-between. 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, 
 
 Until too late for useful conversation ; 
 The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 
 
 I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion ; 
 But who, alas ! can love, and then be wise ? 
 
 Not that remorse did not oppose temptation, 
 A little stiU she strove, and much repented, 
 And whispering " I will ne'er consent." — consented. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 'T is said that Xerxes ofFer'd a reward 
 To those who could invent him a new pleasure ; 
 
 Methinks the requisition 's rather hard, 
 
 And must have cost his majesty a treasure : 
 
 For my part, I 'm a moderate-minded bard. 
 Fond of a little love, (which I call leisure ;) 
 
 I care not for new pleasures, as the old 
 
 Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 Oh Pleasure ! you 're indeed a pleasant thing, 
 Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt ; 
 
 I make a resolution every spring 
 Of reformation ere the year run out, 
 
 But, somehow, this my vestal vow takes veing, 
 Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout : 
 
 I 'm very sorry, verj' much ashamed, 
 
 And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 Here my chaste muse a liberty must take — 
 
 Start not ! still chaster reader, — she '11 be nice hence- 
 Forward, and there is no great cause to quake : 
 
 This liberty is a poetic license 
 Which some irregularity may make 
 
 In the design, and as I have a high sense 
 Of Aristotle and die Rules, 't is fit 
 To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 
 
 cxxi. 
 
 This license is to hope the reader will 
 
 Suppose from June the sixth, (the fatal day, 
 
 Without whose epoch my poetic skill, 
 
 For want of facts, would all be thrown away,) 
 
 But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 
 
 In sight, that several month's have pass'd ; we '11 say 
 
 'T was in November, but I 'm not so sure 
 
 About the day — the era 's more obscure. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 We '11 talk of that anon. — 'T is sweet to hear, 
 At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep. 
 
 The song and oar of Adria's gondolier. 
 By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep ; 
 
 'T is sweet to see the evening star appear ; 
 'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 
 
 From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high 
 
 The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky ; 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
 Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home ; 
 
 'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
 Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 
 
 'T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, 
 Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 
 
 Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 
 
 The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 503 
 
 I 
 
 Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 
 
 In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth 
 Purple and gushing ; sweet are our escapes 
 
 From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
 Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps ; 
 
 Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth ; 
 Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 
 Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 
 
 cxxv. 
 Sweet is a legacy ; and passing sweet 
 
 The unexpected death of some old lady 
 Or gentleman of seventy years complete. 
 
 Who 've made " us youth " wait too — too long already 
 For an estate, or cash, or country-seat, 
 
 Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 
 That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 
 Next owner, for their double-danm'd post-obits. 
 
 cxxvi. 
 'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels 
 
 By blood or ink ; 't is sweet to put an end 
 To strife ; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 
 
 Particularly with a tiresome friend ; 
 Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; 
 
 Dear is the helpless creature we defend 
 Against the world ; and dear the schoolboy spot 
 We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 
 
 CXXVII. 
 
 But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 
 Is first and passionate love — it stands alone. 
 
 Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; 
 
 The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd — all 's known — 
 
 And life yields nothing further to recall 
 Worthy of this ambrosial sin so shown, 
 
 No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 
 
 Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 
 Man 's a strange animal, and makes strange use 
 
 Of his own nature and the various arts, 
 And likes particularly to produce 
 
 Some new experiment to show his parts : 
 This is tlie age of oddities let loose, 
 
 Where different talents find their different marts ; 
 You 'd best begin with truth, and when you 've lost your 
 Labour, there 's a sure market for imposture. 
 
 cxxix. 
 
 What opposite discoveries we have seen ! 
 
 (Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets :) 
 One makes new noses, one a guillotine. 
 
 One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets ; 
 But vaccination certainly has been 
 A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets, 
 
 ***** 
 
 cxxx. 
 Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes, 
 And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, 
 But has not answer'd like the apparatus 
 Of the Humane Society's beginning, 
 By which men are unsuffocated gratis ; — 
 
 What wondrous new machines have late been spinning 
 ***** 
 ***** 
 
 CXXXI. 
 
 * 
 
 CXXXII. 
 
 This is the patent age of new inventions 
 
 For killing bodies and for saving souis. 
 All propagated with the best intentions : 
 
 Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals 
 Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions ; 
 
 Timbuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles 
 Are ways to benefit mankind, as true. 
 Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo, 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what. 
 And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure ; 
 
 'T is pity though, in this sublime world, that 
 Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure ; 
 
 Few mortals know what end they would be at, 
 But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure. 
 
 The path is through perplexing ways, and when 
 
 The goal is gain'd, we die, you know — and then — 
 
 cxxxiv. 
 What then ? — I do not know, no more do you — 
 
 And so good night. — Return we to our story : 
 'T was in November, when fine days are few, 
 
 And the far mountains wax a little hoary, 
 And clap a white cape on their mantles blue ; 
 
 And the sea dashes round the promontory. 
 And the loud breaker boils against the rock. 
 And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 'T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night , 
 No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 
 
 By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright 
 With the piled wood, round which the family crowd ; 
 
 There 's something cheerful in that sort of light, 
 Even as a summer sky 's without a cloud: 
 
 I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, 
 
 A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat. 
 
 cxxxvi. 
 
 'T was midnight — Donna Julia was in bed, 
 Sleeping, most probably, — when at her door 
 
 Arose a clatter might awake ihe dead, 
 If they had never been awoke before — 
 
 And that they have been so we all have read, 
 And are to be so, at the least, once more — 
 
 The door was fasten'd, but, with voice and fist, 
 
 First knocks were heard, then " Madam — Madam — hist : 
 
 cxxxvii. 
 " For God's sake. Madam, — Madam — here 's my master 
 
 With more than half the city at his back — 
 Was ever heard of such a cursed disaster? 
 
 'T is not my fault — I kept good watch — Alack ! 
 Do, pray, undo the bolt a little faster — 
 
 They 're on the stair just now, and in a crack 
 Will all be here ; perhaps he yet may fly — 
 Surely the window 's not so very high !" 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 
 By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, 
 
 With torches, friends, and servants in great number, 
 The major part of them had long been wived. 
 
 And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber 
 Of any wicked woman, who contrived 
 
 By stealth her husband's temples to encumber : 
 Examples of this kind are so contagious, 
 Were one not punished, all would be outrageous. 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion 
 Could enter into Don Alfonso's head, 
 
 But for a cavalier of his condition 
 It surely was exceedingly ill-bred, 
 
 Without a word of previous admonition, 
 To hold a levee round his lady's bed, 
 
 And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword, 
 
 To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd. 
 
504 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Caxto I. 
 
 Poor Donna Julia! starting as from sleep, 
 
 (Mind — that I do not say — she had not slept,) 
 
 Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep ; 
 Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, 
 
 Contrived to fling the bedclothes in a heap, 
 As if she had just now from out them crept: 
 
 T can't tell why she should take all this trouble 
 
 To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 
 
 Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who 
 
 Of goblins, but still more of men, afraid, 
 
 Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two, 
 
 And therefore side by side were gently laid. 
 Until the hours of absence should run through, 
 
 And truant husband should return, and say, 
 
 " My dear, I was the first who came away." 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, 
 
 " In Heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean ? 
 
 Has madness seized you ? would that I had died 
 Ere such a monster's victim I had been ! 
 
 What may this midnight violence betide, 
 A sudden fit of drimkenness or spleen ? 
 
 Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill ? 
 
 Search, then, the rooml" — Alfonso said, " I will." 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 He search'd, they search'd, and rumaged every where 
 Closet and clothes'-press, chest and window-seat, 
 
 And found much linen, lace, and several pair 
 
 Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, 
 
 With other articles of ladies fair, 
 
 To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat : 
 
 Arras they prick'd and curtains %vith their swords, 
 
 And wounded several shutters, and some boards. 
 
 CXLIT. 
 
 Under the bed they search'd, and there thev found — 
 No matter what — it was not that they sought, 
 
 They open'd windows, gazing if the ground 
 
 Had signs or foot-marks, but the earth said naught : 
 
 And then they stared each other's faces round : 
 'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought. 
 
 And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, 
 
 Of looking in the bed as well as under. 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 During this inquisition Julia's tongue 
 
 Was not asleep—" Yes, search and search," she cried, 
 *' Instilt on insult heap, and wrong on wrong ! 
 
 It wELs for this that I becaime a bride! 
 For this in silence I have suffer'd long 
 
 A husband like Alfonso at my side ; 
 But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain. 
 If there be law, or lawyers, in all Spain. 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 *' Yes, Don Alfonso, husband now no more, 
 
 If ever you indeed deserved the name. 
 Is 't worthy of your years? — you have threescore, 
 
 Fifty, or sixty — it is aJl the same — 
 Is 't wise or fitting causeless to explore 
 
 For facts against a virtuous woman's fame ? 
 Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso ! 
 How dare you think your lady would go on so ? 
 
 CXLVII. 
 
 '* Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold 
 
 The common privileges of my sex? 
 That I have chosen a confessor so old 
 
 And deaf, that any other it would vex, 
 And never once he has had cause to scold, 
 
 But found my ver}- innocence perplex 
 So much, he aiways doubted I was married — 
 How sorry you will be when I 've miscajried ! 
 
 CXLTUI. 
 
 " Was it for this that no Cortejo ere 
 I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville ? 
 
 Is it for this I scarce went any where, 
 Except to buU-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel? 
 
 Is it for this, whate'er my suiters were, 
 I favour'd none — nay, wais almost uncivil ? 
 
 Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
 
 Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely ? s 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 " Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 
 Sing at my heart six months at least in vain ? 
 
 Did not his countryman. Count Corniani, 
 Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain ? 
 
 Were there not also Russians, English, many? 
 The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain. 
 
 And Lord INIount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer. 
 
 Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year. 
 
 CL. 
 
 " Have I not had two bishops at my feet. 
 
 The Duke of Ichar, and Don Feman Nunez ? 
 
 And is it thus a faithful wife you treat ? 
 I wonder in what quarter now the moon is : 
 
 I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 
 Me also, since the time so opportune is — 
 
 Oh, VcJiant man ! with sword drawn and cock'd trigger, 
 
 Now, teU me, do n't you cut a pretty figure ? 
 
 CJA. 
 
 " Was it for this you took your sudden journey, 
 Under pretence of business indispensable, 
 
 With that sublime of rascals your attorney, 
 
 "Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible 
 
 Of having play'd the fool? though both I spurn, he 
 Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensiblcj 
 
 Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty fee. 
 
 And not for any love to you or me. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 •'' If he comes here to take a deposition, 
 
 By all means let the gentleman proceed ; 
 You 've made the apartment in a fit condition : 
 
 There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need- 
 Let every thing be noted with precision, 
 
 I would not you for nothing should be fee'd — 
 But. as my maid 's iindress'd, pray turn your spies oul" 
 ■' Oh 1" sobb'd Antonia, " I could tear their eyes out.'* 
 
 CLUI. 
 
 " There is the closet, there the toilet, there 
 The antechamber — search them under, over : 
 
 There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair, 
 The chimney — which would really hold a lover. 
 
 I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 
 And make no fiirther noise till you discover 
 
 The secret cavern of this lurking treeisure — 
 
 And, when 't is fotmd, let me, too, have that pleasure. 
 
 CLIT. 
 
 " And now, Hidalgo ! now that you have thrown 
 
 Doubt upon me, confusion over all. 
 Pray have the courtesy to make it known 
 
 JVho is the man you search for ? how d' ye call 
 Him ? what 's his lineage ? let him but be shown— 
 
 I hope he 's young juid handsome — is he tall ? 
 Tell me — and be assured, that since you stain 
 iSIy honour thus, it shall not be in vain. 
 
 CLV. 
 
 " At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years — 
 At that age he would be too old for slaughter, 
 
 Or for so yoimg a husband's jealous fears, — 
 (Antonia I let me have a glass of water.) 
 
 I cun ashamed of having shed these tears. 
 They are unworthy of my father's daughter ; 
 
 iSIy mother dream'd not in my natal hour 
 
 That I should fall into a raonsier's power. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 605 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 't is of Antonia you are jealous, 
 You saw that she was sleeping by my side 
 
 When you broke in upon us with your fellows : 
 Look where you please — we 've nothing, sir, to hide ; 
 
 Only another time, I trust, you 'II tell us, 
 Or for the sake of decency abide 
 
 A moment at the door, that we may be 
 
 Dress'd to receive so much good company. 
 
 CLvn. 
 " And now, sir, I have done, and say no more ; 
 
 The little I have said may serve to show 
 The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er 
 
 The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow : — 
 I leave you to your conscience as before, 
 
 'T will one day ask you why you used me so ? 
 God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief! — 
 Antonia ! where 's my pocket-handkerchief?" 
 
 CI. VIII. 
 
 She ceased, and tum'd upon her pillow ; pale 
 
 She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears, 
 
 Like skies that rain and lighten ; as a veil 
 
 Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears 
 
 Her streaming hair ; the black curls strive, but fail, 
 To hide the glossy shoulder which uprears 
 
 Its snow through all ; — her soft lips lie apart. 
 
 And louder than her breathing beats her heart. 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; 
 
 Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room, 
 And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 
 
 Her master, and his myrmidons, of whom 
 Not one, except the attorney, was amused ; 
 
 He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb. 
 So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause 
 Knowing they must be settled by the laws. 
 
 CLX. 
 
 With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood, 
 Following Antonia's motions here and there, 
 
 With much suspicion in his attitude ; 
 For reputation he had little care : 
 
 So that a suit or action were made good. 
 Small pity had he for the young euid fair, 
 
 And ne'er believ'd in negatives, till these 
 
 Were proved by competent false witnesses. 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 But Don Alfonso stood with dowTicast looks. 
 And, tmth to say, he made a foolish figure ; 
 
 When, after searching in five hundred nooks. 
 And treating a young wife with so much rigour. 
 
 He gain'd no point, except some self rebukes, 
 Added to those his lady with such vigour 
 
 Had pour'd upon him for the last half hour, 
 
 Cluick, thick, and heavy — as a thunder-shower. 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 At first he tried to hammer an excuse. 
 
 To which the sole reply were tears and sobs, 
 
 And indications of hysterics, whose 
 
 Prologue is always certain throes and throbs. 
 
 Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose : — 
 Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's ; 
 
 He saw, too, in perspective, her relations. 
 
 And then he tried to muster all his patience. 
 
 CLXIII. 
 
 He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer. 
 
 But sage Antonia cut him short before 
 The anvil of his speech received the hammer. 
 
 With *' Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more. 
 Or madam dies." — Alfonso mutter'd " D— n her " 
 
 But nothing else, the time of words was o'er ; 
 He cast a rueful look or two, and did, 
 He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. 
 S O 
 
 CI.XIV. 
 
 With him retir'd his ''posse comitattcs,'* 
 The attorney last, who linger'd near the door, 
 
 Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 
 Antonia let him — not a little sore 
 
 At this most strange and unexplain'd " hiatus" 
 In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore 
 
 An awkward look ; as he revolved the case, 
 
 The door was fasten'd in his legal face. 
 
 CLXT. 
 
 No sooner was it bolted, than — Oh shame ! 
 
 Oh sin ! oh sorrow ! and oh womankind ! 
 How can you do such things and keep your fame, 
 
 Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind ? 
 Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! 
 
 But to proceed — for there is more behind : 
 With much heart- felt reluctance be it said, 
 Young Juan slipp'd, half-smother'd, from the bed. 
 
 CLXVI. 
 
 He had been hid — I do n't pretend to say 
 
 How, nor can I indeed describe the where- 
 Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay. 
 
 No doubt, in little compass, round or square ; 
 But pity him I neither must nor may 
 His suffocation by that pretty pair ; 
 'Twere better, sure, to die so, than be shut, 
 With maudlin Clarence, in his Mahnsey butt. 
 
 CLXTII. 
 
 And, secondly, I pity not, because 
 
 He had no business to commit a sin, 
 Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws,— 
 
 At least 't was rather early to begin ; 
 But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 
 
 So much as when we call our old debts in 
 At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, 
 And find a deuced balance vrith the devil. 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 
 Of his position I can give no notion : 
 'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 
 
 How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, 
 Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle, 
 
 When old King David's blood grew dull in motion, 
 And that the medicine answer'd very well ; 
 
 Perhaps 't was in a different way applied. 
 
 For David lived, but Juan nearly died. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 What 's to be done ? Alfonso will be back 
 The moment he has sent his fools away. 
 
 Antonia's skill was put upon the rack. 
 
 But no device could be brought into play— 
 
 A.nd how to parry the renew'd attack 7 
 Besides, it wanted but few hours of day: 
 
 Antonia puzzled ; Julia did not speak. 
 
 But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 He tum'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 
 Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair ; 
 
 Even then their love they could not all command. 
 And half forgot their danger and despair : 
 
 Antonia's patience now was at a stand — 
 
 Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there," 
 
 She whisper'd in great wrath — " I must deposit 
 
 This pretty gentleman within the closet : 
 
 CLXXI. 
 
 Pray keep your nonsense for some luckier night-^ 
 
 Who can have put my master in this mood 7 
 What will become on 't? — I 'm in such a fright.' 
 
 The devil 's in the urchin, and no good- 
 Is this a time for giggling? this a plight ? 
 
 Why, don't you know that it may end in blood? 
 You '11 lose your life, and I shall lose my place, 
 My mistress all, for that half-girlish face. 
 
506 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 CLXXII. 
 
 " Had it but been for a stout cavalier 
 
 Of twenty-five or thirty — (come, make haste) 
 
 But for a child, what piece of work is here ! 
 I really, madam, wonder at your taste — 
 
 (Come, sir, get in) — my master must be near. 
 There, for the present at the least he 's fast, 
 
 And, if we can but till the morning keep 
 
 Our counsel — (Juan, mind you must not sleep.V 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone, 
 Closed the oration of the trusty maid : 
 
 She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone, 
 An order somewhat sullenly obey'd ; 
 
 However, present remedy was none, 
 And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd: 
 
 Regarding both with slow and sidelong view, 
 
 She snufTd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 
 Alfonso paused a minute — then begun 
 Some strange excuses for his late proceeding ; 
 
 He would not justify what he had done, 
 
 To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding: 
 
 But there were ample reasons for it, none 
 Of which he specified in this his pleading ; 
 
 His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, 
 
 Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call '■'■rigmarole." 
 
 CLXXT. 
 
 Julia said naught ; though all the while there rose 
 A ready answer, which at once enables 
 
 A matron, who her husband's foible knows, 
 By a few timely words to turn the tables. 
 
 Which, if it does not silence, still must pose. 
 Even if it should comprise a pack of fables; 
 
 'T is to retort with firmness, and when he 
 
 Suspects with one^ do you reproach with three. 
 
 CLXXVI. 
 
 Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, 
 
 Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known ; 
 
 But whether 't was that one's own guilt confounds — 
 But that can't be, as has been often shown ; 
 
 A lady with apologies abounds : 
 
 It might be that her silence sprang alone 
 
 From delicacy to Don Juan's ear, 
 
 To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. 
 
 crxxTii. 
 There might be one more motive, which makes two : 
 
 Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, 
 Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 
 
 Had been the happy lover, he concluded, 
 Conceal'd among his premises ; 't is true, 
 
 His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded 5 
 To speak of Inez now were, one may say, 
 Like throv^•ing Juan in Alfonso's way. 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 
 A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; 
 
 Silence is best, besides there is a tact 
 (That modem phrase appears to me sad stuff. 
 
 But it will serve to keep my verse compact) 
 Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough, 
 
 A lady always distant from the fact — 
 The charming creatures lie with such a grace. 
 There 's nothing so becoming to the face. 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 They blush, and we believe them ; at least I 
 Have always done so ; 't is of no great use, 
 
 In any case, attempting a reply. 
 
 For then their eloquence grows quite profuse ; 
 
 And when at length they 're out of breath, they sigh. 
 And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose 
 
 A tear or t^vo, and then we make it up ; 
 
 And then — and then — and then — sit Jown and sup. 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon, 
 "Which Julia half withheld, and then halJF granted, 
 
 And laid conditions, he thought, very hard on, 
 Denying several little things he wanted : 
 
 He stood, like Adam, lingening near his garden, 
 With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted. 
 
 Beseeching she no further would refuse. 
 
 When lo ! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes, 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 A pair of shoes! — what then ? not much, if they 
 Are such as fit with lady's feet, but these 
 
 (No one can tell how much I grieve to say) 
 Were masculine : to see them and to seize 
 
 Was but a moment's act. — Ah ! well-a-day ! 
 My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze — 
 
 Alfonso first examined well their fashion, 
 
 And then flew out into another passion. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 
 He left the room for his relinquish'd sword. 
 
 And Julia instant to the closet flew ; 
 " Fly, Juan, fly ! for Heaven's sake — not a word — 
 
 The door is open — you may yet slip through 
 The passage you so often have explored — 
 
 Here is the garden-key— ^fly — fly — adieu ! 
 Haste — haste ! — I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet — 
 Day has not broke — there 's no one in the street." 
 
 cLXxxni. 
 None can say that this was not good advice, 
 
 The only mischief was, it came too late ; 
 Of all experience 't is the usual price, 
 
 A sort of income-tax laid on by fate : 
 Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice, 
 
 And might have done so by the garden-gate, 
 But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown. 
 Who threaten'd death — so Juan knock'd him do\vn. 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 
 Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light, 
 Antonia cried out " Rape 1" and Julia " Fire !" 
 
 But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fioht. 
 Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire. 
 
 Swore lustily he 'd be revenged this night ; 
 And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher ; 
 
 His blood was up ; though young, he was a Tartar, 
 
 And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 
 
 CLXXXT. 
 
 Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could dj-aw it. 
 And they continued battling hand to hand, 
 
 For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it ; 
 
 His temper not being under great command, 
 
 If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, 
 Alfonso's days had not been in the land 
 
 Much longer.— Think of husbands', lovers' lives. 
 
 And how you may be doubly widows — ^wives ! 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 
 Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, 
 
 And Juan throttled him to get avray, 
 And blood ('twas from the nose) began to flow ; 
 
 At last, as they more faintly \%Testling lay, 
 Juan contrived to give an awkward blow, 
 
 And then his only garment quite gave way; 
 He fled, like Joseph, leaving it — but there, 
 I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. 
 
 CLXXXVII. 
 
 Lights came at length, and men and maids, who found 
 An awkAvard spectacle their eyes before ; 
 
 Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 
 
 Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door : 
 
 Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground, 
 Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more ; 
 
 Juan the gate gain'd, tum'd the key about, 
 I And, liking not the inside, lock'd the out. 
 
Canto I. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 507 
 
 CLXXXVIII. 
 
 Here ends this canto. — Need 1 sing or say, 
 How Juan, naked, favouj'd by the night, 
 
 (Who favours what she should not,) found his way, 
 And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight ? 
 
 The pleasant scandal which arose next day. 
 
 The nine days' wonder which was brought to light, 
 
 And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, 
 
 Were in the English newspapers, of course. 
 
 CLiXXXIX. 
 
 If you would like to see the whole proceedings. 
 The depositions, and the cause at full. 
 
 The names of all tlie witnesses, the pleadings 
 Of counsel to nonsuit or to annul, 
 
 There 's more tlian one edition, and the readings 
 Are various, but they none of them are dull. 
 
 The best is that in shorthand, ta'en by Gurney, 
 
 Who to Madi-id on purpose made a journey. 
 
 cxc. 
 But Donna Inez, to divert the train 
 
 Of one of the most circulating scandals 
 That had for centuries been known in Spain, 
 
 At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 
 First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) 
 
 To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles ; 
 And then, by the advice of some old ladies. 
 She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 
 
 cxci. 
 She had resolved that he should travel through 
 
 All European climes by land or sea, 
 To mend his former morals, and get new, 
 
 Especially in France and Italy, 
 (At least this is the thing most people do.) 
 
 Julia was sent into a convent ; she 
 Grieved, but perhaps, her feelings may be better 
 Shown in the following copy of her letter: 
 
 CXCII. 
 
 " They tell me 't is decided, you depart : 
 'T is wise — 't is well, but not the less a pain : 
 
 I have no further claim on your young heart, 
 Mine is the victim, and would be again : 
 
 To love too much has been the only art 
 I used ; — I write in haste, and if a stain 
 
 Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears — 
 
 My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. 
 
 CXCIII. 
 
 "I loved, I love you ; for this love have lost 
 
 State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, 
 And yet cannot regret what it hath cost. 
 
 So dear is still the memory of that dream ; 
 Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast, — 
 
 None can deem harshlier of me than I deem: 
 I trace this scrawl because 1 cannot rest — 
 I 've nothing to reproach or to request. 
 
 cxciv. 
 "Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 
 'T is woman's whole existence ; man may range 
 The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart; 
 
 Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 
 Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, 
 
 And few there are whom these cannot estrange : 
 Men have all these resources, we but one— 
 To love again, and be again undone. 
 
 cxcv. 
 "You will proceed in pleasure and in pride, 
 
 Beloved and loving many ; all is o'er 
 For me on earth, except some years to hide 
 
 My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core : 
 These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 
 
 The passion, which still rages as before. 
 And so farewell — forgive me, love me — No, 
 That word is idle now — but let it go. 
 
 cxcvi. 
 
 My breast has been all weakness, is so yet ; 
 
 But still, I tliink, I can collect my mind ; 
 My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set, 
 
 As roll the waves before the settled wind ; 
 My heart is feminine, nor can forget — 
 
 To all, except one image, madly blind : 
 So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, 
 As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul. 
 
 CXCVII. 
 
 I have no more to say, but linger still, 
 And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, 
 
 And yet I may as well the task fulfil, 
 
 My misery can scarce be more complete : 
 
 I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill ; 
 
 Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet. 
 
 And I must even survive this last adieu, 
 
 And bear with life, to love and pray for you 1" 
 
 CXCVIII. 
 
 This note was written upon gilt-edged paper, 
 With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new ; 
 
 Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper, 
 It trembled as magnetic needles do, 
 
 And yet she did not let one tear escape her ; 
 The seal a sunflower 5 " Elle vous suitpartout" 
 
 The motto cut upon a white cornelian. 
 
 The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 
 
 cxcix. 
 This was Don Juan's earliest scrape ; but whether 
 
 I shall proceed with his adventure is 
 Dependent on the public altogether : 
 
 We '11 see, however, what they say to this, 
 (Their favour in an author's cap 's a feather. 
 
 And no great mischief 's done by their caprice ;) 
 And, if their approbation we experience. 
 Perhaps they '11 have some more about a year hence. 
 
 CO. 
 
 My poem 's epic, and is meant to be 
 - Divided in twelve books ; each book containing, 
 
 With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, 
 
 A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning, 
 
 New characters ; the episodes are three : 
 • A panorama view of hell 's in training, 
 
 After the style of Virgil and of Homer, 
 
 So that my name of epic 's no misnomer^ 
 
 CGI. 
 
 All these things will be specified in time. 
 With strict regard to Aristotle's Rules, 
 
 The vade mecum. of the true sublime. 
 Which makes so many poets and some fools ; 
 
 Prose poets like blank-verse — I 'm fond of rhyme- 
 Good workmen never quarrel with their tools ; 
 
 I 've got new mythological machinery. 
 
 And very handsome supernatural scenery. 
 
 ecu. 
 There 's only one slight difference between 
 
 Me and my epic brethren gone before, 
 And here the advantage is my own, I ween, 
 
 (Not that I have not several merits more ;) 
 But this will more peculiarly be seen ; 
 
 They so embellish, that 't is quite a bora 
 Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, 
 Whereas this story 's actually true. 
 
 CCIII. 
 
 If any person doubt it, I appeal 
 
 To history, tradition, and to facts, 
 To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel, 
 
 To plays in five, and operas in three acts ; 
 All these confirm my statement a good deal, 
 
 But that which more completely faith exacts 
 Is, that myself, and several now in Seville, 
 Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil- 
 
608 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto I. 
 
 cciv. 
 If ever I should condescend to prose, 
 
 I '11 write poetical commandments, which 
 Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those 
 
 That went before ; in these I shall enrich 
 My text with many things that no one knows, 
 
 And carry precept to the highest pitch : 
 I '11 call the work " Longinus o'er a Bottle, 
 Or, Every Poet his oivn Aristotle." 
 
 ccv. 
 Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope: 
 
 Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey 
 Because the first is crazed beyond all hope. 
 
 The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthey : 
 With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope. 
 
 And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy : 
 Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor 
 Commit — flirtation with the muse of Moore. 
 
 ccvi. 
 Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, 
 
 His Pegasus, nor any thing that 's his : 
 Thou shalt not bear false witness, like " the Blues," 
 
 (There 's one, at least, is very fond of this :) 
 Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose : 
 
 This is true criticism, and you may kiss — 
 Exactly as you please, or not — the rod. 
 But if you don't, I '11 lay it on, by G — d ! 
 
 CCVII. 
 
 If any person should presume to assert 
 
 The story is not moral, first, I pray 
 That they will not cr}' out before they 're hurt ; 
 
 Then that they '11 read it o'er again, and say 
 (But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert) 
 
 That this is not a moral tale, though gay ; 
 Besides, in canto twelfth, I mean to show 
 The very place where wicked people go. 
 
 CCVIII. 
 
 If, after all, there should be some so blind 
 To their o^vn good this warning to despise, 
 
 Led by some tortuosity of mind. 
 
 Not to believe my verse and their ovra eyes, 
 
 And cry that they " the moral cannot find," 
 I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies — 
 
 Should captains the remark, or critics, make. 
 
 They also lie too — under a mistake. 
 
 ccix. 
 The public approbation I expect, 
 
 And beg they '11 take my word about the moral, 
 Which I with their amusement will connect, 
 
 (So children cutting teeth receive a coral ;) 
 Meantime, they '11 doubtless please to recollect 
 
 My epical pretensions to the laurel ; 
 For fear some prudish reader should grow skittish, 
 I 've bribed my grandmother's review — the British. 
 
 OCX. 
 
 I sent it in a letter to the editor, 
 
 Who thank'd me duly by return of post — 
 
 I 'm for a handsome article his creditor ; 
 Yet, if my gende Muse he please to roast. 
 
 And break a promise after having made it her. 
 Denying the receipt of what it cost, 
 
 And smear his page with gall instead of honey. 
 
 All I can say is — that he had the money. 
 
 ccxi. 
 I think that with this holy new alliance 
 
 I may insure the public, and defy 
 All other magazines of art or science. 
 
 Daily, or monthly, or three-monthly ; I 
 Have not essay'd to multiply their clients, 
 
 Because they tell me 't were in vain to try. 
 And that the Edinburgh Reviev,- and Quarterly 
 Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 
 
 ccxii. 
 
 '' JVon ego hoc f err em calidajuventa 
 
 Consule Planco,^^ Horace said, and so 
 Say I, by which quotation there is meant a 
 
 Hint that some six or seven good years ago, 
 (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta,) 
 
 I was most ready to return a blow, 
 And would not brook at all this sort of thing 
 In my hot youth — when George the Third was King. 
 
 ccxiir. 
 But now, at thirty years, my hair is gray, — 
 
 (I wonder what it will be like at forty ? 
 I thought of a peruke the other day,) 
 
 My heart is not much greener ; and, in short, I 
 Have squander'd my whole summer while 't was May, 
 
 And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I 
 Have spent my life, both interest and principal, 
 And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible. 
 
 ccxiv. 
 No more — no more — Oh ! never more on me 
 
 The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 
 Which out of all the lovely things we see 
 
 Extracts emotions beautiful and new, 
 Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee : 
 
 Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew ' 
 Alas ! 'twas not in them, but in thy power. 
 To double even the sweetness of a flower. 
 
 ccxv. 
 No more — no more — Oh ! never more, my heart. 
 
 Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ! 
 Once all in all, but now a thing apart. 
 
 Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse : 
 The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art 
 
 Insensible, I trust, but none the worse ; 
 And in thy stead I 've got a deal of judgment, 
 Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment. 
 
 ccxvi. 
 My days of love are over — me no more ' 
 
 The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, 
 Can make the fool of which they made before — 
 
 In short, I must not lead the life I did do : 
 The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er; 
 
 The copious use of claj-et is forbid, too ; 
 So, for a good old gentlemanly vice, 
 I think I must tsike up with avarice. 
 
 ccxvii. 
 Ambition was my idol, which was broken 
 
 Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure ; 
 And the two last have left me many a token 
 
 O'er which reflection may be made at leisure : 
 Now, lilce Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 've spoken, 
 
 " Time is, time was, time 's past," a chymic treasure 
 Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes — 
 My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. 
 
 CCXVIII. 
 
 What is the end of fame ? 't is but to fill 
 
 A certain portion of uncertain paper ; 
 Some liken it to climbing up a hill. 
 
 Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour, 
 For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill ; 
 
 And bards bum what they call their " midnight taper," 
 To have, when the original is dust, 
 A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. 
 
 cxxix. 
 What are the hopes of man? old Egypt's king, 
 
 Cheops, erected the fiirst pyramid 
 And largest, thinking it was just the thing 
 
 To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid ; 
 But somebody or other, rummaging, 
 
 Burglariously broke his coffin's lid ; 
 Let not a monument give you or me hopes, 
 Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 609 
 
 ccxx. 
 But I, being fond of true philosophy, 
 
 Say very often to myself, " Alas I 
 AU things that have been born were born to die, 
 
 And flesh (which death mows down to hay) is grass ; 
 You 've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly, 
 
 And if you had it o'er again — 'twould pass — 
 So thank your stars that matters are no worse, 
 And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse." 
 
 ccxxi. 
 But for the present, gentle reader ! and 
 
 Still gentler purchaser ! the bard — that 's I — 
 Must, with permission, shake you by the hand, 
 
 And so your humble servant, and good bye ! 
 "We meet again, if we should understand 
 
 Each other ; and if not, I shall not try 
 Your patience further than by this short sample — 
 'T were well if others follow'd my example. 
 
 CCXXII. 
 
 " Go, little book, from this my solitude ! 
 
 I cast thee on the waters, go thy ways ! 
 And if, as I believe, thy vein be good. 
 
 The world wiU find thee after many days." 
 When Southey 's read, and Wordsworth understood, 
 
 I can't help putting in my claim to praise — 
 The four first rhymes are Southey's, every line : 
 For God's sake, reader ! take them not for mine. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 Oh ye ! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, 
 Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, 
 
 I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, 
 
 It mends their morals ; never mind the pain : 
 
 The best of mothers and of educations. 
 In Juan's case, were but employ'd in vain. 
 
 Since in a way, that 's rather of die oddest, he 
 
 Became divested of his native modesty. 
 
 II. 
 
 Had he but been placed at a public school, 
 In the third form, or even in the fourth. 
 
 His daily task had kept his fancy cool, 
 At leEist had he been nurtured in the north ; 
 
 Spain may prove an exception to the rule, 
 But then exceptions always prove its worth — 
 
 A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 
 
 Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. 
 
 III. 
 I can't say that it puzzles me at all. 
 
 If all things be consider'd : first, there was 
 His lady mother, mathematical, 
 
 A , never mind ; his tutor, an old ass ; 
 
 A pretty woman, — (that 's quite natural. 
 
 Or else the thing had hardly come to pass ;) 
 A husband rather old, not much in imity 
 With his young wife — a time, and opportunity. 
 
 IT. 
 
 Well — well, the world must turn upon its axis. 
 And all mankind turn vdth it, heads or tails. 
 
 And live and die, make love, and pay our taxes. 
 And as the veering wdnd shifts, shift our sails ; 
 
 The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, 
 The priest instructs, and so our life exhales. 
 
 A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, 
 
 Fighting, devotion, dust — perhaps a name. 
 
 I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz^ 
 • A pretty town, I recollect it well — 
 'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is, 
 
 (Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel ;) 
 And such sweet girls — I mean such gracefiil ladies, 
 
 Their very walk would make your bosom swell ; 
 I can't describe it, though so much it strike, 
 Nor liken it — I never saw the like : 
 
 VI. 
 
 An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 
 
 New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle. 
 No — none of these will do ; — and then their garb ! 
 
 Their veil and petticoat — Alas ! to dwell 
 Upon such things would very near absorb 
 
 A canto — then their feet and ancles ! — well. 
 Thank Heaven I 've got no metaphor quite ready, 
 (And so, my sober Muse — come let 's be steady — 
 
 VII. 
 
 Chaste Muse ! — well, if you must, you must) — the veil 
 Thrown back a moment with the glsincing hand, 
 
 While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale. 
 Flashes into the heart : — all sunny land 
 
 Of love ! when I forget you, may I fail 
 
 To say my prayers — but never was there plann'd 
 
 A dress through which the eyes give such a volley 
 
 Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But to our tale : the Donna Inez sent 
 
 Her son to Cadiz only to embark ; 
 To stay there had not answer'd her intent, 
 
 But why ? — we leave the reader in the dark — 
 'T was for a voyage that the young man was meant, 
 
 As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark. 
 To wean him from the wickedness of earth, 
 And send him like a dove of promise forth. 
 
 IX, 
 
 Don Juan bade his valet pack his things 
 
 According to direction, then received 
 A lecture and some money : for four springs 
 
 He was to travel ; and, though Inez grieved, 
 (As every kind of parting has its stings,) 
 
 She hoped he would improve — perhaps believed * 
 A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 
 Of good advice — and two or three of credit. 
 
 X. 
 
 In the mean time, to pass her hours away, 
 
 Brave Inez now set up a Sunday-school 
 For naughty children, who would rather play 
 
 (Like truant rogues) the devil or the fool ; 
 Infants of three years old were taught that day. 
 
 Dunces were whipp'd or set upon a stool : 
 The great success of Juan's education 
 Spurr'd her to teach another generation. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Juan embark'd — the ship got under weigh, 
 The wind was fair, the water passing rough ; 
 
 A devil of a sea rolls in that bay. 
 
 As I, who 've cross'd it oft, know well enough : 
 
 And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray 
 
 Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough; 
 
 And there he stood to take, and take again. 
 
 His fiirst — perhaps his last — ^farewell of Spain. 
 
 XII. 
 
 I can't but say it is an awkward sight 
 
 To see one's native land receding through 
 
 The growing waters — it unmans one quite ; 
 Especially when life is rather new : 
 
 I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white. 
 But almost every other country's blue. 
 
 When, gazing on them, mystified by distance, 
 
 We enter on our nautical existence. 
 
610 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 So Juan stood bewilder'd on the deck : 
 
 The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors swore, 
 And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck, 
 
 From which away so fair and fast they bore. 
 The best of remedies is a beef-steak 
 
 Against seasickness ; try it, sir, before 
 You sneer, and I assure you this is true, 
 For I have found it answer — so may you. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stem, 
 
 Beheld his native Spain receding far : 
 First partings form a lesson hard to learn. 
 
 Even nations feel this when they go to war ; 
 There is a sort of unexpress'd concern, 
 
 A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar : 
 At leaving even the most unpleasant people 
 And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 
 
 XV. 
 
 But Juan had got many things to leave — 
 His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, 
 
 So that he had much better cause to grieve 
 Than many persons more advanced in life ; 
 
 And, if we now and then a sigh must heave 
 At quitting even those we quit in strife. 
 
 No doubt we weep for those the heart endears— 
 
 That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 
 By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion : 
 
 I 'd weep, but mine is not a weeping muse. 
 And such light griefs are not a thing to die on ; 
 
 Young men should travel, if but to amuse 
 
 Themselves ; and the next time their servants tie on 
 
 Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, 
 
 Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 
 
 XYII. 
 
 And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd, and thought, 
 While his salt tears dropt into the salt sea, 
 
 ^' Sweets to the sweet ;" (I like so much to quote : 
 You must excuse this extract, 't is where she. 
 
 The Q,ueen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 
 Flowers to the grave.) and sobbing often, he 
 
 Reflected on his present situation. 
 
 And seriously resolved on reformation. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 <' Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell !" he cried, 
 
 " Perhaps I may revisit thee no more. 
 But die, as many an exiled heart hath died. 
 
 Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 
 Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide ! 
 
 Farewell, my mother ! and, since all is o'er, 
 Farewell, too, dearest Julia!" — (here he drew 
 Her letter out again, and read it through.) 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " And oh! if e'er I should forget, I swear- 
 But that 's impossible, and cannot be — 
 
 Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air. 
 Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea. 
 
 Than I resign thine image, oh ! my fair ! 
 Or think of any thing, excepting thee ; 
 
 A mind diseased no remedy can physic" — 
 
 (Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew seasick.) 
 
 XX. 
 
 '' Sooner shall heaven kiss earth— (here he fell sicker) 
 
 Oh, Julia ! what is every other wo! — 
 (For God's sake, let me have a glass of liquor — 
 
 Pedro I Battista ! help me down below.) 
 Julia, my love! — (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) 
 
 Oh, Julia! — (this cursed vessel pitches so) — 
 Beloved Julia ! hear me still beseeching" — 
 (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.) 
 
 He felt that chilling heaviness of heart, 
 Or rather stomach, which, alas ! attends, 
 
 Beyond the best apothecary's art, 
 
 The loss of love, the treachery of friends, 
 
 Or death of those we doat on, when a part 
 Of us dies with them, as each fond hope ends: 
 
 No doubt he would have been much more pathetiCj 
 
 But the sea acted as a strong emetic. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Love 's a capricious power ; 1 've known it hold 
 Out through a fever caused by its own heat, 
 
 But be much puzzled by a cough and cold, 
 And find a quinsy very hard to treat; 
 
 Against all noble ma:ladies he 's bold. 
 But vulgar illnesses do n't like to meet, 
 
 Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh ; 
 
 Nor inflammations redden his blind eye. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 
 
 About the lower region of the bowels ; 
 Love, w^ho heroically breathes a vein. 
 
 Shrinks from the application of hot towels, 
 And purgatives are dangerous to his reign. 
 
 Seasickness death : his love was perfect, how else 
 Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar, 
 Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before ? 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The ship, called the most holy '* Trinidada," 
 Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; 
 
 For there the Spanish family Moncada 
 
 Were settled long ere Juan's sire was bom : 
 
 They were relations, and for them he had a 
 Letter of introduction, which the mom 
 
 Of his departure had been sent him by 
 
 His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 His suite consisted of three servants and 
 
 A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, 
 Who several languages did understand. 
 
 But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow, 
 And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land, 
 
 His headach being increased by every billow ; 
 And the waves oozing through the port-hole made 
 His birth a little damp, and him afraid. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 'T was not without some reason, for the wind 
 
 Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 
 And though 't was not much to a naval mind, 
 
 Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale, 
 For sailors are, in fact, a different kind: 
 
 At sunset they began to take in sail. 
 For the sky show'd it would come on to blow 
 And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 At one o'clock, the wind with sudden shift 
 
 Threw the ship right into the trougli of the sea. 
 
 Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, 
 Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the 
 
 Wliole of her stern-frame, Emd, ere she could lift 
 Herself from out her presentjeopardy, 
 
 The rudder tore away: 'tw^as time to sound 
 
 The pumps, and there were four feet water found. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 One gang of people instantly was put 
 
 Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 
 To get up part of the cargo, and what not, 
 
 But they could not come at the leak as yet; 
 At last they did get at it really, but 
 
 Still their salvation was an even bet : 
 The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling. 
 While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, balea of muslin, 
 
 J 
 
Canto II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 511 
 
 I 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Into the opening ; but all such ingredients 
 
 Would have been vain, and they must have gone down, 
 Despite of all their efforts and expedients. 
 
 But for the pumps : I 'm glad to make them known 
 To all the brother-tars who may have need hence, 
 
 For fifty tons of water were upthrown 
 By them per hour, and they had all been undone 
 But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 As day advanced, the weather seem'd to abate, 
 And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce, 
 
 And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 
 Kept two hand and one chain pump still in use. 
 
 The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 
 
 A squall came on, and, while some guns broke loose, 
 
 A gust — which all descriptive power transcends— 
 
 Laid with one blast the ship on her beam-ends. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 There she lay motionless, and seem'd upset : 
 The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks, 
 
 And made a scene men do not soon forget ; 
 For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, 
 
 Or any other thing that brings regret. 
 
 Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks : 
 
 Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers 
 
 And swimmers who may chance to be survivors. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Immediately the masts were cut away, 
 Both main and mizen ; first the mizen went, 
 
 TThe main-mast foUow'd : but the ship still lay 
 Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. 
 
 Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they 
 Eased her at last, (although we never meant 
 
 To part with all till every hope was blighted,) 
 
 And then with violence the old ship righted. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 It may be easily supposed, while this 
 Was going on, some people were unquiet; 
 
 That passengers would find it much amiss 
 To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet ; 
 
 That even the able seamen, deeming his 
 Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot. 
 
 As upon such occasions tars will ask 
 
 For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 There 's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms 
 
 As rum and true religion ; thus it was. 
 Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms. 
 
 The high wind made the treble, and as bass 
 The hoarse harsh waves kept time ; fright cured the qualms 
 
 Of all the luckless landsmen's seasick maws : 
 Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 
 Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for 
 Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, 
 
 Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 
 It with a pair of pistols ; and their fears. 
 
 As if Death were more dreadful by his door 
 Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears. 
 
 Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, 
 
 Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. 
 
 xxxvi. 
 *' Give us more grog," they cried, " for it will be 
 
 All one an hour hence." Juan answer'd, " No ! 
 T is true that death awaits both you and me. 
 
 But let us die like men, not sink below 
 Like brutes:" — and thus his dangerous post kept he, 
 
 And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 
 And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, 
 Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The good old gentleman was quite aghast. 
 And made a loud and pious lamentation ; 
 
 Repented all his sins, and made a last 
 Irrevocable vow of reformation ; 
 
 Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past) 
 To quit his academic occupation, 
 
 In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 
 
 To follow Juan's wake like Sancho Panca. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 But now there came a flash of hope once more ; 
 
 Day broke, and the wind lull'd : the masts were gone, 
 The leak increased ; shoals round her, but no shore, 
 
 The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 
 They tried the pumps again, and though before 
 
 Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown, 
 A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — 
 The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a sail. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Under the vessel's keel the sail was pass'd, 
 
 And for the moment it had some effect ; 
 But with a leak, and not a stick of mast 
 
 Nor rag of canvass, what could they expect? 
 But still 't is best to struggle to the last, 
 
 'T is never too late to be wholly wreck'd: 
 And though 't is true that man can only die once, 
 'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 
 
 XL. 
 
 There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from thence 
 Without their will, they carried them away; 
 
 For they were forced with steering to dispense, 
 And never had as yet a quiet day 
 
 On which they might repose, or even commence 
 A jury-mast or rudder, or could say 
 
 The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck, 
 
 Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less. 
 But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hope 
 
 To weather out much longer ; the distress 
 Was also great with which they had to cope 
 
 For want of water, and their solid mess 
 Was scant enough ; in vain the telescope 
 
 Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight, 
 
 Naught but the heavy sea, and coming night. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Again the weather threaten'd, — again blew 
 
 A gale, and in the fore and after hold 
 Water appear'd ; yet, though the people knew 
 
 All this, the most were patient, and some bold. 
 Until the chains and leathers were worn through 
 
 Of all our pumps : — a wreck complete she roU'd, 
 At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 
 Like human beings during civil war. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 
 In his rough eyes, and told the captain he 
 
 Could do no more ; he was a man in years, 
 And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea, 
 
 And if he wept at length, they were not fears 
 That made his eyelids as a woman's be, 
 
 But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, 
 
 Two things for dying people quite bewildering. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The ship was evidently settling now 
 Fast by the head ; and, all distinction gone, 
 
 Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
 Of candles to their saints — but there were none 
 
 To pay them with ; and some look'd o'er the bow 
 Some hoisted out the boats : and there was one 
 
 That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution. 
 
 Who told him to be damn'd — in his confusion. 
 
512 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 Some lash'd them in their hammocks, some put on 
 
 Their best clothes as if going to a fair ; 
 Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, 
 
 And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair ; 
 And others went on, as they had begun, 
 
 Getting the boats out, being well aware 
 That a tight boat will live in a rough sea. 
 Unless with breaJcers close beneath her lee. 
 
 XL VI, 
 
 The worst of all was, that in their condition, 
 Having been several days in great distress, 
 
 'T was difficult to get out such provision 
 
 As now might render their long suffering less : 
 
 Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ; 
 
 Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress : 
 
 Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter 
 
 Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 
 
 Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet ; 
 
 Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so ; 
 
 Six flasks of wine ; and they contrived to get 
 
 A portion of their beef up from below. 
 And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, 
 
 But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon ; 
 
 Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
 Been stove in the beginning of the gale ; 
 
 And the long-boat's condition was but bad, 
 As there were but two blankets for a sail, 
 
 And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
 Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail ; 
 
 And two boats could not hold, far less be stored. 
 
 To save one half the people then on board. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 'T was twilight, for the sunless day went dowa 
 
 Over the waste of waters ; like a veil. 
 Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frovm 
 
 Of one whose hate is masked but to assail ; 
 Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown. 
 
 And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale 
 And the dim desolate deep — twelve days had Fear 
 Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 
 
 z.. 
 Some trial had been making at a rail, 
 
 With little hope in such a rolling sea, 
 A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd, 
 
 If any laughter at such times could be. 
 Unless with people who too much have quaff 'd, 
 
 And have a kind of wild and horrid glee 
 Half epileptical, and half hysterical : 
 Their preservation would have been a miracle. 
 
 LI. 
 
 At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars. 
 And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, 
 
 Thet still could keep afloat the struggling tars. 
 For yet they strove, although of no great use: 
 
 There was no light in heaven but a few stars ; 
 The boats put off o'ercrowded witli their crews ; 
 
 She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, 
 
 And, going down head-foremost — sunli, in short. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell ! 
 
 Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave ; 
 Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yeU, 
 
 As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
 And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, 
 
 And dovra she suck'd with her the whirling wave. 
 Like one who grapples with his enemy, 
 4nd strives to strangle him before he die. 
 
 And first one universal shriek there rush'd, 
 Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
 
 Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd. 
 Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 
 
 Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd, 
 Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
 
 A solitary shriek — the bubbling cry 
 
 Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 The boats, as stated, had got off before, 
 
 And in them crowded several of the crew ; 
 And yet their present hope was hardly more 
 
 Them what it had been, for so strong it blew, 
 There was slight chance of reaching any shore , 
 
 And then they were too many, though so few- 
 Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, 
 Were counted in them when they got afloat. 
 
 XT. 
 
 All the rest perish'd ; near two hundred souls 
 Had left their bodies ; and, what 's worse, aJas ! 
 
 When over Catholics the ocean rolls. 
 
 They must wait several weeks, before a mass 
 
 Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals. 
 
 Because, till people know what 's come to pass, 
 
 They won't lay out their money on the dead — 
 
 It costs three francs for every mass that 's said. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
 Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; 
 
 It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care, 
 For Juan wore the magisterial face 
 
 Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair 
 Of eyes were crying for their owner's case ; 
 
 Battista (though a name cali'd shortly Tita) 
 
 Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save ; 
 
 But the same cause, conducive to his loss. 
 Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave. 
 
 As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross. 
 And so he found a wine-and-watery grave : 
 
 They could not rescue him, although so close, 
 Because the sea ran higher every minute. 
 And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 A small old spaniel, — which had been Don Jose's, 
 His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think. 
 
 For on such things the memory reposes 
 
 With tenderness, — stood howling on the brink, 
 
 Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses !) 
 No doubt the vessel was about to sink ; 
 
 And Juan caught him up, and, ere he stepp'd 
 
 Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 He also stuff 'd his money where he could 
 About his person, and Pedrillo's too, 
 
 Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, 
 Not knowing what himself to say or do, 
 
 As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; 
 
 But Juan, trusting they might still get through. 
 
 And deeming there were remedies for any ill, 
 
 Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 
 
 LX. 
 
 'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, 
 That the sail was becalm'd between the seas. 
 
 Though on the wave's high top too much to set. 
 They dared not take it in for all the breeze ; 
 
 Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet. 
 And made them bale without a moment's ease, 
 
 So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, 
 
 And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 513 
 
 Nine souls more went in her : the long-boat still 
 Kept above water, with an oar for mast, 
 
 Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill 
 Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast; 
 
 Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill, 
 And present peril all before surpass'd, 
 
 They griev'd for those who perish'd with the cutter, 
 
 And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 
 
 Of the continuance of the gale : to run 
 Before the sea, until it should grow fine, 
 
 Was all that for the present could be done : 
 A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine 
 
 Was serv'd out to the people, who begun 
 To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, 
 And most of them had little clothes but rags. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 They counted thirty, crowded in a space 
 
 Which left scarce room for motion or exertion : 
 
 They did their best to modify their case, 
 
 One half sate up, though numb'd with the immersion, 
 
 While t' other half were laid dowTi in their place. 
 At watch and watch ; thus, shivering Ulie the tertian 
 
 Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat, 
 
 With nothing but the sky for a great-coat. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 'T is very certain the desire of life 
 
 Prolongs it ; this is obvious to physicians, 
 
 When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife, 
 Survive through very desperate conditions. 
 
 Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 
 Nor shears of Atropos before their visions : 
 
 Despair of all recovery spoils longevity. 
 
 And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 'T is said that persons living on annuities 
 Are longer lived than others, — God knows why. 
 
 Unless to plague the grantors, — yet so true it is 
 That some, I really think, do never die 
 
 Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, 
 
 And that 's their mode of furnishing supply : 
 
 In my young days they lent me cash that way, 
 
 Which I found very troublesome to pay. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 'T is thus with people in an open boat, 
 They live upon the love of life, and bear 
 
 More than can be believed, or even thought, 
 
 And stand, like rocks, the tempest's wear and tear; 
 
 And hardships still has been the sailor's lot, 
 
 Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there — 
 
 She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 
 
 Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 But man is a carnivorous production, 
 
 And must have meals, at least one meal a day ; 
 
 He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, 
 But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey : 
 
 Although his anatomical construction 
 Bears vegetables in a grumbling way, 
 
 Your labouring people think, beyond all question, 
 
 Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 And thus it was with this our hapless crew ; 
 
 For on the third day there came on a calm. 
 And though at first their strength it might renew, 
 
 And, lying on their weariness like balm, 
 Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue 
 
 Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm 
 And fell all ravenously on their provision, 
 Instead of hording it with due precision, 
 3 P 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 The consequence was easily foreseen — 
 
 They ate up all they had, and drank their wine, 
 
 In spite of all remonstrances, and then 
 
 On what, in fact, next day were they to dine ? 
 
 They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men ! 
 And carry them to shore ; these hopes were fine, 
 
 But, as they had but one oar, and that brittle, 
 
 It would have been more wise to save their victual. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, 
 And ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child : 
 
 The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there. 
 The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild — 
 
 With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
 What could they do ? and hunger's rage grew wild : 
 
 So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, 
 
 Was kill'd and portion'd out for present eating. 
 
 rxxi. 
 
 On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, 
 And Juan, who had still refused, because 
 
 The creature was his father's dog that died. 
 Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, 
 
 With some remorse received, (though first denied,) 
 As a great favour, one of the fore-paws, 
 
 "Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 
 
 Devour'd it, longing for the other too. 
 
 rxxii. 
 
 The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun 
 Blister'd and scorch'd ; and stagnant on the sea, 
 
 They lay like carcasses ; and hope was none, 
 Save in the breeze that came not ; savagely 
 
 They glared upon each other — all was done, 
 Water, and wine, and food, — and you might sea 
 
 The longings of the cannibal arise 
 
 (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 At length one whisper'd his companion, who 
 Whisper'd another, and thus it went round. 
 
 And then into a hoarser murmur grew. 
 
 An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound ; 
 
 And when his comrade's thoughts each sufferer knew 
 'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, he found : 
 
 And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, 
 
 And who should die to be his fellows' food. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 But ere they came to this, they that day shared 
 Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes,* 
 
 And then they look'd around them, and despair'd. 
 And none to be the sacrifice would choose ; 
 
 At length the lots were torn up and prepared. 
 But of materials that must shock the muse — 
 
 Having no paper, for the want of better, 
 
 They took by force from Juan Julia's letter. 
 
 I,XXV. 
 
 The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and handed 
 
 In silent horror, and their distribution 
 Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded, 
 
 Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution ; 
 None in particular had sought or plann'd it, 
 
 'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution. 
 By which none were permitted to be neuter — 
 And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 
 
 LXXVI, 
 
 He but requested to be bled to death : 
 The surgeon had his instruments and bled 
 
 Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath. 
 
 You hardly could perceive when he was dead. 
 
 He died as born, a Catholic in faith. 
 Like most in the belief in which they 're bred^ 
 
 And first a little crucifix he kiss'd, 
 
 And then held out his jugular and wrist. 
 
 I 
 
614 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Ca^to II. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 The surgeon, as there was no other fee, 
 
 Had his first choice of morsels for his pains ; 
 
 But being thirstiest at the moment, he 
 
 Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins: 
 
 Part was divided, part thrown in the sea, 
 
 And such things as the entrails and the brains 
 
 Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billow — 
 
 Th^ sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 The sailors ate him, all save three or four, 
 Who were not quite so fond of animal food 
 
 To these was added Juan, who, before 
 Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could 
 
 Feel now his appetite increased much more; 
 'T was not to be expected that he should. 
 
 Even in extremity of their disaster, 
 
 Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 
 
 LXXIX, 
 
 'T was better that he did not; for, in fact, 
 The consequence was awful in the extreme ; 
 
 For they, who were most ravenous in the act. 
 
 Went raging mad — Lord ! how they did blaspheme ! 
 
 And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd, 
 Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream. 
 
 Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing, 
 
 And, with hyaena laughter, died despairing. 
 
 I-XXX. 
 
 Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction, 
 And all the rest were thin enough, heaven knows ; 
 
 And some of them had lost their recollection, 
 
 Happier than they who still perceived their woes ; 
 
 But others ponder'd on a new dissection, 
 As if not warn'd sufficiently by those 
 
 Who had already perish'd, suffering madly, 
 
 For having used their appetites so sadly. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 And next they thought upon the master's mate, 
 As fattest ; but he saved himself, because, 
 
 Besides being much averse from such a fate, 
 There were some other reasons : the first was, 
 
 He had been rather indisposed of late, 
 
 And that which chiefly proved his saving clause, 
 
 Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, 
 
 By general subscription of the ladies. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd. 
 But it was used sparingly, — scane were afraid, 
 
 And others still their appetites constrain'd. 
 Or but at times a little supper made ; 
 
 All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd. 
 Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead: 
 
 At length they caught two boobies and a noddy 
 
 And then they left off eating the dead body. 
 
 rxxxiii. 
 And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be. 
 
 Remember Ugolino condescends 
 To eat the head of his arch-enemy 
 
 The moment after he politelv ends 
 His tale ; if foes be food in hell, at sea 
 
 'T is surely fair to dine upon our friends, 
 When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty. 
 Without being much more horrible than Dante. 
 
 LXXXIT. 
 
 And the same night there fell a shower of rain. 
 
 For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth 
 
 When dried to summer dust ; till taught by pain, 
 Men really know not what good water 's worth ; 
 
 If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 
 
 Or with a faroish'd boat's-crew had your birth. 
 
 Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, 
 
 You'd wish yourself where Truth is — in a well. 
 
 rxxxv. 
 It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer, 
 
 Until they found a ragged piece of sheet. 
 Which served them as a sort of spong}' pitcher, 
 
 And when they deem'd its moisture was complete, 
 They wrung it out, and, though a thirsty ditcher 
 
 Might not have thought the scanty draught so sweet 
 As a full pot of porter, to their thinking 
 They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, 
 Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar stream'd ; 
 
 Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were black, 
 As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd, 
 
 To beg the beggar, who could not, rain back 
 A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd 
 
 To taste of heaven — if this be true, indeed. 
 
 Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 There were two fathers in this ghastly crew. 
 And with them their two sons, of whom the one 
 
 Was more robust and hardy to the view, 
 But he died early ; and when he was gone, 
 
 His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 
 
 One glance on him, and said, " Heaven's will be done! 
 
 I can do nothing !" and he saw him thrown 
 
 Into the deep, without a tear or groan. 
 
 LXXXVIII, 
 
 The other father had a weaklier child. 
 
 Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate ; 
 But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 
 
 And patient spirit, held aloof his fate ; 
 Little he said, and now and then he smiled, 
 
 As if to win apart from off the weight 
 He saw increasing on his father's heart. 
 With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
 His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam 
 
 From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed ; 
 
 And when the wish'd-for shower at lensth was come, 
 
 And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 
 Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam. 
 
 He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 
 
 Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain. 
 
 xc. 
 The boy expired — the father held the clay. 
 
 And look'd upon it long, and when at fast 
 Death left no doubt, and the dead burden lay 
 
 Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past. 
 He watched it wistfully, until away 
 
 'T was borne by the rude wave wherein 't was cast; 
 Then he himself sunk down, all dumb and shivering, 
 And gave no signs of life, save his limbs quivering. 
 
 xci. 
 
 Now over-head a rainbow, bursting through 
 
 The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea, 
 
 Resting its bright base on the quivering blue : 
 And all within its arch appear'd to be 
 
 Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 
 Wax'd broad and waving like a banner free, 
 
 Then changed like to a bow that 's bent, and then 
 
 Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. 
 
 xcir. 
 It changed, of course ; a heavenly chameleon. 
 
 The airy child of vapour and the sun. 
 Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, 
 
 Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun, 
 Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, 
 
 And blending every colour into one, 
 Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle, 
 (For sometimes we must box without tlie muffle.) 
 
Canto IL 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 615 
 
 xcin. 
 
 Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen- 
 It is as well to think so, now and then ; 
 
 'T was an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 
 And may become of great advantage when 
 
 Folks are discouraged ; and most surely no men 
 Had greater need to nerve themselves again 
 
 Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope- 
 
 Q,uite a celestial kaleidoscope. 
 
 xciv. 
 About this time, a beautiful white bird, 
 
 Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size 
 And plumage, (probably it might have err'd 
 
 Upon its course,) pass'd oft before their eyes, 
 And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 
 
 The men within the boat, and in this guise 
 It came and went, and flutter'd round them till 
 Night fell : — this seem'd a better omen still. 
 
 But in this case I also must remark, 
 
 'T was well this bird of promise did not perch, 
 
 Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark 
 Was not so safe for roosting as a church ; 
 
 And had it been the dove from Noah's ark, 
 Returning there from her successful search, 
 
 Which in their way that moment chanced to fall, 
 
 They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 
 
 xcvr. 
 With twilight it again came on to blow, 
 
 But not with violence ; the stars shone out, 
 The boat made way ; yet now they were so low, 
 
 They knew not where nor what they were about ; 
 Some fancied they saw land, and some said " No!" 
 
 The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt — 
 Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns, 
 And all mistook about the latter once. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 As morning broke, the light wind died away, 
 
 When he who had the watch sung out, and swore 
 
 If 't was not land that rose with the sun's ray 
 He wish'd that land he never might see more : 
 
 And the rest rubb'd their eyes, and saw a bay, 
 
 Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shore ; 
 
 For shore it was, and gradually grew 
 
 Distinct and high, and palpable to view. 
 
 XCYIII. 
 
 And then of these some part burst into tears, 
 
 And others, looking-with a stupid stare. 
 Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, 
 
 And seem'd as if they had no further care ; 
 While a fevvpray'd — (the first time for some years) — 
 
 And at the bottom of the boat three were 
 Asleep-, they shook them by the hand and head. 
 And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 
 
 xcix. 
 The day before, fast sleeping on the water. 
 
 They found a turtle of the hawks-bill kind, 
 And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her, 
 
 Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 
 Proved even still a more nutritious matter. 
 
 Because it left encouragement behind : 
 They thought that in such perils, more than chance 
 Had sent them this for their deliverance. 
 
 The land appear'd, a high and rocky coast, 
 And higher grew the mountains as they drew, 
 
 Set by a current, toward it: they were lost 
 In various conjectures, for none knew 
 
 To what part of the earth they had been toss'd, 
 So changeable had been the winds that blew ; 
 
 Some thought it was Mount jEtna, some the highlands 
 
 Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 
 
 Meantime the current, with a rising gale, 
 Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, 
 
 Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale: 
 Their living freight was now reduced to four ; 
 
 And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 
 To heave into the deep with those before, 
 
 Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd 
 
 The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 
 
 on. 
 Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat had done 
 
 Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to 
 Such things, a mother had not known her son 
 
 Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew ; 
 By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one 
 
 They perish' d, until wither'd to these few, 
 But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, 
 In washing dovra Pedrillo with salt water. 
 
 cm. 
 As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen, 
 
 Unequal in its aspect here and there. 
 They felt the freshness of its growing green. 
 
 That waved in forest tops, and smooth'd the air. 
 And fell upon their glazed eyes as a screen 
 
 From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare- 
 Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep 
 Away the vast, salt, dread, etei-nal deep. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 The shore look'd wild, without the trace of man, 
 And girt by formida,ble waves ; but they 
 
 Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran, 
 Though right ahead the roaring breakers iay: 
 
 A reef between them also now began 
 
 To show its boiling surf and bomiding spray. 
 
 But, finding no place for their landing bettei-. 
 
 They ran the boat for shore, and overset her. 
 
 cv. 
 
 But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
 Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont ; 
 
 And, having learn'd to swim in that sweet river, 
 Had often turn'd the art to some account. 
 
 A better swimmer you could scarce see ever. 
 He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, 
 
 As once, (a feat on which ourselves we prided,) 
 
 Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 
 
 cvi. 
 So, here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 
 
 He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 
 With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark 
 
 The beach which lay before him, high and dry : 
 The greatest danger here was from a shark, 
 
 That carried off his neighbour by the thigh ; 
 As for the other two, they could not swim, 
 So nobody arrived on shore but him. 
 
 evil. 
 
 Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar. 
 
 Which, providentially for him, was wash'd 
 
 Just as his feeble arms could strike no more, 
 
 And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 't was dash'd 
 
 Within his grasp ; he clung to it, and sore 
 The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; 
 
 At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 
 
 Roll'don the beach, half senseless, from the sea: 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung 
 Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 
 
 From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung 
 Should suck him back to her insatiate grave : 
 
 And there he lay, full-length, where he was flung, 
 Before the entrance of a cliff- worn cave, 
 
 With just enough of life to feel its pain. 
 
 And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain. 
 
616 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 With slow and staggering effort he arose, 
 But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 
 
 And quivering hand ; and then he look'd for those 
 Who long had been his mates upon the sea, 
 
 But none of them appear 'd to share his woes, 
 Save one, a corpse from out the famish'd three, 
 
 Who died two days before, and now had found 
 
 An unknown barren beach for burial ground. 
 
 ex. 
 And, as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast. 
 
 And down he sunk, and, as he sunk, the sand 
 Swajn round and round, and all his senses pass'd; 
 
 He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand 
 Droop'd dripping on the oar, (their jury-mast,) 
 
 And, like a wither'd lily, on the land 
 His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, 
 As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 
 He knew not, for the earth was gone for him, 
 
 And time had nothing more of night nor day 
 For his congealing blood, and senses dim ; 
 
 And how this hea\7 faintness pass'd away 
 He luiew not, till each painful pulse and limb, 
 
 And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life. 
 
 For Death, though vanquish'd, still retir'd with strife. 
 
 CXII. 
 
 His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed. 
 For all was doubt and dizziness : he thought 
 
 He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, 
 And felt again with his despair o'erwrought, 
 
 And wish'd it death in which he had reposed ; 
 
 And then once more his feelings back were brought. 
 
 And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 
 
 A lovely female face of seventeen. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 'T was bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
 Seem'd almost prying into his for breath ; 
 
 And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
 Recall'd his answermg spirits back from death: 
 
 And, bathing his chill temples, tried to sooth 
 Each pulse to animation, till beneath 
 
 Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 
 
 To these kind efforts made a low reply. 
 
 cxiy. 
 
 Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 
 Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair arm 
 
 Rais'd higher the faint head which o'er it himg ; , 
 And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 
 
 Pillow'd his death-like forehead ; then she \vrung 
 His de^v}' curls, long drench'd by everj^ storm; 
 
 And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew 
 
 A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers too, 
 
 cxv. 
 
 And lifting him with care into the cave, 
 The gentle girl, and her attendant, — one 
 
 Young yet her elder, and of brow less grave, 
 And more robust of figure, — then begun 
 
 To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 
 
 Light to the rocks that roof 'd them, which the sun 
 
 Had never seen, the maid, or whatso'er 
 
 She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, 
 That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, 
 
 Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd 
 In braids behind, and, though her stature were 
 
 Even of the highest for a female mould, 
 
 They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her air 
 
 There was a something which bespoke command, 
 
 As one who was a lady in the land. 
 
 cxvii. 
 Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 
 
 Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, 
 Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
 
 Deepest attraction, for when to the view 
 Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, 
 
 Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew ; 
 'T is as the snake, late coil'd, who pours his length, 
 And hurls at once his venom and his strengtli. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 Her brow was white and low, her cheeks' pure dye 
 Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; 
 
 Short upper lip — sweet lips 1 that make us sigh 
 Ever to have seen such ; for she Wcis one 
 
 Fit for the model of a statuary, 
 
 (A race of mere impostors, when all 's done 
 
 I 've seen much finer women, ripe and real, 
 
 Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal.) 
 
 cxix. 
 I '11 tell you why I say so, for 't is just 
 
 One should not rail widiout a decent cause : 
 There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 
 
 I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 
 A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 
 
 Yield to stern Time and Nature's -wrinkling laws. 
 They will destroy a face which mortal thought 
 Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought. 
 
 cxx. 
 
 And such was she, the lady of the cave: 
 
 Her dress was very different from the Spanish, 
 
 Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave ; 
 
 For, as you know, the Spanish w-omen banish 
 
 Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave 
 Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 
 
 The basquina and the mantilla, they 
 
 Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 But with our damsel this was not the case : 
 Her dress was many-colour'd, finely spim ; 
 
 Her locks curl'd negligently round her face, 
 
 But through them gold and gems profusely shone ; 
 
 Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
 
 Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 
 
 Flash'd on her little hajid ; but, what was shocking, 
 
 Her small snow feet had shppers, but no stocking. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 The other female's dress w^as not unlike, 
 
 But of inferior materials : she 
 Had not so many ornaments to strike : 
 
 Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
 Her dowry; and her veil, in form alike, 
 
 Was coarser ; and her air^ though firm, less free ; 
 Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her eyes 
 As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both 
 With food and raiment, and those soft attentions. 
 
 Which are (as I must own) of female growth, 
 And have ten thousand delicate inventions ; 
 
 They made a most superior mess of broth, 
 A thing which poesy but seldom mentions. 
 
 But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's 
 
 Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 
 
 CXXIV. 
 
 I 'U tell you who they were, this female pair. 
 Lest they should seem princesses in disguise ; 
 
 Besides I hate all myster}', and that air 
 
 Of clap-trap, which yom- recent poets prize ; 
 
 And so, in short, the girls they really were 
 They shall appear before your curious eyes, 
 
 Mistress and maid ; the first was only daughter 
 
 Of an old man who lived upon the water. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 617 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 A fisherman he had been in his youth, 
 And still a sort of fishei-man was he ; 
 
 But other speculations were, in sooth, 
 Added to his connexion with the sea, 
 
 Perhaps, not so respectable, in truth : 
 A little smuggling, and some piracy, 
 
 Left him, at last, the sole of many masters 
 
 Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. 
 
 cxxvi. 
 A fisher, therefore, was he — though of men, 
 
 Like Peter the Apostle, — and he fish'd 
 For wandering merchant vessels, now and then. 
 
 And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd ; 
 The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 
 
 He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd 
 Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade. 
 By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 
 
 CXXVII. 
 
 He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 
 (One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 
 
 A very handsome house from out his guilt. 
 And there he lived exceedingly at ease ; 
 
 Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt, 
 A sad old fellow was he, if you please, 
 
 But this I know, it was a spacious building. 
 
 Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 
 He had an only daughter call'd Haidee, 
 The greatest heiress of the Eastern isles; 
 
 Besides so very beautiful was she. 
 
 Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles : 
 
 Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree 
 
 She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 
 
 Rejected several suitors, just to learn 
 
 How to accept a better in his turn. 
 
 cxxix. 
 
 And walking out upon the beach below 
 
 The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, 
 
 Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — 
 
 Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd ; 
 
 But, being naked, she was shock'd, you know, 
 Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound, 
 
 As far as in her lay, " to take him in, 
 
 A stranger," dying, with so white a skin. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 But taking him into her father's house 
 Was not exactly the best way to save, 
 
 But like conveying to the cat the mouse, 
 Or people in a trance into their grave ; 
 
 Because the good old man had so much " vow?," 
 Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave. 
 
 He would have hospitably cured the stranger. 
 
 And sold him instandy when out of danger. 
 
 cxxxi. 
 And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best 
 
 (A virgin always on her maid relies) 
 To place him in the cave for present rest: 
 
 And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, 
 Their charity increased about their guest : 
 
 And their compassion grew to such a size. 
 It open'd half the turnpike gates to heaven — 
 (Saint Paul says 't is the toll which must be given.) 
 
 CXXXII. 
 
 They made a fire, but such a fire as they 
 Upon the moment could contrive with such 
 
 Materials as were cast up round the bay, 
 
 Some broken planks and oars, that to the touch 
 
 Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay, 
 A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch ; 
 
 But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty. 
 
 That there was fuel to have fumish'd twenty. 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 He had a bed of furs and a pelisse, 
 • For Haidee stripp'd her sables off to make 
 His couch ; and that he might be more at ease, 
 
 And warm, in case by chance he should awake 
 They also gave a petticoat apiece. 
 
 She and her maid, and promis'd by daybreak 
 To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish. 
 For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. 
 
 cxxxiv 
 And thus they left him to his lone repose 
 
 Juan slept like a top, or like the dead. 
 Who sleep at last, perhaps, (God only knows,) 
 
 Just for the present, and in his luU'd head 
 Not even a vision of his former woes 
 
 Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes 
 Unwelcome visions of our former years. 
 Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 Young Juan slept all dreamless : — but the maid 
 
 Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den, 
 Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd, 
 
 And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. 
 He slumber'd ; yet she thought, at least she said, 
 
 (The heart will slip even as the tongue and pen,) 
 He had pronounced her name — but she forgot 
 That at this moment Juan luiew it not. 
 
 C XXXVI. 
 
 And pensive to her father's house she went, 
 
 Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who 
 Better than she knew what, in fact, she meant, 
 
 She being wiser by a year or two; 
 A year or two 's an age when rightly spent. 
 
 And Zoe spent hers as most women do, 
 In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 
 Which is acquired in nature's good old college. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 The mom broke, and found Juan slumbering still 
 Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon 
 
 His rest ; the rushing of the neighbouring rill, 
 And the young beams of the excluded sun. 
 
 Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill ; 
 And need he had of slumber yet, for none 
 
 Had sufFer'd more — his hardships were comparative 
 
 To those related in my grand-dad's narrative. 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 
 Not so Haidee ; she sadly toss'd and tumbled, 
 And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, 
 
 Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stumbled, 
 And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore ; 
 
 And woke her maid so early that she grumbled. 
 And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore 
 
 In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and Greek, — ■ 
 
 They knew not what to thinli of such a freak. 
 
 cxxxix. 
 But up she got, and up she made them get. 
 
 With some pretence about the sun, that makes 
 Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set ; 
 
 And 't is, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks 
 Bright PhcEbus, while the mountains still are wet 
 
 With mist, and every bird with him awakes. 
 And night is flung off like a mourning suit 
 Worn for a husband, or some other brute. 
 
 CXL, 
 
 I say, the sun is a most glorious sight, 
 I 've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late 
 
 I have set up on purpose all the night. 
 
 Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate ; 
 
 And so all ye, who would be in the right 
 In health and purse, begin your day to date 
 
 From day-break, and when coffin'd at fourscore, 
 
 Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four. 
 
518 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 And Haidee met the morning face to face ; 
 
 Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush 
 Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 
 
 From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush. 
 Like to a torrent which a mountain's base, 
 
 That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, 
 Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread, 
 Or the Red Sea — but the sea is not red. 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 And down the cliff the island virgin came, 
 
 And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, 
 
 While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, 
 And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, 
 
 Taking her for a sister ; just the same 
 
 Mistake you would have made on seeing the two. 
 
 Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, 
 
 Had all the advantage too of not being air. 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 And when into die cavern Haidee stepp'd. 
 
 All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
 That like an infant Juan sweetly slept: 
 
 And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe, 
 (For sleep is av\ful,) and on tiptoe crept 
 
 And wrapp'd him closer, lest the air, too raw, 
 Should reach his blood ; then o'er him, still as death, 
 Bent with hush'd lips that drank his scarce-dra\vn breath. 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 And thus, like to an angel o'er the dying 
 
 Who die in righteousness, she lean'd ; and there 
 
 All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying. 
 As o'er him lay the calm and slirless air : 
 
 But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying, 
 Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair 
 
 Must breakfast, and betimes — lest they should ask it, 
 
 She drew out her provision from the basket. 
 
 CXLT. 
 
 She knew that the best feelings must have victual. 
 And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be ; 
 
 Besides, being less in love, she ya^^-n'd a little, 
 And feh her veins chill'd by the neighbouring sea ; 
 
 And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle ; 
 I can't say that she gave them any tea, 
 
 But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey, 
 
 With Scio wine, — and all for love, not money. 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and 
 
 The coffee made, would fain have waken'dJuan; 
 
 But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand. 
 And W'ithout word, a sign her finger drew on 
 
 Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand ; 
 
 And, the first breakfast spoil'd, prepared a new one, 
 
 Because her mistress would not let her break 
 
 That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake. 
 
 CXLVII. 
 
 For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek, 
 
 A purple hectic play'd, like dying day 
 On the snow tops of distant hills ; the streak 
 
 Of suflferance yet upon his forehead lay. 
 Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, sbj-unk, and weak ; 
 
 And his black curls were dewy with the spray, 
 Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt, 
 Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault. 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 
 And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 
 Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, 
 
 Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe, 
 LuU'd like the depth of ocean when at rest, 
 
 Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath, 
 Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest ; 
 
 In short, he was a very pretty fellow, 
 
 Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow. 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 He woke and gazed, and would have slept again, 
 But the fair face which met his eyes, forbade 
 
 Those eyes to close, though weariness and pam 
 Had further sleep a further pleasure made ; 
 
 For woman's face was never form'd in vain 
 For Juan, so that even when he pray'd. 
 
 He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy, 
 
 To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 
 
 CL. 
 
 And thus upon his elbow he arose, 
 
 And look'd upon the lady in whose cheek 
 
 The pale contended with the purple rose. 
 As with an effort she began to speak ; 
 
 Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose, 
 Although she told him in good modern Greek 
 
 With an Ionian accent, low and sweet, 
 
 That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. 
 
 CLI. 
 
 Now Juan could not understand a word. 
 Being no Grecian : but he had an ear, 
 
 And her voice was the warble of a bird. 
 So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, 
 
 That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard ; 
 The sort of sound we echo with a tear. 
 
 Without knowing why — an overpowering tone, 
 
 Whence melody descends, as from a throne. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 And Juan gazed, as one who is awoke 
 
 By a distant organ, doubting if he be 
 Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke 
 
 By the watchman, or some such reality. 
 Or by one's early valet's cursed knock ; 
 
 At least it is a heavy sound to me. 
 Who like a morning slumber — for the night 
 Shows stars and women in a better light. 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream. 
 Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling 
 
 A most prodigious appetite : the steam 
 Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing 
 
 Upon his senses, and the kindling beam 
 
 Of the new fire which Zoe kept up, kneeling 
 
 To stir her viands, made him quite awake 
 
 And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak. 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 But beef is rare within these oxless isles ; 
 
 Goats' flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, 
 And when a holiday upon them smiles, 
 
 A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on : 
 But this occurs but seldom, between whiles, 
 
 For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on. 
 Others are fair and fertile, among which. 
 This, though not large, was one of the most rich. 
 
 CLV. 
 
 I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking 
 
 That the old fable of the Minotaur — 
 From which our modern morals, rightly shrinking. 
 
 Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore 
 A cow's shape for a mask — was only (sinking 
 
 The allegory) a mere type, no more, 
 That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle. 
 To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 
 
 CLTI. 
 
 For we all Icnow that English people are 
 Fed upon beef — I won't say much of beer, 
 
 Because 't is liquor only, and being far 
 
 From this my subject, has no business here:— 
 
 We know, too, they are very fond of war, 
 A pleasure — like all pleasures — rather dear ; 
 
 So were the Cretans — from which I infer 
 
 That beef and battles both were owing to her. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 CLTIX. 
 
 But to resume. The languid Juan raised 
 
 His head upon his elbow, and he saw 
 A sight on which he had not lately gazed, 
 
 As all his latter meals had been quite raw, 
 Three or four things for which the Lord he praised, 
 
 And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw, 
 He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like 
 A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 
 
 CLVIII. 
 
 He ate, and he was well supplied ; and she, 
 
 Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed 
 
 Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see 
 Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead : 
 
 But Zoe, being older than Haidee, 
 
 Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 
 
 That famish'd people must be slowly nursed. 
 
 And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 And so she took the liberty to state, 
 
 Rather by deeds than words, because the case 
 
 Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate 
 Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 
 
 The seashore at this hour, must leave his plate, 
 Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 
 
 She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel. 
 
 Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill. 
 
 CLX. 
 
 Next they — ^he being naked, save a tatter'd 
 Pair of scarce decent trousers — went to work, 
 
 And in the fire his recent rags they scatter'd, 
 And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, 
 
 Or Greek — that is, although it not much matter' d, 
 Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 
 
 They furnish'd him, entire except some stitches, 
 
 With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 
 
 CLXI, 
 
 And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking, 
 But not a word could Juan comprehend. 
 
 Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in 
 Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end ; 
 
 And, as he interrupted not, went eking 
 Her speech out to her protege and friend, 
 
 Till, pausing at the last her breath to take, 
 
 She saw he did not understand Romaic. 
 
 CLXII. 
 
 And then she had recourse to nods, and signs, 
 And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye, 
 
 And read (the only book she could) the lines 
 Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy. 
 
 The answer eloquent, where the soul shines 
 And darts in one quick glance a long reply ; 
 
 And thus in every look she saw express'd 
 
 A world of words, and things at which see guess'd. 
 
 CLXIII. 
 
 And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, 
 
 And words repeated after her, he took 
 A lesson in her tongue ; but by surmise, 
 
 No doubt, less of her language than her look ; 
 As he who studies fervently the skies 
 
 Turns oftener to the stars than to his book, 
 Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better 
 From Haidee's glance than any graven letter. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 'T is pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 
 By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean. 
 
 When both the teacher and the taught are young, 
 As was the case, at least where I have been ; 
 
 They smile so when one 's right, and when one 's wrong 
 They smile still more, and then there intervene 
 
 Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss ; — 
 
 I learn'd th^ little that I know by this ; 
 
 5!9 
 
 That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, or Greek, 
 , Italian not at all, having no teachers. 
 Much English I cannot pretend to speak. 
 
 Learning that language chiefly from its preachers, 
 Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 
 
 I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 
 Of eloquence in piety and prose — 
 I hate your poets, so read none of those. 
 
 CLXVI. 
 
 As for the ladies, I have naught to say, 
 
 A wanderer from the British world of fashion, 
 
 Where I, like other " dogs, have had my day," 
 Like other men, too, may have had my passion 
 
 But that, like other things, has pass'd away: 
 And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on, 
 
 Foes, friends, men, women, now are naught to me 
 
 But dreams of what has been, no more to be. 
 
 CLXVII. 
 
 Return we to Don Juan. He begun 
 
 To hear new words, and to repeat them ; but 
 
 Some feelings, universal as the sun. 
 
 Were such as could not in his breast be shut 
 
 More than within the bosom of a nun : 
 
 He was in love — as you would be, no doubt. 
 
 With a young benefactress, — so was she 
 
 Just in the way we very often see. 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 
 And every day by daybreak — rather early 
 For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest 
 
 She came into the cave, but it was merely 
 To see her bird reposing in his nest ; 
 
 And she would softly stir his locks so curly. 
 Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest, 
 
 Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth, 
 
 As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 And every morn his colour freshlier came. 
 And every day help'd on his convalescence, 
 
 'Twas well, because health in the human frame 
 Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence, 
 
 For health and idleness to passion's flame 
 
 Are oil and gunpowder ; and some good lessons 
 
 Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, 
 
 Without whom Venus will not long attack us. 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 While Venus fills the heart, (without heart really 
 Love, though good always, is not quite so good,) 
 
 Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli, 
 
 For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood. 
 
 While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly : 
 Eggs, oysters too, are amatory food; 
 
 But who is their purveyor from above 
 
 Heaven knows, — it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove. 
 
 CLXXI. 
 
 When Juan woke, he found some good things ready, 
 A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 
 
 That ever made a youthful heart less steady. 
 Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size ; 
 
 But I have spoken of all this already — 
 And repetition 's tiresome and unwise, — 
 
 Well — Juan, after bathing in the sea. 
 
 Came always back to coffee and Haidee. 
 
 CLXXII. 
 
 Both were so young, and one so innocent, 
 That bathing pass'd for nothing ; Juan seem'd 
 
 To her, as 'twere the kind of being sent, 
 
 Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, 
 
 A something to be loved, a creature meant 
 To be her happiness, and whom she deera'd 
 
 To render happy ; all who joy would win 
 
 Must share it, — happiness was born a twin. 
 
520 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 It was such pleasure to behold him, such 
 
 Enlargement of existence to partake 
 Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, 
 
 To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake. 
 To live with him for ever were too much ; 
 
 But then the thought of parting made her quake : 
 He was her own, her ocean treasure, cast 
 Like a rich wreck — her first love and her last. 
 
 ci.xxiy. 
 And thus a moon roU'd on, and fair Haidee 
 
 Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 
 Such plentiful precautions, that still he 
 
 Remain'd unkno\vn within his craggy nook: 
 At last her father's prows put out to sea, 
 
 For certain merchantmen upon the look, 
 Not as of yore to carry off an lo. 
 But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. 
 
 CLXXV. 
 
 Then came her freedom, for she had no mother. 
 So that, her father being at sea, she was 
 
 Free as a married woman, or such other 
 
 Female, as where she likes may freely pass, 
 
 Without even the encumbrance of a brother. 
 The freest she that ever gazed on glass : 
 
 I speak of Christian lands in this comparison. 
 
 Where wives, at least, are seldom kept ha gcirrison. 
 
 CLXXVI. 
 
 Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk, 
 
 (For they must talk,) and he had learnt to say 
 
 So much as to propose to take a walk, — 
 For little had he wander'd since the day 
 
 On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk, 
 Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay, — 
 
 And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, 
 
 Arid saw the sun set opposite the moon. 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 
 It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast. 
 
 With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore, 
 
 Guarded by shoals and rocks as by a host, 
 
 With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore 
 
 A better welcome to the terapest-toss'd ; 
 
 And rarely ceased the haughty billows' roar. 
 
 Save on the dead long summer days, which make 
 
 The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. 
 
 CLXXYIII. 
 
 And the small ripple spih upon the beach 
 
 Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne. 
 
 When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach'', 
 That springdew of the spirit ! "the heart's rain ! 
 
 Few thuigs surpass old wine ; and they may preach 
 Who please, — the more because they preach in vain,— 
 
 Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, 
 
 Sermons and soda-water the day after. 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 Man, being reasonable, must get drunk ; 
 
 The best of life is but intoxication : 
 Glor}', the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk 
 
 The hopes of all men, and of every nation ; 
 Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk 
 
 Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion 
 But to return, — get very drimk ; and when 
 You wake with headach, you shall see what then. 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 Ring for your valet — bid him quickly bring 
 Some hock and soda-water, then you '11 know 
 
 A pleasure worthy Xerxes tlie great king ; 
 
 For not the blest sherbet, sublimed with snow 
 
 Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring. 
 Nor Burgundy in ail its sunset glow 
 
 After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter. 
 
 Vie with tliat draught of hock and soda-water. 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 The coast — I think it was the coast that I 
 
 Was just describing — Yes, it was the coast- 
 Lay at tliis period quiet as the sky, 
 
 The sands untumbled, the blue waves untoss'd, 
 And aU was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry, 
 
 And dolphin's leap, and little billow cross'd 
 By some low rock or shelve that made it fret 
 Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 
 And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, 
 
 As I have said, upon an expedition ; 
 And mother, brother, guardian, she had none, 
 
 Save Zoe, who, altliough with due precision 
 She waited on her lady wiih the sun, 
 
 Though daily service was her only mission. 
 Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tresses. 
 And eisking now and then for cast-off dresses. 
 
 CLXXXIII. 
 
 It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded 
 Red sun sinlcs down behind the azure hill, 
 
 Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded. 
 Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still. 
 
 With the far mountain-crescent, half surrounded 
 On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill 
 
 Upon the other, and the rosy sky. 
 
 With one star sparkling through it like an eye. 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 
 And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand. 
 Over the shining pebbles and the shells. 
 
 Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand. 
 And in the worn and wild receptacles 
 
 Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd, 
 In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells, 
 
 They turn'd to rest; and, each clasped by an arm. 
 
 Yielded to the deep twiUght's purple charm. 
 
 CLXXXT. 
 
 They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow 
 Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright ; 
 
 They gazed upon the glittering sea below. 
 
 Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight ; 
 
 They heard the waves splash, and the wind so low. 
 And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 
 
 Into each other — and. beholding this. 
 
 Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss ; 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 
 A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love. 
 And beauty, all concentrating, like rays 
 
 Into one focus kindled from above ; 
 Such kisses as belong to early days. 
 
 Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, 
 And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze, 
 
 Each kiss a heart-quake, — for a kiss's strength, 
 
 I think it must be reckon'd by its length. 
 
 CLXXXVII. 
 
 By length I mean duration ; theirs endured 
 
 Heaven knows how long — no doubt they never reckon'd , 
 
 And if they had, they could not have secured 
 The sum of their sensations to a second: 
 
 They had not spoken ; but they felt allured, 
 As if their souls and lips each other beckon'd, 
 
 Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung — 
 
 Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung. 
 
 CLXXXVIII. 
 
 They were alone, yet not alone as they 
 "VSTio, shut in chambers, think it loneliness ; 
 
 The silent ocean, emd the starlight bay, 
 The twilight glow, which momently grew less, 
 
 The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay 
 Around them, made them to each other press. 
 
 As if there were no Ufe beneath the sky 
 
 Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 
 
Canto II. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 521 
 
 CLXXXIX. 
 
 They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach, 
 They felt no terrors from the night, they were 
 
 All in all to each other : though their speech 
 Was broken words, they thought a language there ,- 
 
 And all the burning tongues the passions teach 
 Found in one sigh the best interpreter 
 
 Of nature's oracle — first love, — that all 
 
 Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall. 
 
 cxc. 
 Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows, 
 
 Nor offer'^d any ; she had never beard 
 Of plight and promises to be a spouse. 
 
 Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd ; 
 She was all which pure ignorance allows. 
 
 And flew to her young mate like a young bird j 
 And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she 
 Had not one word to say of constancy. 
 
 cxcr. 
 She loved, and was beloved — she adored. 
 
 And she was worshipp'd ; after nature's fashion, 
 Their intense souls, into each other pour'd. 
 
 If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion, — 
 But by degrees their senses were restored, 
 
 Again to be o'ereome, again to dash on ; 
 And, beating 'gainst /ws bosom, Haidee's heawt 
 Felt as if never more to beat apart. 
 
 excii. 
 Alas ! they were so young, so beautiful. 
 
 So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 
 Was that in which the heart is always full^ 
 
 And, having o'er itself no further power. 
 Prompts deeds eternity cannot annul, 
 
 But pays off moments in an endless showes 
 Of hell-fire — all prepared for people giving 
 Pleasiffe or pain to one another living. 
 
 CXCIII. 
 
 Alas! for Juan and Haidee ! they were 
 So loving and so lov ly — till then never, 
 
 Excepting our first parents, such a pair 
 Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever ;• 
 
 And Haidee, being devout as well as fair. 
 
 Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river^ 
 
 And hell and purgatory — but forgot 
 
 Just in the very crisis she should not. 
 
 excrv. 
 They look upon each' other, and their eyes 
 
 Gleam in the moonlight ; and her white arm' clasps 
 Round Juan's head, and his around hers lies 
 
 Half buried in the tresses which it grasps ; 
 She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, 
 
 He hers until they end in broken gasps ; 
 And thus they form a group that 'a quite antique ^ 
 Hcdf riaked, loving, natural, and Greek, 
 
 cxcv. 
 And when those deep and burning moments pass'd, 
 
 And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms, 
 She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 
 
 Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms. 
 And now and then her eye to heaven is cast, 
 
 And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms,. 
 Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants 
 With all it granted, and with all it grants. 
 
 cxcvr. 
 An infant when it ga^es on a light, 
 
 A child the mwnent when it drains the breast>. 
 A devotee when soars the host in sight, 
 
 An Arab with a stranger for a guest, 
 A sailor, when the prize has struck in fight, 
 
 A miser filluig his most hoarded chest, 
 Feel rapture ; but not such true joy are reaping 
 As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping. 
 3 CI 
 
 CXCVII. 
 
 For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, 
 All that it hatli of life with us is living ; 
 
 So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved, 
 And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving, 
 
 All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 
 
 Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving ; 
 
 There lies the thing we love with all its errors, 
 
 And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 
 
 CXCVIII. 
 
 The lady watch'd her lover — and that hour 
 Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, 
 
 O'erflow'd her soul with their united power ; 
 Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude 
 
 She and her wave-worn love had made their bower, 
 Where naught upon their passion could intrude. 
 
 And all the stars that crowded the blue space 
 
 Saw nothing happier than her glowing face 
 
 cxcix. 
 Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 
 
 To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 
 For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 
 
 And if 't is lost, life hath no more to bring 
 To them but mockeries of the past alone. 
 
 And their revenge is as the tiger's spring. 
 Deadly, and quick, and crushing : yet as real 
 Torture is theirs — what they inflict they feel. 
 
 cc. 
 They 're right ; for man, to man so oft unjust. 
 
 Is always so to women ; one sole bond 
 Awaits them, treachery is all their trust ; 
 
 Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond 
 Over their idol, till some weahhier lust 
 
 Buys them in marriage— and what rests beyond 
 A thankless husband, next a faithless lover. 
 Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all 's over. 
 
 cci. 
 Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers. 
 
 Some mind iheir household, others dissipation, 
 Some run away, and but exchange their cares. 
 
 Losing the advantage of a virtuous station ; 
 Few changes e'er can better their affairs. 
 
 Theirs being an unnatural situation. 
 From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : 
 Some play the devil, and then write a novel. 
 
 ecu. 
 Haidee was nature's bride, and knew not this ; 
 
 Haidee was passion's child, bom where the sun 
 Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss 
 
 Ofliis gazelle-eyed daughters ; she was one 
 Made but to love, to feel that she was his 
 
 Who was her chosen : what was said or done 
 Elsewhere was nothing — She had naught to fear, 
 Hope, care, nor love beyond, her heart beat here. 
 
 CCIII. 
 
 And oh ! that quickening of the heart, that beat ! 
 
 How much it costs us, yet each rising throb 
 Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, 
 
 That wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 
 Joy of its alchyroy, and to repeat 
 
 Fine truths ; even conscience, too, has a tough job 
 To make us understand each good old maxim. 
 So good — I wonder Castlereagh do n't tax 'em. 
 
 cciv. 
 And now 't was done— on the lone shore were plighted 
 
 Their hearts ; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed 
 Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted : 
 
 Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed. 
 By their own feelings hallow'd and united. 
 
 Their priest was solitude, and they were wed J- 
 And they were happy, for to their young eyes 
 Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 
 
522 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Cawto III. 
 
 Oh love ! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, 
 
 Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
 Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 
 
 Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave 
 All those may leap who rather would be neuter — 
 
 (Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave) — 
 Oh Love ! thou art the very god of evil. 
 For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 
 
 ccvi. 
 Thou makest the chaste connubial state precarious, 
 
 And jestest with the brows of mightiest men: 
 Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 
 
 Have much employed the muse of history's pen ; 
 Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, — 
 
 Such worthies time will never see again : — 
 Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, 
 They all were heroes, conquerers, and cuckolds. 
 
 CCVII. 
 
 Thou makest philosophers : there 's Epicurus 
 
 And Aristippus, a material crew ! 
 Who to immoral courses would allure us 
 
 By theories, quite practicable too ; 
 If only from the devil they would insure us 
 
 How pleasant were the maxim, (not quite new,) 
 " Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us ?" 
 So said the royal sage, Sardanapabis. 
 
 CCVIII. 
 
 But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia ? 
 
 And should he have forgotten her so soon ? 
 I can't but say it seems to me most truly a 
 
 Perplexing question ; but, no doubt, the moon 
 Does these things for us, and whenever newly a 
 
 Palpitation rises, 't is her boon. 
 Else how the devil is it that fresh features 
 Have such a charm for us poor human creatures ? 
 
 ccix. 
 I hate inconstancy — I loathe, detest. 
 
 Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made 
 Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast 
 
 No permanent foundation can be laid ; 
 Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, 
 
 And yet last night, being at a masquerade, 
 I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, 
 Which gave me some sensations like a villain. 
 
 ccx. 
 But soon philosophy came to ray aid, 
 
 And whisper'd " think of every sacred tie !" 
 *' I will, my dear philosophy !" I said, 
 
 " But then her teetli, and then, oh heaven! her eye ! 
 1 11 just inquire if she be wife or maid. 
 
 Or neither — out of curiosity." 
 " Stop !" cried philosophy, with air so Grecian 
 (Though she was mask'd then as a fair Venetian)— 
 
 ccxr. 
 " Stop !" so I stopp'd. — But to return: that which 
 
 Men call inconstancy is nothing more 
 Thaji admiration due where nature 's rich 
 
 Profusion with young beauty covers o'er 
 Some favour'd object ; and as in the niche 
 
 A lovely statue we almost adore, 
 This sort of admiration of the real 
 Is but a heightening of the '' beau ideal." 
 
 CCXII. 
 
 'T is the perception of the beautiful, 
 
 A fine extension of the faculties, 
 Platonic, universal, wonderful, 
 
 Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the skies, 
 Without which life would be extremely dull ; 
 
 In short, it is the use of our own eyes, 
 With one or two small senses added, just 
 To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust. 
 
 CCXIII. 
 
 Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling, 
 
 For surely if we always could perceive 
 In the same object graces quite as killing 
 
 As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 
 'T would save us many a heart-ach, many a shilling, 
 
 (For we must get them any how, or grieve,) 
 Whereas, if one sole lady pleased for ever. 
 How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver I 
 
 ccxiv. 
 The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, 
 
 But changes night and day too, like the sky ; 
 Now o'er it clouds and tliunder must be driven, 
 
 And darkness and destruction as on high ; 
 But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven, 
 
 Its storms expire in water-drops ; the eye 
 Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears, 
 Which make the English climate of our years. 
 
 ccxv. 
 The liver is the lazaret of bile, 
 
 But very rarely executes its function, 
 For the first passion stays there such a while 
 
 That all the rest creep in and form a junction, 
 Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil, 
 
 Rage, fear, hale, jealousy, revenge, compunction, 
 So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, 
 Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd *' central." 
 
 ccxvi. 
 In the mean time, without proceeding more 
 
 In this anatomy, I 've finish'd now 
 Two hundred and odd stanzas as before, 
 
 That being about the number I '11 allow 
 Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four; 
 
 And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, 
 Leaving Don Juan and Haidee, to plead 
 For them and theirs with all who deign to read. 
 
 CANTO ni. 
 
 Hail, Muse I et oBtera. — We left Juan sleeping, 
 Pillow'd upon a fair £Uid happy breast. 
 
 And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping, 
 And loved by a young heart too deeply bless'd 
 
 To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, 
 Or know who rested there ; a foe to rest 
 
 Had soil'd the current of her sinless years. 
 
 And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh, love ! what is it in this world of ours 
 
 Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah, why 
 With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers. 
 
 And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? 
 As those who doat on odours pluck the flowers, 
 
 And place them on their breast — but place to die- 
 Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish 
 Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. 
 
 III. 
 In her first passion woman loves her lover, 
 
 In all the others all she loves is love. 
 Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over, 
 
 And fits her loosely — like an easy glove. 
 As you may find whene'er you like to prove her : 
 
 One man alone at first her heart can move ; 
 She then prefers him in the plural number, 
 Not finding that the additions much encumber. 
 
Cawto III. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 623 
 
 I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ; 
 
 But one thing 's pretty sure ; a woman planted, 
 (Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers,) 
 
 After a decent time must be gallanted ; 
 Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs 
 
 Is that to which her heart is wholly granted ; 
 Yet there are some, they say, who have had none, 
 But those who have ne'er end with only one. 
 
 V. 
 
 'T is melancholy, and a fearful sign 
 
 Of human frailty, folly, also crime, 
 That love and marriage rarely can combine. 
 
 Although they both are oorn in the same clime ; 
 Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine — 
 
 A sad, sour, sober beverage — by time 
 Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour 
 Down to a very homely household savour. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There 's something of antipathy, as 't were, 
 Between their present and their future state ; 
 
 A kind of flattery that 's hardly fair 
 
 Is used, until the truth arrives too late — 
 
 Yet what can people do, except despair ? 
 
 The same things change their names at such a rate ; 
 
 For instance — passion in a lover 's glorious. 
 
 But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Men grow ashamed of being so very fond ; 
 
 They sometimes also get a little tired, 
 (But that, of course, is rare,) and then despond : 
 
 The same things cannot always be admired. 
 Yet 't is " so nominated in the bond," 
 
 That both are tied till one shall have expired. 
 Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorning 
 Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 There 's doubtless something in domestic doings 
 Which forms, in fact, true lover's antithesis ; 
 
 Romances paint at full length people's wooings, 
 But only give a bust of marriages; 
 
 For no one cares for matrimonial cooings, 
 There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss : 
 
 Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife. 
 
 He would have written sonnets all his life ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 .\ll tragedies are finish'd by a death, 
 
 All comedies are ended by a marriage ; 
 The future states of both are left to faith. 
 
 For authors fear description might disparage 
 The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, 
 
 And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage, 
 So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, 
 They say no more of Death or of the Lady. 
 
 X. 
 
 The only two that in my recollection 
 Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are 
 
 Dante and Milton, and of both the affection 
 Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 
 
 Of fault or temper ruin'd the connexion, — 
 
 (Such things, in fact, it do n't ask much to mar ;) 
 
 But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve 
 
 Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Some persons say that Dante meant theology 
 
 By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 
 Although my opinion may require apology, 
 
 Deem this a commentator's phantasy, 
 Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge ha 
 
 Decided thus, and show'd good reason why ; 
 I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
 Meant to personify the mathematics. 
 
 Haidee and Juan were not married, but 
 
 The fault was theirs, not mine : it is not fair, 
 
 Chaste reader, then, in any way to put 
 
 The blame on me, unless you wish they were ; 
 
 Then, if you 'd have them wedded, please to shut 
 The book which treats of this erroneous pair, 
 
 Before the consequences grow too awful — 
 
 'T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Yet they were happy, — happy in the illicit 
 
 Indulgence of their innocent desires ; 
 But, more imprudent grown with every visit, 
 
 Haidee forgot the island was her sire's ; 
 When we have what we like, 't is hard to miss it 
 
 At least in the beginning, ere one tires ; 
 Thus she came often, not a moment losing, 
 Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 
 
 XIV, 
 
 Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, 
 Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, 
 
 For into a prime minister but change 
 His title, and 't is nothing but taxation 
 
 But he, more modest, took an humbler range 
 Of life, and in an honester vocation 
 
 Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey, 
 
 And merely practised as a sea-attorney. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The good old gentleman had been detain'd 
 
 By winds and waves, and some important captures ; 
 
 And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd, 
 
 Although a squall or two had damped his raptures 
 
 By swamping one of the prizes ; he had chain'd 
 His prisoners, dividing them like chapters, 
 
 In number'd lots ; they all had cuffs and collars, 
 
 And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Some he disposed of off" Cape Matapan, 
 
 Among his friends the Mainots ; some he sold 
 
 To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 
 Toss'd overboard unsaleable, (being old ;) 
 
 The rest — save here and there some richer one. 
 Reserved for future ransom in the hold, — 
 
 Were link'd alike ; as for the common people, ho 
 
 Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The merchandise was served in the same way, 
 Pieced out for different marts in "the Levant, 
 
 Except some certain portions of the prey, 
 Light classic articles of female want, 
 
 French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot tray, 
 Guitars and castanets from Alicant, 
 
 All which selected from the spoil he gathers, 
 
 Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 A monkey, a Dutch mastiff", a mackaw, 
 
 Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, 
 
 He chose from several animals he saw — 
 
 A terrier too, which once had been a Briton's, 
 
 Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, 
 
 The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance ; 
 
 These to secure in this strong blowing weather. 
 
 He caged in one huge hamper altogether. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Then having settled his marine aff"airs. 
 
 Despatching single cruisers here and there, 
 
 His vessel having need of some repairs. 
 
 He shaped his course to where his daughter fair 
 
 Continued still her hospitable cares; 
 
 But that part of the coast being shoal and bare, 
 
 And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile, 
 
 His port lay on the other side o' the isle. 
 
524 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Caa'to III. 
 
 And there he went ashore without delay, 
 
 Having no custom-house or quarantine 
 To ask him awkward questions on the way 
 
 About the time and place where he had been : 
 He left his ship to be hove down next day, 
 
 With orders to the people to careen 5 
 So that all hands were busy beyond measure, 
 In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Arriving at the summit of a hill 
 
 Which overlook'd the white walls of his home, 
 He stopp'd. — What singular emotions fill 
 
 Their bosoms who have been induced to roam ! 
 With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill — 
 
 With love for many, and with fears for some ; 
 AH feelings which o'erleap the years long lost. 
 And bring our hearts back to their starting-post, 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The approach of home to husbands and to sires, 
 
 After long travelling by land or water. 
 Most naturally some small doubt inspires — 
 
 A female family's a serious matter ; 
 (None trusts the sex more, or so much admires 
 
 But they hate flattery, so I never flatter ;) 
 Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler. 
 And daughters sometimes run off with the butler. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 An honest gentlenjan at his return 
 May not have the good fortune of Ulysses : 
 
 Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, 
 Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses ; 
 
 The odds are that he finds a handsome urn 
 To his memory, and two or three young misses 
 
 Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches, 
 
 And that his argus bites him by — the breeches. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 If single, probably his plighted fair 
 Has in his absence wedded some rich miser ; 
 
 "But all the better, for the happy pair 
 
 May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, 
 
 He may resume his amatory care 
 As cavalier servente, or despise her ; 
 
 And, that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, 
 
 Write odes on the inconstaijcy of woman. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And oh ! ye gentlemen who have already 
 Some chaste liaison of the kind — ^I mean 
 
 An honest friendship with a married lady — 
 The only thing of this sort ever seen 
 
 To last— of all cormexions the most steady 
 
 And die true Hymen, (the first 's but a screen)—' 
 
 Yet for all that keep not too long away ; 
 
 I 've known the absent wroogM four times a-day, 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had 
 
 Much less experience of dry land than ocean, 
 
 On seeing his own chimney smoke, felt glad ; 
 But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion 
 
 Of the true reason of his not bemg sad. 
 Or that of any other strong emotion ; 
 
 He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her, 
 
 But knew the cause no more than a philosopher. 
 
 xxvii. 
 He saw his white walls shining in the sun, 
 
 His garden trees all shadowy and green ; 
 He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run. 
 
 The distant dog-bark ; and perceived between 
 The umbrage of the wood, so cool and dun, 
 
 The moving figures and the sparkling sheen • 
 Of arms, (in the East all arm,) and various dyes 
 Of colour'd garbs as bright as butterflies. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 And as the spot where they appear he nears, 
 Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, 
 
 He hears-^alas ! no music of the spheres, 
 But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling! 
 
 A melody which made him doubt his ears. 
 
 The cause being past his guessing or unriddling; 
 
 A pipe too and a drum, and, shortly after, 
 
 A most unoriental roar of laughter. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And still more nearly to the place advancing, 
 Descending rather quickly the declivity. 
 
 Thro' the waved branches, o'er the greensward glancing, 
 'Midst other indications of festivity 
 
 Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
 Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 
 
 Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial, 
 
 To which the Levantines are very partial. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And further on a group of Grecian girls. 
 
 The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, 
 
 Were strung togedier like a row of pearls ; 
 
 Link'd hand in hand, and dancing ; each too having 
 
 Down her white neck long floating auburn curls — 
 (The least of which would set ten poets raving,) 
 
 Their leader sang — and bounded to her song, 
 
 With coral step and voice, the virgin throng. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And here, assembled cross^legg'd round their trays, 
 
 Small social parties just begun to dine ; 
 Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze. 
 
 And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, 
 And sherbet cooling in the porous vase ; 
 
 Above them their desert grew on its vine, 
 The orange and pomegranate, nodding o'er, 
 Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow store. 
 
 XXXII, 
 
 A band of children, round a snow-white ram. 
 There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers ; 
 
 While peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb. 
 The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 
 
 His sober head majestically tame, 
 
 Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 
 
 His brow as if in act to butt, and then. 
 
 Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses, 
 Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks, 
 
 Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses, 
 The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, 
 
 The innocence which happy childhood blesses, 
 Made quite a picture of these little Greeks ; 
 
 So that the philosophical beholder 
 
 Sigh'd for their saltes— that they should e'er grow older 
 
 xxxiv. 
 
 Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 
 
 To a sedate gray circle of old smokers, 
 Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, 
 
 Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers. 
 Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails, 
 
 Of rocks bewitched that open to the knockers. 
 Of magic ladies, who, by one sole act, 
 Transform'd their lords to beasts, (but that 's a fact.) 
 
 XXXV 
 
 Here was no lack of innocent diversion 
 
 For the imagination or the senses. 
 Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, 
 
 All pretty pastime in which no offence is ; 
 But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, 
 
 Perceiving in his absence such expenses, 
 Dreading that climax of all human ills, 
 The inflammation of his weeklv bills. 
 
Canto III. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 525 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Ah ! what is man ? what perils still environ 
 The happiest mortals even after dinner — 
 
 A day of gold from out an age of iron 
 Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner ; 
 
 Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren, 
 That lures to flay alive the young beginner ; 
 
 Lambro's reception at his people's banquet 
 
 Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 He — being a man who seldom used a word 
 Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 
 
 (In general he surprised men with the sword) 
 His daughter — had not sent before to advise 
 
 Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd ; 
 And long he paused to reassure his eyes, 
 
 In fact much more astonish'd than delighted 
 
 To find so much good company invited. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 He did not know — (alas ! how men will lie) — 
 That a report — (especially the Greeks) — 
 
 Avouch'd his death, (such people never die,) 
 And put his house in mourning several weeks. 
 
 But now their eyes and also lips were dry ; 
 
 The bloom too had retum'd to Haidee's cheeks ; 
 
 Her tears too being return'd into their fount. 
 
 She now kept house upon her own account. 
 
 XXXIX, 
 
 Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling, 
 Which tum'd the isle into a place of pleasure; 
 
 The servants all were getting drunk or idling, 
 A life which made them happy beyond measure. 
 
 Her father's hospitality seem'd middling, 
 Compared with what Haidee did with his treasure ; 
 
 'T was wonderful how things went on improving, 
 
 While she had not one hour to spare from loving. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Perhaps you think, in stumbling on this feast 
 
 He flew into a passion, and in fact 
 There was no mighty reason to be pleased ; 
 
 Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act, 
 The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, 
 
 To teach his people to be more exact, 
 And that, proceeding at a very high rate. 
 He show'd the royal penchants of a pirate. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 You're wrong. — He was the mildest manner'draan 
 
 That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat ; 
 With such true breeding of a gentleman, 
 
 You never could divine his real thought ; 
 No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 
 
 Gird more deceit within a petticoat ; 
 Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, 
 He was so great a loss to good society, 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Advancing to the nearest dinner-tray. 
 
 Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, 
 
 With a peculiar smile, which, by the way, 
 Boded no good, whatever it express'd, 
 
 He ask'd the meaning of this holiday 7 
 
 The vinous Greek to whom he had address'd 
 
 His question, much too merry to divine 
 
 The questioner, fiU'd up a glass of wine, 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 And, without turning his facetious head, 
 
 Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air, 
 Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 
 
 " Talking 's dry work, I have no time to spare." 
 A second hiccup'd, ** Our old master 's deadj 
 
 You 'd better ask our mistress, who 's his heir." 
 " Our mistress !" — quoth a third : " Our mistress ! — pooh ! 
 You mean our master — not the old, but new." 
 
 These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom 
 They thus address'd — and Lambro's visage fell — 
 
 And o'er his eye a momentary gloom 
 Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell 
 
 'The expression, and, endeavouring to resume 
 His smile, requested one of them to tell 
 
 The name and quality of his new patron, 
 
 Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " I biow not," quoth the fellow, " who or what 
 He is, nor whence he came— and little care ; 
 
 But this I know, that this roast capon 's fat. 
 And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better fare ' 
 
 And if you are not satisfied with that, 
 Direct your questions to my neighbour there ; 
 
 He '11 answer all for better or for worse, 
 
 For no«e likes more to hear himself converse." ' 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 I said that Lambro vi'as a man of patience, 
 And certainly he show'd the best of breeding, 
 
 Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations 
 E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding ; 
 
 He bore these sneers against his near relations, 
 His own anxiety, his heart too bleeding. 
 
 The insults too of every servile glutton, 
 
 Who all the time were eating up his mutton. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Now in a person used to much command — 
 
 To bid men come, and go, and come again — 
 To see his orders done too out of hand — 
 
 Whether the word was death, or but the chain- 
 It may seem strange to find his manners bland ; 
 Yet such things are, which I cannot explain, 
 Though doubtless he who can command himself 
 Is good to govern — almost as a Guelf. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Not that he was not sometimes rash or so, 
 But never in his real and serious mood ; 
 
 Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, 
 He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood ; 
 
 With him it never was a word and blow. 
 His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood, 
 
 But in his silence there was much to rue, 
 
 And his one blow left litde work for two, 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded 
 On to the house, but by a private way. 
 
 So that the few who met him hardly heeded, 
 So little they expected him that day ; 
 
 If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 
 
 For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say, 
 
 But certainly to one, deem'd dead, returning. 
 
 This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning. 
 
 L. 
 
 If all the dead could now return to life, 
 
 (Which God forbid !) or some, or a great many; 
 For instance, if a husband or his wife, 
 
 (Nuptial examples are as good as any,) 
 No doubt whate'er might be their former strife. 
 
 The present weather would be much more rainy- 
 Tears shed into the grave of the connexion 
 Would share most probably its resurrection. 
 
 LI. 
 
 He enter'd in the house, no more his home, 
 A thing to human feelings the most trying. 
 
 And harder for the heart to overcome 
 
 Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying ; 
 
 To find our hearthstone tum'd into a tomb. 
 And round its once warm precincts palely lying 
 
 The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, 
 
 Beyond a single gentleman's belief. • 
 
626 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 He enter'd in the house — his home no more, 
 For without hearts there is no home — and felt 
 
 The solitude of passing his own door 
 
 "Without a welcome ; there he long had dwelt, 
 
 There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er. 
 There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt 
 
 Over the innocence of that sweet child, 
 
 His only shrine of feelings undefiled. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 He was a man of a strange temperament, 
 Of mild demeanour though of savage mood. 
 
 Moderate in all his habits, and content 
 With temperance in pleasure as in food, 
 
 Q,uick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant 
 For something better, if not wholly good ; 
 
 His country's wrongs and his despair to save her 
 
 Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 The love of power, and rapid gain of gold, 
 The hardness by long habitude produced, 
 
 The dangerous life in which he had grown old. 
 The mercy he had granted ofi abused. 
 
 The sights he was accustom'd to behold, 
 
 The wild seas and wild men with whom he cruised, 
 
 Had cost his enemies a long repentance, 
 
 And made him a good friend, but bad acquaintance. 
 
 LV. 
 
 But something of the spirit of old Greece 
 Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays, 
 
 Such as lit onward to the golden fleece 
 His predecessors in the Colchian days: 
 
 'T is true he had no ardent love for peace ; 
 Alas ! his country show'd no path to praise : 
 
 Hate to the world and war with every nation 
 
 He wag'd, in vengeance of her degradation. 
 
 LTI, 
 
 Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime 
 Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd 
 
 Its power unconsciously full many a time, — 
 A taste seen in the choice of his abode, 
 
 A love of music and of scenes sublime, 
 A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd 
 
 Past him in crystals, and a joy in flowers, 
 
 Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours. 
 
 LYII. 
 
 But whatso'er he had of love, reposed 
 On that beloved daughter ; she had been 
 
 The only thing which kept his heart unclosed 
 Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen, 
 
 A lonely pure affection unopposed ; 
 
 There wanted but the loss of this to wean 
 
 His feelings from all milk of human kindness. 
 
 And turn him, like the" Cyclops, mad with blindness. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 The cubless tigress in her jungle raging 
 Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock ; 
 
 The ocean when its yeasty war is wagmg 
 Is awful to the vessel near the rock : 
 
 But violent things will sooner bear assuaging — 
 Their fury being spent by its own shock, — 
 
 Than the stem, single, deep, and wordless ire 
 
 Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 It is a hard, although a common case, 
 
 To find our children running restive — they 
 
 In whom our brightest days we would retrace, 
 Our little selves reform'd in finer clay ; 
 
 Just as old age is creeping on apace, 
 
 And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, 
 
 They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, 
 
 But in good company — the gout and stone. 
 
 Yet a fine family is a fine thing, 
 
 (Provided they don't come in after dinner;) 
 
 'T is beautiful to see a matron bring 
 Her children up, (if nursing them don't thin her;) 
 
 Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling 
 To the fireside, (a sight to touch a sinner.) 
 
 A lady with her daughter or her nieces 
 
 Shine like a guinea and seven shilling pieces. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate, 
 
 And stood within his hall at eventide ; 
 Meantime the lady and her lover sate 
 
 At wassail in their beauty and their pride : 
 An ivory inlaid table spread with state 
 
 Before them, and fair slaves on every side ; 
 Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service mostly, 
 Mother-of-pearl and coral the less costly. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 The dinner made about a hundred dishes ; 
 
 Lamb amd pistachio-nuts — in short, all meats. 
 And saffron soups, and sweetbreads ; and the fishes 
 
 Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, 
 Dress'd to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes ; 
 
 The beverage was various sherbets 
 Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice, 
 Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for use. 
 
 rxiir. 
 These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer, 
 
 And fruits and date-bread loaves closed the repast, 
 And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure. 
 
 In small fine China cups came in at last- 
 Gold cups of filigree, made to secure 
 
 The hand from burning, underneath them placed ; 
 Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too, were boil'd 
 Up with the cofl^ee, which (I think) they spoil'd. 
 
 I-XIV. 
 
 The hangings of the room were tapestry, made 
 
 Of velvet panels, each of different hue. 
 And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid: 
 
 And round them ran a yellow border too ; 
 The upper border, richly wrought, display'd, 
 
 Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue, 
 Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 
 From poets, or the moralists their betters. 
 
 LXV, 
 
 These oriental writings on the wall, 
 duite common in those countries, are a kind 
 
 Of monitors, adapted to recall. 
 
 Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind 
 
 The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall. 
 And took his kingdom from him. — You will find, 
 
 Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure. 
 
 There is no sterner moralist than pleasure. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
 A genius who has drunk himself to death, 
 
 A rake tum'd methodistic or eclectic — 
 
 (For that's the name they like to pray beneath)— 
 
 But most, an alderman struck apoplectic, 
 Are things that really take away the breath, 
 
 And show that late hours, wine, and love, are able 
 
 To do not much less damage than the table. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet 
 
 On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue ; 
 
 Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
 Of the apartment — and appear'd quite new ; 
 
 The velvet cushions — (for a throne more meet) — 
 Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew 
 
 A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue, 
 
 Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. 
 
Canto III. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 527 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, 
 Had done their work of splendour, Indian mats 
 
 And Persian carpets, the heart bled to stain; 
 Over the floors were spread ; gazelles and cats, 
 
 And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, that gain 
 Their bread as ministers and favourites — (that 's 
 
 To say, by degradation) — mingled there 
 
 As plentiful as in a court or fair. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 There was no want of lofty mirrors, and 
 
 The tables, most of ebony inlaid 
 With mother-of-pearl or ivory, stood at hand, 
 
 Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, 
 Fretted with gold or silver : by command, 
 
 The greater part of these were ready spread 
 With viands, and sherbets in ice, and wine — 
 Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : 
 
 She wore two jelicks — one was of pale yellow ; 
 
 Of azure, pink, and white, was her chemise — 
 
 'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow ; 
 
 With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas, 
 All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, 
 
 And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, 
 
 Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 
 Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold 
 
 That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm, 
 The limb which it adorn'd its only mould ; 
 
 So beautiful — its very shape would charm, 
 And clinging as if loth to lose its hold. 
 
 The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin 
 
 That e'er by precious metal was held in.* 
 
 Lxxn, 
 Around, as princess of her father's land, 
 
 A like gold bar, above her instep roll'd,' 
 Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on her hand ; 
 
 Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's fine fold 
 Below her breast was fasten'd with a band 
 
 Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be tcJd ; 
 Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furl'd 
 About the prettiest ankle in the world. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 
 Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun 
 
 Dyes with his morning light, — and would conceal 
 Her person* if allow'd at large to run ; 
 
 And still they seem resentfully to feel 
 
 The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 
 
 Their bonds whene'er some zephyr caught began 
 
 To offer his yoimg pinion as her fan. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Round her she made an atmosphere of life. 
 The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, 
 
 They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
 With all we can imagine of tJie skies. 
 
 And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
 Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 
 
 Her overpowering presence made you feel 
 
 It would not be idolatry to kneel. 
 
 LXXT. 
 
 Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged, 
 (It is the country's custom,) but in vain ; 
 
 For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed. 
 The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain. 
 
 And in their native beauty stood avenged : 
 Her nails were touch'd with henna ; but again 
 
 The power of art was tum'd to nothing, for 
 
 They could not look more rosy than before. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 The herma should be deeply dyed to make 
 The skin relieved appear more fairly fair: 
 
 She had no need of this — day ne'er will break 
 On mountain tops more heavenly white than her : 
 
 The eye might doubt if it were well awake, 
 She was so like a vision ; I might err, 
 
 But Shakspeai e also says 't is very silly 
 
 " To gild refined gold, or paint the lily." 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Juan had on a shawl of black and gold. 
 But a white baracan, and so transparent. 
 
 The sparkling gems beneath you might behold, 
 Like small stars through the milky way apparent ; 
 
 His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold. 
 An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in *t 
 
 Surmounted as its clasp — a glowing crescent, 
 
 Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 And now they were diverted by their suite. 
 Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet, 
 
 Which made their new establishment complete 
 The last was of great fame, and liked to show it: 
 
 His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 
 And for his theme — he seldom sung below it, 
 
 He being paid to satirize or flatter. 
 
 As the psalm says, " inditing a good matter." 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 He praised the present and abused the past, 
 
 Reversing the good custom of old days, 
 An eastern anti-jacobin at last 
 
 He tum'd, preferring pudding to no praise — 
 For some few years his lot had been o'ercast 
 
 By his seeming independent in his lays. 
 But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha, 
 With truth like Southey, and with verse like Crashaw. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 He was a man who had seen many changes. 
 And always changed as true as any needle, 
 
 His polar star being one which rather ranges, 
 And not the fix'd — ^he knew the way to wheedle : 
 
 So vile he 'scaped the doom which ofl avenges ; 
 And being fluent, (save indeed when fee'd ill,) 
 
 He lied with such a fervour of intention — 
 
 There was no doubt he eam'd his laureate pension. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 But he had genius — when a turncoat has it 
 
 The " vates irritabilis" takes care 
 That without notice few full moons shall pass it ; 
 
 Even good men like to make the public stare : — 
 But to my subject — let me see — what v/as it? 
 
 Oh ! — the third cajito — and the pretty pair — 
 Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mod© 
 Of living in their insular abode. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less 
 
 In company a very pleasant fellow, 
 Had been the favourite of full many a mess 
 
 Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow ; 
 And though his meaning they could rarely guess, 
 
 Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow 
 The glorious meed of popular applause. 
 Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 But now being lifted into high society. 
 And having pick'd up several odds and end 
 
 Of fi-ee thoughts in his travels, for variety, 
 He deem'd, being in a lone isle among friend^,. 
 
 That without any danger of a riot, he 
 Might for long lying make himself amends ; 
 
 And, singing as he sung in his warm youtb 
 
 Agree to a short armistice with truth. 
 
628 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto IIL 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 He had travell'd 'mong the Arabs, Turks, and Franks, 
 And knew the self-loves of the different nations ; 
 
 And, having lived with people of all ranks. 
 Had something ready upon most occasions — 
 
 Which got him a few presents and some thanks. 
 He varied with some skill his adulations ; 
 
 To " do at Rome as Romans do," a piece 
 
 Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 
 
 txxxv. 
 
 Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing, 
 He gave the different nations something national ; 
 
 'T was all the same to him — " God save the Kino,"' 
 Or '' Co ira,''^ according to the fashion all ; 
 
 His muse made increment of any thing. 
 From the high lyrical to the low rational : 
 
 If Pindar sang horseraces, what should hinder 
 
 Himself from being as pliable as Pindar? 
 
 Lxxxvr. 
 In France, for instance, he would write a chanson ; 
 
 In England, a six-canto quarto tale ; 
 In Spain, he 'd make a ballad or romance on 
 
 The last war — much the same in Portugal ; 
 In Germany, the Pegasus he 'd prance on 
 
 Would be old Goethe's — (see what says de Stael;) 
 In Italy, he'd ape the " Trecentistj ;" 
 In Greece, he 'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye. 
 
 The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! 
 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung, — 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 
 
 Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung I 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse, 
 
 The heroes harp, the lover's lute, 
 Have found the fame your shores refuse j 
 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 To sounds which echo further west 
 Than your sires' " Islands of the Bless'd."^ 
 
 The moimtains look on Marathon — 
 
 And Marathon looks on the sea ;• 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 
 I dream'd that Greece might still be free ; 
 For, standing on the Persians' grave, 
 I could not deem myself a slave. 
 
 A king sate on the rocky brow 
 
 Which looks o'er sea-bom Salamis ; 
 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
 And men in nations ; — all were his I 
 
 He counted them at break of day— 
 
 And when the sun set, where were they 7 
 
 And where are they? and where art thoUy 
 My country? On thy voiceless shore 
 
 The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
 The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine. 
 
 Degenerate into hands like mine? 
 
 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
 Though link'd among a fetter'd race. 
 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
 Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 
 
 For what is left the poet here? 
 
 For Greeks a blush— for Greece a tear. 
 
 Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd 7 
 Must IOC but blush ?— Our fathers bled. 
 
 Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
 A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
 
 Of the three hundred grant but three, 
 
 To make a new Thermopyls*. 
 
 What, silent still ? and silent all ? 
 
 Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 
 
 And answer, "Let one living head, 
 But one arise, — we come, we come V* 
 'T is but the living who are dumb. 
 
 In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 
 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 
 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
 Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
 How answers each boW bacchanal ! 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
 
 Where is ihe Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 
 The nobler and the manlier one? 
 You have the letters Cadmus gave — 
 Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 We will not think of themes like these I 
 It made Anacreon's song divine : 
 
 He served — but served Polycrates— 
 A tyrant ; but our masters then 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
 The tyrant or the Chersonese 
 
 Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
 That tyrant was Miltiades ! 
 
 Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
 FiU high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
 Exists the remnant of a line 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
 
 They have a king who buys and sells. 
 In native swords, and native ranks. 
 
 The only hope of courage dwells ; 
 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
 
 But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
 Place me on Sunium's marbled steep — 
 
 Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die: 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine- 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, 
 The modem Greek, in tolerable verse ; 
 
 If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young, 
 Yet in these times he might have done much worse ; 
 
 His strain display'd some feeling — right or wrong ; 
 And feeling, in a poet, is the source 
 
 Of others' feeling ; but they are, such liars. 
 
 And take all colours — like the hands of dyers. 
 
 I.XXXVIII. 
 
 But words are things, and a small drop of ink 
 Falling like dew upon a thought, produces 
 
 That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think ; 
 "T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses, 
 
 Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 
 Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces 
 
 Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, 
 
 Survives himself, his tomb, and all Qiat 's his. 
 
Canto IH. 
 
 1X)N JUAN. 
 
 529 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, 
 His station, generation, even his nation, 
 
 Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 
 In chronological commemoration, 
 
 Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 
 
 Or graven stone found in a barrack's station, 
 
 In digging the foundation of a closet, 
 
 May turn his name up as a rare deposit. 
 
 xc. 
 And glory long has made the sages smile ; 
 
 'T is something, nothing, words, illusion, wind — 
 Depending more upon the historian's style 
 
 Than on the name a person leaves behind : 
 Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle ; 
 
 The present century was growing blind 
 To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, 
 Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 
 
 xci. 
 
 Milton's the prince of poets — so we say ; 
 
 A little heavy, but no less divine ; 
 An independent being in his day — 
 
 Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine ; 
 But his life falling into Johnson's way. 
 
 We 're told this great high priest of all the Nine 
 Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse, 
 For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 All these are, certes, entertaining facts. 
 
 Like Shakspeare's stealing deer. Lord Bacon's bribes 
 Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's eajliest acts ; 
 
 Like Burns, (whom Doctor Currie well describes -,) 
 Like Cromwell's pranks ; — but although truth exacts 
 
 These amiable descriptions from the scribes, 
 As most essential to their hero's story. 
 They do not much contribute to his glory. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 All are not moralists like Southey, when 
 He prated to the world of " Pantisocracy ;"" 
 
 Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 
 Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy ; 
 
 Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 
 Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy ; 
 
 When he and Southey, following the same path, 
 
 Espoused two partners, (milliners of Bath.) 
 
 xciv. 
 Such names at present cut a convict figure, 
 
 The very Botany Bay in moral geography; 
 Their loyal treason, renegado vigour. 
 
 Are good manure for their more bare biography^ 
 Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 
 
 Than any since tlie birthday of typography : 
 A clumsy frowzy poem, call'd the " Excursion'^ 
 Writ in a manner which is my aversion- 
 
 xcv. 
 
 He there builds up a formidable dyke 
 Between his own and others' intellect ; 
 
 But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like- 
 Joanna Southcote's Shiloh and her sect, 
 
 Are things which in this century do n't strike 
 The public mind, so few are the elect ; 
 
 And the new births of both their stale virginities 
 
 Have proved but dropsies taken for divinities » 
 
 xcvi. 
 But let me to my story : I must own, 
 
 If I have any fault, it is digression ; 
 Leaving my people to proceed alone, 
 
 While I soliloquize beyond expression ; 
 But these are my addresses from the throne, 
 
 Which put off business to the ensuing session r 
 Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
 The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 
 3 R 
 
 I know that what our neighbours call " longueursj" 
 
 (We 've not so good a word, but have the thing 
 In that complete perfection vvhich ensures 
 
 An epic from Bob Southey every spring) — 
 Form not the true temptation which allures 
 
 The reader ; but 't would not be hard to bring 
 Some fine examples of the epopee, 
 To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. 
 
 xcviii. 
 We learn from Horace, Homer sometimes sleeps 
 
 We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes, 
 To show with what complacency he creeps, 
 
 With his dear '' Wagoners,'" around his lakes ; 
 He wishes for "a boat" to sail the deeps — 
 
 Of ocean ? — no, of air ; and then he makes 
 Another outcry for " a little boat," 
 And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 
 
 XCiX. 
 
 If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain, 
 And Pegasus runs restive in his " wagon," 
 
 Could he not beg the loan of Charles's wain? 
 Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 
 
 Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain, 
 
 He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on. 
 
 And he must needs mount nearer to the moon. 
 
 Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon ? 
 
 c. 
 " Pedlars," and " boats," and " wagons !" Oh ! ye sha<les 
 
 Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? 
 That trash of such sort not alone evades 
 
 Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 
 Floats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Cades 
 
 Of sense and song above your graves may hiss— 
 The " little boatman" and his " Peter Bell" 
 Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel !" 
 
 CI. 
 
 T' our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves gone, 
 The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired; 
 
 The Arab lore and poet's song were done, 
 And every sound of revelry expired ; 
 
 The lady and her lover, left alone. 
 
 The rosy flood of twilight sky admired ; — 
 
 Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea, 
 
 That heavenUest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee I 
 
 CII. 
 
 Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! 
 
 The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
 Have felt that moment in its fullest power 
 
 Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
 While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, 
 
 Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft:. 
 And not a breath crept through the rosy air. 
 And yet the forest leaves seem stirr'd with prayer. 
 
 cm. 
 Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer ! 
 
 Ave Maria 1 't is the hour of love ! 
 Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 
 
 Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
 Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! 
 
 Those downcast eyes beneath the almighty dove— 
 What though 't is but a pictured image strike — 
 That painting is no idol, 'tis too like. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 
 In nameless print — that I have no devotion ; 
 
 But set those persons down with me to pray. 
 And you shall see who has the properest notion 
 
 Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 
 My altars are the mountains and the ocean, 
 
 Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the great whole. 
 
 Who hath produced, and will recrive the soul. 
 
530 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Cakto IV, 
 
 Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude 
 
 Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
 Which bounds Ravenna's, immemorial wood, 
 
 Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, 
 To where the last Cagsarean fortress stood, 
 
 Ever-green forest I which Boccaccio's lore 
 And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, 
 How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! 
 
 cvi. 
 The shrill cicalas, people of the pine. 
 
 Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, 
 Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, 
 
 And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along ; 
 The spectre huntsman of Onesti's hne, 
 
 His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng, 
 Which leam'd from this example not to fly 
 From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 Oh Hesperus I* thou bringest all good things — 
 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 
 
 To the young bird the parent's brooding wings. 
 The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer ; 
 
 Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
 Whate'er our household gods protect of dear. 
 
 Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 
 
 Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Soft hour ! ^ which wakes the wish and melts the heart 
 Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 
 
 When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 
 Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, 
 
 As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 
 Seeming to weep tlie dying day's decay ; 
 
 Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
 
 Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns I 
 
 cix. 
 When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
 
 Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd 
 Amid die roar of liberated Rome, 
 
 Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd, 
 Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb :' 
 
 Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 
 Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 
 Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 
 
 cs. 
 
 But I 'm digressing : what on earth has Nero, 
 
 Or any such like sovereign bufibons. 
 To do with the transactions of my hero, 
 
 More than such madmen's fellow-man — the moon's ? 
 Sure my invention must be down at zero, 
 
 And I grown one of many " wooden spoons" 
 Of verse, (the name with which we Cantabs please 
 To dub the last of honours in degrees.) 
 
 CXI. 
 
 I feel this tediousness will never do — 
 
 'T is being too epic, and I must cut down 
 
 (In copying) this long canto into two : 
 They '11 never find it out, unless I ovm. 
 
 The fact, excepting some experienced few ; 
 And then as an improvement 't will be shown : 
 
 I '11 prove that such the opinion of the critic is, 
 
 From Aristotle passim.'--&ee UohjtikjjS' 
 
 ^*if**^ 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 Nothing so difficult as a beginning 
 
 In poesy, unless perhaps the end : 
 For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning 
 
 The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend, 
 Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning ; 
 
 Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend. 
 Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, 
 Till our own weakness shows us what we are. 
 
 II. 
 
 But time, which brings all beings to their level. 
 
 And sharp adversity, will teach at last 
 Man, — and, as we would hope, — perhaps the devil, 
 
 That neither of their intellects are vast : 
 While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel. 
 
 We know not this — the blood flows on too fast ; 
 But as the torrent widens towards the ocean, 
 We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 
 
 III. 
 
 As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 
 
 And wish'd that others held the same opinion : 
 
 They took it up when my days grew more mellow, 
 And other minds acknowledged my dominion: 
 
 Now my sere fancy " falls into the yellow 
 Leaf," and imagination droops her pinion, 
 
 And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 
 
 Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And if I laugh at any mortal tiling, 
 
 'T is that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 
 
 'T is that our nature cannot always bring 
 Itself to apathy, which we must steep 
 
 First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring, 
 Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep ; 
 
 Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx ; 
 
 A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 
 
 T, 
 
 Some have accused me of a strange design 
 Against the creed and morals of the land, 
 
 And trace it in this poem every line : 
 I do n't pretend that I quite understsmd 
 
 My own meaning when I would be very fine ; 
 But the fact is that I have nothing plaim'd, 
 
 Unless it was to be a moment merry, 
 
 A novel word in my vocabulary. 
 
 VI. 
 
 To the kind reader of our sober clime 
 This way of writing will appear exotic ; 
 
 Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, 
 
 Who sung when chivalry was more duLxotic, 
 
 And revell'd in the fancies of the time. 
 
 True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotic- 
 
 But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 
 
 I chose a modem subject as more meet. 
 
 VII. 
 
 How I have treated it, I do not know — 
 Perhaps no better than they have treated mo 
 
 Who have imputed such designs as show, 
 Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see ; 
 
 But if it gives them pleasure, be it so, — 
 This is a liberal age, and *houghts are free: 
 
 Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 
 
 And tells me to resume my story here. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 631 
 
 Young Juan and his lady-love were left 
 To their own heart's most sweet society ; 
 
 Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft 
 
 With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms ; he 
 
 Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft, 
 Though foe to love ; and yet they could not be 
 
 Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring, 
 
 Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 
 Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail ; 
 
 The blank gray was not made to blast their hair, 
 But, like the climes that know nor snow nor hail, 
 
 They were all summer : lightning might assail 
 And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 
 
 A long and snake-like life of dull decay 
 
 Was not for them — they had too little clay. 
 
 X. 
 
 They were alone once more ; for them to be 
 Thus was another Eden ; they were never 
 
 Weary, unless when separate : ihe tree 
 Cut fi-om its forest root of years — the river 
 
 Damm'd from its fountain — the child from the knee 
 And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever, 
 
 Would wither less than these two torn apart ; 
 
 Alas ! there is no instinct like the heart — 
 
 XI. 
 
 The heart — which may be broken : happy they ! 
 
 Thrice fortunate ! who, of tliat fragile mould, 
 The precious porcelain of human clay. 
 
 Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold 
 The long year link'd with heavy day on day. 
 
 And all which must be borne, and never told ; 
 While life's strange principle will often lie 
 Deepest in those who long the most to die. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore,' 
 And many deaths do they escape by this : 
 
 The death of friends, and, tiiat which slays even more — 
 The death of frienship, love, youth, all that is, 
 
 Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 
 Awaits at last even those whom longest miss 
 
 The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 
 
 Which men weep over may be meant to save. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead ; 
 
 The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for them: 
 They found no fault with time, save that he fled ; 
 
 They saw not in themselves aught to condemn : 
 Each was the other's mirror, and but read 
 
 Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem. 
 And knew such brightness was but the reflection 
 Of their exchanging glances of affection. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 
 The least glance better understood than words. 
 
 Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much ; 
 A language, too, but like to that of birds. 
 
 Known but to them, at least appearing such 
 As but to lovers a true sense affords ; 
 
 Sweet playful phrases, which Would seem absurd 
 
 To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard: 
 
 XV. 
 
 All these were theirs, for they were children still, 
 And children still they should have ever been ; 
 
 They were not made in the real world to fill 
 A busy character in the dull scene ; 
 
 But like two beings born from out a rill, 
 A njmiph and her beloved, all unseen 
 
 To paiss their lives in fountains and on flowers. 
 
 And never know the weight of human hours. 
 
 Moons changing had roU'd on, and changeless found 
 Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys 
 
 As rarely they beheld throughout their roimd : 
 
 And these were not of the vain kind which cloys ; 
 
 For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 
 By the mere senses ; and that which destroys 
 
 Most love, possession, unto them appear'd 
 
 A thing which each endearment more endear'd. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Oh beautiful ! and rare as beautiful ! 
 
 But theirs was love in which the mind delights 
 To lose itself, when the whole world grows dull, 
 
 And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, 
 Intrigues, adventures of the common school. 
 
 Its petty passions, marriages, and flights. 
 Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more, 
 Whose husband only knows her not a wh — re . 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Hard v/ords ; harsh truth ; a truth which many know. 
 
 Enough. — The faithful and the fairy pair. 
 Who never found a single hour too slow. 
 
 What was it made them thus exempt from care ? 
 Young innate feelings all have felt below. 
 
 Which perish in the rest, but in them were 
 Inherent; what we mortals call romantic, 
 And always envy, though we deem it frantic. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 This is in others a factitious state. 
 
 An opium dream of too much youth and reading, 
 But was in them their nature or their fate ; 
 
 No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding, 
 For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great. 
 
 And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding. 
 So that there was no reason for their loves. 
 More than for those of nightingales or doves 
 
 XX. 
 
 They gazed upon the sunset ; 't is an hour 
 
 Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, 
 For it had made them what they were : the power 
 
 Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies, 
 When happiness had been their only dower. 
 
 And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties ; 
 Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that brought 
 The past still welcome as the present thought. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 I Imow not why, but in that hour to-night. 
 Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, 
 
 And swept, as 't were, across their hearts' delight. 
 Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame. 
 
 When one is shook in sound, and one in sight ; 
 And thus some boding flash'd through eitJier frame, 
 
 And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, 
 
 While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate 
 
 And follow far the disappearing sun, 
 As if their last day of a happy date 
 
 With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone ) 
 Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate — 
 
 He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none. 
 His glance inquired of hers for some excuse 
 For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 She tum'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort 
 Which makes not others smile ; then tum'd aside 
 
 Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short, 
 And master' d by her wisdom or her pride ; 
 
 When Juan spoke, too — it might be in sport— 
 Of this their mutual feeling, she replied — 
 
 " If it should be. so, — but — it cannot be- 
 
 Or I at least shall not survive to see," 
 
532 
 
 DON lUAN. 
 
 Cakto IV. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Juan would question further, but she press'd 
 His lips to hers, and silenced him with this, 
 
 And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, 
 Defying augury with that fond kiss ; 
 
 And no doubt of all methods 't is the best : 
 Some people prefer wine — 't is not amiss : 
 
 I have tried both ; so those who would a part take 
 
 IVIay choose between the head-ach and the heart-ach. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 One of the two, according to your choice, 
 Women or wine, you '11 have to undergo; 
 
 Both maladies are taxes on our joys : 
 
 But which to choose I really hardly know ; 
 
 And if I had to give a casting voice. 
 
 For both sides I could many reasons show, 
 
 And tlien decide, without great wrong to either, 
 
 It were much better to have both than neither. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other, 
 
 With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, 
 
 Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother. 
 All that the best can mingle and express. 
 
 When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another, 
 And love too much, and yet can not love less ; 
 
 But almost sanctify the sweet excess 
 
 By the immortal wish and power to bless. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, 
 
 Why did tiiey not then die ? — they had lived too long, 
 
 Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart ; 
 Years could not bring them cruel things or wrong. 
 
 The world was not for them, nor the world's art 
 For beings passionate as Sappho's song ; 
 
 Love was born loith them, in them, so intense. 
 
 It was their very spirit — not a sense. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 They should have lived together deep'in woods, 
 Unseen as sings the nightingale ; they were 
 
 Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 
 
 Call'd social, where all vice and hatred are : 
 
 How lonely every freeborn creature broods ! 
 The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair ; 
 
 The eagle soars alone ; the gull and crow 
 
 Flock o'er their carrion, just as mortals do. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Now pillow'd, cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, 
 
 Haidee and Juan their siesta took, 
 A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, 
 
 For ever and anon a something shook 
 Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep ; 
 
 And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook 
 A wordless music, and her face so fair 
 Stirr'd vdth her dream as rose-leaves with the air : 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 
 Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind 
 
 Walks over it, was she shaken by the dream, 
 The mystical usurper of the mind — 
 
 O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem 
 Good to the soul which we no more can bind ; 
 
 Strange state of being ! (for 't is still to be) 
 
 Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 She dream'd of being alone on the seashore, 
 Chain'd to a rock ; she knew not Tiow, but stir 
 
 She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 
 
 Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her ; 
 
 And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour, 
 Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were 
 
 Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high 
 
 Each broke to drown h^, yet she could not die. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Anon— she was released, and then she stray'd 
 O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, 
 
 And stumbled almost every step she made ; 
 And something roll'd before her in a sheet, 
 
 Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid ; 
 'T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet 
 
 Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp'd, 
 
 And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 The dream changed : in a cave she stood, its walls 
 Were hung with marble icicles : the work 
 
 Of ages on its water-fretted halls, [lurk; 
 
 Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and 
 
 Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 
 
 Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and murk 
 
 The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, 
 
 AVhich froze to marble as it fell, she thought. 
 
 xxxir. 
 
 And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, 
 Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, 
 
 Wliich she essay'd in vain to clear, (how sweet 
 Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!) 
 
 Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 
 
 Of his quench'd heart ; and the sea-dirges lovr 
 
 Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song. 
 
 And that brief dream appear'd a life too long. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 And gazing on the dead , she thought his face 
 
 Faded, or alter'd into something new — 
 Like to her father's features, till each trace 
 
 More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew— 
 With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace ; 
 
 And starting, she awoke, and what to view ! 
 Oh ! Powers of Heaven ! what dark eye meets she there ? 
 'T is — 't is her father's — fix'd upon the pair ! 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, 
 With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see 
 
 Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell 
 The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 
 
 Perchance the death of one she loved too well ; 
 Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 
 
 It was a moment of that awful kind 
 
 I have seen such — but must not call to mind. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek. 
 And caught her falling, and from off the wall 
 
 Snatch'd do^ATi his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 
 Vengeance on him who was the cause of all : 
 
 Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, 
 Smiled scornfully, and said, " Within my call 
 
 A thousand scimitars await the word : 
 
 Put up, young man, put up your silly sword." 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 And Haidee clung around him ; " Juan, 't is — 
 'T is Lambro-^'tis my father! Kneel with mo — 
 
 He will forgive us — yes — it must be — yes. 
 Oh ! dearest father, in this agony 
 
 Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 
 Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 
 
 That doubt should mingle widi my filial joy ? 
 
 Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy." 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 High and inscrutable the old man stood, 
 
 Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye — 
 
 Not always signs with him of calmest mood : 
 He look'd upon her, but gave no reply ; 
 
 Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood 
 Oft came and went, as there resolved to die ; 
 
 In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring 
 
 On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring. 
 
€auto IV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 533 
 
 *' Young man, your sword ;" so Lambro once more said i 
 Juan replied, " Not while this arm is free," 
 
 The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread, 
 And drawing from his belt a pistol, he 
 
 Replied, " Your blood be then on your own head." 
 Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 
 
 'T was fresh — for he had lately used the lock — 
 
 And next proceeded quietly to cock. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, 
 That cocking of a pistol, when you know 
 
 A moment more will iM-ing the sight to bear 
 Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so; 
 
 A gentlemanly distance, not too near. 
 If you have got a former friend for foe ; 
 
 But after being fired at once or twice, 
 
 The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 
 
 Lambro presented, and one instant more 
 
 Had stopp'd this canto, and Don Juan's breath, 
 
 When Haidee threw herself her boy before, 
 
 Stern as her sire : " On me," she cried, "'' let death 
 
 Descend — the fault is mine ; this fatal shore 
 
 He found — but sought not. I have pledged my faith ; 
 
 I love him — I will die with him : I knew 
 
 Your nature's firmness — know your daughter's too." 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 A minute past, and she had been all tears, 
 
 And tenderness, and infancy: but now 
 She stood as one who champion'd human fears — 
 
 Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow ; 
 And tall beyond her sex and their compeers, 
 
 She drew up to her height, as if to show 
 A fairer mark ; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 
 Her father's face — ^but never stopp'd his hand. 
 
 XLIT. 
 
 He gazed on her, and she on him ; 't was strange 
 
 How like they look'd ! the expression was the same ; 
 
 Serenely savage, with a little change 
 
 In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame ; 
 
 For she too was as one who could avenge, 
 If cause should be — a lioness, though tame : 
 
 Her father's blood before her father's face 
 
 Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 I said they were alike, their features and 
 Their stature differing but in sex and years ; 
 
 Even to the delicacy of their hands 
 
 There was resemblance, such as true blood w«ars ; 
 
 And now to see them, thus divided, stand 
 In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears. 
 
 And sweet sensations, should have welcomed both. 
 
 Show what the passions are in their full growth. 
 
 XLTI. 
 
 The father paused a moment, then withdrew 
 His weapon, and replaced it ; but stood still, 
 
 And looking en her, as to look her through, 
 
 *' Not J," he said, " have sought this stranger's ill; 
 
 Not I have made this desolation : few 
 
 Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill ; 
 
 But I must do my duty — ^how thou hast 
 
 Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 " Let him disarm ; or, by my father's head, 
 His own shall roll before you like a ball !" 
 
 He raised his whisde, as the word he said. 
 And blew ; another answer'd to the call, 
 
 And rushing in disorderly, though led, 
 
 And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all, 
 
 Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank ; 
 
 He gave the word, " Arrest or slay the Frank." 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 
 His daughter ; while compress'd within his grasp, 
 
 'T wixt her and Juan interposed the crew ; 
 In vain she struggled in her father's grasp, — 
 
 His arms were like a serpent's coil : then flew 
 Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp. 
 
 The file of pirates ; save the foremost, who 
 
 Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 The second had his cheek laid open ; but 
 The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took 
 
 The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 
 His own well in : so well, ere you could look, 
 
 His man was floor 'd, and helpless at his foot, 
 With the blood running like a little brook 
 
 From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red — 
 
 One on the arm, the other on the head. 
 
 And then they bound him where he fell, and bore 
 
 Juan from the apartment : with a sign 
 Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore, 
 
 Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine. 
 They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 
 
 Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line ; 
 On board of one of these, and under hatches, 
 They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches. 
 
 LI. 
 
 The world is full of strange vicissitudes. 
 And here was one exceedingly unpleasant: 
 
 A gentleman so rich in the world's goods. 
 
 Handsome and young, enjoying all the present, 
 
 Just at the very time when he least broods 
 On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent, 
 
 Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move. 
 
 And all because a lady fell in love. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic, 
 
 Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea! 
 
 Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic ; 
 For if my pure libations exceed three, 
 
 I feel my heart become so sympathetic. 
 
 That I must have recourse to black Bohea: 
 
 'Tis pity wine should be so deleterious. 
 
 For tea and coffee leave us much more serious. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Unless when qualified with thee. Cognac! 
 
 Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill ! 
 Ah ! why the liver wilt thou thus attack, 
 
 And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill? 
 I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack, 
 
 (In each sense of the word,) whene'er I fill 
 My mild and midnight beakers to the brim, 
 Wakes me next morning with its synonym. 
 
 I.IV. 
 
 I leave Don Juan for the present safe — 
 
 Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded ; 
 
 Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half 
 
 Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded ? 
 
 She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, 
 And then give way, subdued because surrounded ; 
 
 Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 
 
 Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. 
 
 LV. 
 
 There the large olive rains its amber store 
 In marble fonts ; there grain, and flower, and fruit, 
 
 Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er ; 
 But there too many a poison-tree has root, 
 
 And midnight listens to the lion's roar, 
 
 And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot, 
 
 Or heaving whehn the helpless caravan, 
 
 And as the soil is, so the heart of man. 
 
634 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto IV„ 
 
 Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 
 Her human clay is kindled : full of power 
 
 For good or evil, burning from its birth, 
 
 The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, 
 
 And like the soil beneath it will bring forth : 
 
 Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower : 
 
 But her large dark eye show'd deep passion's force, 
 
 Though sleeping like a lion near a source. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray, 
 
 Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, 
 
 Till slowly charged with thunder they display 
 Terror to earth, and tempest to the air. 
 
 Had held till now her soft and milky way ; 
 But, overwrought with passion and despair, 
 
 The fire burst forth from her Nuniidian veins, 
 
 Even as the simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, 
 And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down ; 
 
 His blood was running on the very floor 
 Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own: 
 
 Thus much she view'd an instant and no more, — 
 Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan ; 
 
 On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held 
 
 Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 A vein had burst ,2 and her sweet lips' pure dyes 
 Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er ; 
 
 And her head droop'd as when the lily lies 
 
 O'ercharged with rain : her summon'd handmaids bore 
 
 Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes ; 
 Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, 
 
 But she defied all means they could employ, 
 
 Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 
 
 rx. 
 Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill 
 
 With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 
 She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still ; 
 
 No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead ; 
 Corruption came not in each mind too kill 
 
 All hope ; to look upon her sweet face bred 
 New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul, 
 She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
 When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there 
 
 But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 
 O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair; 
 
 O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes, 
 And ever-dying Gladiator's air, 
 
 Their energy like life forms all their fame, 
 
 Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, 
 Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new, 
 
 A strange sensation which she must partake 
 Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 
 
 Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache 
 Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat stiU true 
 
 Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, 
 
 For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 
 
 LXiri. 
 She look'd on many a face with vacant eye, 
 
 On many a token without knowing what ; 
 She saw them watch her without asking why. 
 
 And reck'd not who around her pillow sat ; 
 Not speechless, though she spoke not : not a sigh 
 
 Reveal'd her thoughts ; dull silence and quick chat 
 Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 
 No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not ; 
 
 Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away ; 
 She recognised no being, and no spot. 
 
 However dear or cherish'd in their day ; 
 They changed from room to room, but all forgot, 
 
 Gentle, but without memory, she lay ; 
 And yet those eyes, which they would fain be weaning 
 Back to old thoughts, seem'd full or fearful meaning. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 At last a slave bethought her of a harp ; 
 
 The harper came, and tuned his instrument ; 
 At the first notes, irregular and sharp. 
 
 On him her flashing eyes a moment bent. 
 Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp 
 
 Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent, 
 And he began a long low island song 
 Of ancient days, ere tj'ranny grew strong. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Anon her thin wan fingers beat tJie wall 
 
 In time to his old tune ; he changed the theme. 
 
 And sung of love — the fierce name struck through all 
 Her recollection ; on her flash'd the dream 
 
 Of what she was, and is, if j^e could call 
 To be so being ; in a gushing stream 
 
 The tears nish'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, 
 
 Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Short solace, vam relief! — thought came too quick, 
 And whirl'd her brain to madness ; she arose 
 
 As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick. 
 And flew at all she met, as on her foes ; 
 
 But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, 
 Although her paroxysm drew towai-ds its close : 
 
 Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave, 
 
 Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense ; 
 
 Nothing could make her meet her father's face, 
 Though on all other diings with looks intense 
 
 She gazed, but none she ever could retrace ; 
 Food she refused, and raiment ; no pretence 
 
 Avail'd for either ; neither change of place, 
 Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
 Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone for ever. 
 
 I-XIX. 
 
 Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus ; at last, 
 Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 
 
 A parting pang, the spirit from her pass'd : 
 
 And they who watch'd her nearest could not know 
 
 The very instant, till the change that cast 
 Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, 
 
 Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black— 
 
 Oh ! to posses such lustre — and then lack ! 
 
 LXXII, 
 
 She died, but not alone ; she held within 
 
 A second principle of life, which might 
 Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin: 
 
 But closed its little being without light. 
 And went dovm to the grave unborn, wherein 
 
 Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight ; 
 In vain the dews of heaven descend above 
 The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Thus lived — thus died she : never more on her, 
 Shall sorrow light or shame. She was not made 
 
 Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, 
 Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 
 
 By age in earth ; her days and pleasures were 
 Brief, but delightful — such as had not stay'd 
 
 Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well 
 
 By the seashore whereon she loved to dwell. 
 
Canto IV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 535 
 
 liXXII. 
 
 That isle is now all desolate and bare, 
 Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away ; 
 
 None but her own and father's grave is there, 
 And nothing outward tells of human clay : 
 
 Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair, 
 No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 
 
 What was ; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, 
 
 Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 But many a Greek maid in a loving song 
 Sighs o'er her name, and many an islander 
 
 With her sire's story makes the night less long ; 
 Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her ; 
 
 If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong — 
 A heavy price must all pay who thus err, 
 
 In some shape ; let none think to fly the danger, 
 
 For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 But let me change this theme, which grows too sad, 
 And lay this sheet of sorrow on the shelf; 
 
 I do n't much like describing people mad, 
 For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself — 
 
 Besides, I 've no more on this head to add: 
 And as my Muse is a capricious elf. 
 
 We '11 put about and try another tack 
 
 With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Wounded and fetter'd, " cabin'd, cribb'd, confined," 
 Some days and nights elapsed before that he 
 
 Could altogether call the past to mind ; 
 And when he did, he found himself at sea, 
 
 Sailing six knots an hour before the wind ; 
 The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee — 
 
 Another time he might have liked to see 'em, 
 
 But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigasum. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is 
 (Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea) 
 
 Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles : 
 They say so — (Bryant says the contrary :) 
 
 And further downward, tall and towering, still is 
 The tumulus -of whom ? Heaven knows ; 't may be 
 
 Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus, — 
 
 All heroes, who if living still would slay us. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 High barrows, without marble or a name, 
 A vast, untill'd, and mountain skirted plain, 
 
 And Ida in the distance, still the same. 
 And old Scamander (if 't is he) remain ; 
 
 The situation seems still form'd for fame — 
 A hundred thousand men might fight again 
 
 With ease ; but where I sought for Ilion's walls, 
 
 The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls ; 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Troops of untended horses ; here and there 
 Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth; 
 
 Some shepherds, (unlike Paris,) led to stare 
 A moment at the European youth 
 
 Whom to the spot their schoolboy feelings bear ; 
 A Turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth, 
 
 Extremely taken with his own religion, 
 
 Are what I found there— but tlie devil a Phrygian. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 
 From his dull cabin, found himself a slave ; 
 
 Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, 
 O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave : 
 
 Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge 
 A few brief questions ; and the answers gave 
 
 No very satisfactory information 
 
 About his past or present situation. 
 
 lxxx. 
 
 He saw some fellow-captives, who appear'd 
 
 To be Italians — as they were, in fact; 
 From them, at least, their destiny he heard, 
 
 Which was an odd one ; a troop going to act 
 In Sicily — all singers, duly rear'd 
 
 In their vocation, — had not been attack'd, 
 In sailing from Livorno, by the pirate, 
 But sold by the impresario at no high rate.' 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 By one of these, the buffo of the party, 
 Juan was told about their curious case ; 
 
 For, although destined to the Turkish marty he 
 Still kept his spirits up — at least his face ; 
 
 The little fellow really look'd quite hearty, 
 And bore him with some gayety and grace, 
 
 Showing a much more reconciled demeanour 
 
 Than did the prima donna and the tenor. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 In a few words he told their hapless story, 
 Saying, " Our Machiavelian impresario, 
 
 Making a signal off some promontory, 
 
 Hail'd a strange brig ; Corpo di Caio Mario ! 
 
 We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry. 
 Without a single scudo of salario ; 
 
 But, if the sultan has a taste for song, 
 
 We will revive our fortunes before long. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 " The prima donna, though a little old, 
 
 And haggard with a dissipated life, 
 And subject, when the house is thin, to cold, 
 
 Has some good notes ; and then the tenor's wife, 
 With no great voice, is pleasing to behold ; 
 
 Last carnival she made a deal of strife, 
 By cariying off Count Caesare Cicogna, 
 From an old Roman princess at Bologna. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 " And then there are the dancers ; there 's the Ninit 
 With more than one profession, gains by all ; 
 
 Then there 's that laughing slut, the Pellegrini, 
 She too was fortunate last carnival, 
 
 And made at least five hundred good zecchini, 
 But spends so fast, she has not now a pauI ; 
 
 And then there 's the Grotesca — such a dancer ! 
 
 Where men have souls or bodies, she must answer. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 " As for the figuranti, they are like 
 
 The rest of all that tribe ; with here and there 
 A pretty person, which perhaps may strike. 
 
 The rest are hardly fitted for a fair; 
 There 's one, though tall, and stiffer than a pike, 
 
 Yet has a sentimental kind of air, 
 Which might go far, but she do n't dance with vigour 5 
 The more 's the pity, with her face and figure. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 " As for the men, they are a middling set ; 
 
 The Musico is but a crack'd old basin, 
 But, being qualified in one way yet. 
 
 May the seraglio do to set his face in, 
 And as a servant some preferment get ; 
 
 His singing I no further trust can place in : 
 From all the pope * makes yearly, 't would pwplex 
 To find three perfect pipes of the tMrd sex. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 " The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, 
 And for the bass, the beast can only bellow 
 
 In fact, he had no singing education. 
 
 An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow, 
 
 But being the prima donna's near relation. 
 
 Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow, 
 
 They hired him, though to hear him you 'd believe 
 
 An ass was practising recitative. 
 
536 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto IV. 
 
 rxxxviii. 
 " 'T would not become myself to dwell upon 
 
 My own merits, and though young — I see, sir — ^you 
 Have got a travell'd air, which shows you one 
 
 To whom tlie opera is by no means new : 
 You 've heard of Raucocanti ? — I 'm the man ; 
 
 The time may come when you may hear me too ; 
 You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, 
 But next, when I 'm engaged to sing there — do go. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 " Our barytone I almost had forgot, 
 A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit 
 
 With graceful action, science not a jot, 
 
 A voice of no great compass, and not sweet, 
 
 He always is complaining of his lot, 
 
 Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street; 
 
 In lovers' parts, his passion more to breathe, 
 
 Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth." 
 
 xc. 
 Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital 
 
 Was interrupted by the pirate crew, 
 Who came at stated moments to invite all 
 
 The captives back to their sad berths ; each threw 
 A rueful glance upon the waves, (which bright all, 
 
 From the blue skies derived a double blue. 
 Dancing all free and happy in the sun,) 
 And then went down the hatchway one by one. 
 
 xci. 
 They heard, next day, that in the Dardanelles, 
 
 Waiting for his sublimity's firman — 
 The most imperative of sovereign spells. 
 
 Which every body does without who can,— 
 More to secure them in their naval cells. 
 
 Lady to lady, well as man to man, 
 Were to be chained and lotted out per couple 
 For the slave-market of Constantinople. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 It seems when this allotment was made out. 
 
 There chanced to be an odd male and odd female, 
 
 Who (after some discussion and some doubt 
 If the soprano might be deem'd to be male, 
 
 They placed him o'er the women as a scout) 
 Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male 
 
 Was Juan, who — an awkward thing at his age— 
 
 Pair'd off with a Bacchante's blooming visage. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd 
 The tenor ; these two hated with a hate 
 
 Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd 
 With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate ; 
 
 Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd, 
 Instead of bearing up without debate. 
 
 That each puU'd different ways with many an oath, 
 
 " Arcades ambo," id est — blackguards botii. 
 
 xciv. 
 Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 
 
 But bred wHhin the March of old Ancona, 
 With eyes that look'd into the very soul, 
 
 (And other chief points of a " bella donna,") 
 Bright — and as black and burning as a coal ; 
 
 And through her clear brunette complexion shone a 
 Great wish to please — a most attractive dower, 
 Especially when added to the power. 
 
 xcv. 
 But all that power was wasted upon him, 
 
 For sorrow o'er each sense held stem command ; 
 Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim ; 
 
 And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand 
 Touch'd his, nor that — nor any handsome limb 
 
 (And she had some not easy to withstand) 
 Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle ; 
 Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 No matter ; we should ne'er too much inquire, 
 But facts are facts,-^no knight could be more true, 
 
 And firmer faith no ladye-love desire ; 
 We will omit the proofs, save one or two. 
 
 'T is said no one in hand " can hold a fire 
 By thought of frosty Caucasus," but few 
 
 I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 
 
 Was more triumphant, and not much less real. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Here I might enter on a chaste description, 
 Having withstood temptation in my youth. 
 
 But hear that several people take exception 
 At the first two books having too much truth ; 
 
 Therefore I '11 make Don Juan leave the ship soon. 
 Because the publisher declares, in sooth, 
 
 Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is 
 
 To pass, than those two cantos into families, 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 'T is all the same to me, I 'm fond of yielding. 
 And therefore leave them to the purer page 
 
 Of Smollet, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, 
 
 Who say strange things for so correct an age ; 
 
 I once had great alacrity in wielding 
 My pen, and liked poetic war to wage, 
 
 And recollect the time when all this cant 
 
 Would have provoked remarks which now it shan^t. 
 
 xcix. 
 As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble; 
 
 But at this hour I wish to part in peace. 
 Leaving such to the literary rabble. 
 
 Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease 
 While the right hand which wrote it still is able, 
 
 Or of some centuries to take a lease. 
 The grass upon my grave will grow as long. 
 And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song. 
 
 c. 
 
 Of poets, who come down to us through distance 
 Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of fame, 
 
 Life seems the smallest portion of existence ; 
 Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 
 
 'T is as a snowball which derives assistance 
 From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, 
 
 Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow, — 
 
 But after all 't is nothing but cold snow. 
 
 CI. 
 
 And so great names are nothing more than nominal,- 
 
 And love of glory 's but an airy lust. 
 Too often in its fury overcoming all 
 
 Who would, as 't were, identify their dust 
 From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all, 
 
 Leaves nothing till the coming of the just — 
 Save change ; I 've stood upon Achilles' tomb. 
 And heard Troy doubted ; time will doubt of Rome. 
 
 oil. 
 The very generations of the dead 
 
 Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb. 
 Until the memory of an age is fled, 
 
 And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom ; 
 Where are the epitaphs our fathers read ? 
 
 Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom. 
 Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath, 
 And lose their own in universal death. 
 
 I canter by the spot each afternoon 
 
 Where perish'd in his fame the hero-boy, 
 
 Who lived too long for men, but died too soon 
 For human vanity, the young De Foix !' 
 
 A broken pillar not uncouthly hewn, 
 But which neglect is hastening to destroy. 
 
 Records Ravenna's carnage on its face, 
 
 While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.^ 
 
Canto V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 637 
 
 I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid ; 
 
 A little cupola, more neat than solemn, 
 Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid 
 
 To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column : 
 The time must come when both alike decay'd. 
 
 The chieftain's trophy and the poet's volume, 
 Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth, 
 Before Pelides' death or Homer's birth. 
 
 cv. 
 With human blood that column was cemented, 
 
 With human filth that column is defiled. 
 As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented 
 
 To show his loathing of the spot he spoil'd ; 
 Thus is the trophy used and thus lamented 
 
 Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild 
 Instinct of gore and glory earth has known 
 Those suflferings Dante saw in hell alone. 
 
 cvi. 
 Yet there wiU still be bards ; though fame is smoke, 
 
 Its fumes are frankincense to human thought ; 
 And the unquiet feelings which first woke 
 
 Song in the world, will seek what then they sought; 
 As on the beach the waves at last are broke, 
 
 Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought, 
 Dash into poetry, which is but passion. 
 Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 If in the course of such a life as was 
 At once adventurous and contemplative, 
 
 Men who partake aU passions as they pass, 
 Acquire the deep and bitter power to give 
 
 Their images again, as in a glass, 
 And in such colours that they seem to live ; 
 
 You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, 
 
 But spoU (I think) a very pretty poem. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Oh ! ye, who make the fortunes of all books ! 
 
 Benign ceruleans of the second sex ! 
 Who advertise new poems by your looks. 
 
 Your *' imprimatur" will ye not armex ? — 
 What, must I go to the oblivious cooks, — 
 
 Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks '! 
 Ah ! must I then the only minstrel be 
 Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea ? 
 
 cix. 
 What, can I prove " a lion" then no more ? 
 
 A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling, 
 To bear the compliments of many a bore, 
 
 And sigh " I can't get out," like Yorick's starling, 
 Why then I'll swear, as poet Wordy swore, 
 
 (Because the world won't read him, always snarling,) 
 That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery. 
 Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie. 
 
 ex. 
 
 Oh! "darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," 
 As some one somewhere sings about the sky, 
 
 And I, ye learned ladies, say of you ; 
 They say your stockings are so, (Heaven knows why, 
 
 I have examined few pair of that hue ;) 
 Blue as the garters which serenely lie 
 
 Round the patrician left-legs, which adorn 
 
 The festal midnight and the levee morn. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures — 
 But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover. 
 
 You read my stanzas, and I read your features : 
 And — but no matter, all those things are over; 
 
 Still I have no dislike to learned natures, 
 
 For sometimes such a world of virtues cover ; 
 
 I know one wonan of that purple school, j 
 
 The loveiest, chastest, best, but — quite a fooL j 
 
 3 S 
 
 Humboldt, " the first of travellers," but not 
 
 The last, if late accounts be accurate, 
 Invented, by some name I have forgot. 
 
 As well as the sublime discovery's date, 
 An airy instrument, with which he sought 
 
 To ascertain the atmospheric state, 
 By measuring " the intensity of blue ,•" 
 Oh ! Lady Daphne ! let me measure you ! 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 But to the narrative. — The vessel bound 
 
 With skves to seU off in the capital, 
 After the usual process, might be found 
 
 At anchor under the seraglio waU ; 
 Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound 
 
 Were landed in the market, one and all. 
 And there, with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians, 
 Bought up for different purposes and passions. 
 
 cxiv. 
 Some went ctf dearly: fifteen hundred dollars 
 
 For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given 
 Warranted virgin ; beauty's brightest colours 
 
 Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven : 
 Her sale sent home some disappwinted bawlers. 
 
 Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven ; 
 But when the offer went beyond, they knew 
 'T was for the sultem, and at once withdrew, 
 
 cxv. 
 
 Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price 
 
 Which the West Indian market scarce would bring 
 Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice 
 
 What 't was ere abolition ; and tlie thing 
 Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 
 
 Is always much more splendid than a king 
 The virtues, even the most exalted, charity, 
 Are saving — ^vice spares nothing for a rarity. 
 
 cxvi. 
 But for the destiny of this young troop, 
 
 How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews 
 How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, 
 
 And others rose to the command of crews 
 As renegadoes ; while in hapless group, 
 
 Hoping no very old vizier might choose, 
 The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em, 
 To make a mistress, at fourtii wife, or victim. 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 All this must be reserved for further song ; 
 
 AxSo our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant, 
 (Because this canto has become too long,) 
 
 Must be postponed discreetly for the present , 
 I 'm sensible redundancy is wrong. 
 
 But could not for the muse of me put less in 't : 
 And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
 Till what is call'd in Ossian, the fifth Duan. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 When amatory poets sing their loves 
 
 In liquid lines mellifluously bland, 
 And pair their rhjmies as Venus yokes her doves 
 
 They little think what mischief is in hand ; 
 The greater their success the worse it proves, 
 
 As Ovid's verse may make you understand ; 
 Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity 
 Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity. 
 
638 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 I therefore do denounce all amorous writing, 
 Except in such a way as not to attract ; 
 
 Plain — simple — short, and by no means inviting, 
 But with a moral to each error tack'd, 
 
 Form'd rather for instructing tlian delighting, 
 And with all passions in dieir turn attack'd ; 
 
 Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill, 
 
 This poem will become a moral model. 
 
 III. 
 The European with the Asian shore 
 
 Sprinkled with palaces ; the ocean stream, 
 Here and there studded with a seventy-four ; 
 
 Sophia's cupola with golden gleam ; 
 The cypress groves ; Olympus high and hoar ; 
 
 The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream. 
 Far less describe, present the very view 
 Which charm'd the charming Mary Montague. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I have a passion for the name of " Mary," 
 
 For once it was a magic sound to me, 
 And still it half calls up the reahns of fairy, 
 
 Where I beheld what never was to be ; 
 All feelings change, but this was last to vary, 
 
 A spell from which even yet I am not quite free : 
 But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold, 
 Which must not be pathetically told. 
 
 T. 
 
 The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave 
 Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades, 
 
 'T is a grand sight, from off " the Giant's Grave," 2 
 To watch the progress of those roUing seas 
 
 Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave 
 Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease; 
 
 There 's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in 
 
 Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine. 
 
 VI. 
 
 'T was a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning. 
 When nights are equal, but not so the days ; 
 
 The Parcae then cut short the further spinning 
 Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise 
 
 The waters, and repentance for past sinning 
 In all who o'er the great deep take their ways: 
 
 They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't ; 
 
 Because if drown'd, they can't — if spared they won't. 
 
 VII. 
 
 A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation. 
 And age, and sex, were in the market ranged ; 
 
 Each bevy with the merchant in his station : 
 Poor creatures ! their good looks were sadly changed. 
 
 All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation, 
 
 From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged. 
 
 The negroes more philosophy display'd, — 
 
 Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Juan was juvenile, and thus was full. 
 As most at his age are, of hope, and health ; 
 
 Yet I must own he look'd a little dull, 
 And now and then a tear stole down by stealth ; 
 
 Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
 His spirit down ; and then the loss of wealth, 
 
 A mistress, and such comfortable quarters. 
 
 To be put up for auction among Tartars, 
 
 IX. 
 
 Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'ertheless, 
 Upon the whole his carriage was serene : 
 
 His figure, and the splendour of his dress. 
 
 Of which some gilded remnants still were seen. 
 
 Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 
 He was above the vulgar by his mien ; 
 
 And then, though pale, he was so very handsome ; 
 
 And then — they calculated on his ransom 
 
 Like a backgammon-board the place was dotted 
 With whites and blacks, in groups on show for saloi 
 
 Though rather more irregularly spotted : 
 Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. 
 
 It chanced, among the other people lotted, 
 A man of thirty, rather stout and hale. 
 
 With resolution in his dark-gray eye, 
 
 Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy. 
 
 XI. 
 
 He had an English look ; that is, was square 
 In make, of a complexion white and ruddy. 
 
 Good teeth, with curling rather dark-brovra hair. 
 And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study, 
 
 An open brow, a little marked with care : 
 One arm had on a bandage rather bloody ; 
 
 And there he stood with such sangfroid, that greater 
 
 Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. 
 
 XII. 
 
 But seeing at his elbow a mere lad. 
 
 Of a high spirit evidently, though 
 At present weigh'd down by a doom which had 
 
 O'erthrown even men, he soon began to show 
 A kind of blunt compassion for the sad 
 
 Lot of so young a partner in the wo. 
 Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse 
 Than any other scrape, a thing of course. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " My boy !" — said he, " amid this motley crew 
 Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not, 
 
 AU ragami^ns differing but in hue. 
 With whom it is our luck to cast our lot, 
 
 The only gentlemen seem I and you, 
 So let us be acquainted, as we ought ; 
 
 If I could yield you any consolation, 
 
 'T would give me pleasure. — Pray, what is your nation V* 
 
 XIV. 
 
 When Juan answer'd " Spanish !" he replied, 
 " I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek ; 
 
 Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed : 
 Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak. 
 
 But that's the way with all men till they 're tried : 
 But never mind, — she '11 turn, perhaps, next week ; 
 
 She has served me also much the same as you, 
 
 Except that I have found it nothing new." 
 
 XV. 
 
 "Pray, sir," said Juan, " if I may presume, 
 
 What brought you here ?" — " Oh ! nothing very rare — 
 
 Six Tartars and a drag-chain " — " To this doom 
 
 But what conducted, if the question 's fair, 
 
 Is that which I would learn." — " I served for some 
 Months with the Russian army here and there, 
 
 And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 
 
 A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widin." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Have you no friends ?" — "I had — ^but, by God's blessing. 
 Have not been troubled with them lately. Now 
 
 I have answer'd all your questions without pressing, 
 And you an equal courtesy should show." 
 
 " Alas !" said Juan, 't were a tale distressing, 
 And long besides." — '* Oh ! if 't is really so. 
 
 You 're right on both accounts to hold your tongue ; 
 
 A sad tale saddens doubly when 't is long. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " But droop not: Fortune, at your time of life, 
 
 Although a female moderately fickle, 
 Will hardly leave you (as she 's not your wife) 
 
 For any length of days in such a pickle. 
 To strive too with our fate were such a strife 
 
 As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle: 
 Men are the sport of circumstances, when 
 The circimistances seem the spwt of men.'* 
 
Canto V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 639 
 
 " 'T is not," said Juan, *' for my present doom 
 I mourn, but for the past ; — I loved a maid :" 
 
 He paused, and his dark eye grew full pf gloom ; 
 A single tear upon his eyelash slay'd 
 
 A moment, and then dropp'd ; " but to resume, 
 'T is not my present lot, as I have said, 
 
 Which I deplore so much ; for I have borne 
 
 Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " On the rough deep. But this last blow — " and here 
 He stopp'd again, and tum'd away his face. 
 
 " Ay," quoth his friend, " I thought it would appear 
 That there had been a lady in the case ; 
 
 And these are things which ask a tender tear, 
 Such as I too would shed, if in your place : 
 
 I cried upon my first wife's dying day. 
 
 And also when my second ran away : 
 
 XX. 
 
 " My third" — " Your third !" quoth Juan, turning round ; 
 
 " You scarcely can be thirty : have you three ?" 
 " No — only two at present above ground : 
 
 Surely 't is nothing wonderful to see 
 One person thrice in holy wedlock bound !" 
 
 " Well, then, your third," said Juan ; " what did she? 
 She did not run away, too, did she, sir ?" 
 " No, faith." — " What then ?" " I ran away from her." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " You take things coolly, sir," said Juan. " Why," 
 Replied the other, " what can a man do ? 
 
 There still are many rainbows in your sky. 
 
 But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new. 
 
 Commence with feelings warm and prospects high ; 
 But time strips our illusions of their hue, 
 
 And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 
 
 Casts off its bright skin yearly, like the snake. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " 'T is true, it gets another bright and fresh. 
 
 Or fresher, brighter ; but, the year gone through, 
 
 This skin must go the way too of all flesh. 
 Or sometimes only wear a week or two ; — 
 
 Love 's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh ; 
 Ambition, avarice, vengeance, glory, glue 
 
 The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days, 
 
 Where still we flutter on for pence or praise." 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " All this is very fine, and may be true," 
 
 Said Juan ; " but I really don't see how 
 It betters present times with me or you." 
 
 " No !" quoth the other ; " yet you will allow, 
 By setting things in their right point of view. 
 
 Knowledge, at least, is gain'd ; for instance, now, 
 We know what slavery is, and our disasters 
 May teach us better to behave when masters." 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 *• Would we were masters now, if but to try 
 
 Their present lessons on our pagan friends here," 
 
 Said Juan — swallowing a heart-burning sigh : 
 
 " Heav'n help the scholar whom his fortune sends here !" 
 
 •' Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by," 
 
 Rejoin'd the other, " when our bad luck mends here, 
 
 Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us) 
 
 I wish to G-d that somebody would buy us ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " But after all, what is our present state? 
 
 'T is bad, and may be better — all men's lot : 
 Most men are slaves, none more so than the great, 
 
 To their own whims and passions, and what not : 
 Society itself, which should create 
 
 Kindness, destroys what little we had got : 
 To feel for none is the true social art 
 Of the world's stoics — men without a heart." 
 
 Just now a black old neutral personage 
 
 Of the third sex stepp'd up, and peering over 
 
 The captives, seem'd to mark their looks, and age, 
 And capabilities, as to discover 
 
 If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 
 No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, 
 
 Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, 
 
 Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 As is a slave by his intended bidder. 
 
 'T is pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; 
 And all are to be sold, if you consider 
 
 Their passions, and are dext'rous ; some by features 
 Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, 
 
 Some by a place — as tend their years or natures ; 
 The most by ready cash — but all have prices. 
 From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care, 
 Tum'd to the merchant, and began to bid 
 
 First but for one, and after for the pair ; 
 
 They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — so they did! 
 
 As though they were in a mere Christian fair, 
 Cheapening an ox, as ass, a lamb, or kid ; 
 
 So that their bargain sounded like a batde 
 
 For this superior yoke of human cattle. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 At last they settled into simple grumbling, 
 
 And pulling out reluctant purses, and 
 Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 
 
 Some down, and weighing others in their hand, 
 And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling, 
 
 Until the sum was accurately scann'd. 
 And then the merchant, giving change and signing 
 Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 I wonder if his appetite was good ; 
 
 Or, if it were, if also his digestion. 
 Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude 
 
 And conscience ask a curious sort of question, 
 About the right divine how far we should 
 
 Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has oppress'd one, 
 I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour 
 Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Voltaire says " No ;" he tells you that Candide 
 
 Found life most tolerable after meals ; 
 He 's wrong — unless man was a pig, indeed, 
 
 Repletion rather adds to what he feels ; 
 Unless he 's drunk, and then no doubt he 's freed 
 
 From his own brain's oppression while it reels. 
 Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather 
 Ammon's (ill pleased with one world and one father ;) 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 I think with Alexander, that the act 
 
 Of eating, with another act or two, 
 Makes us feel our mortality in fact 
 
 Redoubled ; when a roast and a ragout. 
 And fish and soup, by some side-dishes back'd, 
 
 Can give us either pain or pleasure, who 
 Would pique himself on intellects, whose use 
 Depends so much upon the gastric juice? 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 The other evening ('t was on Friday last) — 
 
 This is a fact, and no poetic fable — 
 Just as my great coat was about me cast, 
 
 My hat and gloves still lying on the table ,2 
 I heard a shot — 't was eight o'clock scarce past— 
 
 And running out as fast as I was able,^ 
 I found the military commandant 
 Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to pant. 
 
540 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Poor fellow ! for some reason, surely bad, 
 
 They had slain him with five slugs ; and left him there 
 To perish on the pavement : so I had 
 
 Him borne into the house and up the stair, 
 And stripp'd, and look'd to But why should I add 
 
 More circumstances ? vain was every care ; 
 The man was gone : in some Italian quarrel 
 Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel.* 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 I gazed upon him, for I knew him well ; 
 
 And, though I have seen many corpses, never 
 Saw one, whom such an accident befell, [liver. 
 
 So calm ; though pierced through stomach, heart, and 
 He seem'd to sleep, for you could scarcely tell 
 
 (As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
 Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead: — 
 So as I gazed on him, 1 thought or said — 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " Can this be death ? then what is life or death ? 
 
 Speak !" but he spoke not : " wake !" but still he slept: 
 But yesterday, and who had mightier breath ? 
 
 A thousand warriors by his word were kept 
 In awe : he said, as the centurion saith, 
 
 ' Go,' and he goeth ; * come,' and forth he stepp'd. 
 The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb — 
 And now nought left him but the muffled drum." 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 And they who waited once and worshipp'd — they 
 With their rough faces throng'd about the bed, 
 
 To gaze once more on the commanding clay 
 
 Which for the last though not the first time bled ; 
 
 And such an end ! that he who many a day 
 Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled, — 
 
 The foremost in the charge or in the saUy, 
 
 Should now be butcher' d in a civic alley. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 The scars of his old wounds were near his new, 
 Those honourable scars which brought him fame; 
 
 And horrid was the contrast to the view — 
 
 But let me quit the theme, as such things claun 
 
 Perhaps even moie attention than is due 
 
 From me : I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same) 
 
 To try if I could wrench aught out of death, 
 
 Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith ; 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 But it was all a mystery. Here we are, 
 
 And there we go: — ^but where ? five bits of lead, 
 
 Or three, or two, or one, send very far ! 
 And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed ? 
 
 Can every element our elements mar ? 
 
 And air — earth — water — fire live — and we dead ? 
 
 We, whose minds comprehend all things ? No more : 
 
 But let us to the story as before. 
 
 XL. 
 
 The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 
 
 Bore oflT his bargains to a gilded boat, 
 Embark'd himself and them, and off they went thence 
 
 As fast as oars could pull and water float ; 
 They look'd like persons being led to sentence, 
 
 Wondering what next, till the caique was brought 
 Up in a little creek below a wall 
 O'ertopp'd with cj^resses dark-green and tall. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Here their conductor tapping at the wicket 
 
 Of a small iron door, t' was open'd, and 
 He led them onward, first through a low thicket 
 
 Flank'd by large groves which tower'd on either hand : 
 They almost lost their way, and had to pick it— 
 
 For night was closing ere they came to land. 
 The eunuch made a sign to those on board. 
 Who row'd off, leaving them without a word 
 
 As they were plodding on their winding way, 
 
 Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth, 
 
 (Of which I might have a good deal to say, 
 There being no such profusion in the North 
 
 Of oriental plants, " etcajtera," 
 
 But that of late your scribblers think it worth 
 
 Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works, 
 
 Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks :) 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 As they were threading on their way, there came 
 Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he 
 
 Whisper'd to his companion : — 't was the same 
 Which might have dien occurr'd to you or me. 
 
 " Methinks," — said he — " it would be no great shame 
 If we should strike a stroke to set us free ; 
 
 Let 's knock that old black fellow on the head 
 
 And march away — 't were easier done than said." 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 " Yes," said the other, " and when done, what then ? 
 
 How get out ? how the devil got we in ? 
 And when we once were fairly out, and when 
 
 From Samt Bartholomew we have saved our skin, 
 To-morrow 'd see us in some other den, 
 
 And worse off" than we hitherto have been ; 
 Besides, I'm hungry, and just now would take. 
 Like Esau, for my birthright, a beef-steak. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " We must be near some place of man's abode ; 
 
 For the old negro's confidence in creeping, 
 With his two captives, by so queer a road. 
 
 Shows that he thinks his friends have not been sleeping ; 
 A single cry would bring them all abroad : 
 
 'T is therefore better looking before leaping — 
 And there, you see, this turn has brought us through. 
 By Jove, a noble palace ! — lighted too." 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 It was indeed a wide extensive building 
 Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front 
 
 There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding 
 And various hues, as is the Turkish wont, — 
 
 A gaudy taste ; for they are little skill'd in 
 
 The arts of which these lands were once the font : 
 
 Each viUa on the Bosphorus looks a screen 
 
 New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 And nearer as they came, a genial savour 
 
 Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus, 
 Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour, 
 
 Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause. 
 And put himself upon his good behaviour : 
 
 His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, 
 Said, " In Heaven's name let's get some supper now, 
 
 And then I'm with you, if you're for a row." 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, 
 Some to men's feelings, others to their reason ; 
 
 The last of these was never much the fashion. 
 For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. 
 
 Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, 
 But more or less continue still to tease on, 
 
 With arguments according to their " forte ;" 
 
 But no one ever dreams of being short. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 But I digress : of all appeals, — although 
 I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, 
 
 Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling, — no 
 Method 's more sure at moments to take hold 
 
 Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow 
 More tender, as we every day behold, 
 
 Than that all-softening, o'erpowering knell, 
 
 The tocsin of the soul — the dinner-bell. 
 
Canto V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 541 
 
 Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine: 
 And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard 
 
 No Christian knoll to table, saw no line 
 Of lacqueys usher to the feast prepared. 
 
 Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine, 
 And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, 
 
 And gazed around them to the left and right 
 
 With the prophetic eye of appetite. 
 
 i-i. 
 
 And giving up all notions of resistance. 
 
 They follow'd close behind their sable guide, 
 
 Who little thought that his own crack'd existence 
 Was on the point of being set aside: 
 
 He motion'd them to stop at some small distance, 
 And knocking at the gate, 't was open'd wide, 
 
 And a magnificent large hall display'd 
 
 The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. 
 
 LII. 
 
 I won't describe ; descripticai is my forte, 
 But every fool describes in these bright days 
 
 His wond'rous journey to some foreign court. 
 
 And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise — 
 
 Death to his publisher, to him 't is sport ; 
 
 While nature, tortured twenty thousand ways, 
 
 Resigns herself with exemplary patience 
 
 To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted 
 Upon their hams, were occupied at chess ; 
 
 Others in monosyllable talk chatted. 
 
 And some seem'd much in love with their own dress ; 
 
 And divers smoked superb pipes decorated 
 With amber mouths of greater price or less ; 
 
 And several strutted, others slept, and some 
 
 Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.* 
 
 LIV. 
 
 As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace 
 Of purchased infidels, some raised their eyes 
 
 A moment without slackening from their pace ; 
 But those who sate ne'er stirr'd in any wise : 
 
 One or two stared the capl ives in the face, 
 Just as one views a horse to guess his price ; 
 
 Some nodded to the negro from their station, 
 
 But no one troubled him with conversation. 
 
 LV. 
 
 He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping, 
 On through a farther range of goodly rooms. 
 
 Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping,® 
 A marble fountain echoes through the glooms 
 
 Of night, which robe the chamber, or where popping 
 Some female head most curiously presumes 
 
 To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, 
 
 As wondering what the devil noise that is. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls 
 Gave light enough to hint their farther way, 
 
 But not enough to show the imperial halls 
 In all the flashing of their fuU array ; 
 
 Perhaps there 's nothing — I '11 not say appals, 
 But saddens more by night as well as day, 
 
 Than an enormous room without a soul 
 
 To break the lifeless splendour of the whole. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing : 
 In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, 
 
 There solitude, we know, has her full growth in 
 The spots which were her realms for ever more : 
 
 But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in 
 More modern buildings and those built of yore, 
 
 A kind of death comes o'er us all alone, 
 
 Seeing what 's meant for many with but one. 
 
 LVIII, 
 
 A neat, snug study on a winter's night, 
 
 A book, friend, single lady, or a glass 
 Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite. 
 
 Are things which make an English evening pass ; 
 Though certes by no means so grand a sight 
 
 As is a theatre lit up by gas. 
 I pass my evenings in long galleries solely, 
 And that 's the reason I 'ra so melancholy. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Alas ! man malces that great which makes him little: 
 
 I grant you in a church 't is very well : 
 What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, 
 
 But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell 
 Their names who rear'd it ; but huge houses fit ill — 
 
 And huge tombs worse — mankind, since Adam fell: 
 Methinks the story of the tower of Babel 
 Might teach them this much better than I 'm able. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Babel was Nimrod's hunting-seat, and then 
 A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing. 
 
 Where Nabuchadonosor, king of men, 
 Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing, 
 
 And Daniel tamed the lions in their den. 
 The people's awe and admiration raising ; 
 
 'T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, 
 
 And the calumniated Q,ueen Semiramis. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 * * * * ii 
 
 But to resume, — should there be, (what may not 
 Be in these days ?) some infidels, who don't, 
 
 Because they can't find out the very spot 
 Of that same Babel, or because they won't, 
 
 (Though Claudius Rich, esquire, some bricks has got 
 And written lately two memoirs upon 't,) 
 
 Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 
 
 Must be believed, though they believe not you;— 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Yet let them think that Horace has express'd 
 
 Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly 
 Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, 
 
 Who give themselves to architecture wholly ; 
 We know where things and men must end at last ; 
 
 A moral (like all morals) melancholy. 
 And " Et sepulcri immemor struis domos" 
 Shows that we build when we should but entomb us. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 At last they reach'd a quarter most retired, 
 Where echo woke as if fi-om a long slumber : 
 
 Though full of all things which could be desired. 
 One wonder'd what to do with such a number 
 
 Of articles which nobody required ; 
 
 Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber 
 
 With furniture an exquisite apartment, 
 
 Which puzzled nature much to know what art meant. 
 
 I, XV. 
 
 It seem'd however, but to open on 
 A range or suit of further chambers, which 
 
 Might lead to heaven knows where ? but in this one 
 The moveables were prodigally rich ; 
 
 Sofas 't was half a sin to sit upon 
 
 So costly were they ; carpets every stitch 
 
 Of workmanship so rare, that made you wish 
 
 You could glide o'er them like a golden fish 
 
642 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 The black, however, without hardly deigning 
 A glance at that which rapt the slaves in wonder, 
 
 Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining, 
 As if the milky way their feet was under 
 
 With all its stars : and with a stretch attaining 
 A certain press or cupboard, niched in yonder 
 
 In that remote recess which you may see — 
 
 Or if you do n't, the fault is not in me : 
 
 LXTII. 
 
 1 wish to be perspicuous : and the black, 
 
 I say, unlocking the recess, puU'd forth 
 A quantity of clothes fit for the back 
 
 Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth ; 
 And of variety there was no lack — 
 
 And yet, though I have said there was no dearth, 
 He chose himself to point out what he thought 
 Most proper for the Christians he had bought. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 The suit he thought most suitable to each 
 Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 
 
 A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, 
 And trowsers not so tight that they would burst, 
 
 But such as fit an Asiatic breech ; 
 
 A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst, 
 
 Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy ; 
 
 In short, all things which form a Turkish dandy. 
 
 LXIX, 
 
 While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend, 
 
 Hinted the vast advantages which they 
 Might probably attain both in the end, 
 
 If they would but pursue the proper way 
 Which fortune plainly stem'd to recommend ; 
 
 And then he added, that he needs must say, 
 '"T would greatly tend to better their condition, 
 If they would condescend to circumcision. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 " For his own part, he really should rejoice 
 
 To see them true believers, but no less 
 Would leave his proposition to their choice." 
 
 The other, thanking him for this excess 
 Of goodness in thus leaving them a voice 
 
 In such a trifle, scarcely could express 
 *' Sufficiently (he said) his approbation 
 Of all the customs of this polish'd nation. 
 
 rxxi. 
 " For his own share — he saw but small objection 
 
 To so respectable an ancient rite. 
 And after swallowing down a slight reflection, 
 
 For which he own'd a present appetite, 
 He doubted not a few hours of reflection 
 
 Would reconcile him to the business quite." — 
 "Will it?" said Juan, sharply ; " Strike me dead, 
 But they as soon shall circumcise my head — 
 
 I-XXII, 
 
 *' Cut off a thousand heads, before " — " Now pray,' 
 
 Replied die other, "do not interrupt: 
 You put me out in what I had to say. 
 
 Sir ! — as I said, as soon as I have supp'd 
 I shall perpend if your proposals may 
 
 Be such as I can properly accept ; 
 Provided always your great goodness still 
 Remits the matter to our own freewill." 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Baba eyed Juan, and said " Be so good 
 As dress yourself—" and pointed out a suit 
 
 In which a princess with great pleasure would 
 Array her limbs ; but Juan standing mute, 
 
 As not being in a masquerading mood, 
 Grave it a slight kick with his Christian foot ; 
 
 And when the old negro told him to " Get ready." 
 
 Replied, " Old gendeman, I 'm not a lady." 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 "What you may be, I neither know nor care,* 
 
 Said Baba, " but pray do as I desire, 
 I have no more time nor many words to spare." 
 
 " At least," said Juan, " sure I may inquire 
 The cause of this odd travesty?" — " Forbear,'* 
 
 Said Baba, " to be curious : 't will transpire, 
 No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season: 
 I have no authority to tell the reason." 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 « Then if I do," said Juan, « I '11 be " " Hold !" 
 
 Rejoin'd the negro, " pray be not provoking ; 
 
 This spirit 's well, but it may wax too bold, 
 And you will find us not too fond of joking." 
 
 " What, sir," said Juan, " shall it e'er be told 
 That I unsex'd my dress ?" But Baba, stroking 
 
 The things down, said — " Incense me, and I call 
 
 Those who will leave you of no sex at all. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 " I offer you a handsome suit of clothes: 
 
 A woman's, true ; but then there is a cause [loathes 
 Why you should wear them." — " What, though my soul 
 
 The effeminate garb ?" — Thus, after a short pause, 
 Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, 
 
 " What the devil shall I do with all this gauze ?" 
 Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace 
 Which e'er set off a marriage-morning face. 
 
 LXX VII. 
 
 And then he swore ; and, sighing, on he slipp'd 
 A pair of trowsers of flesh-colour'd silk ; 
 
 Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'd, 
 
 Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk ; 
 
 But, tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd, 
 WTiich — as we say — or as the Scotch say, whilk, 
 
 (The rhyme obliges me to this :— sometimes 
 
 Kings are not more imperative than rhymes)— 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Whilk, which (or what you please) was owing to 
 His garment's novelty, and his being awkward ; 
 
 And yet at last he managed to get through 
 His toilet, though no doubt a little backward ; 
 
 The negro Baba help'd a little too, 
 When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard ; 
 
 And, vsTestling both his arms into a gown. 
 
 He paused and took a survey up and down. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 One difficulty still remain'd, — his hair 
 Was hardly long enough ; but Baba found 
 
 So many false long tresses all to spare, 
 That soon his head was most completely crown'd, 
 
 After the manner then in fashion there ; 
 
 And this addition with such gems was bound 
 
 As suited the ensemble of his toilet, 
 
 While Baba made him comb his head and oil it. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 And now being femininely all array'd. 
 
 With some small aid from scissors, paint, and tweezers, 
 He look'd in almost all respects a maid, 
 
 And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, "You see, sirs, 
 A perfect transformation here display'd ; 
 
 And now, then, you must come along with me, sirs, 
 That is — the lady :" — clapping his hands twice. 
 Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 " You, sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 
 " Will please to accompany those gentlemen 
 
 To supper ; but you, worthy Christian nun. 
 Will follow me : no trifling, sir : for when 
 
 I say a thing, it must at once be done. 
 
 What fear you ? think you this a lion's den ? 
 
 Why 't is a palace, where the truly wise 
 
 Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 
 
Canto V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 543 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 " You fool ! I tell you no one means you harm." 
 " So much the better," Juan said, " for them : 
 
 Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, 
 Which is not quite so light as you may deem. 
 
 I yield thus far ; but soon will break the charm, 
 If any take me for that which I seem ; 
 
 So that I trust, for every body's sake. 
 
 That this disguise may lead to no mistake." 
 
 rxxxiii. 
 " Bloddiead ! come on, and see," quoth Baba ; while 
 
 Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who, 
 Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a smile 
 
 Upon the metamorphosis in view, 
 "Farewell!" they mutually exclaim'd : "this soil 
 
 Seems fertile in adventures strange and new ; 
 One 's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid, 
 By this old black enchanter's unsought aid." 
 
 rxxxiv, 
 
 " Farewell!" said Juan ; " should we meet no more, 
 I wish you a good appetite." — " Farewell!" 
 
 Replied the other ; " though it grieves me sore ; 
 When we next meet we 'U have a tale to tell ; 
 
 We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. 
 Keep your good name ; though Eve herself once fell." 
 
 " Nay," quoth the maid, " the Sultan's self shan't carry 
 
 Unless his highness promises to marry me." [me 
 
 I,XXXV. 
 
 And thus they parted, each by separate doors ; 
 
 Baba led Juan onward, room by room, 
 Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floors, 
 
 Till a gigantic portal through the gloom. 
 Haughty and huge, along the distance towers ; 
 
 And wafted far arose a rich perfume : 
 It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine. 
 For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 The giant door was broad, and bright and high, 
 Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise ; 
 
 Warriors thereon were battling furiously ; 
 
 Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies ; 
 
 There captives led in triiunph droop the eye. 
 And in perspective many a squadron flies ; 
 
 It seems the work of times before the line 
 
 Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine. 
 
 rxxxvii. 
 This massy portal stood at the wide close 
 
 Of a huge hall, and on its either side 
 Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose, 
 
 Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied 
 In mockery to the enormous gate which rose 
 
 O'er them in almost pyramidic pride : 
 The gate so splendid was in all its features,'' 
 You never thought about these little creatures, 
 
 r XXX VIII. 
 
 Until you nearly trod on them, and then 
 
 You started back in horror to survey 
 The wondrous hideousness of those small men. 
 
 Whose colour was not black, nor white, nor gray. 
 But an extraneous mixture, which no pen 
 
 Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may ; 
 They were misshapen pigmies, deaf and dumb- 
 Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Their duty was — for they'were strong, and though 
 They look'd so little, did strong things at times — 
 
 To ope this door, which they could really do, 
 The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes; 
 
 And now and then, with tough strings of the bow, 
 As is the custom of those eastern climes, 
 
 To give some rebel Pacha a cravat ; 
 
 For muteB are generally used for that. 
 
 They spoke by signs — that is, not spoke at all: 
 And, looking like two incubi, they glared 
 
 As Baba with his fingers made them fall 
 To heaving back the portal folds : it scared 
 
 Juan a moment, as this pair so small 
 
 With shrinking serpent optics on him stared ; 
 
 It was as if their little looks could poison 
 
 Or fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on. 
 
 xci. 
 Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint 
 
 To Juan some slight lessons as his guide: 
 " If you could just contrive," he said, " to stint 
 
 That somewhat manly majesty of stride, [in 't) — 
 'T would be as well, and — (though there 's not much 
 
 To swing a Utile less from side to side, 
 Which has at times an aspect of the oddest ; 
 And also, could you look a little modest, 
 
 xcii, 
 'T would be convenient ; for these mutes have eyes 
 
 Like needles, which might pierce those petticoats ; 
 And if they should discover your disguise, 
 
 You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats ; 
 And you and I may chance, ere morning rise, 
 
 To find our way to Marmora vdthout boats, 
 Stitch'd up in sacks — a mode of navigation 
 A good deal practised here upon occasion." 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 With this encouragement, he led the way 
 
 Into a room still nobler than the last ; 
 A rich confusion form'd a disarray 
 
 In such sort, that the eye along it cast 
 Could hardly carry any thing away, 
 
 Object on object flash'd so bright and fast; 
 A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter 
 Magnificently mingled in a litter. 
 
 xciv. 
 Wealth had done wonders — taste not much ; such things 
 
 Occur in orient palaces, and even 
 In the more chasten'd domes of western kings, 
 
 (Of which I 've also seen some six or seven,) 
 Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings 
 
 Much lustre, there is much to be forgiven ; 
 Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures, 
 On which I cannot pause to make my strictures. 
 
 xcr. 
 In this imperial hall, at distance lay 
 
 Under a canopy, and there reclined 
 Ctuite in a confidential queenly way, 
 
 A lady. Baba stopp'd, and kneeling, sign'd 
 To Juan, who, though not much used to pray. 
 
 Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind 
 What aU this meant : while Baba bow'd and bended 
 His head, until the ceremony ended. 
 
 xcvi. 
 The lady, rising up with such an air 
 
 As Venus rose with from the wave, on them 
 Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair 
 
 Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem 
 And, raising up an arm as moonlight fair, 
 
 She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem 
 Of her deep-purple robe, and, speaking low 
 Pointed to Juan, who remain'd below. 
 
 xcvii. 
 Her presence was as lofty as her state ; 
 
 Her beauty of that overpowering kind. 
 Whose force description only would abate: 
 
 I 'd rather leave it much to your own mind. 
 Than lessen it by what I could relate 
 
 Of forms and features ; it would strike you blind j 
 Could I do justice to the full detail ; 
 So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. 
 
644 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto V. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 This much however I may add — lier years 
 
 "Were ripe, they might make six and twenty springs, 
 But there are forms which Time to touch forbears, 
 
 And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things, 
 Such as was Mary's, dueen of Scots ; true — tears 
 
 And love destroy ; and sapping sorrow wrings 
 Charms from the charmer — yet some never grow 
 Ugly ; for instance — Ninon de I'Enclos. 
 
 xcix. 
 She spake some words to her attendants, who 
 
 Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, 
 And were all clad alike ; like Juan, too, 
 
 Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen : 
 They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew, 
 
 "Which might have call'd Diana's chorus " cousin," 
 As far as outward show may correspond ; 
 I won't be bail for any thing beyond. 
 
 c. 
 They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiriog. 
 
 But not by the same door through which came in 
 Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring, 
 
 At some small distance, all he saw within 
 This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring 
 
 Marvel and praise : for both or none things win ; 
 And I must say I ne'er could see the very 
 Great happiness of the " Nil admirari." 
 
 CI. 
 
 " Not to admire is all the art I know 
 
 (Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of speech) 
 To make men happy, or to keep them so ;" 
 
 (So take it in the very words of Creech.) 
 Thus Horace wrote, we all know, long ago ; 
 
 And thus Pope quotes the precept, to re-teach 
 From his translation; but had none admired, 
 "Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired ? 
 
 oil. 
 Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, 
 
 Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then 
 A second time desired him to kneel down 
 
 And kiss the lady's foot, which maxim when 
 He heard repeated, Juan with a frown 
 
 Drew himself up to his full height again, 
 And said " It grieved him, but he could not stoop 
 To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope." 
 
 cm. 
 Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride, 
 
 Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 
 He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 
 
 About a bowstring — cpiite in vain ; not yet 
 Would Juan stoop, though 't were to Mahomet's bride : 
 
 There 's nothing in the world like etiquette^ 
 In kingly chambers or imperial halls. 
 As also at the race and county balls. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 He stood like Atlas, with a world of words, 
 About his ears, and nathless would not bend ; 
 
 The blood of all his line's Castilian lords 
 Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend 
 
 To stain his pedigree, a thousand swords 
 A thousand times of him had made an end ; 
 
 At length perceiving the ''foot^^ could not stand, 
 
 Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. 
 
 cv. 
 
 Here was an honourable compromise, 
 
 A half-way house of diplomatic rest, 
 Where they might meet in much more peaceful guise ; 
 
 And Juan now his willingness express'd 
 To use all fit and proper courtesies, 
 
 Adding, that this was commonest and best, 
 For through the South the custom still commands 
 The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 
 
 And he advanced, though with but a bad grace, 
 Though on more thorough-bred ^ or fairer fingers 
 
 No lips ere left their transitory trace: 
 
 On such as these the lip too fondly lingers, 
 
 And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace. 
 As you will see, if she you love will bring hers 
 
 In contact ; and sometimes even a fair stranger's 
 
 An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers. 
 
 cvii. 
 The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 
 
 Baba retire, which he obey'd in style, 
 As if well used to the retreating trade ; 
 
 And taking hints in good part all the while, 
 He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid. 
 
 And, looking on him with a sort of smile, 
 Took leave with such a face of satisfaction. 
 As good men wear who have done a virtuous action. 
 
 cviii. 
 "When he was gone, there was a sudden change : 
 
 I know not what might be the lady's thought. 
 But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult strange. 
 
 And into her clear cheek the blood was brought, 
 Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range 
 
 The verge of heaven ; and in her large eyes wrought 
 A mixture of sensations might be scann'd, 
 Of half voluptuousness and half command. 
 
 cix. 
 Her form had all the softness of her sex. 
 
 Her features aU the sweetness of the devil, 
 When he put on the cherub to perplex 
 
 Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to 
 The sun himself was scarce more free from specks 
 
 Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil ; 
 Yet somehow there was something somewhere wanting, 
 As if she rather order'd than was grariting. — 
 
 ex. 
 Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
 
 A chain o'er all she did ; that is, a chain 
 Was throvra, as 't were, about the neck of you, — 
 
 And rapture's self will seem almost a pain 
 With aught which looks like despotism in view : 
 
 Our souls at least are free, and 't is in vain 
 We would against them make the flesh obey — 
 The spirit in the end will have its way. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet ; 
 
 Her very nod was not an inclination ; 
 There was a self-will even in her small feet. 
 
 As though they were quite conscious of her station — 
 They trod as upon necks ; and to complete 
 
 Her state, (it is the custom of her nation,) 
 A poniard deck'dher girdle, as the sign 
 She was a sultan's bride, (thank Heaven, not mine.) 
 
 cxii. 
 " To hear and to obey" had been from birth 
 
 The law of all around her ; to fulfil 
 All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth, 
 
 Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will ; 
 Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth : 
 
 Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still; 
 Had she but been a Christian, I 've a notion 
 We should have found out the " perpetual motion." 
 
 cxiii. 
 "Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought ; 
 
 "Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed 
 It might be seen, with diligence was sought. 
 
 And when 't was found straightway the bargain closed : 
 There was no end unto the things she bought, 
 
 Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused ; 
 Yet even her tyranny had such a grace. 
 The women pardon'd all except her face. 
 
Canto V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 545 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 Juan, the latest of her whims, had cSught 
 
 Her eye in passing on his way to sale ; 
 She order'd him directly 16 be bought, 
 
 And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail 
 In any kind of mischief to be wrought, 
 
 Had his instructions where and how to deal : 
 She had no prudence, but he had ; and this 
 Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 
 
 cxv. 
 His youth and features favour'd the disguise, 
 
 And should you ask how she, a sultan's bride, 
 Could risk or compass such strange phantasies, 
 
 This I must leave sultanas to decide : 
 Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes. 
 
 And kings and consorts oft are mystified, 
 As we may ascertain with due precision. 
 Some by experience, others by tradition. 
 
 cxvi. 
 But to the main point, where we have been tending : — 
 
 She now conceived all difficulties past, 
 And deem'd herself extremely condescending 
 
 When being made her property at last. 
 Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending 
 
 Passion and power, a glance on him she cast, 
 And merely saying, " Christian, dlanst thou love?" 
 Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move. 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 And so it was, in proper time and place 
 
 But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing 
 
 With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face. 
 
 Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing, 
 
 Rush back upon his heart, which fill'd apace, 
 
 And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing: 
 
 These words went through his soul like Arab spears, 
 
 So that he spoke not, but burst into tears. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 She was a good deal shock'd ; not shock'd at tears. 
 For women shed and use them at their liking; 
 
 But there is something when man's eye appears 
 Wet, still more disagreeable and striking: 
 
 A woman's tear-drop melts, a man half sears, 
 Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in 
 
 His heart, to force it out, for (to be shorter) 
 
 To them 't is a relief, to us a torture. 
 
 cxix. 
 And she would have consoled, but knew not how ; 
 
 Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 
 Infected her with sympathy till now, 
 
 And never having dreamt what 'twas to bear 
 Aught of a serious sorrowing kind, although 
 
 There might arise some pouting petty care 
 To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near 
 Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear. 
 
 cxx. 
 But nature teaches more than power can spoil, 
 
 And when a strong although a strange sensation 
 Moves — female hearts are such a genial soil 
 
 For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation. 
 They naturally pour the " wine and oil," 
 
 Samaritans in every situation ; 
 And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why 
 Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 
 
 cxxi. 
 But tears must stop like all things else ; and soon 
 
 Juan, who for an instant had been moved 
 To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone 
 
 Of one who dared to ask if " he had loved," 
 Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone 
 
 Bright with the very weakness he reproved;. 
 And although sensitive to beauty, he 
 Felt most indignant still a;t not being free. 
 3 T 
 
 cxxir. 
 
 Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days, 
 
 ■ Was much embarrass'd, never having met 
 In all her life with aught save prayers and praise; 
 
 And as she also risk'd her life to get 
 Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways 
 
 Into a comfortable tete-a-tete, 
 To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr, 
 And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 I also would suggest the fitting time, 
 To gentlemen in any such like case, 
 
 That is to say — in a meridian clime ; 
 
 With us there is more law given to the case. 
 
 But here a small delay forms a great crime : 
 So recollect that the extremest grace 
 
 Is just two minutes for your declaration — 
 
 A moment more would hurt your reputation. 
 
 cxxiv 
 Juan's was good ; and might have been still better, 
 
 But he had got Haidee into his head: 
 However strange, he could not yet forget her. 
 
 Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. 
 Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor 
 
 For having had him to the palace led, 
 Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 
 Grow deaxlly pale, and then blush back again. 
 
 cxxv. 
 At length, in an imperial way, she laid 
 
 Her hand on his, and bending on his eyes. 
 Which needed not an empire to persuade, 
 
 Look'd into his for love, where none replies: 
 Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid, 
 
 That being the last thing a proud woman tries : 
 She rose, and, pausing one chaste moment, threw 
 Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. 
 
 CXXVI. 
 
 This was an awkward test, as Juan found. 
 But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and nride , 
 
 With gentle force her white arms he unwound, 
 And seated her all drooping by his side. 
 
 Then rising haughtily he glanced around. 
 And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 
 
 " The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor I 
 
 Serve a sultana's sensued phantasy. 
 
 cxxvir. 
 
 " Thou ask'st if I can love? be this the proof 
 How much I have loved — that I love not fkee I 
 
 In this vile garb, the distaff's web and woof 
 Were fitter for me: love is for the free ! 
 
 I am not dazzled by this splendid roof. 
 
 Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to be — 
 
 Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne, 
 
 And hands obey — our hearts are still our own." 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 
 This was a truth ta us extremely trite, 
 
 Not so to her who ne'er had heard such things ; 
 She deem'd her least command must yield delight, 
 
 Earth being only made for queens and kings. 
 If hearts lay on the left side or the right 
 
 She hardly knew, to such perfection brings 
 Legitimacy its born votaries, when 
 Aware of theL- due royal rights o'er men. 
 
 exxix. 
 Besides, as has been said, she was so fair 
 
 As even in a much humbler lot had made 
 A kingdom or confusion any where ; 
 
 And also, as may be presumed, she laid 
 Some stress upon those charms which seldom are 
 
 By the possessors thrown into the shade ; — 
 She thought hers gave a double " right divine," 
 And half of liial opinion 's also mine. 
 
646 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Ca.vto V. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 Remember, or (if you camiot) imagine, 
 
 Ye ! who have kept your chastity when young, 
 While some more desperate dowager has been waging 
 
 Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung 
 By your refusal, recollect her raging ! 
 
 Or recollect all that was said or sung 
 On such a subject ; then suppose the face 
 Of a young downright beauty in this case. 
 
 cxxxi. 
 Suppose, but you already have supposed, 
 
 The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, 
 Phedra, and all which story has disclosed 
 
 Of good examples ; pity that so few by 
 Poets and private tutors are exposed. 
 
 To educate — ye youth of Europe — you by ! 
 But when you have supposed the few we know, 
 You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow. 
 
 cxxxii. 
 
 A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness, 
 
 Or any interesting beast of prey. 
 Are similes at hand for the distress 
 
 Of ladies who cannot have their own way ; 
 But though my turn will not be served with less, 
 
 These do n't express one half what I should say : 
 For what is stealing young ones, few or many, 
 To cutting short their hopes of having any? 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 The love of offspring 's nature's general law, 
 
 From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings ; 
 
 There 's nothing whets the beak or arms the claw 
 Like an invasion of their babes and sucldings ; 
 
 And all who have seen a human nursery, saw 
 
 Howmothers love their children's squalls and chucklings 
 
 This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 
 
 Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger. 
 
 cxxxiv. 
 If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 
 
 'T were nothing — for her eyes flash'd always fire ; 
 ■ Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, 
 
 I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer, 
 So supernatural was her passion's rise ; 
 
 For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire : 
 Even you who know what a check'd woman is, 
 (Enough, God knows !) would much fall short of this. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 Her rage was but a minute's, and 't was well — 
 
 A moment's more had slain her ; but the while 
 It lasted, 't was like a short glimpse of hell: 
 
 Naught 's more sublime than energetic bile, 
 Though horrible to see yet grand to tell, 
 
 Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle ; 
 And the deep passions flashing through her form 
 Made her a beautiful embodied storm. 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 
 A vulgar tempest 't were to a Typhoon 
 
 To match a common fury with her rage, 
 And yet she did not want to reach the moon, 
 
 Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page ; 
 Her anger pitched into a lower tune. 
 
 Perhaps the fault of her sofl sex and age — 
 Her wish was but to *' kill, kill, kill," like Lear's, 
 And then her thirst of blood was quench'd in tears. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd, 
 Pass'd without words — in fact she could not speak ; 
 
 And then her sex's shame broke in at last, 
 A sentiment till then in her but weak, 
 
 But now it flow'd in natural and fast. 
 As water through an unexpected leak. 
 
 For she felt humbled — and humiliation 
 
 Is sometimes good for people in her station. 
 
 CXXXVIII, 
 
 It teaches them tha* thoy are flesh and blood, 
 It also gently hints to them that others. 
 
 Although of clay, are not yet quite of mud ; 
 That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, 
 
 And works of the same pottery, bad or good, 
 
 Though not all born of the same sires and mothers 
 
 It teaches — Heaven knows only what it teaches. 
 
 But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches. 
 
 cxxxix. 
 
 Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head ; 
 
 Her second, to cut only his — acquaintance ; 
 Her third, to ask him where he had been bred; 
 
 Her fourth, to rally him into repentance ; 
 Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed ; 
 
 Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentence 
 The lash to Baba ; — but her grand resource 
 Was to sit down again, and cry of cotyse. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 She thought to stab herself, but then she had 
 
 The dagger close at hand, which made it awkward; 
 
 For eastern stays are little made to pad. 
 So that a poinard pierces if 't is stuck hard 
 
 She thought of killing Juan — but, poor lad ! 
 
 Though he deserved it well for being so backward, 
 
 The cutting off his head was not the art 
 
 Most likely to attain her aim — his heart. 
 
 Juan was moved : he had made up his mind 
 
 To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish 
 For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined, 
 
 Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish. 
 And thus heroically stood resign'd. 
 
 Rather than sin — except to his own wish 
 But all his great preparatives for dying 
 Dissolved like snow before a woman crying. 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 As through his palms Bob Acres' valour oozed 
 So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how ; 
 
 And first he wonder'd why he had refused 
 And then, if matters could be made up now ; 
 
 And next his savage virtue he accused, 
 Just as a friar may accuse his vow, 
 
 Or as a dame repents her of her oath, 
 
 ^Vhich mostly ends in some small breach of both. 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 So he began to stammer some excuses ; 
 
 But words are not enough in such a matter. 
 Although you borrow'd all that e'-er the muses 
 
 Have sung, or even a dandy's dandiest chatter, 
 Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses ; 
 
 Just as a languid smile began to flatter 
 His peace was making, but before he ventured 
 Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd. 
 
 CXLIT. 
 
 " Bride of the Sun ! and Sister of the Moon !" 
 
 ('T was thus he spake) " and Empress of the Earth 
 
 Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune, 
 Whose smile makes all the planets dance with mirth. 
 
 Your slave brings tidings — he hopes not too soon — 
 Which your sublime attention may be worth ; 
 
 The Sun himself has sent me like a ray 
 
 To hint that he is coming up this way." 
 
 CXLT. 
 
 '•' Is it," exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, '• as you say? 
 
 I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning ! 
 But bid my women form the milky way. 
 
 Hence, my old comet ! give the stars due warning — 
 And, Christian I mingle with them as you may ; 
 
 And, as you 'd have me pardon your past sooming — " 
 Here they were interrupted by a humming 
 Sound, and then by a cry, " tlie Sultan 's coming " 
 
Canto V. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 547 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 First came her damsels, a decorous file, 
 And then his highness' eunuchs, black and white ; 
 
 The train might reach a quarter of a mile : 
 His majesty was always so polite 
 
 As to announce his visits a long while 
 Before he came, especially at night ; 
 
 For being the last wife of the emperor, 
 
 She was of course the favourite of the four. 
 
 cxLvir. 
 His highness was a man of solemn port, 
 
 Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, 
 Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court, 
 
 His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise ; 
 He was as good a sovereign of the sort 
 
 As any mention'd in the histories 
 Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine 
 Save Solyman, the glory of their line.^ 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 
 He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers 
 With more than " oriental scrupulosity;" 
 
 He left to his vizier all state affairs. 
 And show'd but little royal curiosity 
 
 I know not if he had domestic cares — 
 No process proved cormubial animosity ; 
 
 Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen. 
 
 Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen. 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 If now and then there happen'd a slight slip. 
 Little was heard of criminal or crime ; 
 
 The story scarcely pass'd a single lip — . 
 The sack and sea had settled all in time. 
 
 From which the secret nobody could rip : 
 
 The public knew no more than does this rhyme 
 
 No scandals made the daily press a curse — 
 
 Morals were better, and the fish no worse. 
 
 CL. 
 
 He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, 
 Was also certain that the earth was square, 
 
 Because he had journey'd fift|f miles, and found 
 No sign that it was circular any where ; 
 
 His empire also was without a bound : 
 'T is true, a little troubled here and there. 
 
 By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours, 
 
 But then they never came to " the Seven Towers ;" 
 
 CLI. 
 
 Except in shape of envoys, who were sent 
 
 To lodge thfire when a war broke out, according 
 
 To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant 
 Those scouadrels who have never had a sword in 
 
 Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent 
 
 Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording 
 
 Their lies, yclept despatches, without risk or 
 
 The singeing of a single inky whisker. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons. 
 Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd, 
 
 The former in a palace, where like nuns 
 
 They lived till some bashaw was sent abroad. 
 
 When she, whose turn it was, wedded at once. 
 
 Sometimes at six years old — though this seems odd, 
 
 'T is true ; the reason is, that the bashaw 
 
 Must make a present to his sire in law. 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 His sons were kept in prison till they grew 
 Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne. 
 
 One or the other, but which of the two 
 Could yet be known unto the fates alone ; 
 
 Meantime the education they went through 
 
 Was princely, as the proofs have always shown: 
 
 So that the heir apparent still was found 
 
 No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd. 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 His majesty saluted his fourth spouse 
 
 With all the ceremonies of his rank, 
 Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd her brows, 
 
 As suits a matron who has play'd a prank: 
 These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, 
 
 To save the credit of their breaking bank ; 
 To no men are such cordial greetings given 
 As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven. 
 
 CL.V. 
 
 His highness cast around his great black eyes, 
 And looking, as he always look'd, perceived 
 
 Juan among the damsels in disguise, 
 
 At which he seem'd no whit surprised, nor grieved, 
 
 But just remark'd with air sedate and wise. 
 While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, 
 I see you 've bought another girl ; 't is pity 
 
 That a mere Christian should be half so pretty." 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 
 
 The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake 
 
 Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone : 
 Oh, Mahomet I that his majesty should take 
 
 Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 
 Of them his lins imperial ever spake! 
 
 There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, 
 
 But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 
 
 CLVir. 
 The Turks do well to shut — at least, sometimes^ 
 
 The women up — because, in sad reality. 
 Their chastity in these unhappy climes 
 
 Is not a thing of that astringent quality. 
 Which in the north prevents precocious crimes. 
 
 And makes our snow less pure than our morality ; 
 The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice, 
 HcLS quite the contrary effect on vice. 
 
 CLVIII. 
 
 Thus far our chronicle ; and now we pause. 
 Though not for want of matter ; but 't is time, 
 
 According to the ancient epic laws, 
 
 To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. 
 
 Let this fifth canto meet with due applause, 
 The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime , 
 
 Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps 
 
 You 'li pardon to my muse a few short naps. 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 CANTOS VI. VII. VIII. 
 
 The details of the siege of Ismail in two of the fol- 
 lowing cantos (i. e. the 7th and 8th) are taken from a 
 French work, entitled " Histoire de la Nouvelle Russie.'' 
 Some of the incidents attributed to Don Juan really 
 occurred, particularly the cu-cumstance of his saving 
 the infant, which was the actual case of the late Due 
 de Richelieu, then a young volunteer in the Russian 
 service, and afterwards the founder and benefactor of 
 Odessa, where his name and memory can never cease 
 to be regarded with reverence. In the course of these 
 cantos, a stanza or two will be found relative to the 
 late Marquis of Londonderry, but written some time 
 before his decease. Had that person's oligarchy died 
 ith him, they would have been suppressed ; as it is, I 
 am aware of nothing in the manner of his death or of 
 his life to prevent the free expression of the opinions 
 of all whom his whole existence was consumed in en- 
 deavouring to enslave. That he was an amiable man 
 in private life, may or may not be true; but with this 
 
548 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto V'I. 
 
 the public have nothing to do : and as to lamenting his 
 death, it will be time enough when Ireland has ceased 
 to mourn for his birth. As a minister, I, for one of 
 millions, looked upon him as the most despotic in inten- 
 tion, and the weakest in intellect, that ever tyrannized 
 over a country. It is the first time indeed since the 
 Normans, that England has been insulted by a minister 
 (at least) who could not speak English, and that Parlia- 
 ment permitted itself to be dictated to in the language 
 of Mrs. Malaprop. 
 
 Of the manner of his death little need be said, except 
 that if a poor radical, such as Waddington or Watson, 
 had cut his throat, he would have been buried in a cross- 
 road, with the usual appurtenances of the stake and 
 mallet. But the minister was an elegant lunatic — a sen- 
 timental suicide — he merely cut the "carotid artery" 
 (blessings on their learning !) — and lo ! the pageant, and 
 the abbey, and " the syllables of dolour yelled forth" by 
 the newspapers — and the harangue of the coroner in an 
 eulogy over the bleeding body of the deceased — (an 
 Antony worthy of such a Caesar) — and the nauseous 
 and atrocious cant of a degraded crew of conspirators 
 against all that is sincere or honourable. In his death 
 he was necessarily one of two things by the law — a felon 
 or a madman — and in either case no great subject for 
 panegyric* In his life he was — what all the world 
 knows, and half of it will feel for years to come, unless 
 his death prove a " moral lesson" to the surviving Sejanif 
 of Europe. It may at least serve as some consolation 
 to the nations, that their oppressors are not happy, and 
 in some instances judge so justly of their own actions as 
 to anticipate the sentence of mankind. — Let us hear no 
 more of this man, and let Ireland remove the ashes of 
 her Grattan from the sanctuary of Westminster. Shall 
 the Patriot of Humanity repose by the Werther of Po- 
 litics!.'! 
 
 With regard to the objections which have been made 
 Dn another score to the already published cantos of this 
 poem., I shall content myself with two quotations from 
 Voltaire ; — 
 
 " La pudeur s'est enfuite des ccEurs, et s'est refugiee 
 «ur les levres." 
 
 " Plus les mosurs sont depravees, plus les expressions 
 deviennent mesurees ; on croit regagner en langage ce 
 qu'on a perdu en vertu." 
 
 This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded and 
 hypocritical mass which leavens the present English 
 generation, and is the only answer they deserve. The 
 hackneyed and lavished title of blasphemer — which with 
 radical, liberal, jacobin, reformer, &c. are the changes 
 which the hirelings are daily ringing in the ears of those 
 who will listen — should be welcome to all who recollect 
 on whom it was originally bestowed. Socrates and Jesus 
 Christ were put to death publicly as blasphemers, and so 
 have been and may be many who dare to oppose the 
 most notorious abuses of the name of God and the 
 mind of man. But persecution is not refutation, nor 
 even triumph : the wretched infidel, as he is called, is 
 probably happier in his prison than the proudest of his 
 assailants. With his opinions I have nothing to do — 
 they may be right or wrong — but he has suffered for 
 them, and that very suffering for conscience' sake will 
 make more proselytes to Deism than the example of 
 heterodoxj prelates to Christianity, suicide statesmen to 
 
 oppression, or over-pensioned homicides to the impious 
 alliance which insults the world with the name of" Holy !" 
 I have no wish to trample on the dishonoured or the 
 dead ; but it would be well if the adherents to the classes 
 from whence those persons sprung should abate a little 
 of the cant which is the crying sin of this double-dealing 
 and false-speaking time of selfish spoilers, and— but 
 enough for the present. 
 
 • I say by the law of the land — the laws of humanity judge more 
 pntly ; hut as the legitimates haTe always the law iu their mouths, 
 let them here make the mosl of it. 
 
 t From ihis number must he excepted Canning. Canning is a genius, 
 almost a universal one : an orator, a wit, a poet, a stalesmaa ; and no 
 man of talent can long pursue the path of his late predecessor, Lord C. 
 Jf ever man saved his country , Cainiiug can; but will he ? I, tor one, 
 hope !io. 
 
 + When Lord Sandwich said "he did not know the difference between 
 orthodoxy and lieterodoxy,"— Warburlon, the bishop, replied," Ortho- 
 doxy, my liiid, is my dory, and heterodoxy is another man'.f doxy." — 
 A prelate of the present day has discovered, it seems, a third kind of 
 doxy, which has not greatly exalted in the eyes of the elect, that which 
 Bisiiiham calls " Church-of-Englandisra." 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 " There is a tide in the affairs of men 
 
 Which, taken at the flood" — you know the rest, 
 
 And most of us have found it, now and then ; 
 At least we think so, though but fev/ have guess'd 
 
 The moment, till too late to come again. 
 But no doubt every thing is for the best — 
 
 Of which the surest sign is in the end ; 
 
 When things are at the worst, they sometimes mend. 
 
 II. 
 
 There is a tide in the affairs of women 
 
 " Which, taken at the flood, leads" — God knows where: 
 Those navigators must be able seamen 
 
 Whose charts lay down its currents to a hair ; 
 Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen 
 
 With its strange whirls and eddies can compare : 
 Men, with their heads, reflect on this and that — 
 But women, with their hearts, on heaven knows what. 
 
 III. 
 
 And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she, 
 Young, beautiful, and daring — who would risk 
 A throne, the world, the universe, to be 
 
 Beloved in her own way,%nd rather whisk 
 The stars from out the sky, than not be free 
 
 As are the billows when the breeze is brisk- 
 Though such a she 's a devil, (if that there be one,) 
 Yet she would make full many a Manichean. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thrones, worlds, etcetera, are so oft upset 
 By commonest ambition, that when passion 
 
 O'erthrows the same, we readily forget. 
 Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. 
 
 If Antony be well remember'd yet, 
 
 'T is not his conquests keep his name in fashion; 
 
 But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 
 
 Outbalance all the Caesars' victories. 
 
 T. 
 
 He died at fifty for a queen of forty; 
 
 I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, 
 For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds, are but a sport — I 
 
 Remember when, though I had no great plenty 
 Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I 
 
 Gave what I had — a heart: as the world went, I 
 Gave what was worth a world ; for worlds could never 
 Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever. 
 
 VI. 
 
 'T was the boy's " mite," and like the " widow's," may 
 Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now ; 
 
 But whether such things do, or do not, weigh, 
 All who have loved, or love, will still allow 
 
 Life has naught like it. God is love, they say, 
 And I^ove 's a god, or was before the brow 
 
 Of Earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears 
 
 Of— but chronology best knows the years. 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 549 
 
 We left our liero and tWrd heroine in 
 A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, 
 
 For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin 
 For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman : 
 
 Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin, 
 
 And do n't agree at all with the wise Roman, 
 
 Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious. 
 
 Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong ; 
 
 I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it ; 
 But I detest all fiction, even in song. 
 
 And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it. 
 Her reason being weak, her passions strong, 
 
 She thought that her lord's heart (even could she claim it) 
 Was scarce enough ; for he had fifty-nine 
 Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I am not, like Cassio, " an arithmetician," 
 But by " the bookish theoric" it appears, 
 
 If 't is summ'd up with feminine precision, 
 
 That, adding to the account his Highness' years. 
 
 The fair Sultana err'd from inanition ; 
 For, were the Sultan just to all his dears, 
 
 She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part 
 
 "Of what should be monopoly— the heart. 
 
 X. 
 
 It is observed that ladies are litigious 
 
 Upon all legal objects of possession, 
 And not the least so when they are religious, 
 
 Which doubles what they think of the transgression. 
 With suits and prosecution they besiege us. 
 
 As the tribunals show through many a session. 
 When they suspect that any one goes shares 
 In that to which the law maJtes them sole heirs. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Now, if this holds good in a Christian land. 
 The heathens .also, though with lesser latitude. 
 
 Are apt to carry things with a high hand. 
 
 And take what kings call " an imposing attitude ;" 
 
 And for their rights connubial make a stand. 
 
 When their liege husbands treat them with ingratitude ; 
 
 Asd as four wives must have quadruple claims, 
 
 The Tigris has its jealousies like Thames. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) 
 
 The favourite ; but what 's favour among four ? 
 
 Polygamy may well be held in dread. 
 Not only as a sin, but as a bore : 
 
 Most wise men, with one moderate woman wed. 
 Will scarcely find philosophy for more ; 
 
 And all (except Mahometans) forbear 
 
 To make the nuptial couch a " Bed of Ware." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 His highness, the sublimest of mankind, — 
 
 So styled according to the usual forms 
 Of every monarch, till they are consigned 
 
 To those sad hungry jacobins, the worms. 
 Who on the very loftiest kings have dined, — 
 
 H's highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms. 
 Expecting all the welcome of a lover, 
 (A " Highland welcome" all the wide world over.) 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Now here we should distinguish ; for howe'er 
 Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, 
 
 May look like what is — neither here nor there : 
 They are put on as easily as a hat. 
 
 Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, 
 Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate, 
 
 Which form an ornament, but no more part 
 
 Of heads, than their caresses of the heart. 
 
 A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 
 Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 
 
 More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd 
 Rather to hide what pleases most unknowTi, 
 
 Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) 
 
 Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, 
 
 A sincere woman's breast, — for over warm 
 
 Or over cold, annihilates the charm. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 For over warmth, if false, is worse than truth ; 
 
 If true, 't is no great lease of its own fire ; 
 For no one, save in very early youth, 
 
 Would like (I think) to trust all to desire, 
 Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth. 
 
 And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer 
 At a sad discount : while your over chilly 
 Women, on t' other hand, seem somewhat silly.— 
 
 XVII. 
 
 That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste. 
 For so it seems to lovers swift or slow, 
 
 Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd. 
 And see a sentimental passion glow. 
 
 Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest. 
 In his Monastic Concubine of Snow ; — 
 
 In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is 
 
 Horatian, " Medio tu tutissimus ibis." 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The " tu" 's too much, — 'but let it stand — the verse 
 Requires it, that 's to say, the English rhyme, 
 
 And not the pink of old Hexameters ; 
 
 But, after all, there 's neither tune nor time 
 
 In the last line, which cannot well be worse, 
 And was thrust in to close the octave's chime : 
 
 I own no prosody can ever rate it 
 
 As a rule, but Truth may, if you translate it. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, 
 
 I know not — it succeeded, and success 
 
 Is much in most things, not less in the heart 
 Than other articles of female dress. 
 
 Self-love in man too beats all female art ; 
 They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less: 
 
 And no one virtue yet, except starvation. 
 
 Could stop that worst of vices — propagation. 
 
 XX. 
 
 We leave this royal couple to repose ; 
 
 A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, 
 Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes ; 
 
 Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep 
 As any man's clay mixture undergoes. 
 
 Our least of sorrows are such as we weep ; 
 'T is the vile daily drop on drop which wears 
 The soul out (like tlie stone) with petty cares. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill 
 
 To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted 
 
 At a per-centage ; a child cross, dog ill, 
 
 A favourite horse fallen lame just as he 's mounted 
 
 A bad old woman making a worse will, 
 
 Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted 
 
 As certain ; — these are paltry things, and yet 
 
 I 've rarely seen the man they did not fret. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 I 'm a philosopher ; confound them all ! 
 
 Bills, beasts, and men, and — no! not womankind 
 With one good hearty curse I vent my gall. 
 
 And then my stoicism leaves naught behind 
 Which it can either pain or evil call, 
 
 And I can give my whole soul up to mind ; 
 Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth. 
 Is more than I know — the deuce take them both. 
 
650 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Caxto VT. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 So now all things are d — n'd, one feels at ease, 
 
 As after reading Athanasius' curse, 
 Which dorh your true believer so much please: 
 
 f doubt if any now could make it worse 
 O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 
 
 'T is so sententious, positive, and terse, 
 And decorates the book of Common Prayer, 
 As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Gulbeyaz aiid her lord were sleeping, or 
 At least one of them — Oh the heavy night! 
 
 When wicked wives who love some bachelor 
 Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 
 
 Cf the gray morning, and look vainly for 
 Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite, 
 
 To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake. 
 
 Lest their too lawful bedfellow should wake. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 These are beneath the canopy of heaven, 
 
 Also beneath the canopy of beds. 
 Four-posted and silk-curtain'd, which are given 
 
 For rich men and their brides to lay their heads 
 Upon, in sheets white as what bards call " driven 
 
 Snow." Well ! 't is all hap-hazard when one weds. 
 Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been 
 Perhaps as wretched ifapeasaufs quean. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Don Juan, in his feminine disguise. 
 
 With all the damsels in their long array. 
 
 Had bow'd themselves before the imperial eyes, 
 And, at the usual signal, ta'en their way 
 
 Back to their chambers, those long galleries 
 In the seraglio, where the ladies lay 
 
 Their delicate limbs ; a thousand bosoms there 
 
 Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse 
 The tyrant's wish " that mankind only had 
 
 One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce :" 
 My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad. 
 
 And much more tender on the whole than fierce : 
 It being (not noiv, but only while a lad) 
 
 That womankind had but one rosy mouth, 
 
 To kiss them all at once from North to South. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Oh enviable Briareus! with thy hands 
 
 And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied 
 
 In such proportion ! — But my muse withstands 
 The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, 
 
 Or travelling in Patagonian lands : 
 So let us back to Lilliput, and guide 
 
 Our hero through the labyrinth of love 
 
 In which we left him several lines above. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 He went forth with the lovely Odalisques, 
 At the given signal join'd to their array ; 
 
 And though he certainly ran many risks. 
 Yet he could not at times keep by the way, 
 
 (Although the consequences of such frisks 
 Are worse than the worst damages men pay 
 
 In moral England, where the thing 's a tax,) 
 
 From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Still he forgot not his disguise : — along 
 
 The galleries from room to reom they walk'd, 
 
 A virgin-like and edifying throng. 
 
 By eunuchs flank'd ; while at their head there stalk'd 
 
 A dame who kept up discipUne among 
 
 The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd 
 
 Without her sanction on their she-parades : 
 
 Her title was " the Mother of the Maids." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Whether she was a " mother," I know* not. 
 
 Or whether they were " maids" who call'd her nxAher , 
 
 But this is her seraglio title, got 
 
 I know not how, but good as any other ; 
 
 So Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott: 
 Her office was to keep aloof or smother 
 
 All bad propensities in fifteen hundred 
 
 Young women, and correct them when they blundered. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 A goodly sinecure, no doubt ! but made 
 
 More easy by the absence of all men 
 Except his Majesty, who, with her aid. 
 
 And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then 
 A slight example, just to cast a shade 
 
 Along the rest, contrived to keep this den 
 Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, 
 Where all the passions have, alsis ! but one vent, 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 And what is that? Devotion, doubtless — how 
 Could you ask such a question ? — but we will 
 
 Continue. As J said, this goodly row 
 Of ladies of all countries at the will 
 
 Of one good man, with stately march and slow, 
 Like warer-lilies floating down a rill, 
 
 Or rather lake — for rills do not run slou-ly, — 
 
 Paced on most maiden-like and melaricholy. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But when they reach'd their own apartments, there. 
 Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose, 
 
 Waves at spring-tide, or women any where 
 When freed from bonds, (which are of no great use. 
 
 After all.) or like Irish at a fair. 
 
 Their guards being gone, and, as it were, a truce 
 
 Establish'd between them and bondage, they 
 
 Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Their talk of course ran most on the new comer. 
 Her shape, her air, her hair, her every thing: 
 
 Some thought her dress did not so much become her, 
 Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring ; 
 
 Some said her years were getting nigh their summer,. 
 Others contended they were but in spring ; 
 
 Some thought her rather masculine in height. 
 
 While others wish'd that she had been so quite. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 But no one doubted, on the whole, that she 
 Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fiiir, 
 
 And fresh, and "beautiful exceedingly," 
 
 Who with the brightest Georgians might compare : 
 
 They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz too could be 
 So silly as to buy slaves who might share 
 
 (If that his Highness wearied of his bride) 
 
 Her throne and power, and every thing beside. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 But what was strangest in this virgin crew, 
 
 Although her beauty was enough to vex, 
 After the first investigating view. 
 
 They all foimd out as few, or fewer, specks, 
 In the fair form of their companion new, 
 
 Than is the custom of the gentle sex. 
 When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen 
 In a new face " the ugliest creature breathing." 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 And yet they had their little jealousies, 
 Like all the rest ; but upon this occasion. 
 
 Whether there are such things as sympathies 
 Without our knowledge or our approbation. 
 
 Although they could not see through his disguise 
 All felt a soft kind of concatenation, 
 
 Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 
 
 You please — we will not quarrel about that : 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 651 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 But certain 't is, they all felt for their new 
 Companion something newer still, as 't were 
 
 A sentimental friendship through and through, 
 Extremely pure, which made them all concur 
 
 In wishing her their sister, save a few 
 
 Who wish'd they had a brother just like her, 
 
 Whom if they were at home in sweet Circassia, 
 
 They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Of those who had most genius for this sort 
 Of sentimental friendship, there were three, 
 
 Lolah, Katinka, and Dudii ; — in short, 
 (To save description,) fair as fair can be 
 
 Were they according to the best report. 
 Though differing in stature and degree. 
 
 And clime and time, and country and complexion ; 
 
 They all alike admired their new connexion, 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Lolah was dusk as India, and as warm ; 
 
 Katinka was a Georgian, white and red. 
 With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 
 
 And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread. 
 But rather skim the earth ; while Dudu's form 
 
 Look'd more adapted to be put to bed, 
 Being somewhat large and languishing and lazy, 
 Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu, 
 Yet very fit to " murder sleep" in those 
 
 Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue, 
 Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : 
 
 Few angles were there in her form, 't is true. 
 
 Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose ; 
 
 Yet, after all, 't would puzzle to say where 
 
 It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 ■She was not violently lively^ but 
 
 Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking ; 
 Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half shut, 
 
 They put beholders in a tender taking ; 
 She look'd (this simile's quite new) just cut 
 
 From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking, 
 The mortal and the marble still at strife, 
 And timidly expanding into life. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Liolah demanded the new damsel's name — 
 " Juanna." — Well, a pretty name enough. 
 
 Katinka ask'd her also whence she came — [such stuff, 
 " From Spain." — " But where is Spain?" — " Do'nt ask 
 
 Nor show your Georgian ignorance — for shame !" 
 Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, 
 
 To poor Katinka : " Spain 's an island near 
 
 Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Dudii said nothing, but sat down beside 
 
 .Tuanna, playing with her veil of hair ; 
 And looking at her steadfastly she sigh'd, 
 
 As if she pitied her for being there, 
 A pretty stranger, without friend or guide, 
 
 And all abash'd too at the general stare 
 Which vi'elcomes hapless strangers in all places, 
 With kind remarks upon their mien and faces. 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 But here the Mother of the Maids drew near, 
 
 With " Ladies it is time to go to rest. 
 I 'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear," 
 
 She added, to Juanna, their new guest : 
 *' Your coming has been unexpected here, 
 
 And every couch is occupied ; you had best 
 Partake of mine ; but by to-morrow early 
 We will have all things settled for you fairly." 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Here Lolah interposed — " Mamma, you know 
 
 .You do'nt sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 
 That any body should disturb you ; so 
 
 1 '11 take Juanna ; we 're a slenderer pair 
 Than you would make the half of; — don't say no, 
 
 And I of your young charge will take due care.'* 
 But here Katinka interfered and said, 
 
 " She also had compassion and a bed." 
 
 XL VIII. 
 
 " Besides, I hate to sleep alone," quoth .'^he, 
 
 The matron frovm'd: "Why so?" — "For fear of ghosts.'* 
 
 Replied Katinka ; " I am sure I see 
 A phantom upon each of the four posts ; 
 
 And then I have the worst dreams that can be, 
 
 Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts.'* 
 
 The dame replied, " Between your dreams and you, 
 
 I fear Juanna's dreams would be but few. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 " You, Lolah, must continue still to lie 
 Alone, for reasons which don't matter; you 
 
 The same, Katinka, until by and by ; 
 And I shall place Juanna with Dudu, 
 
 Who 's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy, 
 
 And will not toss and chatter the night through. 
 
 What say you, child ?" — Dudu said nothing, as 
 
 Her talents were of the more silent class ; 
 
 L. 
 
 But she rose up and kiss'd the matron's brow 
 Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks, 
 
 Katinka too , and with a gentle bow, 
 
 (Curtsies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks,)' 
 
 She took Juanna by the hand to show 
 
 Their place of rest, and left to both their piques. 
 
 The others pouting at the matron's preference 
 
 Of Dudu, though they held their tongues from deference-. 
 
 LI. 
 
 It was a spacious chamber, (Oda is 
 
 The Turkish title,) and ranged round the wall 
 
 Were couches, toilets — and much more than thiS' 
 I might describe, as I have seen it all. 
 
 But it suffices — little was amiss ; 
 
 'T was on the whole a nobly iurnish'd hall. 
 
 With all things ladies want save one or two. 
 
 And even those were nearer than .they knew. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature, 
 Not very dashing, but extremely winning. 
 
 With the most regulated charms of feature. 
 Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning 
 
 Against proportion — the wild strokes of nature 
 Which they hit off at once in the beginning, 
 
 Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike. 
 
 And, pleasing or unpleasing, still are like. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 But she was a soft landscape of mild earth. 
 Where all was harmony and calm and quiet, 
 
 Luxuriant, budding ; cheerful without mirth. 
 Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it 
 
 Than are your mighty passions and so forth, 
 Which some call " the sublime :" I wish they 'd try it 
 
 I 've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, 
 
 And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 But she was pensive more than melancholy, 
 And serious more than pensive, and serene 
 
 It may be more than either — not unholy 
 
 Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been. 
 
 The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly 
 Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen, 
 
 That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall ; 
 
 She never thought about herself at all. 
 
562 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 And therefore was she kind and gentle as 
 
 The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown, 
 
 By which its nomenclature came to pass ; 
 Thus most appropriately has been shown 
 
 *' Lucus a non Lucendo," not what vias, 
 
 But what was not ; a sort of style that 's grown 
 
 Extremely common in this age, whose metal 
 
 The devil may decompose but never settle : 
 
 LVI. 
 
 I think it may be of " Corinthian Brass," 
 Which was a mixture of all metals, but 
 
 The brazen uppermost.) Kind reader ! pass 
 This long parenthesis : I could not shut 
 
 It sooner for the soul of me, and class 
 
 My faults even with your own ! which meanetli, put 
 
 A kind construction upon them and me : 
 
 But that you won't — then don't — I am not less free. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 *T is time we should return to plain narration, 
 And thus my narrative proceeds : — Dudu 
 
 With every kindness short of ostentation, 
 
 Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through 
 
 This labyrinth of females, and each station 
 
 Described — what 's strange, in words extremely few ; 
 
 I have but one simile, and that's a blunder, 
 
 For wordless women, which is silent thunder. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 And next she gave her (I say her, because 
 
 The gender still was epicene, at least 
 In outward show, which is a saving clause) 
 
 An outline of the customs of the East, 
 With all their chaste integrity of laws, 
 
 By which the more a haram is increased. 
 The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 
 Of any supernumerary beauties. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss : 
 Dudu was fond of kissing — which I 'm sure 
 
 That nobody can ever take amiss, 
 
 Because 't is pleasant, so that it be pure, 
 
 And between females means no more than this — 
 That they have nothing better near, or newer. 
 
 *' Kiss" rhymes to " bliss" in fact as well as verse — 
 
 I wish it never led to something worse. 
 
 rx. 
 In perfect innocence she then unmade 
 
 Her toilet, which cost little, for she was 
 A child of nature, carelessly array 'd ; 
 
 If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 
 'T was like the fawn which, in the lake display'd, 
 
 Beholds her own shy shadowy image pass, 
 When first she starts, and then returns to peep, 
 Admiring this new native of the deep. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 And one by one her articles of dress 
 
 Were laid aside ; but not before she ofFer'd 
 
 Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 
 
 Of modesty declined the assistance profFer'd — 
 
 Which pass'd well off— as she could do no less : 
 Though by this politesse she rather suffer'd, 
 
 Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, 
 
 Which surely were invented for our sins, — 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Making a woman like a porcupine. 
 
 Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread 
 
 Oh ye I whose fate it is, as once 't was mine, 
 In early youth to turn a lady's maid ; — 
 
 I did my very boyish best to shine 
 In tricking her out for a masquerade : 
 
 The pins were placed sufficiently, but not 
 
 Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 But these are foolish things to all the wi 
 
 And I love Wisdom more than she loves me ; 
 
 My tendency is to philosophize 
 
 On most things, from a tyrant to a tree : 
 
 But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies. 
 
 What are we ? and whence came wc ? what shaH be 
 
 Our uhimate existence ? wiiat 's our present ? 
 
 Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. 
 
 LXIV, 
 
 There was deep silence in the chamber : dim 
 And distant from each other bum'd the lights, 
 
 And Slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb 
 Of the fair occupants : if there be sprites. 
 
 They should have walk'd there in their spriteliest trinr. 
 By way of change from their sepulchral sites, 
 
 And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste, 
 
 Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. 
 
 txv. 
 
 Many and beautiful lay those around. 
 
 Like flowers of different hue and clime and root, 
 
 In some exotic garden sometimes found. 
 
 With cost and care and warmth induced to shoot. 
 
 One with her auburn tresses lightly bound. 
 And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit 
 
 Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath 
 
 And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath. 
 
 Lxri. 
 One, with her flush'd cheek laid on her white amr 
 
 And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd 
 Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm ; 
 
 And, smiling through her dream, as through a cloud 
 The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm. 
 
 As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud. 
 Her beauties seized the uncoriscious hour of night 
 All bashfully to struggle into light. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 This is no bull, although it sounds so ; for 
 
 'T was night, but there were lamps, as hath been said. 
 
 A third's all-pallid aspect offerM more 
 
 The traits of sleeping Sorrow, and betray'd 
 
 Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore 
 Beloved and deplored : while slowly stray'd 
 
 (As night dew, on the cypress glittering, tinges 
 
 The black bough) tear-drops thro' her eyes' dajk fringes. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 A fourth, as marble, statue-like and still. 
 
 Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep ; 
 
 "V\niite, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill, 
 Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep. 
 
 Or Lot's wife done in salt, — or what you will ; — 
 My similes are gather'd in a heap. 
 
 So pick and choose — perhaps you '11 be content 
 
 With a carved lady on a monument. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 And lo ! a fifth appears ; — and what is she ? 
 
 A lady of " a certain age," which means 
 Certainly aged — what her years might be 
 
 I know not, never counting past their teens 
 But there she slept, not quite so fair to see 
 
 As ere that awfiil period intervenes, 
 Which lays both men and women on the shelf, 
 To meditate upon their sins and self. 
 
 rxx. 
 
 But all this time how slept or dream'd Dudti, 
 With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover. 
 
 And scorn to add a syllable untrue ; 
 
 But ere the middle watch was hardly over, 
 
 Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue. 
 And phantoms hover'd or might seem to hover, 
 
 To those who like their company, about 
 
 The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out, 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 653 
 
 txxi. 
 
 And that so loudly, that upstarted all 
 
 The Oda, in a general commotion : 
 Matron and maids, and those whom you niay call 
 
 Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, 
 One on the other, throughout the whole hall. 
 
 All trembling, wondering, without the least notion, 
 More than I have myself, of what could make 
 The calm Dudii so turbulently wake. 
 
 LXXII, 
 
 But wide awake she was, and round her bed. 
 With floating draperies and with flying hair, 
 
 With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, 
 And bosomsj arms, and ankles glancing bare. 
 
 And bright as any meteor ever bred 
 
 By the North Pole, — they sought her cause of caa*e, 
 
 For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd, 
 
 Her eye dilated and her colour heighten'd. 
 
 Lxxm. 
 
 But what is strange — and a strong proof how great 
 
 A blessing is sound sleep, Juanna lay 
 As fast as ever husband by his mate 
 
 In holy matrimony snores away. 
 Not all the clamour broke her happy state 
 
 Of slumber, ere they shook her, — so they say. 
 At least, — -and then she too unclosed her eyes, 
 And yavvn'd a good deal with discreet surprise. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 And now commenced a strict investigation, 
 
 Which, as all spoke at once, and more than once 
 
 Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration. 
 Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce 
 
 To answer in a very clear oratiouv 
 
 Dudii had never pass'd for wanting sense, 
 
 But, being " no orator, as Brutus is," 
 
 Could not at first expound what was amiss* 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 At length she said, that, in a slumber sound, 
 She dream'd a dream of walking in a wood — 
 
 A " wood obscure," like that where Dante found ' 
 Himself in at the age when all grow good ; 
 
 Life's half-way house, where dames with virtue crown'd 
 Run much less risk of lovers turning rude ; — 
 
 And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits. 
 
 And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots ; 
 
 rxxvi. 
 And in the midst a golden apple grew, — 
 
 A most prodigious pippin — but it hung 
 Rather too high and distant ; that she threw 
 
 Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung 
 Stones, and whatever she could pick up, to 
 
 Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung 
 To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight,, 
 But always at a most provoking height : — > 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 That on a sudden, when she least had hope, 
 
 It fell down of its own accord, before 
 Her feet ; that her first movement was to stoop 
 
 And pick it up, and bite it to the core ; 
 That just as her young lip began to ope 
 
 Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, 
 A bee flew out and stung her to the heart. 
 And so — she awoke with a great scream and^ start. 
 
 LXXVIIIv 
 
 All this she told with some confusion and 
 Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams 
 
 Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand 
 To expound their vain and visionary gleams. 
 
 T 've known some odd ones which seem'd really plann'd 
 Prophetically, or that which one deems 
 
 *' A strange coincidence," to use a phrase 
 
 By which such things are settled now-a-days. 
 3 U 
 
 LrXXIX. 
 
 The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm^ 
 Began, as is the consequence of fear, 
 
 To scold a litde at the false alarm 
 
 That broke for nothing on their sleeping ear. 
 
 The matron too was wroth to leave her warm 
 Bed for the dreant she had been obliged to hear, 
 
 And chafed at poor Dudii, who only sigh'd, 
 
 And said- that she was sorry she had cried. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 " I 've heard of stories of a cock and bull ; 
 
 But visions of an apple and a bee, 
 To take us from our natural rest, and pull 
 
 The whole Oda from their beds at half-past three. 
 Would make us think the moon is at its fulL 
 
 You surely are unwell, child I we must see^ 
 To-morrow, what his highness's physician 
 Will say to this hysteric of a vision. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 " And poor Juanna, too ! the child's first night 
 Within these walls, to be broke in upon 
 
 With such a clamour — ^I had thought it right 
 That the young stranger should not lie alone. 
 
 And, as the quietest of all, she might 
 
 With you, Dudu, a good night's rest hajve kno^vn; 
 
 But now I must transfer her to the charge 
 
 Of Lolah — though her couch is not so large." 
 
 L XXXII. 
 
 Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition ; 
 
 But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own, 
 Resulting from the scolding or the vision. 
 
 Implored that present pardort might be shown* 
 For this first fault, and that on no condition 
 
 (She added in a soft and piteous tcwie,) 
 Juanna should be taken from her, and 
 Her future dreams should all be kept in hand!. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 She promised never more to have a dream, 
 At least to dream so loudly as just now ; 
 
 She wonder'd at herself how she could scream—* 
 'T was foolish, nervous, as she must allow 
 
 A fond hallucination, and a theme 
 For laughter — but she felt her spirits knv. 
 
 And begg'd they would excuse her ; she 'd get ovot 
 
 This weakness in a few hours, and recover. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 And here Juanna kindly interposed, 
 And said she felt hefself extremely well 
 
 Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed 
 When all around rang like a tocsin-bell; 
 
 She did not find herself the least disposed 
 To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 
 
 Apart from one who had no sin to show. 
 
 Save that of dreaming once " mal-a-Dropos."' 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu turn'd rounds 
 And hid her face within Juanna's breast 
 
 Her neck alone was seen, but that was found 
 The colour of a budding rose's crest. 
 
 I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound 
 The mystery of this rupture of their rest; 
 
 All that I know is, that the fatts I state 
 
 Are true as truth has ever been of late. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 And so good night to them, — or, if you will 
 
 Good morrow— 'for the cock had crown, and lig^t 
 
 Began to clothe each Asiatic hill, 
 
 And the mosque crescent struggled inta sight 
 
 Of the long caravan, which in the chill 
 
 Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height 
 
 That stretches to the stony belt which girds 
 
 Asia, where KafF looks dowumpon the Kurds. 
 
554 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto VI. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 With the first ray, or mther gray of mom, 
 Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness ; and pale 
 
 As Passion rises, with its bosom worn, 
 
 Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil: 
 
 The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, 
 Which Fable places in her breast of wail, 
 
 Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 
 
 \\ hose headlong passions form their proper woes. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 And that 's the moral of this composition, 
 If people would but see its real drift ; — 
 
 But that they will not do v/ithout suspicion, 
 Because all gentle readers have the gift 
 
 Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision ; 
 While gentle writers also love to lift 
 
 Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural — 
 
 The numbers are too great for them to flatter all. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour, — 
 Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 
 
 Aloud because his feelings were too tender 
 To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side, — 
 
 So beautiful that art could little mend her, 
 
 Though pale with conflicts between love and pride : — 
 
 So agitated was she with her error, 
 
 She did not even look into the mirror. 
 
 xc. 
 Also arose about the self-same time, 
 
 Perhaps a little later, her great lord, 
 Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime, 
 
 And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd ; 
 A thing of much less import in that clime — 
 
 At least to those of incomes which afford 
 The filling up their whole connubial cargo — 
 Than where two wives are under an embargo. 
 
 xci. 
 He did not think much on the matter, nor 
 
 Indeed on any other : as a man. 
 He liked to have a handsome paramour 
 
 At hand, as one may like to have a fan. 
 And therefore of Circassians had good store, 
 
 As an amusement after the Divan ; 
 Though an unusual fit of love, or duty, 
 Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty. 
 
 xcii. 
 And now he rose : and after due ablutions, 
 
 Exacted by the customs of the East, 
 And prayers, and other pious evolutions, 
 
 He drank six cups of coffee at the least. 
 And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, 
 
 Whose victories had recently increased, 
 In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores 
 As greatest of all sovereigns and w s. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander ! 
 
 Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend 
 Thine ear, if it should reach, — and now rhymes wander 
 
 Almost as far as Petersburgh, and lend 
 A dreadful impulse to each loud meander 
 
 Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend 
 Their roar even with the Baltic's, — so you be 
 Your father's son, 't is quite enough for me. 
 
 xciv. 
 To call men love-begotten, or proclaim 
 
 Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 
 That hater of mankind, would be a shame, 
 
 A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on: 
 But people's ancestors are history's game ; 
 
 And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on 
 All generations, I should like to know 
 What pedigree the best would have to show ? 
 
 Had Catherine and the sultan understood 
 
 Their own true interest, which kings rarely know, 
 
 Until 't is taught by lessons rather rude. 
 
 There was a way to end their strife, although 
 
 Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good. 
 Without the aid of prince or plenipo : 
 
 She to dismiss her guards, and he his haram, 
 
 And for their other matters, meet and share 'era. 
 
 xcvi. 
 But as it was, his Highness had to hold 
 
 His daily council upon ways and means, 
 How to encounter with this martial scold. 
 
 This modern Amazon and Q,ueen of queans ; 
 And the perplexity could not be told 
 
 Of all the pillars of the state, which leans 
 Sometimes a little heavy on the backs 
 Of those who cannot lay on a new tax. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone. 
 Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place 
 
 For love or breakfast ; private, pleasing, lone, 
 And rich with all contrivances which grace 
 
 Those gay recesses : — many a precious stone 
 Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase 
 
 Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers, 
 
 Those captive soothers of a captive's hours. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Mother-of-pearl, and porphyry, and marble. 
 Vied with each other on this costly spot ; 
 
 And singing-birds without were heard to warble ; 
 And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot 
 
 Varied each ray ; — but aU descriptions garble 
 The true effect, and so we had better not 
 
 Be too minute ; an outline is the best, — 
 
 A lively reader's fancy does the rest. 
 
 xcix. 
 And here she summon'd Baba, and required 
 
 Don Juan at his hands, and information 
 Of what had pass'd since all the slaves retired, 
 
 And whether he had occupied their station ; 
 If matters had been managed as desired, 
 
 And his disguise with due consideration 
 Kept up ; and, above aU, the where and how 
 He had pass'd the night, was what she wished to knovir. 
 
 c. 
 Baba, with some embarrassment, replied 
 
 To this long catechism of questions ask'd 
 More easily than answer'd, — that he had tried 
 
 His best to obey in what he had been task'd; 
 But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide. 
 
 Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd ; 
 He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource 
 To which embarrass'd people have recourse. 
 
 CI. 
 
 Gulbeyaz was no model of true patienee. 
 Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed ; 
 
 She liked quick answers in all conversations ; 
 And when she saw him stumbling like a steed 
 
 In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones : 
 And as his speech grew still more broken-knee'd. 
 
 Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle. 
 
 And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle. 
 
 cir. 
 WTien Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew 
 
 To bode him no great good, he deprecated 
 Her anger, and beseech'd she 'd hear him through — 
 
 He could not help the thing which he related : 
 Then out it came at lengtli, that to Dudu 
 
 Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated ; 
 But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on 
 The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 
 
Canto VI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 555 
 
 The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom 
 The discipline of the whole haram bore, 
 
 As soon as th.ey re-enter'd their own room, 
 For Baba's function stopp'd short at the door, 
 
 Had settled all ; nor could he then presume 
 (The atoresaid Baba) just then to do more, 
 
 Without exciting such suspicion as 
 
 Might make the matter still worse than it was. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 He hoped, indeed he thought he could be sure, 
 
 Juan had not betray 'd himself; in fact, 
 'T was certain that his conduct had been pure, 
 
 Because a foolish or imprudent act 
 Would not alone have made him insecure, 
 
 But ended in his being found out and sacked 
 And thrown into the sea. — Thus Baba spoke 
 Of all save Dudii's dream, which was no joke. 
 
 cv. 
 This he discreetly kept in the back ground. 
 
 And talk'd away — and might have talk'd till now, 
 For any further answer that he found, 
 
 So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brovv ; 
 Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirl'd round, 
 
 As if she had received a sudden blow, 
 And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly 
 O'er her fair front, like morning's on a lily. 
 
 cvi. 
 Although she was not of the fainting sort, 
 
 Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd — 
 It was but a convulsion, which, though short. 
 
 Can never be described ; we all have heard, 
 And some of us have felt thus "all amort,^' 
 
 When things beyond the common have occurr'd ; 
 Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony 
 What she could ne'er express — then how should I ? 
 
 CVII. 
 
 She stood a moment, as a Pythoness 
 Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full 
 
 Of inspiration gather'd from distress. 
 
 When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull 
 
 The heart asunder; — then, as more or less 
 
 Their speed abated, or their strength grew dull, 
 
 She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees. 
 
 And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Her face declined, and was unseen ; her hair 
 Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow. 
 
 Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, 
 Or rather sofa, (for it was all pillow, — 
 
 A low, soft ottoman,) and black despair 
 
 Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow. 
 
 Which rushes to some shore, whose shingles check 
 
 Its farther course, but must receive its wreck. 
 
 cix. 
 Her head himg down, and her long hair in stoopinof 
 
 Conceal'd her features better than a veil ; 
 And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping. 
 
 White, waxen, and as alabaster pale ; 
 Would tliat I were a painter ! to be grouping 
 
 All that a poet drags into detail ! 
 Oh that my words were colours ! but their tints 
 May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints. 
 
 ex. 
 Baba, who knew by experience when to talk 
 
 And when to hold his tongue, now held it till 
 This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk 
 
 Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. 
 At length she rose up, and began to walk 
 
 Slowly along the room, but silent still. 
 And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye — 
 The wind was down, but still the sea ran high. 
 
 She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak — ^but paused. 
 And then moved on again with rapid pace ; 
 
 Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused 
 By deep emotion : — you may sometimes trace 
 
 A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed 
 By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased 
 
 By all the demons of all passions, show'd 
 
 Their work even by the way in v>'hich he trode. 
 
 CXII. 
 
 Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba: — " Slave: 
 Bring the two slaves !" she said, in a low tone, 
 
 But one which Baba did not like to brave. 
 
 And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone 
 
 To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave 
 
 (Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown 
 
 What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate. 
 
 For fear of any error like the late. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 " The Georgian and her paramour," replied 
 The imperial bride — and added, '• Let the boat 
 
 Be ready by the secret portal's side : 
 
 You know the rest." The words stuck in her throat. 
 
 Despite her injured love and fiery pride ; 
 And of this Baba willingly took note, 
 
 And begg'd, by every hair of Mahomet's beard, 
 
 She would revoke the order he had heard, 
 
 cxiv. 
 " To hear is to obey," he said ; " but still, 
 
 Sultana, think upon the consequence : 
 It is not that I shall not all fulfil 
 
 Your orders, even in their severest sense ; 
 But such precipitation may end ill, 
 
 Even at your own imperative expense; 
 I do not mean destruction and exposure, 
 In case of any premature disclosure; 
 
 cxv. 
 " But your own feelings. — Even should all the rest 
 
 Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide 
 Aheady many a once love-beaten breast 
 
 Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide — 
 You love this boyish, new seraglio guest. 
 
 And — if this violent remedy be tried — 
 Excuse rny freedom, when I here assure you. 
 That killing him is not the way to cure you." 
 
 cxvi. 
 " What dost thou know of love or feeling?. — wretch 1 
 
 Begone !" she cried, with kindling eyes, " and do 
 My bidding !" Baba vanish'd ; for to stretch 
 
 His own remonstrance further, he well knew. 
 Might end in acting as his own " Jack Ketch ;" 
 
 And, though he wish'd extremely to get through 
 This awkward business without harm to others. 
 He still preferr'd his ovm neck to another's, 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 Away he went then upon his commission. 
 
 Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase 
 
 Against all women, of whate'er condition. 
 Especially sultanas and their ways ; 
 
 Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision, 
 
 Their never knowing their own mind two days, 
 
 The trouble that they gave, their immorality, 
 
 Which made him daily bless his own neutrality. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 And then he call'd his brethren to his aid, 
 
 And sent one on a summons to the pair, 
 That they must instantly be well array'd. 
 
 And, above all, be comb'd even to a hair, 
 And brought before the empress, Avho had made 
 
 Inquiries after them with kindest care : 
 At which Dudii look'd strange, and JuaJi silly ; 
 But go they must at once, and will I — nill I. 
 
566 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Cjlnto VII. 
 
 And here I leave them at their preparation 
 For the imperial presence, wherein whether 
 
 Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration, 
 Or got rid of the parties altogether — 
 
 Like other angry ladies of her nation, — 
 Are things the turning of a hair or feather 
 
 May settle ; but far be 't from me to anticipate 
 
 In what way feminine caprice may dissipate. 
 
 cxx. 
 I leave them for the present, with good wishes, 
 
 Though doubts of their well-doing, to arrange 
 Another part of history ; for the dishes 
 
 Of this our banquet we must sometimes change: 
 And, trusting Juan may escape the fishes, 
 
 Although his situation now seems strange 
 And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair, 
 The muse will take a little touch at warfare. 
 
 CANTO VII. 
 
 Oh love ! Oh glory ! what are ye ? who fly 
 
 Around us ever, rarely to alight : 
 There 's not a meteor in the polar sky 
 
 Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight. 
 Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high 
 
 Our eyes in search of either lovely light ; 
 A thousand and a thousand colours they 
 Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. 
 
 11. 
 
 And such as they are, such my present tale is, 
 
 A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme, 
 A versified Aurora Borealis, 
 
 Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. 
 When we know what all are, we must bewail us, 
 
 But ne'ertheless, I hope it is no crime 
 To laugh at (di things : for I wish to know 
 JVhat, after all, axe all things — but a sJmv ? 
 
 III. 
 They accuse me — me-^he present writer of 
 
 The present poem, of — I know not what,rr- 
 A tendency to underrate and scoff" 
 
 At human power and virtue, and all that^ 
 And this they say in language rather rough. 
 
 Good God ! I wonder what they would be at? 
 I say no more than has been said in Dante's 
 Verse, and by Solomon, and by Cervantes ; 
 
 IV. 
 
 By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucaidt, 
 
 By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato ; 
 By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, 
 
 Who knew this life was not worth a potato. 
 •'T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so — 
 
 For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, 
 IjI'or even Diogenes. — We live and die. 
 But .which is best, you know no more than I. 
 
 V. 
 
 Socrates ?aid, our only knowledge was, 
 
 " To kB9w that nothing could be known ;" a pleasant 
 Science enough, which levels to an ass 
 
 Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. 
 Newton, (that proverb of the mind,) alas! 
 
 Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, 
 That he himself felt only " like a youth 
 Picking up shells by the great ocean— truth." 
 
 Ecclesiastes said, that all is vanity- 
 Most modern preachers say the same, or show it 
 
 By tlieir examples of true Christianity ; 
 
 In short, all know, or very soon may know it : 
 
 And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity, 
 By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, 
 
 Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, 
 
 From holding up the nothingness of life 7 
 
 VII. 
 
 Dogs, or men ! (for I flatter you in saying 
 That ye are dogs— your betters far) ye may 
 
 Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 
 To show ye what ye are in every way. 
 
 As little as the moon stops for the baying 
 
 Of wolves, will the bright Muse withdraw one ray 
 
 From out her skies ;-^then howl your idle wrath ! 
 
 While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Fierce loves and faithless wars"-^I am not sure 
 If this be the right reading — 't is no matter ; 
 
 The fact 's about the same ; I am secure ; — 
 I sing them both, and am about to batter 
 
 A town which did a famous siege endure, 
 And was beleaguer'd both by land and water 
 
 Bv SuvarofF, or anglice Suwarrow, 
 
 Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed 
 Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank. 
 
 With buildings in the oriental taste, 
 But still a fortress of the foremost rank, 
 
 Or was, at least, unless 't is since defaced, 
 
 Which with your conquerors is a common prank : 
 
 It stands some eighty versts from the high sea, 
 
 And measures round of toises thousands three. 
 
 X. 
 
 Within the extent of this fortification 
 A borough is comprised, along the height 
 
 Upon the left, which, from its loftier station. 
 Commands the city, and upon its site 
 
 A Greek had raised around this elevation 
 A quantity of palisades upright, 
 
 So placed as to impede the fire of those 
 
 Who held the place, and to assist the foe's. i 
 
 XI. 
 
 This circumstance may serve to give a notion 
 Of the high talents of this new Vauban ; 
 
 But the town ditch below was deep as ocean. 
 The rampart higher than you *d wish to hang: 
 
 But then there was a great want of precaution, 
 (Prithee, excuse this engineering slang,) 
 
 Nor work advanced, nor cover'd way was there, 
 
 To hint at least " Here is no thoroughfare." 
 
 XII. 
 
 But ;a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, 
 And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet ; 
 
 Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our Saint George, 
 Case-mated one, and 't other a " barbette," 
 
 Of Danube's hank took formidable charge ; 
 While two-and-twenty cannon, duly set, 
 
 Rose o'er the town's right side, in bristling tier, 
 
 Forty feet high, upon a cavalier. " 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But from the river the town 's open quite, 
 Because the Turks could never be persuaded 
 
 A Russian vessel e'er wouW heave in sight ; 
 
 And such their creed was, till they were invaded, 
 
 When it grew rather late to set things right. 
 But as the Danube could not well be waded, 
 
 They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla. 
 
 And only shouted, "Alia !" and " Bis MiUah !" 
 
Canto VII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 557 
 
 The Russians now were ready to attack ; 
 
 But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory ! 
 How shall I spell the name of each Cossack 
 
 Who were immortal, could one tell their story? 
 Alas ! what to their memory can lack ? 
 
 Achilles' self was not more grim and gory 
 Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation, 
 Whose names want nothing but — pronunciation. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Still I '11 record a few, if but to increase 
 
 Our-€uphony — there was Strongenoff, and StrokonofT, 
 Meknop, Serge Lwdw, Arseniew of modern Greece, 
 
 And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, and Chokenoff, 
 And others of twelve consonants apiece : 
 
 And more might be found out, if I could poke enough 
 Into gazettes ; but Fame, (capricious strumpet !) 
 It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet, 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And cannot time those discords of narration, 
 Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme. 
 
 Yet there were several worth commemoration, 
 As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime ; 
 
 Soft words too, fitted for the peroration 
 Of Londonderry, drawling against time. 
 
 Ending in " ischskin," " ousckin," " iffskchy," " ouski," 
 
 Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski, 
 
 XVII. 
 
 SdherematolT-and OhrematofF, Koklophti, 
 Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin 
 
 All proper men of weapons, as e'er scofT'd high 
 Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin : 
 
 Little cared theyfor Mahomet or Mufti, 
 
 Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin 
 
 Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, 
 
 And no more handy substitute been near. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Then there were foreigners of much renown. 
 
 Of various nations, and all volunteers ; 
 Not fighting for their country or its crown, 
 
 But wishing to be one day brigadiers 5 
 Also to have the sacking of a town — 
 
 A pleasant thing to young men at their years. 
 'Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith, 
 Sixteen call'd Thompson, and nineteen named Smith. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Jack Thompson and Bill Thompson ; — all the rest 
 Had been calPd " Jemmy," after the great bard; 
 
 I do n't know whether they had arms or crest, 
 But such a godfather's as good a card. 
 
 Three of the Smiths were Peters ; but the best 
 Among them all, hard blows to inflict or ward, 
 
 Was he, since so renown'd " in country quarters 
 
 At Halifax ;" but now he served the Tartars. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The rest \vere Jacks and Gills, and Wills and Bills ; 
 
 But when I 've added that the elder Jack Smith 
 Was born in Cumberland among the hills. 
 
 And that his father was an honest blacksmith, 
 I 've said all / know of a name that fills 
 
 Three lines of the despatch in taking " Schmacsmith," 
 A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein 
 He fell, immortal in a bulletin. 
 
 XXI, 
 
 I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a god I 
 
 Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin 
 May make up for a bullet in his body ? 
 
 I hope this little question is no sin. 
 Because, though I am but a simple noddy, 
 
 I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in 
 The mouth of some one in his plays so doating. 
 Which many people pass for wits by quoting. 
 
 Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay: 
 
 But I 'm too great a patriot to record 
 Their gallic names upon a glorious day ; 
 
 I 'd rather tell ten lies than say a word 
 Of truth ; — such truths are treason ; they betray 
 
 Their country, and, as traitors are abhorr'd, 
 Who name the French and English, save to show 
 How peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's foe. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The Russians, having built two batteries on 
 An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view ; 
 
 The first was to bombard it, and knock down 
 The public buildings, and the private loo, 
 
 No matter what poor souls might be undone. 
 The city's shape suggested this, 't is true ; 
 
 Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling 
 
 Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The second object was to profit by 
 
 The moment of the general consternation, 
 
 To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh. 
 Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station 
 
 But a third motive was as probably 
 To frighten them into capitulation ; 
 
 A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors. 
 
 Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers ; 
 
 XXV. 
 
 A habit rather blameable, which is 
 
 That of despising those we combat with, 
 
 Common in many cases, was in this 
 
 The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff'and Smith; 
 
 One of the valorous " Smiths" whom we shall miss 
 Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to " pith ;" 
 
 But 't is a name so spread o'er " Sir" and " Madam," 
 
 That one would think the first who bore it " Adam.'* 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The Russian batteries were incomplete. 
 Because they were constructed in a hurry. 
 
 Thus, the same cause which makes a verse want feet, 
 And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Murray, 
 
 When the sale of new books is not so fleet 
 As they who print them think is necessary. 
 
 May likewise put off" for a time what story 
 
 Sometimes calls "murder," and at others " glory." 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Whether it was their engineers' stupidity, 
 
 Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care • 
 
 Or some contractor's personal cupidity, 
 - Saving his soul by cheating in the ware 
 
 Of homicide ; but there was no solidity 
 In the new batteries erected there ; 
 
 They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd, 
 
 And added greatly to the missing list. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 A sad miscalculation about distance 
 
 Made all their naval matters incorrect ; 
 Three fire-ships lost their amiable existence. 
 
 Before they reach'd a spot to take effect : 
 The match was lit too soon, and no assistance 
 
 Could remedy this lubberly defect ; 
 They blew up in the middle of the river, 
 While, though 't was dawn, the Turks slept fast as ever. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 At seven they rose, however, and survey'd 
 
 The Russ flotilla getting under way ; 
 'T was nine, when still advancing undismay'd, 
 
 Within a cable's length their vessels lay 
 Off" Ismail, and commenced a cannonade, 
 
 Which was return'd with interest, I may say, 
 And by a fire of musketry and grape. 
 And shells and shot of every size and shape. 
 
658 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto VII. 
 
 For six hours bore they witliout intermission 
 The Turkish fire; and, aided by their own 
 
 Land batteries, work'd their guns with great precision : 
 At length they found mere cannonade alone 
 
 By no means would produce the town's submission, 
 And made a signal to retreat at one. 
 
 One bark blew up ; a second, near the works 
 
 Running aground, was taken by the Turks. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The Moslem too had lost both ships and men ; 
 
 But when they saw the enemy retire, 
 Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd agam, 
 
 And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire, 
 And tried to make a landing on the main. 
 
 But here the effect fell short of their desire : 
 Count Damas drove them back into the water 
 Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 "If" (says the historian here) " I could report 
 All that the Russians did upon this day, 
 
 I think that several volumes would fall short, 
 And I should still have many things to say;" 
 
 And so he says no more — but pays his court 
 To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray, 
 
 The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, 
 
 Names great as any that the roll of fame has. 
 
 XXXIII, 
 
 This being the case, may show us what fame is : 
 For out of three "preux chevaliers, ''' how 
 
 Many of common readers give a guess 
 
 That such existed ? (and they may live now 
 
 For aught we know.) Renown 's all hit or miss ; 
 There 's fortune even in fame, we must allow, 
 
 'T is true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne 
 
 Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's skreen. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But here are men who fought in gallant actions 
 
 As gallantly as ever heroes fought, 
 But buried in the heap of such transactions — 
 
 Their names are seldom found, nor often sought. 
 Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions, 
 
 And is extinguish'd sooner than she ought: 
 Of all our modern battles, I will bet 
 You can't repeat nine names from each gazette. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, 
 
 Show'd that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault ; 
 
 And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) 
 Most strongly recommended an assault ; 
 
 In which he was opposed by young and hoary. 
 Which made a long debate : — but I must halt ; 
 
 For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 
 
 I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 There was a man, if that he was a man, — 
 
 Not that his manhood could be call'd in question. 
 
 For, had he not been Hercules, his span 
 Had been as short in youth as indigestion 
 
 Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan, 
 He died beneath a tree, as much unbless'd on 
 
 The soil of the green province he had wasted, 
 
 As e'er was locust on the land it blasted ; — 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 This was Potemkin — a great thing in days 
 When homicide and harlotry made great. 
 
 If stars and titles could entail long praise, 
 His glory might half equal his estate. 
 
 This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 
 A kind of phantasy proportionate 
 
 In the then sovereign of the Russian people, 
 
 Who measured men as you would do a steeple. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent 
 A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 
 
 In ordering matters after his own bent. 
 I carmot tell the way in which he pleaded, 
 
 But shortly he had cause to be content. 
 In the mean time the batteries proceeded, 
 
 And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border 
 
 Were briskly fired and answer'd in due order. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 But on the thirteenth, when already part 
 
 Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise, 
 
 A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
 Into all panters for newspaper praise, 
 
 As well as dilettanti in war's art, 
 
 By his despatches couch'd in pithy phrase. 
 
 Announcing the appointment of that lover of 
 
 Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Suvaroff. 
 
 XL. 
 
 The letter of the prince to the same marshal 
 Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 
 
 Been one to which a good heart could be partial,— 
 Defence of freedom, country, or of laws ; 
 
 But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all 
 With its proud brow, it merits slight applause, 
 
 Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 
 
 " You will take Ismail, at whatever price." 
 
 XLI. 
 
 " Let there be light !" said God, " and there was light !" 
 " Let there be blood !"■ says man, and there 's a sea 1 
 
 The fiat of this spoil'd child of the night 
 (For day ne'er saw his merits) could decree 
 
 More evil in an hour, than thirty bright 
 
 Summers could renovate, though they should be 
 
 Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit — 
 
 For war cuts up not only branch but root. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Our friends the Turks, who with loud " Alias" now 
 
 Began to signalize the Russ retreat. 
 Were damnably mistaken ; few are slow 
 
 In thinking that their enemy is beat, 
 (Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though 
 
 I never think about it in a heat ;) 
 But here I say the Turks were much mistaken, 
 Who, hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their baccm. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 For, on the sixteenth, at fufl gallop drew 
 
 In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossacks 
 
 For some time, till they came in nearer view. 
 They had but little baggage at their backs. 
 
 For there were but three shirts between the two ; 
 But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks, 
 
 Till, in approaching, were at length descried 
 
 In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 " Great joy to London now !" says some great fool, 
 When London had a grand illumination, 
 
 Which, to that battle-conjuror, John Bull, 
 Is of all dreams the first hallucination : 
 
 So that the streets of colour'd lamps are full, 
 That sage {said John) surrenders at discretion 
 
 His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, 
 
 To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 'T is strange that he should further " damn his eyes," 
 • For they are damn'd : that once all-famous oath 
 Is to the devil now no further prize. 
 
 Since John has lately lost the use of both. 
 Debt he calls wealth, and taxes, paradise ; 
 
 And famine, with her gaunt and bony growth, 
 Which stares him in the face, he won't examine, 
 Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine. 
 
Canto VII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 569 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 But to the tale. Great joy unto the camp '. 
 
 To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossack, 
 O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas-lamp, 
 
 Presaging a most luminous attack ; 
 Or, like a wisp along the marsh so damp, 
 
 Which leads beholders on a boggy walk, 
 He flitted to and fro, a dancing light. 
 Which all who saw it follow'd, wrong or right. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 But, certes, matters took a different face ; 
 
 There was enthusiasm and much applause. 
 The fleet and camp saluted with great grace, 
 
 And all presaged good fortune to their cause. 
 Within a cannon-shot length of the place 
 
 They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws 
 In former works, made new, prepared fascines, 
 And all kinds of benevolent machines, 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 'T is" thus the spirit of a single mind 
 
 Makes that of multitudes take one direction. 
 
 As roll the waters to the breathing wind, 
 
 Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection : 
 
 Or as a little dog will lead the blind. 
 
 Or a bellweather form the flocks connexion 
 
 By tinkling sounds when they go forth to victual : 
 
 Such is the sway of your great men o'er little. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 The whole camp rung with joy ; you would have thought 
 That they were going to a marriage-feast 
 
 (This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught, 
 Since there is discord after both at least,) 
 
 There was not now a luggaige-boy but sought 
 Danger and spoil with ardour much increased ; 
 
 And why? because a little, odd, old man, 
 
 Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 
 
 I,. 
 
 But so it was ; and every preparation 
 
 Was made with all alacrity ; the first 
 Detachment of three columns took its station. 
 
 And waited but the signal's voice to burst 
 Upon the foe: the second's ordination 
 
 Was also in three columns, with a thirst 
 For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter : 
 The third, in columns two, attack'd by water. 
 
 LI. 
 
 New batteries were erected ; and was held 
 
 A general council, in which unanimity, 
 That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd, 
 
 As sometimes happens in a great extremity ; 
 And, every difficulty being expell'd, 
 
 Glory began to dawn with due sublimity, 
 While Suvaroff, determined to obtain it. 
 Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet.^ 
 
 LII. 
 
 It is an actual fact, that he, commander- 
 in-chief, in proper person deign'd to drill 
 
 The awkward squad, and could afford to squander 
 His time, a corporal's duties to fulfil : 
 
 Just as you 'd break a sucking salamander 
 To swallow flame, and never take it ill ; 
 
 He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which 
 
 Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines 
 Like men, with turbans, scimitars, and dirks, 
 
 And made them charge with bayonets these machines, 
 By way of lesson against actual Turks. 
 
 And, when well practised in these mimic scenes. 
 He judged them proper to assail the works ; 
 
 At which your wise men sneer'd, in phrases witty: — 
 
 He made no answer ; but he took the city. 
 
 Most things were in this posture on the eve 
 
 Of the assault, and all the camp was in 
 A stern repose ; which you would scarce conceive : 
 
 Yet men, resolved to dash through thick and thin. 
 Are very silent when they once believe 
 
 That all is settled : — there was little din. 
 For some w^ere thinking of their home and fiiends, 
 And others of themselves and latter ends. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert, 
 
 Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering : 
 For the man was, we safely may assert, 
 
 A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering ; 
 Hero, buflToon, half-demon, and half dirt. 
 
 Praying, instructing, desolating, blundering ; 
 Now Mars, now Momus ; and when bent to storm 
 A fortress. Harlequin in uniform. 
 
 LVI, 
 
 The day before the assault, while upon drill — 
 For this great conqueror play'd the corporal — 
 
 Some Cossacks, hovering like hawks round a hill. 
 Had met a party, towards the twilight's fall, 
 
 One of whom spoke their tongue, or well or ill — 
 'T was much that he was understood at all ; 
 
 But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner, 
 
 They found that he had fought beneath their banner. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Whereon, immediately at his request. 
 
 They brought him and his comrades to headquarters 
 Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd 
 
 That these were merely masquerading Tartars, 
 And that beneath each Turkish-fashioned vest 
 
 Lurk'd Christianity ; who sometimes barters 
 Her inward grace for outward show, and makes 
 It difficult to shun some strange mistakes. 
 
 LVIII, 
 
 Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt, 
 Before a company of Calmucks, drilling. 
 
 Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert, 
 And lecturing on the noble art of killing, — 
 
 For, deeming human clay but common dirt, 
 This great philosopher was thus instilling 
 
 His maxims, which, to martial comprehension. 
 
 Proved death in battle equal to a pension ; — 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Suwarrow, when he saw this company 
 
 Of Cossacks and their prey, turn'd round and cast 
 
 Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye : — 
 
 " Whence come ye ?" — " From Constantinople last. 
 
 Captives just now escaped," was the reply. 
 
 " What are ye ?" — " What you see us." Briefly past 
 
 This dialogue ; for he who answer'd knew 
 
 To whom he spoke, and made his words but few. 
 
 i-x. [Juan ; 
 
 " Your names ?" — "Mine 's Johnson, and my comrade's 
 
 The other two are women, and the tJiird 
 Is neither man nor woman." The chief threw on 
 
 The party a sUght glance, then said : " I have heard 
 Your name before, the second is a new one ; 
 
 To bring the other three here was absurd ; 
 But let that pass ; — I think I 've heard your name 
 In the Nikolaiew regiment?" — " The same." — 
 
 LXI. 
 
 "You served at Widin ?" " Yes." " You led the attack ?" 
 " I did."—" What next ?"— " I reaUy hardly know." 
 
 " You were the first i' the breach?" — " I was not slack. 
 At least, to follow those who might be so." — 
 
 " What follow'd ?"— « A shot laid me on my back 
 And I became a prisoner to the foe." — 
 
 " You shall have vengeance, for the town surrounded 
 
 Is twice as strong as that where you were wounded. 
 
560 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto VII. 
 
 LXII, 
 
 ** Where will you serve ?" — " Where'er you please.' 
 You like to be the hope of the forlorn, [" I know 
 
 And doubtless would be foremost on the foe 
 After the hardships you 've already borne. 
 
 And this young fellow I say what can he do ? — 
 He with the beardless chin, and garments torn." 
 
 " Why, general, if he hath no greater fault 
 
 In war than love, he had better lead the assault." 
 
 I,XIII. 
 
 " He shall, if that he dare." Here Juan bow'd 
 Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow 
 
 Continued : *' Your old regiment 's allow'd, 
 By special providence, to lead to-morrow, 
 
 Or it may be to-night, the assault : I 've vow'd 
 To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow 
 
 Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 
 
 Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque. 
 
 LXir. 
 " So now, my lads, for glory !" — Here he tum'd, 
 
 And drill'd away in the most classic Russian, 
 Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 
 
 For cash' and conquest, as if from a cushion 
 A preacher had held forth, (who nobly spurn'd 
 
 AH earthly goods save tithes,) and bade them push on 
 To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering 
 The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy 
 
 Himself a favourite, ventured to address 
 Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high 
 
 In his resumed amusement. " I confess 
 My debt, in being thus allow'd to die 
 
 Among the foremost ; but if you 'd express 
 Explicitly our several posts, my friend 
 And self would know what duty to attend."— 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 " Right ! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you 
 Will join your former regiment, which should be 
 
 Now under arms. Ho ! KatskofF, take him to — 
 (Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) — 
 
 His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew. 
 The stranger stripling may remain with me ; 
 
 He 's a fine boy. The women may be sent 
 
 To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 
 
 I.XVII. 
 
 But here a sort of scene began to ensue : 
 
 The ladies, — who by no means had been bred 
 
 To be disposed of in a way so new, 
 Although their haram education led 
 
 Doubtless to that cf doctrines the most triie, 
 Passive obedience, — now raised up the head, 
 
 With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung 
 
 Their arras, as hens their wings about their young, 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 O'er the promoted couple of brave men 
 
 Who were thus honour'd by the greatest chief 
 
 That ever peopled hell with heroes slain. 
 Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 
 
 Oh, foolish mortals I always taught in vain ! 
 Oh, glorious laurel ! since for one sole leaf 
 
 Of thine imaginary deathless tree. 
 
 Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea ! 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears. 
 And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd 
 
 The women with their hair about their ears, 
 And natural agonies, with a slight shade 
 
 Of feeling ; for, however habit sears 
 
 Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trade 
 
 Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow 
 
 Will touch even heroes — and such wjls Suwarrow. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 He said — and in the kindest Calmuc tone- 
 " Why, Johnson, what the devil do you : 
 
 By bringing women here ? They shall be shown 
 All the attention possible, and seen 
 
 In safety to the wagons, where alone 
 
 In fact they can be safe. You should have beea 
 
 Aware this kind of baggage never thrives : 
 
 Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives J' 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 " May it please your excellency," thus replied' 
 
 Our British friend, " these are the wives ©f others^- 
 
 And not our own. I am too qualified 
 By service with my military brothers. 
 
 To break the rules by bringing one's own brid&- 
 Into a camp ; I know that naught so bother 
 
 The hearts of the heroic on a charge, 
 
 As leaving a small family at large. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 But these are but two Turkish kdies, who' 
 
 With their attendant aided our escape, 
 And afterwards accompanied us through 
 
 A thousand perils in this dubious shape.. 
 To me this kind of life is not so new ; 
 
 To them, poor things ! it is em awkward- step ; 
 I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely, 
 Request that they may both be used genteelly." 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Meantime, these two poor girls, with swimming eyesy 
 Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust 
 
 Their own protectors ; nor was their surprise 
 Less than their grief (and truly not less just) 
 
 To see an old man, rather wild than wise 
 In aspect, plainly clad, besmeared with dust,- 
 
 Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean, 
 
 More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen. 
 
 For every thing seem'd resting on his nod, 
 
 As they could read in all eyes. Now, tO'tliein^> 
 
 Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god, 
 To see the sultan, rich in many a gem, 
 
 Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad, 
 (That royal bird, whose tail 's a diadem,)-- 
 
 With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt 
 
 How power could condescend to do without. 
 
 I-XXV. 
 
 John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay, 
 Though little versed in feelings oriental, 
 
 Suggested some slight comfort in his way. 
 Don Juan, who was much more sentimental, 
 
 Swore they should see him by the dawn of day. 
 Or that the Russian army should repent all : 
 
 And, strange to say, they found some consolatibiy 
 
 In this — for females like exaggeration. 
 
 And then, with tears, and sighs, and some slight 
 They parted for the present — these to await, 
 
 According to the artillery's hits or misses. 
 
 What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate— 
 
 (Uncertainty 'is one of many blisses, 
 A mortgage on Humanity's estate) — 
 
 While their beloved friends began to arm, 
 
 To burn a town which never did them harm. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Suwarrow, who but saw things in the gross — 
 Being much too gross to see them in detail j 
 
 Who calculated life as so much dross, 
 And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail, 
 
 And cared as little for his army's loss 
 
 (So that their efl'orts should at length prevail) 
 
 As wife and friends did for the boils of Job ; — 
 
 What was 't to him to hear two wcanen sob ? 
 
Canto VIlI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 561 
 
 Nothing. The work of glory still went on, 
 
 In preparations for a cannonade 
 As terrible as that of Ilion, 
 
 If Homer had found mortars ready made ; 
 But now, instead of slaying Priam's son, 
 
 We only can but talk of escalade, 
 Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, bullets, 
 Hard words which stick in the soft Muses' gullets. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Oh, thou eternal Homer ! who couldst charm 
 All ears, though long — all ages, though so short, 
 
 By merely wielding with poetic arm 
 Arras to which men will never more resort, 
 
 Unless gunpowder should be found to harm 
 Much less than is the hope of every court. 
 
 Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy ; — 
 
 But they will not find Liberty a Troy : 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Oh, thou eternal Homer ! I have now 
 
 To paint a siege, wherein more men w«re slain, 
 
 With deadlier engines and a speedier blow, 
 Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign ; 
 
 And yet, like all men else, I must allow, 
 To vie with thee would be about as vain 
 
 As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood ; 
 
 But still we modems equal you in blood— 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 If not in poetry, at least in fact : 
 And fact is truth, the grand desideratum ! 
 
 Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each act, 
 There should be, ne'ertheless, a slight substratum. 
 
 But now the town is going to be attack'd ; 
 Great deeds are doing — how shall I relate 'em ? 
 
 Souls of immortal generals ! Phoebus watches 
 
 To colour up his rays from yoiu- despatches. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Oh, ye great bulletins of Buonaparte ! 
 
 Oh, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and wounded ! 
 Shade of Leonidas ! who fought so hearty, 
 
 When my poor Greece was once, as now, surrounded 
 Oh, Caesar's Commentaries ! now impart ye, 
 
 Shadows of glory ! (lest I be confounded) 
 A portion of your fading twilight hues, 
 So beautiful, so fleeting to the Muse. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 When I call " fading" martial immortality, 
 
 I mean, that every age and every year, 
 And almost every day, in sad reality, 
 
 Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear, 
 Who, when we come to sum up the totality 
 
 Of deeds to human happiness most dear, 
 Turns out to be a butcher in great business, 
 Afllicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Medals, ranks, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarlet. 
 
 Are things immortal to immortal man, 
 As purple to the Babylonian harlot : 
 
 An uniform to boys is like a fan 
 To women ; there is scarce a crimson varlet. 
 
 But deems himself the first in glory's van. 
 But glory 's glory ; and if you would find 
 What that is — ask the pig who sees the wind ! 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 At least he feels it, and some say he sees, 
 
 Because he runs before it like a pig ; 
 Or, if that simple sentence should displease. 
 
 Say that he scuds before it like a brig, 
 A schooner, or — but it is time to ease 
 
 This canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue. 
 The next shall ring a peal to shake all people, 
 Like a bob-major from a villas^e-steeple. 
 3 V 
 
 Hark ! through the silence of the cold dull night, 
 The hum of armies gathering rank on rank ! 
 
 Lo ! dusky masses steal in dubious sight 
 Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank 
 
 Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light 
 The stars peep through the vapours dim and dank, 
 
 Which curl in curious wreaths — How soon the smoke 
 
 Of hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak ! 
 
 Lxxxvir. 
 
 Here pause we for the present — as even then 
 That awful pause, dividing life from death, 
 
 Struck for an instant on the hearts of men. 
 
 Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath ! 
 
 A moment — and all will be life again ! 
 
 The march ! the charge ! the shouts of either faith ! 
 
 Hurra ! and Allah ! and — one moment more — 
 
 The death-cry drowning in the batde's roar. 
 
 CANTO VIII. 
 
 Oh blood and thunder ! and oh blood and wounds ! 
 
 These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem. 
 Too gentle reader ! and most shocking sounds : 
 
 And so they are ; yet thus is Glory's dream 
 Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 
 
 At present such things, since they are her theme, 
 So be they her inspirers ! Call them Mars, 
 Bellona, what you will — they mean but wars. 
 
 II. 
 All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 
 
 To wield them in their terrible array. 
 The army, like a lion from his den, 
 
 March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay^ 
 A human Hydra, issuing from its fen 
 
 To breathe destruction on its winding way. 
 Whose heads were heroes, which, cut off" in vain, 
 Immediately in others grew again. . 
 
 III. 
 
 History can only take things in the gross ; 
 
 But could we know them in detail, perchance 
 In balancing the profit and the loss, 
 
 War's merit it by no means might enhance. 
 To waste so much gold for a little dross. 
 
 As hath been done, mere conquest to advance. 
 The drying up a single tear has more 
 Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And why? because it brings self-approbation; 
 
 Whereas the other, after all its glare, 
 Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation— 
 
 Which (it may be) has not much left to spare— 
 A higher title, or a loftier station, 
 
 Though they may make corruption gape or stare, 
 Yet, in the end, except in freedom's battles. 
 Are nothing but a child of murder's rattles. 
 
 V. 
 
 And such they are — and such they will be found. 
 
 Not so Leonidas and Washington, 
 Whose every battle-field is holy ground. 
 
 Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undraie. 
 How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound ! 
 
 While the mere victors may appal or stun 
 The servile and the vain, such names will be 
 A watchword till the future shall be free. 
 
662 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto VIIL 
 
 The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd 
 Naught to be seen save the artillery's flame, 
 
 Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud, 
 And in the Danube's waters shone the same, 
 
 A mirror'd hell ! The volleying roar, and loud 
 Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame 
 
 The ear far more than thunder ; for Heaven's flashes 
 
 Spare, or smite rarely — Man's make millions ashes! 
 
 VII. 
 
 The colimin order'd on the assault scarce pass'd 
 Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, 
 
 When up the bristling Moslem rose at last, 
 Answering the Christian thunders with like voices ; 
 
 Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced. 
 Which rock'd as 't were beneath the mighty noises ; 
 
 While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when 
 
 The restless Titan hiccups in his den. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And one enormous shout of " Allah !" rose 
 In the same moment, loud as even the roar 
 
 Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes 
 Hurling defiance : city, stream, and shore 
 
 Resounded " Allah 1" and the clouds, which close 
 With thickening canopy the conflict o'er, 
 
 Vibrate to the Eternal Name. Hark ! through 
 
 All sounds it pierceth, " Allah ! Allah ! Hu !" ' 
 
 IX. 
 
 The columns were in movement, one and all : 
 But, of the portion which attack'd by water, 
 
 Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall, 
 
 Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slaughter. 
 
 As brave as ever faced both boom and ball. [ter;"2 
 
 " Carnage (so Wordsworth tells you) is God's daugh- 
 
 If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 
 
 Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. 
 
 X. 
 
 The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee ; 
 
 Count Chapeau-Bras too had a ball between 
 His cap and head, which proves the head to be 
 
 Aristocratic as was ever seen. 
 Because it then received no injury 
 
 More than the cap ; in fact the ball could mean 
 No harm unto a right legitimate head: 
 ♦' Ashes to ashes"— why not lead to lead. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Also the General Markow, Brigadier, 
 
 Insisting on removal of the prince, 
 Amid some groaning thousands dying near, — 
 
 All common fellows, who might writhe and wince, 
 And shriek for water into a detd" ear, — 
 
 The General Markow, who could thus evince 
 His sympathy for rank, by the same token. 
 To teach him greater, had his own leg broken. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic, 
 And thuly thousand muskets flung their piUs 
 
 Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. 
 Mortality ! thou hast thy monthly bills ; 
 
 Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick, 
 Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills 
 
 Past, present, and to come ; — ^but all may yield 
 
 To the true portrait of one battle-field. 
 
 xiu. 
 
 There the still varying pangs, which multiply 
 Until their very number makes men hard 
 
 By the infinities of agony, 
 Which meet the gaze, whate'er it may regard — 
 
 The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 
 Tum'd back within its socket,— these reward 
 
 Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest 
 
 May win, perhaps, a riband at the breast! 
 
 Yet I love glory ; glory 's a great thing ; 
 
 Think what it is to be in your old age 
 Maintain'd at the expense of your good king : 
 
 A moderate pension shakes fijll many a sage, 
 And heroes are but made for bards to sing, 
 
 Which is stiU better ; thus in verse to wage 
 Your wars eternally, besides enjoying 
 Half-pay for life, makes mankind worth destroying. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The troops aheady disembark'd push'd on 
 To take a battery on the right ; the others. 
 
 Who Icinded lower down, their landing done, 
 Had set to work as briskly as their brothers: 
 
 Being grenadiers, they mounted, one by one. 
 
 Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers— 
 
 O'er the entrenchment and the palisade, 
 
 Quite orderly, as if upon parade. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And this was admirable ; for so hot 
 
 The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded. 
 
 Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot 
 And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded. 
 
 Of officers a third fell on the spot, 
 
 A thing which victory by no means boded 
 
 To gentlemen engaged in the assault : 
 
 Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault. 
 
 But here I leave the general concern, 
 
 To track our hero on his path of fame : 
 He must his laurels separately earn ; 
 
 For fifty thousand heroes, name by name. 
 Though all deserving equally to turn 
 
 A couplet, or an elegy to claim. 
 Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory. 
 And, what is worse still, a mucli longer story : 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And therefore we must give the greater number 
 To the gazette — which doubtless fairly dealt 
 
 By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber 
 In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt 
 
 Their clay for the last time their souls encumber ;— 
 Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt 
 
 In the despatch ; I knev/ a man whose loss 
 
 Was printed Grave, although his name was Grose. ' 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps, 
 
 And fought away with might and main, not knowing 
 The way which they had never trod before. 
 
 And still less guessing where they might be going ; 
 But on they raarch'd, dead bodies trampling o'er. 
 
 Firing, and tiirusting, sleishing, sweating, glowing, 
 But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win. 
 To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire 
 Of dead and dying thousands, — sometimes gaining 
 
 A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher 
 To some odd angle for which all were straining ; 
 
 At other times, repulsed by the close fire. 
 Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining, 
 
 Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er 
 
 A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and though 
 The nightly muster and the silent march 
 
 In the chill dark, when courage does not glow 
 So much as under a triumphal arch. 
 
 Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw 
 A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch, 
 
 Which stiffen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day;— 
 
 Yet for all this he did not run away. 
 
Canto VIIL 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 563 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Indeed he could not. But what if he had ?. 
 
 There have been and are heroes who begun 
 With something not much better, or as bad : 
 
 Frederic the Great from Molwitz deign'd to run, 
 For the first and last time ; for, like a pad, 
 
 Or hawk, or bride, most mortals, after one 
 Warm bout, are broken into their new tricks. 
 And fight like fiends for pay or politics. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 He was what Erin calls, in her sublime 
 
 Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic, 
 (The antiquarians who can settle time. 
 
 Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic, 
 Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clime 
 
 With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic 
 Of Dido's alphabet ; and this is rational 
 As any other notion, and not national ;) — '^ 
 
 ■ XXIV. 
 
 But Juan was quite " a broth of a boy," 
 A thing of impulse and a child of song : 
 
 Now swimming in the sentiment of joy, 
 
 Or the sensation, (if that phrase seem wrong, 
 
 And afterwards, if he must needs destroy. 
 In such good company as always throng 
 
 To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, 
 
 No less delighted to employ his leisure ; 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But always without malice. If he warr'd 
 Or loved, it was with what we call " the best 
 
 Intentions," which form all mankind's trump-card, 
 To be produced when brought up to the test. 
 
 The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer — ward 
 Off each attack when people are in quest 
 
 Of their designs, by saying they meant well ; 
 
 'T is pity " that such meaning should pave hell."^ 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 f almost lately have begun to doubt 
 
 Whether hell's pavement — if it be so paved-— 
 
 Must not have latterly been quite worn out. 
 Not by the numbers good intent hath saved, 
 
 But by the mass who go below without 
 
 Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved 
 
 And sraooth'd the brimstone of that street of hell 
 
 Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides 
 Warrior from warrior hi their grim career. 
 
 Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides, 
 Just at the close of the first bridal year, 
 
 By one of those odd turns of fortune's tides, 
 Was on a sudden rather puzzled here. 
 
 When, after a good deal of heavy firing. 
 
 He found himself alone, and friends retiring. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 I do n't know how the thing occur'd — it might 
 Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded, 
 
 And that the rest had faced unto the right 
 About ; a circumstance which has confounded 
 
 Caesar himself, who, in the very sight 
 
 Of his whole army, which so much abounded 
 
 In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield 
 
 And rally back his Romans to the field. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was 
 No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought 
 
 He knew not why, arriving at this pass, 
 Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought 
 
 For a much longer time ; then, like an ass — 
 
 (Start not, kind reader ; since great Homer thought 
 
 This simile enough for Ajax, Juan 
 
 Perhaps may find it better than a new one :)— 
 
 Then, like an ass, he went upon his way, 
 And, what was stranger, never look'd behind ; 
 
 But seeing, flashing forward, like the day 
 Over the hills, a fire enough to blind 
 
 Those who dislike to look upon a fray, 
 He stumbled on, to try if he could find 
 
 A path, to add his own slight arm and forces 
 
 To corps, the greater part of which were corses. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Perceiving then no more the commandant 
 
 Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had 
 
 duite disappear'd — the gods know how ! (I can't 
 Account for every thing which may look bad 
 
 In history ; but we at least may grant 
 It was not marvellous that a mere lad. 
 
 In search of glory, should look on before. 
 
 Nor care a pinch of snufF about his corps :)— 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, 
 And left at large, like a young heir, to make 
 
 His way to— where he knew not — single-handed ; 
 As travellers follow over bog and brake 
 
 An " ignis fatuus," or as sailors stranded 
 Unto the nearest hut themselves betake, 
 
 So Juan, following honour and his nose, 
 
 Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared, 
 
 For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins 
 Fill'd as with lightning— for his spirit shared 
 
 The hour, as is the case with lively brains 
 And, where the hottest fire was seen and heard. 
 
 And the loud cannon pealed its hoarsest strains, 
 He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken 
 By thy humane discovery, friar Bacon ! ^ 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 And, as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 
 Fell in with what was late the second column, 
 
 Under the orders of the general Lascy, 
 But now reduced, as is a bulky volume, 
 
 Into an elegant extract (much less massy) 
 Of heroism, and took his place with solemn 
 
 Air, 'mid the rest, who kept their valiant faces, • 
 
 And levell'd weapons, still against the glacis. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Just at this crisis up came Johnson too, 
 Who had " retreated," as the phrase is, when 
 
 Men run away much rather than go through 
 Destruction's jaws into the devil's den ; 
 
 But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 
 Knew when and how " to cut and come again," 
 
 And never ran away, except when running 
 
 Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 And so, when all his corps were dead or dying, 
 Except Don Juan — a mere novice, whose 
 
 More virgin valour never dreamt of flying. 
 From ignorance of danger, which indues 
 
 Its votaries, like innocence relying 
 On its owTi strength, with careless nerves and thews,- 
 
 Johnson retired a little, just to rally 
 
 Those who catch cold in *' shadows of death's valley." 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 And there, a little shelter'd from the shot. 
 Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet, 
 
 Rampart, wall, casement, house — for there was not 
 In this extensive city, sore beset 
 
 By Christian soldiery, a single spot 
 Which did not combat like the devil as yet, 
 
 He found a number of chasseurs, all scatter'd 
 
 By the resistance of the chase they batter'd. 
 
564 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Cakto vin. 
 
 xxxvin. 
 
 And these he call'd on ; and, what 's strange, they came 
 
 Unto his call, unlike " the spirits from 
 The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim, 
 
 Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home. 
 Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 
 
 At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb. 
 And that odd impulse, which, in wars or creeds, 
 Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 By Jove ! he was a noble fellow, Johnson, 
 And though his name than Ajax or Achilles 
 
 Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon 
 We shall not see his likeness : he could kill his 
 
 Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon 
 Her steady breath,(which some months the same stillis ;) 
 
 Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, 
 
 And could be very busy without bustle. 
 
 XL. 
 
 And therefore, when he ran away, he did so 
 
 Upon reflection, knowing that behind 
 He would find others who would fain be rid so 
 
 Of idle apprehensions, which, like wind, 
 Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so 
 
 Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, 
 But when they light upon immediate death, 
 Retire a little, merely to take breath. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 But Johnson only ran off to return 
 
 With many other warriors, as we said. 
 Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn. 
 
 Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread. 
 To Jack, howe'er, this gave but slight concern : 
 
 His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) 
 Acted upon the living as on wire. 
 And led them back into the heaviest fire. 
 
 Egad ! they found the second time what they 
 The first time thought quite terrible enough 
 
 To fly from, malgre aU which people say 
 Of glory, and all that immortal stuff 
 
 Which fills a regiment, (besides their pay, 
 
 That daily shilling which makes warriors tough) — 
 
 They found on their return the self-same welcome, 
 
 Which made some think, and others know, a hell come. 
 
 XLiir. 
 They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail. 
 
 Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle, 
 Proving that trite old truth, that life 's as frail 
 
 As any other boon for which men stickle. 
 The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail, 
 
 Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle 
 Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd 
 Upon the head before their guns were cock'd. 
 
 XLIV, 
 
 The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks 
 Of the next bastion, fired away like devils, 
 
 And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks : 
 However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels 
 
 Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks, 
 So order'd it, amid these sulphury revels. 
 
 That Johnson, and some few who had not scamper'd, 
 
 Reach'd the interior talus of the rampart. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen, 
 Came mounting quickly up, for it was now 
 
 All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin 
 
 Flame was shower'd forth above as well 's below. 
 
 So that you scarce could say who best had chosen, — 
 The gentlemen that were the first to show 
 
 Their martial faces on the parapet. 
 
 Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet. 
 
 XLVI, 
 
 But those who scaled foimd out that their advance 
 Was favour'd by an accident or blunder : 
 
 The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance 
 Had palisadoed in a way you 'd wonder 
 
 To see in forts of Netherlands or France— 
 
 (Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under)- 
 
 Right in the middle of the parapet 
 
 Just named, these palisades were primly set : 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 So that on either side some nin^ or ten 
 
 Paces were left, whereon you could contrive 
 
 To march ; a great convenience to our men, 
 At least to all those who were left alive. 
 
 Who thus could form a line and fight again ; 
 And that which further aided them to strive 
 
 Was, that they could kick down the palisades. 
 
 Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades.' 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Among the first, — I will not say the Jirst, 
 For such precedence upon such occasions 
 
 Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst 
 Out between friends as well as allied nations ; 
 
 The Briton must be bold who really durst 
 Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience, 
 
 As say that Wellington at Waterloo 
 
 Was beaten, — though the Prussians say so too ;— 
 
 XLIX, 
 
 And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau, 
 
 And God knows who besides in " au" and " ou," 
 
 Had not come up in time to cast an awe 
 Into the hearts of those who fought till now 
 
 As tigers combat with an empty craw. 
 
 The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show 
 
 His orders, also to receive his pensions. 
 
 Which are the heaviest that our history mentions. 
 
 L. 
 
 But never mind ; — " God save the king !' ' and kings ' 
 For if he do n't, I doubt if men will longer. — 
 
 I think I hear a little bird, who sings. 
 
 The people by and by will be the stronger: 
 
 The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings 
 So much into the raw as quite to wrong her 
 
 Beyond the rules of posting, — and the mob 
 
 At last fall sick of imitating Job. 
 
 LI, 
 
 At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then, 
 
 Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant ; 
 
 At last it takes to weapons, such as men 
 
 Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant ; 
 
 Then "comes the tug of war ;" — 'twill come again, 
 I rather doubt ; and I would fain say " fie on 't," 
 
 If I had not perceived that revolution 
 
 Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution. 
 
 LII. 
 
 But to continue : — I say not the first. 
 
 But of the first, our litde friend Don Juan 
 
 Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed 
 Amid such scenes — though this was quite a new one 
 
 To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst 
 Of glory, which so pierces through and through one, 
 
 Pervaded him — although a generous creature, 
 
 As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 And here he was — who, upon woman's breast, 
 Even from a child, felt like a child ; howe'er * 
 
 The man in all the rest might be confess'dj 
 To him it was Elysium to be there ; 
 
 And he could even withstand that awkward test 
 Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair, 
 
 " Observe your lover when he leaves your arms ;" 
 
 But Juan never left them while they 'd charms. 
 
Canto VIIL 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 565 
 
 Unless compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind, 
 Or near relations, who are much the same. 
 
 But here he was!— where each tie that can bind 
 Humanity must yield to steel and flame : 
 
 And he, whose very body was all mind, — 
 
 Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame 
 
 The loftiest, — hurried by the time and place, — 
 
 Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race. 
 
 LV, 
 
 So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance. 
 
 As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate, 
 Or double post and rail, where the existence 
 
 Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight. 
 The lightest being the safest: at a distance 
 
 He hated cruelty, as all men hate 
 Blood, until heated — and even there his own 
 At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd, 
 
 Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
 As were some hundred youngsters all abreast, 
 
 Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon, 
 To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd 
 
 His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon. 
 Not reckoning him to be a " base Bezonian," 
 (As Pistol calls it,) but a young Livonian. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew 
 As much of German as of Sanscrit, and 
 
 In answer made an inclination to 
 
 The general who held him in command ; 
 
 For, seeing one with ribbons black and blue, 
 Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand, 
 
 Addressing him in tones which seem'd to thank, 
 
 He recognised an officer of ranlc, 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Short speeches pass between two men who speak 
 No common language ; and besides, in time 
 
 Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek 
 Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime 
 
 Is perpetrated ere a word can break 
 
 Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime 
 
 In, like church-beUs, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, prayer. 
 
 There cannot be much conversation there. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 And therefore all we have related in 
 
 Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute ; 
 
 But in the same small minute, every sin 
 Contrived to get itself comprised within it. 
 
 The very cannon, deafen'd by the din, 
 Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet, 
 
 As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 
 
 Of human nature's agonizing voice ! 
 
 The town was enter'd. Oh eternity ! — 
 
 " God made the country, and man made the town," 
 
 So Cowper says — and I begin to be 
 Of his opinion, when I see cast down 
 
 Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh- 
 All walls men know, and many never knovk-n ; 
 
 And, pondering on the present and the past, 
 
 To deem the woods shall be our home at last. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer. 
 Who passes for in life and death most lucky, 
 
 Of the great names, which in our faces stare, 
 
 The General Boon, back-woodsman of Kentucky, 
 
 Was happiest among mortals any where ; 
 For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he 
 
 Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days, 
 
 Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze. 
 
 Crime came not near him — she is not the child 
 Of solitude ; health shrank not firom him — for 
 
 Her home is in the rarely- trodden wild. 
 
 Where if men seek her not, and death be more 
 
 Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled 
 By habit to what their own hearts abhor — 
 
 In cities caged. The present case in point I 
 
 Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety; 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 And what 's still stranger, left behind a name — 
 For which men vainly decimate the throng, — 
 
 Not only famous, but of that good fame 
 Without which glory 's but a tavern song — 
 
 Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame. 
 
 Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong ; 
 
 An active hermit, even in age the child 
 
 Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 'T is true he shrank from men, even of his nation, 
 When they built up unto his darling trees, — 
 
 He moved some hundred miles off, for a station 
 Where there were fewer houses and more ease— 
 
 The inconvenience of civilization 
 Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please ;— 
 
 But, where he met the individual man, 
 
 He show'd himself as kind as mortal can. 
 
 He was not all alone : around him grew 
 
 A sylvan tribe of children of the chase. 
 Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new, 
 
 Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace 
 On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view 
 
 A frown on nature's or on human face ; — 
 The free-bom forest found and kept them free, 
 And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 And tall and strong and swift of foot were they, 
 Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions, 
 
 Because their thoughts had never been the prey 
 
 Of care or gain : the green woods were their portions \ 
 
 No sinking spirits told them they grew gray ; 
 No fashion made them apes of her distortions ; 
 
 Simple they were, not savage ; and their rifles, 
 
 Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers. 
 And cheerfulness tlie handmaid of their toil ; 
 
 Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers ; 
 Corruption could not make dieir hearts her soil: 
 
 The lust Avhich stings, the splendour which encumbers, 
 With the free foresters divide no spoil ; 
 
 Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 
 
 Of this unsighing people of the woods. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 So much for nature : — ^by way of variety. 
 Now back to thy great joys, civilization! 
 
 And the sweet consequence of large society, — 
 War, pestilence, the despot's desolation. 
 
 The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety. 
 The millions slain by soldiers for their ration, 
 
 The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at threescore. 
 
 With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 The town was enter'd : first one column made 
 
 Its sanguinary way good — then another ; 
 The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade 
 
 Clash'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother 
 With distant shrieks were heard heaven to upbraid ; 
 
 Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother 
 The breath of mom and man, where, foot by foot, 
 The madden'd Turks their city still dispute. 
 
666 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto VIII. 
 
 Koutousow, he who afterwards beat back 
 
 (With some assistance from the frost and snow) 
 
 Napoleon on his bold and bloody track, 
 It happen'd was himself beat back just now. 
 
 He was a jolly fellow, and could crack 
 His jest alike in face of friend or foe, 
 
 Though life, and death, and victory, were at stake — 
 
 But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take : 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 For, having thrown himself into a ditch, 
 Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers, 
 
 Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich. 
 He climb'd to where the parapet appears ; 
 
 But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch — 
 ('Mong other deaths the General Ribaupierre's 
 
 Was much regretted) — for tlie Moslem men 
 
 Threw them all down into the ditch again : 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 And, had it not been for some stray troops, landing 
 They knew not where, — being carried by the stream 
 
 To some spot, where they lost their understanding, 
 And wander'd up and dowTi as in a dream, 
 
 Until tliey reach'd, as daybreak was expanding, 
 That which a portal to their eyes did seem, — 
 
 The great and gay Koutousow might have lain 
 
 Where three parts of his column yet remain. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 And, scrambling round the rampart, these same troops, 
 
 After the taking of the " cavalier," 
 Just as Koutousow's most " forlorn" of " hopes" 
 
 Took, like chameleons, some slight tinge of fear, 
 Open'd the gate call'd " Kilia" to the groups 
 
 Of baffled heroes who stood shyly near. 
 Sliding knee-deep in lately-frozen mud, 
 Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 The Kozaks, or if so you please, Cossacks — 
 (I do n't much pique myself upon orthography. 
 
 So that I do not grossly err in facts. 
 
 Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography) — 
 
 Having been used to serve on horses' backs, 
 And no great dilettanti in topography 
 
 Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases 
 
 Their chiefs to order, — were all cut to pieces. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd 
 Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart, 
 
 And naturally thought they could have plunder'd 
 The city, without being further hamper'd; 
 
 But, as it happens to brave men, they blunder' d — 
 The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd. 
 
 Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners. 
 
 From whence they sallied on those Christian scomers. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Then being taken by the tail — a taking 
 
 Fatal to bishops as to soldiers — these 
 Cossacks were all cut off as day was breaking. 
 
 And found their lives were let at a short lease — 
 But perish'd without shivering or shaking. 
 
 Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses, 
 O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi 
 March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki: — 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met. 
 But could not eat them, being in his turn 
 
 Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet, 
 Without resistance, see their city burn. 
 
 The walls were won, but 'twas an even bet 
 
 Which of the armies would have cause to mourn: 
 
 'T was blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, 
 
 For one would not retreat, nor t' other flinch. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Another column also suffer'd much : 
 
 And here we may remark with the historian, 
 
 You should but give few cartridges to such 
 
 Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory : 
 
 When matters must be carried by the touch 
 Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on. 
 
 They sometimes, widi a hankering for existence, 
 
 Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. 
 
 xxxix. 
 A junction of the General Meknop's men 
 
 (Without the General, who had fallen some time 
 Before, being badly seconded just then) 
 
 Was made at length, with those who dared to climb 
 The death-disgorging rampart once again ; 
 
 And, though the Turks' resistance was sublime, 
 They took the bastion, which the Seraskier 
 Defended at a price extremely dear. 
 
 rxxx. 
 Juan and Johnson and some volunteers. 
 
 Among the foremost, ofFer'd him good quarter, 
 A word which little suits with Seraskiers, 
 
 Or at least suited not this valiant Tarteu*. — 
 He died, deserving well his country's tears, 
 
 A savage sort of military martyr. 
 An English naval officer, who wish'd 
 To make him prisoner, was also dish'd. 
 
 LXXXI, 
 
 For all the answer to his proposition 
 
 Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead ; 
 
 On which the rest, without more intermission, 
 Began to lay about with steel and lead, — 
 
 The pious metals most in requisition 
 On such occasions : not a single head 
 
 Was spared, — three thousand Moslems perish'd here 
 
 And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier, 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 The city 's taken — only part by part — 
 
 And death is drunk with gore : there 's not a street 
 Where fights not to the last some desperate heart 
 
 For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat. 
 Here War forgot his own destructive art 
 
 In more destroying nature ; and the heat 
 Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime, 
 Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 A Russian officer, in martial tread 
 
 Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 
 Seized fast, as if 't were by the serpent's head. 
 
 Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel. 
 In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled, 
 
 And howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal — 
 The teeth still kept their gratifying hold, 
 As do the subtle snakes described of old. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot 
 Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit 
 
 The very tendon which is most acute — 
 
 (That which some ancient Muse or modem wit 
 
 Named after thee, Achilles) and quite through 't 
 He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it 
 
 Even with his life — for (but they lie) 't is said 
 
 To the live leg still clung the sever'd head. 
 
 However this mav be, 
 
 pretty sure 
 
 The Russian officer for life was lamed, 
 For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer, 
 
 And left him 'mid the invalid and maim'd : 
 The regimental surgeon could not cure 
 
 His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed 
 More than the head of the inveterate foe. 
 Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go. 
 
Canto VIII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 .667 
 
 txxxvi. 
 
 But then the fact's a fact — and 't is the part 
 
 Of a true poet to escape from fiction 
 Whene'er he can ; for there is little art 
 
 In leaving verse more free from the restriction 
 Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart 
 
 For what is sometimes call'd poetic diction, 
 And that outrageous appetite for lies 
 Which Satan angles with for souls like flies. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 The' city 's taken, but not render'd ! — No ! 
 
 There 's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword : 
 The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow 
 
 Rolls by the city wall ; but deed nor word 
 Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe ; 
 
 In vain the yell of victory is roar'd 
 By the advancing Muscovite — the groan 
 Of the last foe is echoed by his own. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, 
 And human lives are lavish'd every where, 
 
 As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves. 
 When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air, 
 
 And groans ; and thus the peopled city grieves, 
 Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare ; 
 
 But still it falls with vast and awful splinters. 
 
 As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 It is an awful topic — ^but 't is not 
 
 My cue for any time to be terrific : 
 For chequer'd as it seems our human lot 
 
 With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific 
 Of melancholy merriment, to quote 
 
 Too much of one sort would be soporific ; 
 Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 
 I sketch your world exactly as it goes. 
 
 xc. 
 And one good action in the midst of crimes 
 
 Is " quite refreshing" — in the affected phrase 
 Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times, 
 
 With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, — 
 And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, 
 
 A little scorch'd at present with the blaze 
 Of conquest and its consequences, which 
 Make epic poesy so rai-e and rich. 
 
 xci. 
 Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 
 
 Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group 
 Of murder'd women, who had found their way 
 
 To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop 
 And shudder ; — while, as beautiful as May, 
 
 A female child of ten years tried to stoop 
 And hide her litde palpitating breast 
 Amid the bodies lull'd in bloody rest. 
 
 xcir. 
 Two villanous Cossacks pursued the child 
 
 With flashing eyes and weapons : match'd with th 
 The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild 
 
 Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem,— 
 The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild: 
 
 And whom for this at last must we condemn ? 
 Their natures, or their sovereigns, who employ 
 All arts to teach theii- subjects to destroy ? 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head. 
 
 Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright. 
 
 Her hidden face was plunged amid the dead : 
 When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight. 
 
 I shall not say exactly what he said, 
 Because it might not solace " ears polite ;" 
 
 But what he did, was to lay on their backs,— 
 
 The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacks. 
 
 One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder, 
 Ar,d drove them with their brutal yells to seek 
 
 If there might be chirurgcons who could solder 
 The wounds they riclily merited, and shriek 
 
 Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing colder 
 As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, 
 
 Don Juan raised his litde captive from 
 
 The heap a moment more had made her tomb. 
 
 xcv. 
 And she was chill as they, and on her face 
 
 A slender streak of blood armounced how near 
 Her fate had been to that of aU her race ; 
 
 For the same blow which laid her mother here 
 Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace 
 
 As the last link with all she had held dear 
 But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes, 
 And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise. 
 
 xcvi. 
 Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd 
 
 Upon each other, with dilated glance. 
 In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd 
 
 With joy to save, and dread of some mischance 
 Unto his protege ; while hers, transfix'd 
 
 With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, 
 A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, 
 Like to a lighted alabaster vase ; — 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Up came John Johnson — (I will not say " Jack" 
 For that were vulgar, cold, and commonplace 
 
 On great occasions, such as an attack 
 
 On cities, as hath been the present case) — 
 
 Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back, 
 Exclaiming : — Juan ! Juan ! On, boy ! brace 
 
 Your arm, and I '11 bet Moscow to a dollar. 
 
 That you and I will win St. George's collar.^ 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 " The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head, 
 But the stone bastion still remains, wherein 
 
 The old pacha sits among some hundreds dead. 
 Smoking his pipe quite calmly, 'mid the din 
 
 Of our artillery and his own ; 't is said 
 Our kill'd already piled up to the chin. 
 
 Lie round the battery ; but still it batters. 
 
 And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 
 
 xcix. 
 " Then up with me !" — But Juan answer'd, " Look 
 
 Upon this child — I sav'd her — must not leave 
 Her life to chance ; but point me out some nook 
 
 Of safety, where she less may shriek and grieve, 
 And I am with you." — Whereon Johnson took 
 
 A glance around — andshrugg'd — and twitch'd his sleeve 
 And black silk neckcloth — and replied, '* You 're right; 
 Poor thing! what 's to be done ? I 'm puzzled quite." 
 
 c. 
 Said Juan — " Whatsoever is to be 
 
 Done, I '11 not quit her till she seems secure 
 Of present life a good deal more than we."— 
 
 Q,uoth Johnson — " Neither will I quite insure ; 
 But at the least you may die gloriously." 
 
 Juan replied — " At least I will endure 
 Whate'er is to be borne — but not resign 
 This child, who 's parentless, and therefore mine." 
 
 CI. 
 
 Johnson said — " Juan, we 've no time to lose ; 
 
 The child 's a pretty child — a very pretty— 
 I never saw such eyes — but hark ! now choose 
 
 Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity : 
 Hark ! how the roar increases ! — ^no excuse 
 
 Will serve when there is plunder in a city ;— 
 I should be loth to march without you, but, 
 By God ! we 'U be too late for the first cut." 
 
568. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Camo VIIL 
 
 But Juan was immoveable ; imtil 
 Johnson, who really loved him in his way, 
 
 Pick'd out among his followers with some skill 
 Such as he thought the least given up to prey : 
 
 And swearing if the infant came to ill 
 
 That they should all be shot on the next day, 
 
 But if she were delivered safe and sound, 
 
 They should at least have fifty roubles round, 
 
 cm. 
 
 And all allowances besides of plunder 
 
 In fair proportion with their comrades ; — then 
 
 Juan consented to march on through thunder. 
 Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of men • 
 
 And yet die rest rush'd eagerly — no wonder, 
 For they were heated by the hope of gain, 
 
 A thing which happens every where each day — 
 
 No hero trusteth wholly to half-pay. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 And such is victory, and such is man ! 
 
 At least nine-tenths of what we call so ; — God 
 May have another name for half we scan 
 
 As human beings, or his ways are odd. 
 But to our subject: a brave Tartar Khan, — 
 
 Or " suUan,^^ as the author (to whose nod 
 In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call 
 This chieftain — somehow would not yield at all : 
 
 cv. 
 But, flank'd by Jive brave sons (such is polygamy. 
 
 That she spawns warriors by the score, where none 
 Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy) 
 
 He never would believe the city won, 
 While courage clung but to a single twig. — ^Am I 
 
 Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son? 
 Neither,— but a good, plain, old, temperate man, 
 Who fought with his five children in the van. 
 
 cvi. 
 To lake him was the point. The truly brave, 
 
 ■Wlien they behold the brave oppress'd with odds, 
 Are touch'd with a desire to shield or save ; — 
 
 A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods 
 Are they — now furious as the sweeping wave, 
 
 Nov/ moved with pity : even as sometimes nods 
 The rugged tree unto the summer wind, 
 Compassion breathes along the savage mind. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 But he would not be taken, and replied 
 
 To all the propositions of surrender 
 By mowing Christians down on every side, 
 
 As obstmate as Swedish Charles at Bender. 
 His five brave boys no less the foe defied : 
 
 Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender. 
 As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience. 
 Apt to wear out on trifling provocations. 
 
 CVIII, 
 
 And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who 
 Expended all their eastern phraseology 
 
 In begging him, for God's sake, just to show 
 So much less fight as might form an apology 
 
 For Ihem in saving such a desperate foe — 
 He hew'd away, like doctors of theology 
 
 When they dispute with skeptics ; and with curses 
 
 Struck at his friends, as babies beat tlieir nurses. 
 
 cix. 
 Nay, he had wounded, though but slightiy, both 
 
 Juan and Johnson, whereupon they fell — 
 The first with sighs, the second with an oath — 
 
 Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell, 
 And all around were grown exceeding wroth 
 
 At such a pertinacious infidel. 
 And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain, 
 Which they resisted like a sandy plain, 
 
 That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd :— ■ 
 
 His second son was levell'd by a shot ; 
 His third was sabred ; and the fourth, most cherish'd 
 
 Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot ; 
 The fifth, who. by a Christian mother nourish'd. 
 
 Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not, 
 Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom, 
 To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, 
 
 As great a scorner of the Nazarene 
 As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr. 
 
 Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green, 
 Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter 
 
 On earth, in Paradise ; and, when once seen. 
 Those Houris, like all other pretty creatures, 
 Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features. 
 
 CXII. 
 
 And what they pleased to do with the young Khan 
 In heaven, I know not, nor pretend to guess ; 
 
 But doubtless they prefer a fine young man 
 To tough old heroes, and can do no less; 
 
 And that 's the cause, no doubt, why, if we scan 
 A field of batde's ghastly wilderness, 
 
 For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body, 
 
 You '11 find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 Your Houris also have a natural pleasure 
 
 In lopping off your lately married men 
 Before the bridal hours have danced their measure, 
 
 And the sad second moon grows dim again, 
 Or dull Repentance hath had dreary leisure 
 
 To wish him back a bachelor now and then. 
 And thus your Houri (it may be) disputes 
 Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits. 
 
 cxiv. 
 Thus the young Khan, with Houris in his sight, 
 
 Thought not upon the charms of four young brides, 
 But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night. 
 
 In short, howe'er our better faith derides. 
 These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight, 
 
 As though there were one heaven and none besides,— 
 Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven 
 And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 
 
 cxv. 
 So fully flash'd the pharitom on his eyes, 
 
 That when the very lance was in his heart, 
 He shouted, " AUah I" and saw Paradise 
 
 With all its veil of mystery dra^vn apart, 
 And bright eternity without disguise 
 
 On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart, — 
 With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried 
 In one voluptuous blaze, — and then he died: 
 
 cxvi. 
 But, with a heavenly rapture on his face. 
 
 The good old Khan — who long had ceased to see 
 Houris, or aught except his florid race, 
 
 Who grew like cedars round him gloriously — 
 When he beheld his latest hero grace 
 
 The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree. 
 Paused for a moment from the fight, and cast 
 A glance on that slain son, his first and last. 
 
 cxvii. 
 The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point, 
 
 Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede 
 Quarter, in case he bade them not ** aroint!" 
 
 As he before had done. He did not heed 
 Their pause nor signs : his heart was out of joint, 
 
 And shook (till now imshaken) like a reed, 
 As he look'd down upon his children gone, 
 And felt — though done with life — he was done. 
 
Canto VIII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 569 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 But 't was a transient tremor : — with a spring 
 Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung, 
 
 As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing 
 Against the light wherein she dies : he clung 
 
 Closer, that all the deadlier they might wing, 
 Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young ; 
 
 And, throwing back a dim look on his sons, 
 
 In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once. 
 
 cxix. 
 T is strange enough — the rough, tough soldiers, who 
 
 Spared neither sex nor age in their career 
 Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through, 
 
 And lay before them with his children near, 
 Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew. 
 
 Were melted for a moment ; though no tear 
 Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red with strife, 
 They honour'd such determined scorn of life. 
 
 cxx. 
 But the stone bastion still kept up its fire. 
 
 Where the chief Pacha calmly held his post : 
 Some twenty times he made the Russ retire, 
 
 And baffled the assaults of all their host ; 
 At length he condescended to inquire 
 
 If yet the city's rest were won or lost ; 
 And, being told the latter, sent a Bey 
 To answer Ribeis' summons to give way. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid. 
 Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking 
 
 Tobacco on a little carpet ; — Troy 
 
 Saw nothing like the scene around ; — yet, looking 
 
 With martial stoicism, naught seem'd to annoy 
 His stern philosophy : but gently stroking 
 
 His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial gales, 
 
 As if he had three lives, as well as tails. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 The town was taken — whether he might yield 
 Himself or bastion, little mattered now ; 
 
 His stubborn valour was no future shield. 
 
 Ismail 's no more ! The crescent's silver bow 
 
 Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field, 
 But red with no redeeming gore : the glow 
 
 Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water, 
 
 W£is imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 All that the mind would shrink from of excesses ; 
 
 All that the body perpetrates of bad ; 
 All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses ; 
 
 All that the devil would do if run stark mad -^ 
 All that defies the worst which pen expresses ; 
 
 All by which hell is peopled, or as sad 
 As hell — mere mortals who their power abuse, — 
 Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. 
 
 CXXIT. 
 
 1£ here and there some transient trait of pity, 
 
 Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through 
 
 Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty 
 Child, or an aged helpless man or two — 
 
 What 's this in one annihilated city, 
 
 Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grow ? 
 
 Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris I 
 
 Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 
 
 cxxv. 
 Think how the joys of reading a gazette 
 
 Are purchased by all agonies and crimes : 
 Or, if these do not move you, do n't forget 
 
 Such doom may be your own in after times. 
 Meantime the taxes, Castlereagh, and debt. 
 
 Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. 
 Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story ,^ 
 Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. 
 3 W 
 
 CXXVI, 
 
 But still there is unto a patriot nation, 
 Which loves so well its country and its kingj 
 
 A subject of subliraest exultation—- 
 Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing ! 
 
 Howe'er the mighty locust. Desolation, 
 
 Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, 
 
 Gaunt Famine never shall approach the throne — 
 
 Tho' Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone. 
 
 CXXVII. 
 
 But let me put an end unto my theme : 
 
 There was an end of Ismail-— hapless town! 
 
 Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream^ 
 And redly ran his blushing waters down. 
 
 The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 
 Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders grown : 
 
 Of forty thousand who iiad raann'd the wall, 
 
 Some hundreds breathed — the rest were silent all! 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 
 In one thing ne'erlheless 't is fit to praise 
 
 The Russian army upon this occasion, 
 A virtue much in fashion now-a-days. 
 
 And therefore worthy of commemoration : 
 The topic's tender, so shall be my phrase^ 
 
 Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station 
 In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual, 
 Had made them chaste ;— they ravish'd very little. 
 
 cxxix. 
 Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less 
 
 Might hei-e and there occur some violation 
 In the other line ; — but not to such excess 
 
 As when the French, that dissipated nation, 
 Take towns by storm : no causes can I guess,- 
 
 Except cold weather and commiseration ; 
 But ail the ladies, save some twenty score. 
 Were almost as much virgins as before. 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 Some odd mistakes loo happen'd in the dark, 
 
 Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste — 
 Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark 
 
 Their friends from foes , — besides such things from haste- 
 Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark 
 Of light to save the venerably chaste : — 
 But six old damsels, each of seventy years. 
 Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers'. 
 
 cxxxr. 
 
 But on the whole their continence was great ; 
 
 So that some disappointment there ensued 
 To those who had felt the inconvenient state 
 , Of " single blessedness," and thought it good 
 (Since it was not their fault, but only fate, 
 
 To bear these crosses) for each waning prude 
 To make a Roman sort of Sabine weddinof. 
 Without the expense and the suspense of bedding, 
 
 cxxxii. 
 Some voices of the buxom middle-aged 
 
 Were also heard to wonder in the din 
 (Widows of forty were these birds long caged) 
 
 " Wherefore the ravishing did not begin !" 
 But, while the thirst for gore and plunder raged. 
 
 There was small leisure for superfluous sin^ 
 But whether they escaped or no, lies hid 
 In darkness — I can only hope they did. 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 Suwarrow now was conqueror — a match 
 
 For Timor or for Zinghis in his trade. 
 While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatcfj 
 
 Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd, 
 With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch ; 
 
 And here exactly follows what he said ; — 
 " Glory to God and to the Empress !" {Powers 
 Eternal ! such names mingled !) " Ismail 's ours I"' * 
 
670 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto IX. 
 
 CXXXIV, 
 
 Methinks these are the most tremendous words, 
 Since " Menfe, Men6, Tekel," and "Upharsin, 
 
 Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. 
 Heaven help me ! I 'm but little of a parson : 
 
 What Daniel read was shorthand of the Lord's, 
 Severe, sublime ; the prophets wrote no farce on 
 
 The fate of nations ; — but this Russ, so witty, 
 
 Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city. 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 He wrote this polar melody, and set it, 
 Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, 
 
 Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it — 
 For I will teach, if possible, the stones 
 
 To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 
 Be said, that we still truckle unto thrones ; — 
 
 But ye — our children's children ! think how we 
 
 Show'd what things were before the world was free ! 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 
 That hour is not for us, but 't is for you ; 
 
 And as, in the great joy of your millennium, 
 You hardly will believe such things were true 
 
 As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 'em ; 
 But may their very memory perish too ! — 
 
 Yet, if perchance remember'd, still disdam you 'em. 
 More than you scorn the savages of yore, 
 Yiho pcdnted their bare litnbs, but not with gore, 
 
 cxxxvii. 
 And when you hear historians talk of thrones, 
 
 And those that sate upon them, let it be 
 As we now gaze upon the Mammoth's bones. 
 
 And wonder what old world such things could see ; 
 Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones. 
 
 The pleasant riddles of futurity — 
 Guessing at what shall happily be hid 
 As the real purpose of a pyramid. 
 
 CXXXVIII. 
 
 Reader! I have kept my word, — at least so far 
 As the first canto promised. You have now 
 
 Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war — 
 All very accurate, you must allow, 
 
 And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar ; 
 For I have drawn much less with a long bow 
 
 Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing, 
 
 But PhcBbus lends me now and then a string, 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. 
 
 What further hath befallen or may befall 
 The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 
 
 I by ajid by may tell you, if at all : 
 But now I choose to break off in the middle, 
 
 Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall, 
 While Juan is sent off with the despatch, 
 For which all Petersburgh is on the watch. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 This special honour was conferr'd, because 
 He had behaved with courage and humanity ; — 
 
 Which last men like, when they have time to paus 
 From their ferocities produced by vanity. 
 
 His litde captive gain'd him some applause, 
 For saving her amid the wild insanity 
 
 Of carnage, and I think he was more glad in her 
 
 Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir. 
 
 CXLI, 
 
 The Moslem orphan went with her protector, 
 For she was homeless, houseless, helpless: all 
 
 Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 
 Had perish'd in the field or by the wall : 
 
 Her very place of birth was but a spectre 
 
 Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's call 
 
 To prayer was heard no more ! — and Juan wept, 
 
 And made a vow to shield her, which he kept. 
 
 CANTO IX. 
 
 Oh, Wellington ! (or " Vilainton" — for fame 
 Sounds the heroic syllables both ways ; 
 
 France could not even conquer your great name, 
 But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase — 
 
 Beating or beaten she will laugh the same) — 
 
 You have obtain'd great pensions and much praise 
 
 Glory like yours should any dare gainsay. 
 
 Humanity would rise, and thunder "Nay !" ' 
 
 II. 
 I do n't think that you used Kinnaird quite well 
 
 In Marinet's affair — in fact 't was shabby, 
 And, like some other things, won't do to tell 
 
 Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. 
 Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell. 
 
 Such tales being for the tea hours of some tabby; 
 But though your years as man tend fast to zero. 
 In fact your grace is still but a young hero. 
 
 III. 
 Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much, 
 
 Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more ; 
 You have repair'd legitimacy's crutch — 
 
 A prop not quite so certain as before : 
 The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, 
 
 Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore ; 
 And Waterloo has made the world your debtor — 
 (I wish your bards would sing it rather better.) 
 
 IV. 
 
 You are " the best of cut-throats :" — do not start ; 
 
 The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied: 
 War 's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, 
 
 Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 
 If you have acted once a generous part, 
 
 The world, not the world's masters, will decide, 
 And I shall be delighted to learn who. 
 Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo ? 
 
 V. 
 
 I am no flatterer — you 've supp'd full of flattery : 
 They say you like it too — 't is no great wonder : 
 
 He whose whole life has been assault and battery. 
 At last may get a little tired of thunder ; 
 
 And, swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he 
 May like being praised for every lucky blunder : 
 
 Call'd " Saviour of the Nations" — not yet saved, 
 
 And " Europe's Liberator" — still enslaved. 
 
 VI. 
 
 I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate 
 Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 
 
 And send the sentinel before your gate, ^ 
 A slice or two from your luxurious meals : 
 
 He fought, but has not fed so well of late. 
 Some hunger too they say the people feels : 
 
 There is no doubt that you deserve your ration — 
 
 But pray give back a little to the nation. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I do n't mean to reflect — a man so great as 
 You, my Lord Duke ! is far above reflection. 
 
 The high Roman fashion too of Cincinnatus 
 With modern history has but small connexion ; 
 
 Though as an Irishman you love potatoes. 
 You need not take them under your direction; 
 
 And half a million for your Sabine farm 
 
 Is rather dear ! — I 'm sure I mean no harm. 
 
Canto IX. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 571 
 
 Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses ; 
 
 Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, 
 Not leaving even his funeral expenses : 
 
 George Washington had thanks and naught beside, 
 Except the al!-cioudless glory (which few men's is) 
 
 To free his country : Pitt too had his pride, 
 And, as a high-soul'd minister of state, is 
 Renown'd for ruining Great Britain, gratis. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Never had mortal man such opportunity, 
 
 Except Napoleon, or abused it more : 
 You might have freed fall'n Europe from the unity 
 
 Of tyrants, and been bless'd from shore to shore ; 
 And now — what is your fame ? Shall the muse tune it ye ? 
 
 Now — that the rabble's first vaiu shouts are o'er ? 
 Go, hear it in your faniish'd country's cries ! 
 Behold the world ! and curse your victories ! 
 
 X. 
 
 As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, 
 Toyouthe unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe 
 
 Truths that you will not read in the gazettes. 
 But which, 't is time to teach the hireling tribe 
 
 Who fatten on their country's gore and debts, 
 Must be recited, and — without a bribe. 
 
 You did great things; but, not being great in mind, 
 
 Have left undone the greatest — and mankind. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Death laughs — Go ponder o'er the skeleton 
 With which men image out the unknown thing 
 
 That hides the past world, like to a set sun 
 
 Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring : 
 
 Death laughs at all you weep for ; — looli upon 
 This hourly dread of all whose threatened sting 
 
 Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath ! 
 
 Mark ! how its lipless mouth grins without breath 
 
 XII. 
 
 Mark ! how it laughs and scorns at all you are ! 
 
 And yet was what you are : from ear to ear 
 It laughs not — there is now no fleshy bar 
 
 So call'd ; the antic long hath ceased to hear, 
 But still he smiles ; and whether near or far, 
 
 He strips from man that mantle — (far more dear 
 Than even the tailor's) — his incarnate skin. 
 White, black, or copper — the dead bones will grin. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And thus Death laughs, — it is sad merriment, 
 
 But still it is so ; and with such example 
 Why should not Life be equally content, 
 
 With his superior, in a smile to trample 
 Upon the nothings which are daily spent 
 
 Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 
 Than the eternal deluge, which devours 
 Suns as rays — worlds like atoms — ^j'ears like ours? 
 
 XIV. 
 
 *' To be, or not to be ! that is the question," 
 
 Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. 
 
 I am neither Alexander nor Hephgestion, 
 
 Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion ; 
 
 But would much rather have a sound digestion, 
 Than Buonaparte's cancer: — could I dash on 
 
 Through fifty victories to shame or fame, 
 
 Without a stomach — what were a good name ? 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Oh, dura ilia messorum !" — " Oh, 
 
 Ye rigid guts of reapers!" — I translate 
 For the great benefit of those who know 
 
 What indigestion is — that inward fate 
 Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow 
 
 A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate : 
 Let this one toil for bread — that rack for rent, — • 
 He who sleeps best may be the most content. 
 
 " To be, or not to be !" — Ere I decide, 
 I should be glad to know that which is being. 
 
 'T is true we speculate both far and wide, 
 And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing: 
 
 For my part, I '11 enlist on neither side, 
 Until I see both sides for once agreeing, 
 
 For me, I sometimes think that life is death, 
 
 Rather than life a mere affair of breath. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 '' due sais-je?" was the motto of Montaigne, 
 
 As also of the first academicians: 
 That all is dubious which man may attain, 
 
 Was one of their most favourite positions. 
 There 's no such thing as certainty, that 's plain 
 
 As any of mortality's conditions : 
 So little do we know what we 're about in 
 This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, 
 
 Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation; 
 But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? 
 
 Your wise men do n't know much of navigation ; 
 And swimming loug in the abyss of thought 
 
 Is apt to tire : a calm and shallow station 
 Well nigh the shore, where one stoops dowTi and gathers 
 Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " But heaven," as Cassio says, " is above all. — 
 No more of this then, — let us pray !" We have 
 
 Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall, 
 Which tumbled all mankind into the grave. 
 
 Besides fish, beasts, and birds. " The sparrow's fall 
 Is special providence," though how it gave 
 
 Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd 
 
 Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Oh, ye immortal gods! what is theogony? 
 
 Oh, thou too mortal man! what is philanthropy? 
 Oh, world, which was and is ! what is cosmogony? 
 
 Some people have accused me of misanthropy ; 
 And yet I know no more than the mahogany 
 
 That forms this desk, of what they mean : — Lykan- 
 I comprehend ; for, without transformation, [thropy 
 
 Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, 
 Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er 
 
 Done any thing exceedingly unkind, — 
 
 And (though I could not now and then forbear 
 
 Following the bent of body or of mind) 
 Have always had a tendency to spare, — 
 
 Why do they call me misanthrope ? Because 
 
 Th^ hate me, not I tJiem : — And here we '11 pause. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 'T is time we should proceed with our good poem, 
 
 For I maintain that it is really good, 
 Not only in the body, but the proem, 
 
 However little both are understood 
 Just now, — but by and by the truth will show 'em 
 
 Herself in her sublimest attitude : 
 And till she doth, I fain must be content 
 To share her beauty and her banishment. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader ! yours) — 
 
 Was left upon his way to the chief city 
 Of the immortal Peter's poHsh'd boors, 
 
 Who still have shown themselves more brave than witty ; 
 T know its mighty empire now allures 
 
 Much flattery — even Voltaire's, and that 's a pity. 
 For me, I deem an absolute autocrat 
 ^ot a barbarian, but much worse than that. 
 
672 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto IX. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And I will war, at least in words (and^— should 
 My chance so happen — deeds) with all who war 
 
 With thought ; — and of thought's foes by far most rude, 
 Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. 
 
 I know not who may conquer : if I could 
 Have such a prescience, it should be no bar 
 
 To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation 
 
 Of every despotism in every nation. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 It is not that I adulate the people : 
 Without me there are demagogues enough, 
 
 And infidels to pull down every steeple, 
 And set up in their stead some proper stuff. 
 
 Whether they may sow skepticism to reap hell, 
 As is the Christian dogma rather rough, 
 
 I do not know ;— I wish men to be free 
 
 As much from mobs as kings— from you as me, 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The consequence is, being of no party, 
 
 I shall offend all parties : — never mind ! 
 My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty 
 
 Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 
 He who has naught to gain can have small art : he 
 
 Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind 
 May still expatiate freely, as will I, 
 Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 That 's an appropriate simile, that jackal ; 
 
 I 've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl 
 By night, as do that mercenary pack all, 
 
 Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, 
 And scent the prey their masters would attack all. 
 
 However the poor jackals are less foul 
 (As being the brave lion's keen providers) 
 Than human insects, catering for spiders, 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Raise but an arm! 't will brush their web away, 
 And without that, their poison and their claws 
 
 Are useless. Mind, good people I what I say — 
 (Or rather peoples) — go on without pause ! 
 
 The web of these tarantulas each day 
 
 Increases, till you shall make common cause 
 
 None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, 
 
 As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, 
 Was left upon his way with the despatch, 
 
 Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water ; 
 And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch 
 
 O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 
 
 Fair Catherine's pastime — who look'd on the match 
 
 Between these nations as a main of cocks, 
 
 Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.' 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And there in a kihiika he rollM on, 
 
 (A cursed sort of carriage without springs, 
 
 Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone,) 
 Pondering on £rlory, chivalry, and kings. 
 
 And orders, and on all that he had done — 
 And wishing that post-horses had the wings 
 
 Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises 
 
 Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 At every jolt — and there were many — still 1 
 He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge. 
 
 As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill 
 Than he, in these sad highways left at large 
 
 To ruts and flints, and lovely nature's skill. 
 Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge 
 
 On her canals, where God takes sea and land, 
 
 Fishery and farm, both into his ovm hand. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 At least he pays no rent, and has best right 
 
 To be the first of what we used to call 
 ' Gentlemen farmers " — a race worn out quite, 
 
 Since lately there have been no rents at all, 
 :\nd " gentlemen" are in a piteous plight, 
 
 And " farmers" can't raise Ceres from her fall: 
 She fell witli Buonaparte : — What strange thoughts 
 Arise, when we see emperors fail with oats ! 
 
 XXXIII, 
 
 But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 
 
 Whom he had saved from slaughter — what a trophy ! 
 
 Oh ! ye who build up monuments, defiled 
 
 With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive Sophy, 
 
 AVho, after leaving Hindostan a wild, 
 And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee 
 
 To sooth his woes withal, was slain, the sinner! 
 
 Because he could no more digest his dinner : — 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Oh ye ! or we ! or she ! or he ! reflect, 
 
 That<m€ life saved, especially if young 
 Or pretty, is a thing to recollect 
 
 Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung 
 From the manure of human clay, though deck'd 
 
 With all the praises ever said or sung: 
 Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within 
 Your heari joins choms, fame is but a din. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Oh, ye gr«it authors luminous, voluminous I 
 Yet twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes ! 
 
 Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers illumine us! 
 Whether you 're paid by government in bribes, 
 
 To prove the public debt is not consuming us — 
 Of, roughly lareading on the " courtier's kibes" 
 
 Widi clownish heel, your popular circulation 
 
 Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation : — 
 
 xxxvr. 
 
 Oh, ve great authors ! — " Apropos de bottes" — 
 
 I have forgotten what I meant to say. 
 As sometimes ha*'e been greater sages' lots : 
 
 'T was something calculated to allay 
 AH wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots: 
 
 Certes it would have been but thrown away, 
 And that 's one comfort for my lost advice, 
 Although no doubt it was beyond all price. 
 
 xxxvii. 
 
 But let it go ; it will one day be found 
 With other relics of " a former world," 
 
 When this world shall be farmer, underground, 
 Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd, 
 
 Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside out, or drown'd, 
 Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd 
 
 First out of and then back again to chaos, 
 
 The superstratum which will overlay us. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 So Cuvier says ; — and then shall come again 
 
 Unto the new creation, rising out 
 From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain 
 
 Of things destrov'd and left in airy doubt : 
 Like to the notions we now entertain 
 
 Of Titans, giants, fellows of about 
 Some hundred feet in height, not to say mileSf 
 And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up ! 
 
 How the new worldlings of the then new east 
 Will wonder where such animals could sup ! 
 
 (For they themselves will be but of the least : 
 Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, 
 
 And every new creation hath decreased 
 In size, from overworking the material — 
 Men are but maggots of some huge earth's burial.)— 
 
Canto IX. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 573 
 
 How will — to these young people, just thrust out 
 From some fresh paradise, and set to plough, 
 
 And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about. 
 And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, 
 
 Till all the arts at length are brought about, 
 Especially of war and taxing — how, 
 
 I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em. 
 
 Look like the monsters of a new museum I 
 
 XLI. 
 
 But I am apt to grow too metaphysical : 
 " The time is out of joint," — and so am I ; 
 
 I quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical, 
 And deviate into matters rather dry. 
 
 I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I call 
 Much too poetical : men should know why 
 
 They write, and for what end ; but, note or text, 
 
 I never know the word which will come next. 
 
 So on I ramble, now and then narrating. 
 
 Now pondering : — it is time we should narrate : 
 
 I left Don Juan with his horses baiting — 
 
 Now we '11 get o'er the ground at a great rate. 
 
 I shall not be particular in stating 
 
 His journey, we 've so many tours of late : 
 
 Suppose him then at Petersburgh ; suppose 
 
 That pleasant capital of painted snows ; 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Suppose him in a handsome uniform; 
 
 A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, 
 Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm. 
 
 Over a cock'd hat, in a crowded room. 
 And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, 
 
 Of yellow kerseymere we may presume, 
 White stockings drawn, uncurdled as new milk, 
 O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk : 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Suppose him, sword by side, and hat in hand. 
 Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor — 
 
 That great enchanter, at whose rod's command 
 Beauty springs forth, and nature's self turns paler, 
 
 Seeing how art can make her work more grand, 
 
 (When she do n't pin men's limbs in like a jailer)— 
 
 Behold him placed as if upon a pillar ! He 
 
 Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery ? 
 
 XLV. 
 
 His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat ; 
 
 His wings subdued to epaulets ; his quiver 
 Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 
 
 His side as a small-sword, but sharp as ever ; 
 His bow converted into a cock'd hat ; 
 
 But still so like. Psyche were more clever 
 Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid) 
 If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and 
 
 The empress smiled ; the reigning favourite frown' d- 
 
 I quite forget which of them was in hand 
 Just then, as they are rather numerous found. 
 
 Who took by turns that difficult command. 
 Since first her majesty was singly crown'd: 
 
 But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, 
 
 All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, 
 Blushing and beardless ; and yet ne'ertheless 
 
 There was a something in his turn of limb, 
 And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express, 
 
 That though he look'd one of the seraphim, 
 There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress. 
 
 Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy. 
 
 And had just buried the fair- faced Lanskoi : * 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 No wonder then that YermolofF, or MomonofF, 
 
 Or ScherbatofF, or any other off, 
 Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough 
 
 Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 
 For a new flame ; a thought to cast of gloom enough 
 
 Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, 
 Of him who, in the language of his station, 
 Then held that " high official situation." 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Oh, gentle ladies ! should you seek to know 
 
 The import of this diplomatic phrase. 
 Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess * show 
 
 His parts of speech ; and in the strange displays 
 Of that odd string of words all in a row, 
 
 Which none divine, and every one obeys, 
 Perhaps you may pick out some queer no-meaning, 
 Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. 
 
 L. 
 
 I think 1 can explain myself without 
 
 That sad inexplicable beast of prey — 
 That sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, 
 
 Did not his deeds unriddle them each day — 
 That monstrous hieroglyphic — that long spout 
 
 Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh ! 
 And here I must an anecdote relate. 
 But luckily of no great length or weight. 
 
 LI. 
 
 An English lady ask'd of an Italian, 
 What were the actual and official duties 
 
 Of the strange thing some women set a value on, 
 Which hovers oft about some married beauties, 
 
 Call'd " Cavalier Servente ?" — a Pygmalion 
 
 Whose statues warm (I fear, alas ! too true 't is) 
 
 Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them, 
 
 Said — " Lady, I beseech you to suppose them.^^ 
 
 Lir. 
 And thus I supplicate your supposition. 
 
 And mildest, matron-like interpretation 
 Of the imperial favourite's condition. 
 
 'T was a high place, the highest in the nation 
 In fact, if not in rank ; and the suspicion 
 
 Of any one's attaining to his station, 
 No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders, 
 If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy. 
 And had retain'd his boyish look beyond 
 
 The usual hirsute seasons, which destroy, 
 With beards and whiskers and the like, the fond 
 
 Parisian aspect which upset old Troy 
 
 And founded Doctors' Commons : — I have conn'd 
 
 The history of divorces, which, though chequer'd. 
 
 Calls Ilion's the first damages on record. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 And Catherine, who loved all things, (save her lord, 
 Who was gone to his place,) and pass'd for much, 
 
 Admiring those (by dadnty dames abhorr'd) 
 Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 
 
 Of sentiment ; and he she most adored 
 Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such 
 
 A lover as had cost her many a tear. 
 
 And yet but made a middling grenadier. 
 
 L,V. 
 
 Oh, thou " teterrima causa" of all " belli!" — 
 Thou gate of life and death ! — thou nondescript J 
 
 Whence is our exit and our entrance, — well I 
 May pause in pondering how all souls are dipp'd 
 
 In thy perennial fountain ! — how man fell, I 
 Know not, since knowledge saw her branches Btripp'd 
 
 Of her first fruit ; but how he falls and rises 
 
 Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises. 
 
574 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto IX, 
 
 LVI, 
 
 Some call thee " the worst cause of war," but I 
 Maintain thou art the best : for, after all, 
 
 From thee we come, to thee we go ; and why, 
 To get at tliee, not batter down a wall, 
 
 Or waste a world? Since no one can deny 
 Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small : 
 
 With, or without thee, all things at a stand 
 
 Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land! 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Catherine, who was the grand epitome 
 
 Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what 
 
 You please, (it causes all the things which be, 
 So you may take your choice of this or that) — 
 
 Catherine, I say, was very glad to see 
 
 The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat 
 
 Victory ; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 
 
 Witli his despatch, forgot to break the seal. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 
 Forgetting quite the woman, (which composed 
 
 At least three parts of this great whole,) she tore 
 The letter open with an air which posed 
 
 The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore, 
 Until a royal smile at length disclosed 
 
 Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious, 
 
 Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Great joy was hers, or rather joys ; the first 
 
 Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 
 Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst, 
 
 As an East-Indian sunrise on the main. 
 These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst — 
 
 So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain : 
 In vain ! — As fall the dews on quenchless sands, 
 Blood only serves to wash ambition's hands ' 
 
 LX. 
 
 Her next amusement was more fanciful ; 
 
 She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw 
 Into a Russian couplet, rather dull, 
 
 The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. 
 Her third was feminine enough to annul 
 
 The shudder which runs naturally through 
 Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns think it best 
 To kill, and generals turn it into jest. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 The two first feelings ran their course complete, 
 And lighted first her eye and then her mouth : 
 
 The whole court look'd immediately most sweet. 
 Like flowers well water'd after a long drouth : — 
 
 But when on the lieutenant, at her feet, 
 Her majesty — who liked to gaze on youth 
 
 Almost as much as on a new despatch — 
 
 Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, 
 When wroth; whWe pleased, she was as fine a figure 
 
 As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent. 
 Would wish to look on, while they are in vigour. 
 
 She could repay each amatory look you lent 
 
 With interest, and in turn was wont with rigour 
 
 To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount 
 
 At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 With her the latter, though at times convenient, 
 
 Was not so necessary : for they tell 
 That she was handsome, and, tho' fierce, loolc'd lenient, 
 
 And always used her favourites too well. 
 If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went, 
 
 Your " fortune " was in a fair way " to swell 
 A man," as Giles says ; ^ for, though she would widow all 
 Nations she liked man as an individual. 
 
 What a strange thing is man I and what a stranger 
 Is woman ? What a whirlwind is her head, 
 
 And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger 
 Is all the rest about her ! whether wed, 
 
 Or widow, maid, or mother, she can change her 
 Mind like the wind ; whatever she has said 
 
 Or done, is light to what she '11 say or do ; — 
 
 The oldest thing on record, and yet new ! 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Oh, Catlierine ! (for of all inteijections 
 To thee both oh ! and ah ! belong of right 
 
 In love and war) how odd are the connexions 
 Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight ! 
 
 Just now yours were cut out in different sections : 
 First, Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite ; 
 
 Next, of new knights the fresh and glorious batch ; 
 
 And thirdly, he who brought you the despatch I 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Shakspeare talks of " the herald Mercury 
 
 New lighted on a heavenr kissing hill ;" 
 And some such visions cross'd her majesty, 
 
 While her young herald knelt before her still. 
 'T is very true the hill seem'd rather high 
 
 For a lieutenant to climb up ; but skill F^i"^? 
 
 Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and, by God's bles 
 With youth and health all kisses are " heaven-kissing." 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up — 
 And so they fell in love ; — she with his face, 
 
 His grace, his God-knows-what : for Cupid's cup 
 With the first draught intoxicates apace, 
 
 A quintessential laudanum or " black drop," 
 
 Which makes one drunk at once, without the base 
 
 Expedient of full bumpers ; for the eye 
 
 In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 He, on the other hand, if not in love, 
 
 Fell into that no less imperious passion, 
 Self-love — which, when some sort of thing above 
 
 Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, 
 Or duchess, princess, empress, " deigns to prove," 
 
 ('T is Pope's phrase,) a great longing, tho' a rash one, 
 For one especial person out of many. 
 Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Besides, he was of that delighted age 
 
 Which makes all female ages equal — when 
 
 We do n't much care with whom we may engage, 
 As bold as Daniel in the lions' den. 
 
 So that we can our native sun assuage 
 
 In the next ocean, which may flow just then. 
 
 To make a twilight in — just as Sol's heat is 
 
 Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis. 
 
 i>xx. 
 
 And Catherine, (we must say thus much for Catherine,) 
 Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing 
 
 Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, 
 Because each lover look'd a sort of king, 
 
 Made up upon an amatory pattern — 
 A royal husband in all save the ring — 
 
 Which being the damn'dest part of matrimony, 
 
 Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 And when you add to this, her womanhood 
 In its meridian, her blue eyes, or gray — 
 
 (The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, 
 Or better, as the best examples say : 
 
 Napoleon's, Mary's (Glueen of Scotland) should 
 Lend to that colour a transcendent ray ; 
 
 And Pallas also sanctions the same hue — 
 
 Too wise to look through opticks black or blue)^ 
 
Canto X. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 675 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, 
 Her plumpness, her imperial condescension, 
 
 Her preference of a boy to men much bigger, 
 
 (Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension,) 
 
 Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour. 
 
 With other extras which we need not mention, — 
 
 All these, or any one of these, explain 
 
 Enough to make a stripling very vain. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 And that 's enough, for love is vanity 
 
 Selfish in its beginning as its end, 
 Except where 't is a mere insanity, 
 
 A maddening spirit which would strive to blend 
 Itself with beauty's frail inanity, 
 
 On which the passion's self seems to depend: 
 And hence some heathenish philosophers 
 Make love the mainspring of the universe. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Besides Platonic love, besides the love 
 Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 
 
 Of faithful pairs — (I needs must rhyme with dove, 
 That good old steam-boat which keeps verses moving 
 
 'Gainst reason — reason ne'er was hand-and-glove 
 With rhyme, but always lean'd less to improving 
 
 The sound than sense) — ^besides all these pretences 
 
 To love, there are those things which words name senses ; 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Those movements, those improvements in our bodies, 
 Which make all bodies anxious to get out 
 
 Of their own sandpits to mix with a goddess — 
 For such all women are at first, no doubt. 
 
 How beautiful that moment ! and how odd is 
 That fever which precedes the languid rout 
 
 Of our sensations ! What a curious way 
 
 The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay ! 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, 
 To end or to begin with ; the next grand 
 
 Is that which may be christened love canonical, 
 Because the clergy take the thing in hand ; 
 
 The third sort to be noted in our chronicle. 
 As flourishing in every Christian land, 
 
 Is, when chaste matrons to their other ties 
 
 Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Well, we won't analyze — our story must 
 Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, 
 
 Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust ; — 
 I cannot stoop to alter words once written, 
 
 And the two are so mix'd with human dust. 
 
 That he who names one, both perchance may hit on : 
 
 But in such matters Russia's mighty empress 
 
 Behaved no better than a common sempstress. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 The whole court melted into one wide whisper, 
 
 And all lips were applied unto all ears ! 
 The elder ladies' wrinldes curl'd much crisper 
 
 As they beheld ; the younger cast some leers 
 On one another, and each lovely lisper 
 
 Smil'd as she talk'd the matter o'er ; but tears 
 Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye 
 Of all the stjuiding army who stood by. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 All the ambassadors of all the powers 
 
 Inquired, who was this very new young man, 
 
 Who promised to be great in some few hours? 
 Which is full soon, (though life is but a span.) 
 
 Already they beheld the silver showers 
 Of roubles rain, as fast as specie can, 
 
 Upon his cabinet, besides the presents 
 
 Of several ribands and some thousand 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Catherine was generous, — all such ladies are : 
 . Love, that great opener of the heart and all 
 The ways that lead there, be they near or fcU": 
 
 Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, — 
 Love — (though she had a cursed taste for war, 
 
 And was not the best wife, unless we call 
 Such Clytemnestra ; though perhaps 't is better 
 That one should die, than two drag on the fetter) — 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune, 
 
 Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, 
 Whose avarice all disbursements did importune, 
 
 If history, the grand liar, ever saith 
 The truth ; and though grief her old age might shorten, 
 
 Because she put a favourite to death, 
 Her vile ambiguous method of flirtation. 
 And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 But when the levee rose, and all was bustle 
 
 In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 
 Ambassadors began as 't were to hustle 
 
 Round the young man with their congratulations. 
 Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 
 
 Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 
 It is to speculate on handsome faces. 
 Especially when such lead to high places. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, 
 
 A general object of attention, made 
 His answers with a very graceful bow, 
 
 As if born for the ministerial trade. 
 Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow 
 
 Nature had written " Gentleman." He said 
 Little, but to the purpose ; and his manner 
 Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 An order from her majesty consign'd 
 
 Our young lieutenant to the genial care 
 Of those in office : all the world look'd kind, 
 
 (As it will look sometimes with the first stare, 
 Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind;) 
 
 As also did Miss Protosoff" then there. 
 Named, from her mystic office, " I'Eprouveuse," 
 A term inexplicable to the Muse. 
 
 xxxxv. 
 With her then, as in humble duty bound, 
 
 Juan retired, — and so will I, until 
 My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. 
 
 We have just lit on a " heaven-kissing hill," 
 So lofty that I feel my brain turn'd round, 
 
 And all my fancies whirling like a mill ; 
 Which is a signal to my nerves and brain 
 To take a quiet ride in some green lane. 
 
 CANTO X. 
 
 When Newton saw an apple fall, he found 
 In that slight startle from his contemplation— 
 
 'T is said (for I '11 not answer above ground. 
 For any sage's creed or calculation) — 
 
 A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round 
 In a most natural whirl, call'd " gravitation;* 
 
 And thus is the sole mortal who could grapplci 
 
 Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple. 
 
576 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto X. 
 
 Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, 
 If this be true ; for we must deem the mode 
 
 In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose. 
 
 Through the then unpaved stars, the turnpike road, 
 
 A thing to counterbalsmce human woes ; 
 For, ever since, immortal man hath glow'd 
 
 With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 
 
 Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon. 
 
 III. 
 And wherefore this exordium ? — ^Why, just now, 
 
 In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, 
 My bosom underwent a glorious glow. 
 
 And my internal spirit cut a caper : 
 And though so much inferior, as I know. 
 
 To those who, by the dint of glass and vapour, 
 Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 
 I wish to do as much by poesy. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail ; but for 
 
 The stars, I own my telescope is dim ; 
 But at the least I 've shunn'd the common shore, 
 
 And, leaving land far out of sight, would skim 
 The ocean of eternity : the roar 
 
 Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim. 
 But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float 
 Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat. 
 
 V. 
 
 We left our hero Juan in the bloom 
 
 Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush ; 
 And far be it from my Muses to presume 
 
 (For I have more than one Muse at a push) 
 To follow hira beyond the drawing-room : 
 
 It is enough that fortune found hira flush 
 Of youth and vigour, beauty, and those things 
 Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 
 
 TI. 
 
 But soon they grow again, and leave their nest. 
 
 " Oh !" saiih the Psalmist, " that I had a dove's 
 Pinions, to flee away and be at rest !" 
 
 And who, that recollects young years and loves, — 
 Though hoary now, and with a withering breast, 
 
 And palsied fancy, which no longer roves 
 Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere, — but would much rather 
 Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfadier ? 
 
 VII, 
 
 But sighs subside, and tears (even widow's) shrink 
 
 Like Amo, in the summer, to a shallow, 
 So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, 
 
 Which threatens inundations deep and yellow ! 
 Such difference doth a few months make. You 'd think 
 
 Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow ; 
 No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys, 
 Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But coughs will come when sighs depart — and now 
 And then before sighs cease ; for oft the one 
 
 Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow 
 Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun 
 
 Of life reach ten o'clock : and, while a glow, 
 Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 
 
 O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay. 
 
 Thousands blaze, love, hope, die — how happy they ! — 
 
 IX, 
 
 But Juan was not meant to die so soon. 
 
 We left him in the focus of such glory 
 As may be won by favour of the moon. 
 
 Or ladies' fancies — rather transitory 
 Perhaps: but who would scorn the month of June, 
 
 Because December, with his breath so hoary. 
 Must come ? Much rather should he court the ray. 
 To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. 
 
 Besides, he had some qualities which fix 
 Middle-aged ladies even more than young . 
 
 The former know what's what ; while new-fledged chicks 
 Know little more of love than what is sung 
 
 In rhymes, ordream'd, (for fancy will play tricks,) 
 In visions of those skies from whence love sprung 
 
 Some reckon women by their suns or years — 
 
 I rather think the moon should date the dears. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And why ? because she 's changeable and chaste. 
 
 I know no other reason, whatsoe'er 
 Suspicious people, who find fault in haste, 
 
 May choose to tax me with ; which is not fair. 
 Nor flattering to "their temper or their taste,' 
 
 As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air : 
 However, I forgive him, and I trust 
 He will forgive himself; — if not, I must 
 
 XII. 
 
 Old enemies who have become new friends 
 Should so continue — 't is a point of honour ; 
 
 And I know nothing which could make amends 
 For a return to hatred : I would shun her 
 
 Like garlic, howsoever she extends 
 
 Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. 
 
 Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes — 
 
 Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 This were the worst desertion : renegadoes, 
 Even shuffling Southey — that incarnate lie — 
 
 Would scarcely join again the " reformadoes,"' 
 Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty : 
 
 And honest men, from Iceland to Barbadoes, 
 ^Vhether in Caledon or Italy, 
 
 Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize, 
 
 To pain, the moment when you cease to please. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The lawyer and the critic but behold 
 
 The baser sides of literature and life. 
 And naught remains unseen, but much untold, 
 
 By those who scour those double vales of strife. 
 While common men grow ignorantly old, 
 
 The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife 
 Dissecting the whole inside of a question, 
 And with it all the process of digestion. 
 
 XV. 
 
 A legal broom 's a moral chimne}--sweeper, 
 And that 's the reason he himself 's so dirty ; 
 
 The endless soot ^ bestows a tint far deeper 
 Than can be hid by altering his shirt ; he 
 
 Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper — 
 At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty. 
 
 In aU their habits : not so you, I own ; 
 
 As Caesar wcH-e his robe you wear your gown. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And all our little feuds, at least all mine, 
 Dear Jeffrey, once ray most redoubted foe, 
 
 (As far as rhyme and criticism combine 
 To make such puppets of us things below,) 
 
 Are over : Here 's a health to " Auld Lang Syne !" 
 I do not know you, and may never know 
 
 Your face, — ^but you have acted on the whole 
 
 Most nobly, and I own it from my soul, 
 
 XVII. 
 
 And when I use the phrase of" Auld Lang Syne !" 
 'T is not address'd to you — the more 's the pity 
 
 For me, for I would rather take my wine 
 
 With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. 
 
 But somehow, — it may seem a schoolboy's whine, 
 And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty. 
 
 But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 
 
 A whole one, and ray heart flies to my head : — 
 
Canto X. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 577 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 As " Auld Lang Syne" brings Scotland one and all, 
 Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear 
 streams. 
 
 The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's Brig's hlack wall,^ 
 All my boy feelings, aU my gentler dreams 
 
 Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall. 
 Like Banquo's offspring — floating past me seems 
 
 My childhood in this childishness of mine: 
 
 I care not — 't is a glimpse of " Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And though, as you remember, in a fit 
 
 Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, 
 
 I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit. 
 Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly. 
 
 Yet 't is in vain such sallies to permit — 
 
 They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early 
 
 I " scotcKd, not kill'd," the Scotchman in my blood. 
 
 And love the land of " mountain and of flood." 
 
 XX. 
 
 Don Juan, who was real or ideal, — 
 
 For both are much the same, since what men think 
 Exists when the once thinkers are less real 
 
 Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, 
 And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal ; 
 
 And yet 't is very puzzling on the brink 
 Of what is call'd eternity, to stare. 
 And know no more of what is here than there : — 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian — 
 How we won't mention, why we need not say : 
 
 Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion 
 Of any slight temptation in their way ; 
 
 But his just now were spread as is a cushion 
 Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honour : gay 
 
 Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money. 
 
 Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The favour of the empress was agreeable ; 
 
 And though the duty wax'd a little hard, 
 Young people at his time of life should be able 
 
 To come off handsomely in that regard. 
 He now was growing up like a green tree, able 
 
 For love, war, or ambition, which reward 
 Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
 Make some prefer the circulating medium. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 About this time, as might have been anticipated, 
 Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, 
 
 Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated ; 
 Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 
 
 On our fresh feelings, but — as being participated 
 With all kinds of incorrigible samples 
 
 Of frail humanity — must make us selfish. 
 
 And shut our souls up in us like a shellfish. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 This we pass over. We will also pass 
 
 The usual progress of intrigues between 
 Unequal matches, such as are, alas ! 
 
 A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, 
 But one who is not so youthful as she was 
 
 In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 
 Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, 
 And wrinkles (the d d democrats) won't flatter. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And Death, the sovereigns' sovereign, though the great 
 
 Gracchus of all mortality, who levels 
 With his Agrarian laws, the high estate ^ 
 
 Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels. 
 To one small grass-grown patch (which must await 
 
 Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils 
 Who never had a foot of land till now, — 
 Death 's a reformer, all men must allow. 
 3X 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry 
 
 Ofv/aste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter, 
 
 In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry — 
 Which (though I hate to say a thing that 's bitter) 
 
 Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, 
 Through all the " purple and fine linen," fitter 
 
 For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot — 
 
 And neutralize her outward show of scarlet. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 And this same state we won't describe : we could 
 Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection ; 
 
 But getting nigh grim Dante's " obscure wood," 
 That horrid equinox, that hateful section 
 
 Of human years, that half-way house, that rude 
 Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspection 
 
 Life's sad posthorses o'er the dreary frontier 
 
 Of age, and, looking back to youth, give one tear ; — 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 I won't describe — that is, if I can help 
 Description : and I won't reflect — that is, 
 
 If I can stave off thought, which — as a whelp 
 Clings to its teat — sticks to me through the abyss 
 
 Of this odd labyrinth ; or as the kelp 
 Holds by the rock ; or as a lover's kiss 
 
 Drains its first draught of lips : but, as I said, 
 
 I won't philosophize, and will be read. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, 
 A thing which happens rarely ; this he owed 
 
 Much to his youth, and much to his reported 
 Valour ; much also to the blood he show'd. 
 
 Like a racehorse ; much to each dress he sported, 
 Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd, 
 
 As purple clouds befringe the sun ; but most 
 
 He owed to an old v.oman and his post. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 He wTOte to Spain : — and all his near relations, 
 
 Perceiving he was in a handsome way 
 Of getting on himself, and finding stations 
 
 For cousins also, answer'd the same day. 
 Several prepared themselves for emigrations; 
 
 And, eating ices, were o'erheard to say. 
 That with the addition of a slight pelisse, 
 Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a piece. 
 
 XXXI, 
 
 His mother, Donna Inez, finding too 
 
 That in the lieu of drawing on his banker. 
 
 Where his assets were waxing rather few. 
 
 He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor, — 
 
 Replied, " that she was glad to see him through 
 
 Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker ; 
 
 As the sole sign of man's being in his senses 
 
 Is, learning to reduce his past expenses. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 '' She also recommended him to God, 
 And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother, 
 
 Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd 
 In Catholic eyes ; but told him too to smother 
 
 Outward dislike, which do n't look well abroad : 
 Inform'd him that he had a little brother 
 
 Born in a second wedlock ; and above 
 
 All, praised the empress's maternal love. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " She could not too much give her approbation 
 Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men 
 
 Whose age, and, what v/as better still, whose nation 
 And climate, stopp'd all scandal, (now and then :)— 
 
 At home it might have given her some vexation ; 
 But where thermometers sunk down to ten, 
 
 Or five, or one, or zero, she could never 
 
 Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river." 
 
678 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto X. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Oh for ^forty-parson power * to chant 
 Thy praise, hypocrisy ! Oh for a hymn 
 
 Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, 
 Not practise ! Oh for trumps of cherubim ! 
 
 Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, 
 
 Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, 
 
 Drew quiet consolation through its hint, 
 
 When she no more could read the pious print. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 She was no hypocrite, at least, poor soul ! 
 
 But went to heaven in as sincere a way 
 As any body on the elected roll, 
 
 Which portions out upon the judgment day 
 Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll, 
 
 Such as the conqueror William did repay 
 His knights with, lotting others' properties 
 Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 
 Erneis, Radulphus — eight-and-forty manors 
 
 (If that my memory doth not greatly err) 
 Were their reward for iollowing Billy's banners ; 
 
 And, though I can't help thinking 't was scarce fan- 
 To strip the Saxons of their /ii/cZes,* like tanners, 
 
 Yet as they founded churches with the produce, 
 
 You '11 deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times 
 He felt like other plants — call'd sensitive, 
 
 Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes. 
 Save such as Soudiey can afford to give. 
 
 Perhaps he long'd, in bitter frosts, for climes 
 In which the Neva's ice would cease to Uve 
 
 Before May-day: perhaps, despite his duty, 
 
 In royalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty : 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Perhaps, — ^but, sans perhaps, we need to seek 
 For causes young or old : the canker-worm 
 
 Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek, 
 As well as further drain the wither'd form : 
 
 Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 
 His bills in, and, however we may storm, 
 
 They must be paid : though six days smoothly run. 
 
 The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 I do n't know how it was, but he grew sick : 
 The empress was alarm'd, and her physician 
 
 (The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick 
 Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 
 
 Which augur'd of the dead, however quick 
 Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition ; 
 
 At which the whole court was extremely troubled, 
 
 The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours : 
 Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin ; 
 
 Others talk'd learnedly of certain timiours, 
 ExhaKBtion, or disorders of the same kin ; 
 
 Some said 't was a concoction of the humours, 
 Which with the blood too readily will claim kin ; 
 
 Others again were ready to maintain, 
 
 '"T was only the fatigue of last campaign." 
 
 XLI. 
 
 But here is one prescription out of many : 
 " Sodae-sulphat. 3. vi. 3. s. Mannee optim. 
 
 A'q. fervent. F. 3. iss. 3. ij. tinct. Sennse 
 
 Haustus" (and here the surgeon came and cupp'dhim) 
 
 " R. Pulv. Com. gr. iii. Ipecacuanhge," 
 
 (With more beside, if Juan had not stopp'd 'em.) 
 
 " Bolus potassae sulphuret. sumendus, 
 
 Et haustus ter in die capiendus." 
 
 XL II. 
 
 This is the way physicians mend or end us, 
 Secundum artem: but although we sneer 
 
 In health — when ill, we call diem to attend us, 
 Without the least propensity to jeer: 
 
 While that "hiatus maxirae defiendus," 
 To be fill'd up by spade or mattock, 's near, 
 
 Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 
 
 We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Juan demurr'd at this first notice to 
 
 Q,uit ; and, though death had threaten'd an ejection, 
 His youtli and constitution bore him through, 
 
 And sent the doctors in a new direction. 
 But still his state was delicate: the hue 
 
 Of health but flicker'd with a faint reflection 
 Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel 
 The faculty — who said that he must travel. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The climate was too cold, they said, for him, 
 Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 
 
 Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, 
 Who did not like at first to lose her minion : 
 
 But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim. 
 And drooping lilce an eagle's with clipp'd pinion, 
 
 She then resolved to send him on a mission. 
 
 But in a style becoming his condition. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 There was just then a kind of a discussion, 
 
 A sort of treaty or negotiation 
 Between the British cabinet and Russian, 
 
 Maintain'd with all the due prevarication 
 With which great states such things are apt to push on ; 
 
 Something about the Baltic's navigation, 
 Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, 
 Which Britons deem tlieir " uti possidetis." 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 So Catherine, who had a handsome way 
 
 Of fitting out her favom-ites, conferr'd 
 This secret charge on Juan, to display 
 
 At once her royal splendour, and reward 
 His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, 
 
 Received instructions how to play his card. 
 Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours, 
 Which show'd what great discernment was tlie donor's. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 But she was lucky, and luck 's all. Your queens 
 
 Are generally prosperous in reigning ; 
 Which puzzles us to know what fortune mejuis. 
 
 But to continue : though her years were waning. 
 Her climacteric teased her like her teens ; 
 
 And though her dignity brook'd no complaining. 
 So much did Juan's setting off distress her. 
 She could not find at first a fit successor. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 But time, the comforter, will come at last ; 
 
 And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that number 
 Of candidates requesting to be placed, 
 
 Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber;— 
 Not that she meant to fix again in haste, 
 
 Nor did she find the quantity encumber. 
 But, always choosing with deliberation, 
 Kept the place open for their emulation. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 "While this high post of honour 's in abeyance. 
 
 For one or two days, reader, we request 
 You '11 mount with our young hero the conveyance 
 
 "Which wafted him from Petersburgh ; the best 
 Barouche, which had the glory to display once 
 
 The fair Czarina's autocratic crest, 
 (When, a new Iphigene, she went to Tauris,) 
 Was given to her favourite,^ and now hare his. 
 
Canto X. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 679 
 
 A bull-dog, and a bull-finch, and an ermine, 
 All private favourites of Don Juan ; for 
 
 (Let deeper sages the true cause detennine) 
 He had a kind of inclination, or 
 
 Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin — 
 Live animals : — an old maid of threescore 
 
 For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, 
 
 Although he was not old, nor even a maid. 
 
 LI. 
 
 The animals aforesaid occupied 
 
 Their station : there were valets, secretaries, 
 In other vehicles ; but at his side 
 
 Sat little Leila, who survived the parries 
 He made 'gainst Cossack sabres, in the wide 
 
 Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse varies 
 Her note, she don't forget the infant girl 
 Whom he preserved, a pure and living peajl. 
 
 Z.U. 
 
 Poor little thing ! She was as fair as docile, 
 And with that gentle, serious character, 
 
 As rare in living beings as a fossile 
 Man, 'mid thy mouldy mammoths, " grand Cuvier !" 
 
 Ill fitted with her ignorance to jostle 
 
 With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err ; 
 
 But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore 
 
 Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as 
 Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. 
 
 I cannot tell exactly what it was ; 
 
 He was not yet quite old enough to prove 
 
 Parental feelings, and the other class, 
 Call'd brotherly affection, could not move 
 
 His bosom — for he never had a sister : 
 
 Ah ! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her ! 
 
 LIV, 
 
 And still less was it sensual ; for besides 
 That he was not an ancient debauchee, 
 
 (Who like sour fruit to stir their veins' salt tides, 
 As acids rouse a dormant alkali,) 
 
 Although Ct wiU happen as our planet guides) 
 His youth was not the chastest that might be. 
 
 There was the purest platonism at bottom 
 
 Of all his feelings— only he forgot 'em. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Just now there was no peril of temptation ; 
 
 He loved the infant orphan he had saved. 
 As patriots (now and then) may love a nation ; 
 
 His pride too felt that she was not enslaved. 
 Owing to him ; — as also her salvation. 
 
 Through his means and the church's, might be paved. 
 But one thing 's odd, which here must be inserted — 
 The little Turk refused to be converted. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 'T was strange enough she should retain the impression 
 Thro' such a scene of change, and dread, and slaughter ; 
 
 But, though three bishops told her the transgression, 
 She show'd a great dislike to holy water: 
 
 She also had no passion for confession ; 
 
 Perhaps she had nothing to confess ; — no matter 
 
 AVhate'er the cause, the church made little of it — 
 
 She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 In fact, the only Christian she could bear 
 Was Juan, whom she seem'd to have selected 
 
 In place of what her home and friends once xoere. 
 He naturally loved what he protected ; 
 
 And thus they form'd a rather curious pair : 
 A guardian green in years, a ward connected 
 
 In neither cUme, time, blood, with her defender ; 
 
 And yet tliis want of ties made theirs more tender. 
 
 They joumey'd on through Poland and through Warsaw, 
 Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron : 
 
 Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw 
 Which gave her dukes' the graceless name of " Biron," 
 
 'T is the same landscape which the modern Mars saw, 
 Who marched to Moscow, led by fame, the syren ! 
 
 To lose, by one month's frost, some twenty years 
 
 Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Let not this seem an anti-climax: — "Oh! 
 
 My guard ! my old guard I" exclaim'd that god of clay — 
 Think of the thunderer's falling down below 
 
 Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh ! 
 Alas ! that glory should be chill'd by snow ! 
 
 But. should v.e wish to warm us on our way 
 Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 
 Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame. 
 
 From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, 
 And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt. 
 
 Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, 
 Has lately been the great Professor Kant. 
 
 Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 
 About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 
 
 To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 
 
 Have princes who spur more than their postilions. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, 
 Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine : — 
 
 Ye glorious Gothic scenes ! how much ye strike 
 All phantasies, not even excepting mine: 
 
 A gray wall, a green ruin, rusty pike. 
 Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 
 
 Between the present and past worlds, and hover 
 
 Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, 
 Which Drachenfels frowns over, like a spectre 
 
 Of the good feudal times for ever gone. 
 
 On which I have not time just now to lecture. 
 
 From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, 
 A city which presents to the inspector 
 
 Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone. 
 
 The greatest number flesh hath ever known. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, 
 That water land of Dutchmen and of ditches, 
 
 Where juniper expresses its best juice — 
 
 The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. 
 
 Senates and sages have condemn'd its use — 
 But to deny the mob a cordial which is 
 
 Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel, 
 
 Good government has left them, seems but cruel. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Here he embark'd, and, with a flowing sail, 
 
 Went bounding for the island of the free. 
 Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale; 
 
 High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea 
 And seasick passengers turn'd somewhat pale : 
 
 But Juan, season'd, as he well might be 
 By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs 
 Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 At length they rose, like a white wall along 
 The blue sea's border ; and Don Juan felt — 
 
 What even young strangers feel a little strong 
 At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt — 
 
 A kind of pride that he should be among 
 
 Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt 
 
 Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole^ 
 
 And made the very billows pay them toll. 
 
5S0 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto X. 
 
 I have no great cause to love that spot of earth, 
 "Which holds what miglu have been the noblest nation: 
 
 But, though I owe it little but my birth, 
 I feel a mix'd regret and veneration 
 
 For its decaying fame and former worth. 
 
 Seven years (the usual term of transportation) 
 
 Of absence lay one's old resentments level, 
 
 When a man's country 's going to the devil. 
 
 LXVIl. 
 
 Alas ! could she but fully, truly, know 
 
 How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd ; 
 How eager all the earth is for the blow 
 
 Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword ; 
 How all the nations deem her their worst foe, 
 
 That worse than worst of foes — the once adored 
 False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, 
 And now would chain them to the very mind ; — 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, 
 Wiio is but first of slaves ? The nations are 
 
 In ['fison ; but tlie jailor, what is he? 
 No less a victim to the bolt anu bar. 
 
 Is ihe poor privilege to turn the key 
 
 Upon the captive, freedom? He's as far 
 
 From the enjoyment of the earth and air 
 
 Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties — 
 Thy cliffs, dear Dover ! harbour, and hotel ; 
 
 Thy'custom-house with all its delicate duties ; 
 Thy waiters rimning mucks at every bell ; 
 
 Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties 
 To those w^ho upon land or water dwell ; 
 
 And last, not least to strangers uninstructed. 
 
 Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted, 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique, 
 And rich in roubles, diamonds, cash, and credit. 
 
 Who did not limit much his bills per week, 
 Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it — 
 
 (His masgior duomo, a smart subtle Greek, 
 Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it :) 
 
 But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, 
 
 Is free, the respiration 's worth the money. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 The effect on Juan was of course sublime: 
 He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw 
 
 That casque, which never stodp'd except to Time. 
 Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, 
 
 Who died in the then great attempt to climb 
 O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law, 
 
 Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, 
 
 And asked why such a structure had been raised : 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 And being told it was " God's house," she said 
 He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how 
 
 He suffer'd infidels in his homestead, 
 The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low 
 
 His holy temples in the lands which bred 
 The true believers ; — and her infant brow 
 
 Was bent witli grief that Mahomet should resign 
 
 A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. 
 
 LXXTI, 
 
 On, on ! through meadows, managed like a garden, 
 A paradise of hops and high production ; 
 
 For, after years of travel by a bard in 
 
 Countries of greater heat but lesser suction, 
 
 A green field is a sight which makes him pardon 
 The absence of that more sublime construction 
 
 Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices. 
 
 Glaciers, volcanoes, oranges, and ices. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 And when I think upon a pot of beer — 
 
 But I wont w eep ! — and so, drive on, postillions ! 
 
 As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 
 Juan admired these highways of free millions 5 
 
 A country in all senses the most dear 
 
 To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, 
 
 Who " kick against the pricks" just at this juncture, 
 
 And for their pains get only a fresh puncture. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 What a delightful thing 's a turnpike road ! 
 
 So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving 
 The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad 
 
 Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. 
 Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god 
 
 Had told his son to satisfy his craving 
 With the York mail ; — but, onward as we roll, 
 " Surgit amari aliquid" — the toll ! 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 On with the horses ! Off to Canterbury ! [puddle ; 
 
 Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through 
 Hurrah ! how swiftly speeds the post so merry ! 
 
 Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle 
 Along the road, as if they went to bury 
 
 Their fare ; and also pause, besides, to fuddle 
 With "schnapps" — sad dogs! whom "Hundsfot" or 
 Affect no more than lightning a conductor. [" Ferflucter" 
 
 Lxxri. 
 Now, there is nothing gives a man such spirits, 
 
 Leavening his blood as Cayenne doth a curry, 
 As going at full speed— no matter where its 
 
 Direction be, so 't is but in a hurry, 
 And merely for the sake of its own merits : 
 
 For the less cause there is for all this flurry. 
 The greater is the pleasure in arriving 
 At the great end of travel— which is driving. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 They saw at Canterbury the Cathedral; 
 
 Black Edward's helm', and Becket's bloody stone, 
 Were pointed out as usual by the bedral, 
 
 In the same quaint, uninterested tone : 
 There's glory again for you, gentle reader! all 
 
 Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, 
 Half-solved into those sodas or magnesias. 
 Which form that bitter draught, the human species. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Alas ! how deeply painful is all payment ! [purses, 
 
 Take lives, take wives, taJie aught except men^s 
 
 As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, 
 Such is the shortest way to general curses. 
 
 They hate a murderer much less than a claimant 
 On that sweet ore, which every body nurses : — 
 
 Kill a man's family, and he may brook it — 
 
 But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 So said the Florentine : ye monarchs, hearken 
 To your instructor. Juan now was borne. 
 
 Just as the day began to wane and darken. 
 
 O'er the high hill which looks with pride or scorn 
 
 Toward the great city : — ye who have a spark in 
 Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn, 
 
 According as you take things well or ill — 
 
 Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill ! 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from 
 A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space 
 
 Which well beseem'd the " Devil's drawing-room,' 
 As some have qualified that wondrous place. 
 
 But Juan felt, though not approaching home, 
 As one who, though he were not of the race, 
 
 Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, 
 
 ^Hio butchered half the earth, and bullied t' other.* 
 
Canto XI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 681 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, 
 
 Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
 Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping 
 
 In sight, then lost amid the forestry 
 Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 
 
 On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy ; 
 A huge dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
 On a fool's head— and there is London town! 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 But Juan saw not this : each wreath of smoke 
 Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour 
 
 Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke 
 
 The wealth of worlds, (a wealth of tax and paper;) 
 
 The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke 
 Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, 
 
 Were nothing but the natural atmosphere— 
 
 Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 He paused — and so will I — as doth a crew 
 Before they give their broadside. By and by, 
 
 My gentle countrymen, we will renew 
 Our old acquaintance, and at least I '11 try 
 
 To tell you truths you will not take as true, 
 Because they are so, — a male Mrs. Fry, 
 
 With a soft besom will I sweep your halls. 
 
 And brush a web or two from off the walls. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Oh, Mrs. Fry ! why go to Newgate? Why 
 
 Preach to poor rogues ? And wherefore not begin 
 
 With Carlton, or with other houses ? Try 
 Your hand at harden'd and imperial sin. 
 
 To mend the people 's an absurdity, 
 A jargon, a mere philanthropic din. 
 
 Unless you make their betters better : — Fie ! 
 
 I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Teach them the decencies of good threescore : 
 
 Cure them of tours, Hussar and Highland dresses : 
 
 Tell them that youth once gone returns no more ; 
 That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses : 
 
 Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore, 
 Too dull even for the dullest of excesses — 
 
 The witless FalstafF of a hoary Hal, 
 
 A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all ; — 
 
 rxxxvii. 
 Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late, 
 
 On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated. 
 To set up vain pretences of being great, 
 
 'T is not so to be good ; and be it stated, 
 The worthiest kings have ever loved least state ; 
 
 And tell them but you won't, and I have prated 
 
 Just now enough ; but by and by I '11 prattle 
 Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle. 
 
 CANTO XL 
 
 When Bishop Berkeley said '< there was no matter," 
 And proved it-^'t was no matter what he said : 
 
 They say his system 't is in vain to batter, 
 Too s.ubtle foi* the airiest human head ; 
 
 And yet who can believe it ? I would shatter, 
 Gladly, all matters down to stone or lead. 
 
 Or adamant, to find the world a spirit. 
 
 And wear ray head, denying that I wear it. 
 
 What a sublime discovery 't was, to make the 
 
 Universe universal egotism ! 
 That all 's ideal — all ourselves ? I '11 stake the 
 
 Vf orld (be it what you will) that that 's no schism. 
 Oh, doubt ! — if thou be'st doubt, for which some take thee, 
 
 But which I doubt extremely — thou sole prism 
 Of the truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit ! 
 Heaven's brandy — though our brain can hardly bear it. 
 
 III. 
 
 For, ever and anon comes indigestion, 
 
 (Not the most •' dainty Ariel,") and perplexes 
 
 Our soarings with another sort of question: 
 And that which, after aU, ray spirit vexes 
 
 Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on, 
 Without confusion of the sorts and sexes. 
 
 Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, 
 
 The world, which at the worst 's a glorious blunder— 
 
 IV. 
 
 If it be chance ; or if it be according 
 To the old text, still better ! lest it should 
 
 Turn out so, we '11 say nothing 'gainst the wording, 
 As several people think such hazards rude : 
 
 They 're right ; our days are too orief for affording 
 Space to dispute what no one ever could 
 
 Decide, and every body one day will 
 
 Know very clearly — or at least lie still. 
 
 T. 
 
 And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 
 Discussion, which is neither here nor there : 
 
 If I agree that what is, is — then this I call 
 Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair. 
 
 The ti-uth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical 
 1 do n't know what the reason is — the air 
 
 Perhaps ; but as I suffer from the shocks 
 
 Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 
 
 VI, 
 
 The first attack at once proved the divinity, 
 (But that I never doubted, nor the devil ;) 
 
 The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity ; 
 The third, the usual origin of evil; 
 
 The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity 
 On so incontrovertible a level, 
 
 That I devoutly wished the three were four, 
 
 On purpose to believe so much the more. 
 
 VII. 
 
 To our theme : — The man who has stood on the Acropolis, 
 
 And look'd down over Attica ; or he 
 Who has saU'd where picturesque Constantinople is. 
 
 Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea 
 In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis, 
 
 Or sat amid the bricks of Nineveh, 
 May not think much of London's first appearance — 
 But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence ? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill — 
 Sunset the time, the place the same declivity 
 
 Which looks along that vale of good and ill 
 Where London streets ferment in full activity ; 
 
 While every thing around was calm and still, 
 Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he 
 
 Heard — and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum 
 
 Of cities, tliat boils over with their scum : — 
 
 IX. 
 
 I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, 
 
 Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit, 
 
 And, lost in wonder of so great a nation. 
 
 Gave way to 't, since he could not overcome it. 
 
 " And here," he cried, " is Freedom's chosen station ; 
 Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it 
 
 Racks, prisons, inquisitions ; resurrection 
 
 Awaits it, each new meeting or election. 
 
682 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XL 
 
 " Here are chaste wives, pure lives ; here people pay 
 But what they please ; and if tliat things be dear, 
 
 'T is only that they love to throw away 
 Their cash, to show how much tliey have a-year. 
 
 Here laws are all inviolate ; none lay 
 
 Traps for the traveller, every highway 's clear : 
 
 Here " he was interrupted by a knife. 
 
 With '* Damn your eyes ! your money or your life.' 
 
 XI. 
 
 These freebom sounds proceeded from four pads, 
 In ambush laid, who had perceived hira loiter 
 
 Behind his carriage ; and, like handy lads, 
 Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, 
 
 In which the heedless gentleman who gads 
 Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, 
 
 May find himself, within that isle of riches. 
 
 Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Juan, who did not understand a word 
 
 Of English, save their shibboleth, " God damn !" 
 And even tliat he had so rarely heard, 
 
 He sometimes thought 't was only their " salam," 
 Or " God be with you," — and 't is not absurd 
 
 To think so ; for, half English as I am, 
 (To my misfortune,) never can I say 
 I heard them wish " God with you," save that way: — 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Juan yet quickly understooa their gesture, 
 And, being somewhat choleric and sudden, 
 
 Drew forth a pocket-pistol from his vesture. 
 And fired it into one assailant's pudding — 
 
 Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture, 
 
 And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in, 
 
 Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 
 
 " Oh Jack ! I 'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody Frenchman!' 
 
 XIV. 
 
 On which Jack and his train set off at speed, 
 And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance, 
 
 Came up, all marvelling at such a deed. 
 And offering, as usual, late assistance. 
 
 Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed 
 As if his veins would pour out his existence, 
 
 Stood calling out for bandages and lint, 
 
 And wish'd he 'd been less hasty with his flint. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Perhaps," thought he, " it is the country's wont 
 To welcome foreigners in this way : now 
 
 I recollect some innkeepers who do n't 
 Differ, except in robbing with a bow. 
 
 In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. 
 But what is to be done ? I can't allow 
 
 The fellow to lie groaning on the road : 
 
 So take him up ; I '11 help you with the load." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But, ere they could perform this pious duty, 
 
 The dying man cried, " Hold ! I 've got my gruel ! 
 
 Oh ! for a glass of max ! Vfe 've miss'd our booty ; 
 Let me die where I am !" And, as the fuel 
 
 Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty 
 
 The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill 
 
 His breath, he from his swelling throat untied 
 
 A kerchief, crying " Give Sal that !" — and died. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The cravat, stain'd with bloody drops, fell down 
 Before Don Juan's feet : he could not tell 
 
 Exactly why it was before him thrown. 
 
 Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell. 
 
 Foot Tom was once a kiddy upon town, 
 A thorough varmint, and a real swell, 
 
 Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled — 
 
 His pockets first, and then his body riddled. 
 
 xrni. 
 Don Juan, having done the best he could 
 
 In all the circumstances of the case. 
 As soon as " crowner's quest" allow'd, pursued 
 
 His travels to the capital apace; — 
 Esteeming it a little hard he should 
 
 In twelve hours' time, a very little space, 
 Have been obliged to slay a freebom native 
 In self-defence : this made him meditative. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 He from the world had cut off" a great man, 
 Who in his time had made heroic bustle. 
 
 Who in a row like Tom could lead the van. 
 Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle ? 
 
 Who queer a flat ? Who (spite of Bow-street's ban) 
 On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle ? 
 
 Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal, (his blowing,) 
 
 So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing? * 
 
 XX. 
 
 But Tom 's no more — and so no more of Tom. 
 
 Heroes must die ; and by God's blessing, 't is 
 Not long before the most of them go home. — 
 
 Hail ! Thamis, hail ! Upon thy verge it is 
 That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum 
 
 In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, 
 Through Kennington and all the other " tons," 
 Which make us wish ourselves in town at once ; 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Through groves, so call'd as being void of trees, 
 (Like lucus from ?io light ;) through prospects named 
 
 Mount Pleasant, as containing naught to please, 
 Nor much to climb ; through little boxes framed 
 
 Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease. 
 
 With " To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd; 
 
 Through " rows" most modestly call'd " Paradise," 
 
 Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice ; — 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl 
 Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confiision ; 
 
 Here taverns wooing to a pint of " purl," 
 There mails fast flying off like a delusion ; 
 
 There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl 
 In windows ; here the lamp-lighter's infusion 
 
 Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass, — 
 
 (For in those days we had not got to gas :) 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Through this, and much and more, is the approach 
 
 Of travellers to mighty Babylon : 
 Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach, 
 
 With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. 
 I could say more, but do not choose to encroach 
 
 Upon the guide-book's privilege. The sun 
 Had set some time, and night was on the ridge 
 Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 That 's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis — 
 Who vindicates a moment too his stream — 
 
 Though hardly heard through multifarious " dam'mes." 
 The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam. 
 
 The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where Fame is 
 A spectral resident — whose pallid beam 
 
 In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile — 
 
 Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The Druids' groves are gone — so much the better : 
 Stone-Henge is not — ^but what the devil is it ? — 
 
 But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter. 
 That madmen may not bite you on a visit ; 
 
 The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor; 
 
 The mansion-house, too, (though some people quiz it,) 
 
 To me appears a stiff yet grand erection ; 
 
 But then the Abbey 's worA the whole collection. 
 
Canto XI. 
 
 DON JtJAN. 
 
 683 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The line of lights too up to Charing-Cross, 
 Pail-Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation, 
 
 Like gold as in comparison to dross, 
 
 Match'd with the continent's illumination, 
 
 "Whose cities night by no means deigns to gloss : 
 The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation, 
 
 And when they grew so — on their new-found lantern. 
 
 Instead of wiclcs, they made a wicked man turn. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 A row of gentlemen along the streets 
 
 Suspended, may illuminate mankind. 
 As also bonfires made of country-seats ; 
 
 But the old way is best for the purblind : 
 The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 
 
 A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind, 
 Which, though 't is certain to perplex and frighten, 
 Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes 
 Could recommence to hunt his honest man, 
 
 And found him not amid the various progenies 
 Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 
 
 'T was not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his 
 Yet undiscover'd treasure. What / can, 
 
 I 've done to find the same throughout life's journey, 
 
 But see the world is only one attorney. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Over the stones still rattling, up Pall-Mali, 
 
 Through crowds and carriages — but waxing thinner 
 
 As thunder'd Imockers broke the long-seal'd spell 
 Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner 
 
 Admitted a small party as night fell, — 
 Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner. 
 
 Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, 
 
 St. James's Palace and St. James's " Hells."2 
 
 XXX. 
 
 They reach'd the hotel: forth stream'd from the front door 
 
 A tide of well-clad waiters, and around 
 The mob stood, and as usual several score 
 
 Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound 
 In decent London when the daylight 's o'er ; 
 
 Commodious but immoral, they are found 
 Useful, like Malthus, in preventing marriage : 
 But Juan now is stepping from his carriage, 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Into one of the sweetest of hotels,'' 
 
 Especially for foreigners — and mostly 
 For those whom favour or whom fortune swells, 
 
 And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 
 There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells, 
 
 (The den of many a diplomatic lost lie,) 
 Until to some conspicuous square they pass, 
 And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Juan, whose was a delicate commission, 
 
 Private, though publicly important, bore 
 No title to point out with due precision 
 
 The exact affair on which he wast sent o'er. 
 'T was merely knovm that on a secret mission 
 
 A foreigner of rank had graced our shore. 
 Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who was said 
 (In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Some rumour also of some strange adventures 
 Had gone before him, and his wars and loves ; 
 
 And as romantic heads are pretty painters, 
 And above all, an English woman's roves 
 
 Into the excursive, breaking the indentures 
 Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves. 
 
 He found himself extremely in the fashion. 
 
 Which serves our thinking people for a passion. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 I do n't mean that they are passionless, but quite 
 The contrary ; but then 't is in the head ; 
 
 Yet, as the consequences are as bright 
 As if they acted with the heart instead, 
 
 What after all can signify the site 
 Of ladies' lucubrations ? So they lead 
 
 In safety to the place for which they start, 
 
 What matters if the road be head or heart ? 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Juan presented in the proper place, 
 
 To proper placemen, every Russ credential; 
 
 And was received with all the due grimacej 
 By those who govern in the mood potential. 
 
 Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face, 
 Thought (what in state affairs is most essential) 
 
 That they as easily might do the youngster, 
 
 As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 They err'd, as aged men will do ; but by 
 And by we '11 talk of that ; and if we do n't, 
 
 'T will be because our notion is not high 
 Of politicians and their double front. 
 
 Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie : — 
 Now what I love in women is, they won't 
 
 Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it 
 
 So well, the veiy truth seems falsehood to it. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 And, after all, what is a lie ? 'T is but 
 
 The truth in masquerade ; and I defy 
 Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 
 
 A fact without some leaven of 'a lie. 
 The very shadow of true truth would shut 
 
 Up annals, revelations, poesy, 
 And prophecy — except it should be dated 
 Some years before the incidents related. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 
 Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy ? 
 
 She rings the world's " Te Deum," and her brow 
 Blushes for those who will not : — but to sigh 
 
 Is idle ; let us, like most others, bow, 
 Kiss hands, feet — any part of Majesty, 
 
 Afler the good example of "Green Erin," 
 
 Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wearing. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Don Juan was presented, and his dress 
 And mien excited general admiration — 
 
 I do n't know which was most admired or less : 
 One monstrous diamond drew much observation, 
 
 Which Catherine, in a moment of " ivresse," 
 (In love or brandy's fervent fermentation,) 
 
 Bestow'd upon him as the public learn'd ; 
 
 And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Besides the ministers and underlings, 
 Who must be courteous to the accredited 
 
 Diplomatists of rather wavering kings, 
 Until their royal riddle 's fully read, 
 
 The very clerks — those somewhat dirty springs 
 Of office, or the house of office, fed 
 
 By foul corruption into streams — even they 
 
 Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay : 
 
 XLI. 
 
 And insolence no doubt is what they are 
 Employ'd for, since it is their daily labour, 
 
 In the dear offices of peace or war ; 
 
 And should you doubt, pray ask of your next neighbour, 
 
 When for a passport, or some other bar 
 
 To freedom, he applied, (a grief and a bore,) 
 
 If he found not this spawn of tax-born riches, 
 
 Like lap-dogSj the least civil sons of b ■ -s. 
 
684 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XI. 
 
 But Juan was received with much " empressement :" — 
 These phrases of refinement I must borrow 
 
 From our next neighbour's land, where, like a chessman, 
 There is a move set down for joy or sorrow, 
 
 Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man, 
 In islands, is, it seems, downright and thorough. 
 
 More than on continents — as if the sea 
 
 (See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 And yet the British "dam'me" 's rather Attic: 
 Your continental oaths are but incontinent, 
 
 And turn on things which no aristocratic 
 
 Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anent' 
 
 This subject quote, as it would be schismatic 
 In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't : — 
 
 But " dam'me" 's quite ethereal, though too daring — 
 
 Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home ; 
 
 For true or false politeness (and scarce that 
 Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam — 
 
 The first the emblem (rarely though) of what 
 You leave behind, the next of much you come 
 
 To meet. However, 't is no time to chat 
 On general topics : poems must confine 
 Themselves to unity, like this of mine, 
 
 xi,v. 
 In the great world, — which, being interpreted, 
 
 Meaneth the west or worst end of the city. 
 And about twice two thousand people bred 
 
 By no means to be very wise or witty, 
 But to sit up while others lie in bed, 
 
 And look down on the universe with pity — 
 Juan, as an inveterate patrician, 
 Was well received by persons of condition. 
 
 XLTI. 
 
 He was a bachelor, which is a matter 
 
 Of import both to virgin and to bride. 
 The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter ; 
 
 And (should she not hold fast by love or pride) 
 'T is also of some moment to the latter : 
 
 A rib 's a thorn in a wed gallant's side, 
 Requires decorum, and is apt to double 
 The horrid sin — and, what 's still worse, the trouble. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 But Juan was a bachelor — of arts, 
 
 And parts, and hearts : he danced and sung, and had 
 An air as sentimental as Mozart's 
 
 Softest of melodies ; and could be sad 
 Or cheerful, without any " flaws or starts," 
 
 Just at the proper time ; and, though a lad, 
 Had seen the world — which is a curious sight, 
 And very much unlike what people v?rite. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Fair virgins blush'd upon him ; wedded dames. 
 
 Bloom'd also in less transitory hues ; 
 For both commodities dwell by the Thames, 
 
 The painting and the painted ; youth, ceruse, 
 Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims, 
 
 Such as no gentleman can quite refuse ; 
 Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers 
 Inquired his income, and if he had brothers, 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 The milliners who furnish " drapery misses"* 
 Throughout the season, upon speculation 
 
 Of payment ere the honeymoon's last kisses 
 Have waned into a crescent's coruscation, 
 
 Thought such an opportunity as this is, 
 Of a rich foreigner's initiation. 
 
 Not to be overlook'd, and gave such credit, 
 
 That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it. 
 
 The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sonnets, 
 And with the pages of the last review 
 
 Line the interior of their heads or bonnets. 
 Advanced in all their azure's highest hue : 
 
 They talk'd bad French of Spanish, and upon its 
 Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two ; 
 
 And which was softest, Russian or Castilian ? 
 
 And whether in his travels he saw Hion ? 
 
 LI. 
 
 Juan, who was a little superficial. 
 And not in literature a great Drawcansir, 
 
 Examined by this learned and especial 
 
 Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer: 
 
 His duties warlike, loving, or official, 
 His steady application as a dancer. 
 
 Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, 
 
 Which now he found was blue instead of green, 
 
 LII. 
 
 However, he replied at hazard, with 
 A modest confidence and calm assurance, 
 
 Which lent his learned lucubrations pith. 
 And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. 
 
 That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith, 
 
 (WTio at sixteen, translated " Hercules Furens" 
 
 Into as furious English.) with her best look, 
 
 Set down his sayings in her commonplace book. , 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Juan knew several languages — as well 
 
 He might — and brought them up with skill, in time 
 To save his fame widi each accomplish'd belle, 
 
 Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. 
 There wanted but this requisite to swell 
 
 His qualities (with them) into sublime : 
 Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Maevia Mannish, 
 Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 However he did pretty well, and was 
 
 Admitted as an aspirant to all 
 The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass. 
 
 At great assembUes or in parties small, 
 He saw ten thousand living authors pass, 
 
 That being about their average numeral ; 
 Also the eighty " greatest living poets," 
 As every paltry magazine can show its. 
 
 LV. 
 
 In twice five years the " greatest living poet," 
 
 Like to the champion in the fisty ring. 
 Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it, 
 
 Although 't is an imaginary thing. 
 Even I — albeit I 'm sure I did not know it, 
 
 Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king- 
 Was reckon'd, a considerable time. 
 The grand Napoleon of the reahns of rhyme. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 
 
 My Leipsic, and my Mont-Saint- Jean seems Cain 
 " La Belle Alliance" of dunces down at zero, 
 
 Now that the lion 's fall'n, may rise again* 
 But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 
 
 Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign ; 
 Or to some lonely isle of jailers go, 
 Witli turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore and Campbell 
 Before and after ; but now, grown more holy, 
 
 The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
 With poeta almost clergymen, or wholly ; 
 
 ***** 
 ***** 
 
Canto XI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 585 
 
 Then there 's my gentle Euphues, who, they say, 
 
 Sets up for being a sort of moral me ; 
 He '11 find it ralher difficult some day 
 
 To turn out both, or either, it may be. 
 Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway. 
 
 And Wordsworth hath supporters, two or three ; 
 And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian, " Savage Lander,' 
 Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 
 
 LX. 
 
 John Keats — ^who was kill'd off by one critique, 
 Just as he really promised something great. 
 
 If not intelligible, without Greek 
 
 Contrived to talk about the gods of late. 
 
 Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 
 Poor fellow ! his was an untoward fate : 
 
 'T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle,* 
 
 Should let itself be snuff 'd out by an article. 
 
 rxi. 
 The list grows long of live and dead pretenders 
 
 To that which none will gain — or none will know 
 The conqueror at least ; who, ere Time renders . 
 
 His last award, will have the long grass grow 
 Above his burnt-out brain and sapless cinders. 
 
 If I might augur, I should rate but low 
 Their chances ; they 're too numerous, like the thirty 
 Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 This is the literary lower empire. 
 
 Where the Praetorian bands take up the matter ; — 
 A " dreadful trade," like his who " gathers samphire," 
 
 The insolent soldiery to sooth and flatter. 
 With the same feelings as you 'd coax a vampire. 
 
 Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, 
 I 'd try conclusions with those janizaries, 
 And show them what an intellectual war is. 
 
 LXIII, 
 
 I think I know a trick or two, would turn 
 
 Their flanks ; — ^but it is hardly worth my while 
 
 With such small gear to give myself concern: 
 Indeed I 've not the necessary bile ; 
 
 My natural temper 's really aught but stem, 
 And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a smile ; 
 
 And then she drops a brief and modest curtsy, 
 
 And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 
 Among live poets and blue ladies, pass'd 
 
 With some small profit through that field so sterile. 
 Being tired in time, and neither least nor last, 
 
 Left it before he had been treated very iU ; 
 
 And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd 
 
 Among the higher spirits of the day. 
 
 The sun's true son — no vapour, but a ray. 
 
 i-xv. 
 His moms he pass'd in business — which, dissected, 
 
 Was like all business, a laborious nothing. 
 That leads to lassitude, the most infected 
 
 And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing, 
 And on our sofas makes us lie dejected. 
 
 And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 
 All kinds of toil, save for our country's good — 
 Which grows no better, though 't is time it should. 
 3 Y 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 His aftemoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons, 
 Lounging, and boxing ; and the twilight hour 
 
 In riding round those vegetable puncheons, 
 
 Call'd "Parks," where there is neither fruitnor flower 
 
 Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings ; 
 But after all, it is the only " bower" 
 
 (In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair 
 
 Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world ! 
 
 Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roal 
 Though street and square fast-flashing chariots, hurl'd 
 
 Like harness'd meteors ! then along the floor 
 Chalk'd mimics painting ; then festoons are twirl'd ; 
 
 Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, 
 Which opens to the thousand happy few 
 An earthly paradise of " or molu." 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink 
 With the three-thousandth curtsy ; there the waltz — 
 
 The only dance which teaches girls to think — 
 Makes one in love even with its very faults. 
 
 Saloon, room, all o'erflow beyond their brink, 
 And long the latest of aiTivals halts, 
 
 Mid royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb, 
 
 And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Thrice happy he who, after a survey 
 Of the good company, can win a comer, 
 
 A door that 's in, or boudoir out of the way. 
 Where he may fix himself, like small " Jack Horner, 
 
 And let the Babel round run as it may. 
 And look on as a mourner, or a scorner. 
 
 Or an approver, or a mere spectator. 
 
 Yawning a little as the night grows later 
 
 LXX, 
 
 But this won't do, save by and by; and he 
 Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share. 
 
 Must steer with care through all that glittering sea 
 Of gems and plumes, and pearls and silks, to where 
 
 He deems it is his proper place to be ; 
 Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air. 
 
 Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill 
 
 Where science marshals forth her ovm quadrille. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views 
 Upon an heiress, or his neighbour's bride. 
 
 Let him take care that that which he pursues 
 Is not at once too palpably descried. 
 
 Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 
 
 His haste ; impatience is a blundering guide, 
 
 Among a people famous for reflection, 
 
 Who like to play the fool with circumspection. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 But, if you can contrive, get next at supper ; 
 
 Or, if forestaU'd, get opposite and ogle : — 
 Oh, ye ambrosial moments ! always upper 
 
 In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, 
 Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper. 
 
 The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue ! 
 Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 
 Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. 
 
 rxxiii. 
 But these precautionary hints can touch 
 
 Only the common run, who must pursue. 
 And watch, and ward ; whose plans a word too much 
 
 Or little overturns ; and not the few 
 Or many (for the number 's sometimes such) 
 
 Whom a good mien, especially if new. 
 Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense, 
 Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since. 
 
586 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XI. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, 
 
 Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, 
 Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom 
 
 Before he can escape from so much danger 
 As will environ a conspicuous man. Some 
 
 Talk about poetry, and " rack and manger," 
 And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble ; — 
 I wish they knew the life of a young noble. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 They are young, but know not youth — it is anticipated ; 
 
 Handsome but wasted, rich witliout a sous ; 
 Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated ; 
 
 Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to, a Jew ; 
 Both senates see their nightly votes participated 
 
 Between the tyrant's and the tribune's crew ; 
 And, having voted, dined, drank, gamed, and whored, 
 The family vault receives another lord. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 " Where is the world," cries Young, " at dghty ? Where 
 The world in which a man was born ?" Alas ! 
 
 Where is the world oi eight years past? T was there— 
 I look for it — 't is gone, a globe of glass ! 
 
 Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on ere 
 A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. 
 
 Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, 
 
 And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings. 
 
 I.XXVII, 
 
 Where is Napoleon the Grand ? God knows : 
 Where little Castlereagh ? The devil can tell : 
 
 Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those 
 Who bound the bar or senate in their spell ? 
 
 Where is the unhappy queen, with all her woes? 
 And where the daughter, whom the isles loved well ? 
 
 Where are those martyr'd saints, the five per cents ? 
 
 And where — oh, where the devil are the rents ? 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Where 's Brummel? Dish'd. Where 's Long Pole Wel- 
 lesley? Diddled. [Third? 
 
 Wliere 's Whitbread ? Romilly? Where 's George the 
 Where is his will ? (That 's not so soon unriddled.) 
 
 And where is " Fum" the Fourth, our " royal bird?" 
 Gone down it seems to Scotland, to be fiddled 
 
 Unto by SawTiey's violin, we have heard : 
 " Caw me, caw thee" — for six months hath been hatching 
 This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Where is Lord This ? And where my Lady That : 
 The honourable Mistresses and Misses ? 
 
 Some laid aside like an old opei-a-hat, 
 Married, unmarried, and re-married — (this is 
 
 An evolution oft perform'd of late.) 
 
 Where are the Dublin shouts — and London hisses ? 
 
 Where are the Grenvilles ? Turn'd, as usual. Where 
 
 My friends the Whigs. Exactly where they were. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses? 
 
 Divorced or doing thercanent. Ye annals 
 So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is — 
 
 Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels 
 Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies 
 
 Of fashion — say what streams now fill those channels ? 
 Some die, some fly, some languish on the continent, 
 Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Some who once set their cap at cautious dukes, 
 
 Have taken up at length with younger brothers ; 
 Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks ; (thers ; 
 
 Some maids have been made wives — some merely mo- 
 Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks: 
 
 In short, the list of alterations bothers. 
 There 's little strange in this, but something strange is 
 The unusual quickness of these common changes. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Talk not of seventy years as age ; in seven 
 I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to 
 
 The humblest individual under heaven, 
 Than might suffice a moderate century through. 
 
 I knew that naught was lasting, but now even 
 Change grows too changeable, without being new: 
 
 Naught 's permanent among the human race, 
 
 Except the Whigs not getting into place. 
 
 rxxxni. 
 I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter, 
 
 Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a duke 
 (No matter which) turn politician stupider, 
 
 If that can well be, than his wooden look. 
 But it is time that I should hoist my " blue Peter,*' 
 
 And sail for a new theme : I have seen — and shook 
 To see it — the king hiss'd, and then caress'd ; 
 But don't pretend to settle which was best. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 I have seen the landholders without a rap— 
 I have seen Johanna Southcote — I have seen 
 
 The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-tra|)— 
 I have seen that sad affair of the late queen — 
 
 I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's-cap— 
 I have seen a Congress doing all that 's mean— 
 
 I have seen some nations like o'erloaded asses 
 
 Kick off their burdens — meaning the high classes. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and 
 Interminable — not eternal — speakers — 
 
 I have seen the funds at war with house and land— 
 I 've seen the country gendemen turn squeakers— 
 
 I 've seen the people ridden o'er like sand 
 
 By slaves on horseback — I have seen malt liquors 
 
 Exchang'd for " thin potations" by John Bull — 
 
 I 've seen John half detect himself a fool. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 But " carpe diem," Juan, " carpe, carpel" 
 
 To-morrow sees another race as gay 
 And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy. 
 
 " Life 's a poor player" — then " play out the play, 
 Ye villains !" and, above all, keep a sharp eye 
 
 Much less on what you do than what you say : 
 Be hypocritical, be cautious, oe 
 Not what you seem, but always what you see. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 But how shall I relate in other cantos 
 
 Of what befell our hero, in the land 
 Which 't is the common cry and lie to vaunt as 
 
 A moral country ? But I hold my hand— 
 For I disdain to write an Atalantis ; 
 
 But 't is as well at once to understand. 
 You are not a moral people, and you know it. 
 Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 What Juan saw and underwent shall be 
 My topic, with of course the due restriction 
 
 Which is required by proper courtesy ; 
 And recollect the work is only fiction, 
 
 And that I sing of neither mine nor me. 
 
 Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, 
 
 Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 
 
 This — when I speak, I don't hint, but speah out. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Whether he married with the third or fourth 
 Offspring of some sage, husband-hunting countess: 
 
 Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
 (I mean in fortune's matrimonial bounties) 
 
 He took to regularly peopling earth. 
 Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is— 
 
 Or whether he was taken in for damages, 
 
 For being too excursive in his homages — 
 
Canto XII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 687 
 
 Is yet within the unread events of time. 
 
 Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back 
 Against the same given quantity of rhyme, 
 
 For being as much the subject of attack 
 As ever yet was any work sublime, 
 
 By those who love to say that white is black. 
 So much the better I — I may stand alone, 
 But would not change my free thoughts for a throne. 
 
 CANTO XII. 
 
 Of all the barbarous middle ages, that 
 
 Which is most barbarous is the middle age 
 
 Of man ; it is — I really scarce know what ; 
 But when we hover between fool and sage, 
 
 And don't know justly what we would be at — 
 A period something like a printed page, 
 
 Black-letter upon foolscap, while our hair 
 
 Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were ; — 
 
 II. 
 
 Too old for youth — too young, at thirty-five. 
 
 To herd with boys, or hoard with good threescore — 
 
 I wonder people should be left alive ; 
 
 But, since they are, that epoch is a bore : 
 
 Love lingers still, although 't were late to wive ; 
 And as for other love, the illusion 's o'er ; 
 
 And money, that most pure imagination. 
 
 Gleams only through the dawn of its creation. 
 
 III. 
 Oh gold ! why call we misers miserable ? 
 
 Theirs is die pleasure that can never pall ; 
 Theirs is the best bower-anchor, the chain cable 
 
 Which holds fast other pleasures great and small. 
 Ye who but see the saving man at table. 
 
 And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, 
 And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, 
 Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker 5 
 Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss ; 
 
 But making money, slowly first, then quicker. 
 And adding still a little through each cross 
 
 (Which will come over things,) beats love or liquor, 
 The gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross. 
 
 Oh gold ! I still prefer thee unto paper. 
 
 Which makes bank credit like a bank of vapour. 
 
 V. 
 
 Who hold the balance of the world? Who reign 
 O'er Congress, whether royalist or liberal? 
 
 Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain [all ?) 
 
 (That make old Europe's journals squeak and gibber 
 
 Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain 
 Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber all? 
 
 The shade of Bonaparte's noble daring? — 
 
 Jew Rothschild, and his fellow, Christian Baring. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, 
 
 Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan 
 
 Is not a merely speculative hit. 
 But seats a nation or upsets a throne. 
 
 Republics also get involved a bit ; 
 
 Colombia's stock hath holders not unknown 
 
 On 'Change ; and even thy silver soil, Peru, 
 
 Must get itself discounted by a Jew. 
 
 Why call the miser miserable? as 
 
 I said before : the frugal life is his. 
 Which in a saint or cynic ever was 
 
 The theme of praise : a hermit would not miss 
 Canonization for the self-same cause. 
 
 And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities ? 
 Because, you '11 say, naught calls for such a trial ; — 
 Then there 's more merit in his self-denial. 
 
 He is your only poet ; — passion, pure 
 
 And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays 
 
 Possess'df the ore, of which mere hopes allure 
 Nations athwart the deep : the golden rays 
 
 Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure ; 
 On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze ; 
 
 While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dyes 
 
 Of other stones, to sooth the miser's eyes. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The lands on either side are his : the ship 
 From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads 
 
 For him the fragrant produce of each trip ; 
 Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads. 
 
 And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip ; 
 His very cellars might be kings' abodes ; 
 
 While he, despising every sensual call. 
 
 Commands — the intellectual lord of all. 
 
 X. 
 
 Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, 
 
 To build a college, or to found a race, 
 A hospital, a church, — and leave behind 
 
 Some dome surmounted by his meagre face : 
 Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind 
 
 Even with the very ore which makes them base ; 
 Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation. 
 Or revel in the joys of calculation. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But whether all, or each, or none of these 
 May be the hoarder's principle of action, 
 
 The fool will call such mania a disease :-~ 
 What is his ovm? Go — ^look at each transaction, 
 
 Wars, revels, loves — do these bring men more ease 
 Than the mere plodding thro' each " vulgar fraction ?' 
 
 Or do they benefit mankind ? Lean miser ! 
 
 Let spendthrift's heirs inquire of yours — who 's wiser? 
 
 XII. 
 
 How beauteous are rouleaus ! how charming chests 
 
 Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 
 (Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests 
 
 Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines, 
 But) of fine unclipp'd gold, where dully rests 
 
 Some likeness which the glittering cirque confines. 
 Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp : — 
 Yes ! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Love rules the camp, the court, the grove," — " for love 
 Is heaven, and heaven is love :" — so sings the bard ; 
 
 Which it were rather difficult to prove, 
 (A thing with poetry in general hard.) 
 
 Perhaps there may be something in " the grove," 
 At least it rhymes to " love ;" but I 'm prepared 
 
 To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental) 
 
 If" courts" and " camps" be quite so sentimental. 
 
 xiy. 
 But if love don't, cash does, and cash alone : 
 
 Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides : 
 Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were none ; 
 
 Without cash, Malthus tells you — " talie no brides." 
 So cash rules love the ruler, on his own 
 
 High ground, as Virgin Cynthia sways the tides ; 
 And, as for " heaven" being " love," why not say honey 
 Is wax ? Heaven is not love, 't is matiimony. 
 
J 
 
 688 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XII. 
 
 Is not all love prohibited whatever, 
 
 Excepting marriage ? which is love, no doubt, 
 After a sort ; but somehow people never 
 
 With the same thought the two words have help'd out 
 Love may exist with marriage, and should ever. 
 
 And marriage also may exist without. 
 But love sans bans is both a sin and shame, 
 And ought to go by quite another name. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Now if the " court" and " camp" and " grove" be not 
 Recruited all with constant married men. 
 
 Who never coveted their neighbour's lot, 
 I say thai line 's a lapsus of the pen ; — 
 
 Strange too in my " buon camerado" Scott, 
 So celebrated for his morals, when 
 
 My Jeffrey held him up as an example 
 
 To me ; — of which these morals are a sample. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Well, if I do n't succeed, I have succeeded. 
 And that 's enough ; succeeded in my youth. 
 
 The only time when much success is needed: 
 And my success produced what I in sooth 
 
 Cared most about ; it need not now be pleaded — 
 Whate'er it was, 't was mine ; I 've paid, in truth, 
 
 Of late, the penalty of such success. 
 
 But have not learnd to wish it any less. 
 
 XVIII, 
 
 That suit in Chancery, — which some persons plead 
 
 In an appeal to the unborn, whom they, 
 In the faith of their procreative creed. 
 
 Baptize posterity, or future clay, — 
 To me seems but a dubious kind of reed 
 
 To lean on for support in any way ; 
 Since odds are that posterity will know 
 No more of them, than they of her, I trow. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Why, I 'm posterity — and so are you ; 
 
 And whom do we remember ? Not a hundred. 
 Were every memory written down all true, 
 
 The tenth or twentieth name would be but blunder'd : 
 Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few. 
 
 And 'gainst those few your annalists have thunder'd ; 
 And Mitford, in the nineteenth century, 
 Gives, with Greek trutli, the good old Greek the lie.' 
 
 XX 
 
 Good people all, of every degree, 
 
 Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers. 
 In this twelfth canto 't is my wish to be 
 
 As serious as if I had for inditers 
 Malthus and Wilberforce : the last set free 
 
 The negroes, and is worth a million fighters ; 
 While Wellington has but enslaved the whites. 
 And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writes. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 I 'm serious — so are all men upon paper: 
 And why should I not form my speculation, 
 
 And hold up to the sun my litde taper ? 
 
 Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation 
 
 On constitutions and steam-boats of vapour ; 
 While sages write against all procreation, 
 
 Unless a man can calculate his means 
 
 Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 That 's noble ! that 's romantic ! For my part, 
 
 I think that " philo-genitiveness" is — 
 (Now here 's a word quite after my o\vn heart, 
 
 Though there 's a shorter a good deal than this 
 If that politeness set it not apart ; 
 
 But I 'm resolved to say naught that 's amiss) — 
 I say, methinks that" philo-genitiveness" 
 Might meet from men a little more forgiveness. 
 
 I XXIII. 
 
 And now to business. Oh, my gentle Juan ! 
 
 Thou art in London — in that pleasant place 
 Where every kind of mischief 's daily brewing, 
 
 Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 
 'T is true, that thy career is not a new one ; 
 
 Thou art no novice in the headlong chase 
 Of early life ; but this is a new land. 
 Which foreigners can never understand. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 What with a small diversity of climate, 
 
 Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, 
 I could send forth my mandate like a primate, 
 
 Upon the rest of Europe's social state ; 
 But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at. 
 
 Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate t 
 All countries have their " lions," but in thee 
 There is but one superb menagerie. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But I am sick of politics. Begin, 
 
 " Paulo majora." Juan, undecided 
 Among the paths of being " taken in," 
 
 Above the ice had like a skaiter glided: 
 When tired of play, he flirted without sin 
 
 With some of those fair creatures who have prided 
 Themselves on innocent tantalization. 
 And hate all vice except its reputation. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 But these are few, and in the end they make 
 Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows 
 
 That even the purest people may mistake 
 
 Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snows; 
 
 And then men stare, as if a new ass spake 
 To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows 
 
 Cluicksilver small-talk, ending (if you note it) [it?'' 
 
 With the kind world's amen — " Who would have thought 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The little Leila, with her orient eyes 
 
 And taciturn Asiatic disposition, 
 (Which saw all western things with small surprise, 
 
 To the surprise of people of condition. 
 Who think that novelties are butterflies 
 
 To be pursued as food for inanition,) 
 Her charming figure and romantic history, 
 Became a kind of fashionable mystery. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The women much divided — as is usual 
 
 Among the sex in little things or great. 
 Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you aJl— 
 
 I have always liked you better than I state. 
 Since I 've grown moral : still I must accuse you all 
 
 Of being apt to talk at a great rate ; 
 And now there was a general sensation 
 Among you, about Leila's education. 
 
 xxrx. 
 
 In one point only were you settled — and 
 
 You had reason ; 't was that a young child of grace, 
 As beautiful as her own native land. 
 
 And far away, the last bud of her race, 
 Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command 
 
 Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space, 
 Would be much better taught beneath the eye 
 Of peeresses whose follies had run dry. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 So first there was a generous emulation, 
 And then there was a general competition 
 
 To undertake the orphan's education. 
 As Juan was a person of condition. 
 
 It had been an affront on this occasion 
 To talk of a subscription or petition ; 
 
 But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages, 
 
 Whose tale belongs to " Hallam'a Middle Ages," 
 
Canto XII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 689 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And one or two sad, separate wives, without 
 
 A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough — 
 Begg'd to bring up the Uttle girl, and " out,"— 
 
 For that 's the phrase that settles all things now, 
 Meaning a virgin' s first blush at a rout. 
 
 And all her points as thorough-bred to show : 
 And I assure you, that like virgin honey- 
 Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money.) 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 How all the needy honourable misters, 
 
 Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy, 
 
 The watchful mothers and the careful sisters, 
 (Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy 
 
 At making matches, where " 't is gold that glisters," 
 Than their he relatives,) like flies o'er candy, 
 
 Buzz round " the Fortune" with their busy battery 
 
 To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery ! 
 
 XXXIII, 
 
 Each aunt, each cousin hath her speculation ; 
 
 Nay, married dames will now and then discover 
 Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 
 
 I 've known them court an heiress for their lover. 
 " Tantcene !" Such the virtues of high station. 
 
 Even in the hopeful isle, whose outlet 's "Dover!" 
 While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares, 
 Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Some are soon bagg'd, but some reject three dozen. 
 
 'T is fine to see them scattering refusals 
 And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin, 
 
 (Friends of the party,) who begin accusals 
 Such as — "Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen 
 
 Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 
 To his billets ? Why waltz with him? Why, I pray, 
 Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day ? 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " Why ?— Why ?— Besides, Fred, really was attached ; 
 
 'T was not her fortune — he has enough without : 
 The time will come she '11 wish that she had snatch'd 
 
 So good an opportunity, no doubt; — 
 But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd, 
 
 As I '11 tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout : 
 And after all poor Frederick may do better — 
 Pray, did you see her answer to his letter?" 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets 
 Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, 
 
 After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 
 Upon the sweep-stakes for substantial wives: 
 
 And when at least the pretty creature gets 
 
 Some gentleman who fights, or writes, or drives, 
 
 It sooths the awkward squad of the rejected 
 
 To find how very badly she selected. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, 
 
 Worri out with importunity ; or fall 
 But here perhaps the instances are fewer) 
 
 To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. 
 A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure^ 
 
 (If 't is not vain examples to recall) 
 To draw a high prize : now, howe'er he got her, I 
 See naught more strange in this than t' other lottery. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 I, for my part — (pne " modem instance" more,) 
 " True, 't is a pity— pity 't is, 't is true"— 
 
 Was chosen from out an amatory score. 
 
 Albeit my years were less discreet than few ; 
 
 But though I also had reform'd before 
 
 Those became one who soon were to be two, 
 
 T '11 not gainsay the generous public's voice — 
 
 That the young lady made a monstrous choice. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Oh, pardon me digression — or at least 
 Peruse ! 'T is always with a moral end 
 
 That I dissert, like grace before a feast : 
 For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend, 
 
 A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest. 
 My Muse by exhortation means to mend 
 
 All people, at all times, and in most places, 
 
 Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces. 
 
 XL. 
 
 But now I 'm going to be immoral ; now 
 I mean to show things really as they are. 
 
 Not as they ought to be : for I avow. 
 
 That till we see what 's what in fact, we 're far 
 
 From much improvement with that virtuous plough 
 Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar 
 
 Upon the black loam long manured by Vice, 
 
 Only to keep its corn at the old price. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 But first of little Leila we '11 dispose ; 
 
 For, like a day-dawn, she was young and pure, 
 Or like the old comparison of snows 
 
 Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure, 
 Like many people every body knows : 
 
 Don Juan was delighted to secure 
 A goodly guardian for his infant charge, 
 Who might not profit much by being at large. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Besides, he had found out he was no tutor, 
 (I wish that others would find out the same:) 
 
 And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter. 
 For silly wards will bring their guardians blame : 
 
 So, when he saw each ancient dame a suitor, 
 To make his little wild Asiatic tame, 
 
 Consulting the " Society for Vice 
 
 Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Olden she was — but had been very young : 
 Virtuous she was — and had been, I believe : 
 
 Although the world has such an evil tongue 
 That — but my chaster ear will not receive 
 
 An echo of a syllable that 's wrong : 
 In fact, there 's nothing makes me so much grieve 
 
 As that abominable tittle-tattle. 
 
 Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Moreover I 've remark'd, (and I was once 
 
 A slight observer in a modest way,) 
 And so may every one except a dunce. 
 
 That ladies in their youth a little gay. 
 Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense 
 
 Of the sad consequence of going astray, 
 Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the wo 
 Which the mere passionless can never know. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue 
 By railing at the unknown and envied passion, 
 
 Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you, 
 
 Or what 's stiU worse, to put you out of fashion,— 
 
 The kinder veteran with calm words will court you, 
 Entreating you to pause before you dash on ; 
 
 Expounding and illustrating the riddle 
 
 Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Now, whether it be thus, or that they are stricter, 
 As better knowing why they should be so, 
 
 I think you '11 find from many a family picture. 
 That daughters of such mothers as may know 
 
 The world by experience rather than by lecture. 
 Turn out much better for the Sraithfield show 
 
 Of vestals brought into the marriage mart. 
 
 Than those bred up by prudes without a heart. 
 
690 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XII. 
 
 1 said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about — 
 As who has not, if female, young, and pretty ? 
 
 But now no more the ghost of scandal slalk'd about 5 
 She merely was deem'd amiable and witty, 
 
 And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd about ; 
 Then she was given to charity and pity, 
 
 And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) 
 
 For being a most exemplary wife. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 High in high circles, gentle in her own, 
 She was the mild reprover of the young, 
 
 Whenever — which means every day — they 'd shown 
 An awkward inclination to go wrong. 
 
 The quantity of good she did 's imknown, 
 
 Or, at the least, would lengthen out my song : — 
 
 In brief, the little orphan of the east 
 
 Had raised an interest in her which increased. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Juan too was a sort of favourite with her. 
 
 Because she thought him a good heart at bottom, 
 
 A little spoil'd, but not so altogether ; 
 
 Which was a wonder, if you think who got him, 
 
 And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither : 
 Though this might ruin others, it did not him, 
 
 At least entirely — for he had seen too many 
 
 Changes in youth, to be surprised at any. 
 
 And these vicissitudes tell best in youth; 
 
 For when they happen at a riper age. 
 People are apt to blame the fates, forsooth, 
 
 And wonder Providence is not more sage. 
 Adversity is the first path to truth : 
 
 He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage. 
 Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, 
 Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty. 
 
 LI. 
 
 How far it profits is another matter, — 
 
 Our hero gladly saw his little charge 
 Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter 
 
 Being long married, and thus set at large. 
 Had left all the accomplishments she taught her 
 
 To be transmitted, like the lord mayor's barge. 
 To the next comer ; or — as it will tell 
 More muse-like — say like Cytherea's shell. 
 
 LII. 
 
 I call such things transmission ; for there is 
 
 A floating balance of accomplishment 
 Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 
 
 According as their minds or backs are bent. 
 Some waltz ; some draw ; some fathom the abyss 
 
 Of metaphysics ; others are content 
 With music ; the most moderate shine as wits. 
 While others have a genius tum'd for fits. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, 
 
 Theology, fine arts, or finer stays, 
 May be the baits for gentlemen or lords 
 
 With regular descent, in these our days 
 The last year to the new transfers its hoards ; 
 
 New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise 
 Of " elegant," et cetera, in fresh batches — 
 All matdiless creatures, and yet bent on matches. 
 
 LIV, 
 
 But now I will begin my poem. 'T is 
 Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new. 
 
 That fi-om the first of cantos up to this 
 
 I 've not begun what we have to go through. 
 
 These first twelve books are merely flourishes, 
 Preludios, trying just a string or two 
 
 Upon my Ijnre, or making the pegs sure ; 
 
 And when so, you shall have the overture. 
 
 My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin 
 
 x\bout what 's call'd success, or not succeeding: 
 
 Snch tlioughts are quite belov/ the strain they 've chosen 
 'T is a *' great moral lesson " they are reading. 
 
 I thought, at setting off, about two dozen 
 Cantos would do ; but, at Apollo's pleading 
 
 If that my Pegasr.s shotild not be founder'd, 
 
 I think to canter gently ihrough a hundi'ed. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, 
 Yclept the great world ; for it is the least. 
 
 Although the highest : but as swords have hilts 
 By which their power of mischief is increased, 
 
 When man in battle or in quarrel tilts, 
 
 Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east, 
 
 Must still obey the high — which is their handle, 
 
 Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing candle. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 He had many fi-iends who had many wives, and was 
 
 Well look'd upon by both, to that extent 
 Of friendship which you may accept or pass ; 
 
 It does nor good nor harm, being merely meant 
 To keep the wheels going of the higher class. 
 
 And draw them nightly when a ticket '■ sent : 
 And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls, 
 For the first season such a life scarce paUs. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 A young unmarried man, with a good name 
 And fortune, has an awkward part to play ; 
 
 For good society is but a game, 
 
 " The royal game of goose," as I may say. 
 
 Where every body has some separate aim, 
 An end to ans\ver, or a plan to lay — 
 
 The single ladies wishing to be double. 
 
 The married ones to save the virgins trouble. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 I do n't mean this as general, but particular 
 Examples may be found of such pursuits : 
 
 Though several also keep their perpendicular 
 Like poplars, ■svith good principles for roots; 
 
 Yet many have a method more reticular — 
 
 " Fishers for men," like sirens with soft lutes ; 
 
 For talk six times with the same single lady, 
 
 And you may get the wedding-dresses ready. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Perhaps you '11 have a letter from the mother, 
 To say her daughter's feelings are trepaim'd ; 
 
 Perhaps you '11 have a visit from the brother, 
 All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand 
 
 Wliat "your intentions are?" — One way or other 
 It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand ; 
 
 And between pity for her case and yours. 
 
 You '11 add to matrimony's list of cures. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 I 've knovra a dozen weddings made even thus, 
 And some of them high names : I have also known 
 
 Young men who — though they hated to discuss 
 
 Pretensions which they never dreara'd to have shown— 
 
 Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss. 
 Nor by mustachios moved, were let alcme, 
 
 And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair, 
 
 In happier plight thsm if they form'd a pair. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 There 's also nightly, to the uninitiated, 
 A peril — not indeed like love or marriage, 
 
 But not the less for this to be depreciated: 
 It is — I meant and mean not to disparage 
 
 The show of virtue even in the vitiated — 
 It adds an outward grace unto their carriage — 
 
 But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot, 
 
 " Couleur de rose," who 's neither white nor scarlet. 
 
Canto XII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 691 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Such is your old coquette, who can't say " No," 
 And won't say " Yes," and keeps you on and ofF-ing, 
 
 On a lee shore, till it begins to blow — 
 
 Then sees your heart wTeck'd, with an inward scoffing; 
 
 This works a world of sentimental wo, 
 
 And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin ; 
 
 But yet is merely innocent flirtation. 
 
 Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 
 
 I.XIV. 
 
 " Ye gods, I grow a talker !" Let us prate. 
 
 The next of perils, though I place it sternest, 
 Is when, without regard to " Church or State," 
 
 A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. 
 Abroad, such things decide few women's fate — 
 
 (Such, early traveller ! is the truth thou learnest) — 
 But in old England when a young bride errs. 
 Poor thing ! Eve's was a trifling case to hers ; 
 
 XXT. 
 
 For 't is a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit 
 Country, where a young couple of the same ages 
 
 Can't form a friendship but the world o'er-awes it. 
 Then there 's the vulgar trick of those d — d damages ! 
 
 A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause it! — 
 Forms a sad climax to romantic homages ; 
 
 Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders, 
 
 And evidences which regale all readers ! 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 But they who blunder thus are raw beginners ; 
 
 A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
 Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners, 
 
 The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy ; 
 You may see such at all the balls and dirmers, 
 
 Among the proudest of our aristocracy, 
 So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste — 
 And all by having tact as well as taste. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Juan, who did not stand in the predicament 
 Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more ; 
 
 For he was sick — no, 't was not the word sick I meant— 
 But he had seen so much good love before. 
 
 That he was not in heart so very weak ; — I mesuit 
 But thus much, and no sneer against the shore 
 
 Of white cliiTs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stockings, 
 
 Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockings. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 But coming young from lands and scenes romantic. 
 Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for passion, 
 
 And passion's.self must have a spice of" frantic, 
 Into a country where 't is half a fashion, 
 
 Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, 
 Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation ; 
 
 Besides (alas ! his taste — forgive and pity !) 
 
 At first he did not think the women pretty. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 I say dil first — for he found out at last, 
 
 But by degrees, that they were fairer far 
 Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast 
 
 Beneath the influence of the eastern star — 
 A further proof we should not judge in haste ; 
 
 Yet inexperience could not be his bar 
 To taste: — the truth is, if men would confess, 
 That novelties -please less than they impress. 
 
 rxx. 
 Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to 
 
 Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger, 
 To that impracticable place, Timbuctoo, 
 
 Where geography finds no one to oblige her 
 With such a chart as may be safely stuck to — 
 
 For Europe ploughs in Afric like " bos piger :" 
 But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there 
 No doubt I should be told that black is fair. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 It is. I will not s\vear that black is white ; 
 
 But I suspect in fact that white is black, 
 And the whole matter rests upon eyesight. 
 
 Ask a blind man, the best judge. You '11 attack 
 Perhaps this new position — but I 'm right; 
 
 Or if I 'm wrong, I '11 not be ta'en aback : — 
 He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
 Within ; and what see'st thou? A dubious spark. 
 
 I,XXII. 
 
 But I 'm relapsing into metaphysics, 
 
 That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same 
 
 Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics, 
 Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame : 
 
 And this reflection brings me to plain physics, 
 And to the beauties of a foreign dame. 
 
 Compared wuth those of our pure pearls of price, 
 
 Those Polar summers, cdl sun, and some ice. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose 
 Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes ; — 
 
 Not that there 's not a quantity of those 
 
 Who have a due respect for their ovm wishes, 
 
 Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows ' 
 Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious: 
 
 They warm into a scrape, but keep of course, 
 
 As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. 
 
 LXXIV, 
 
 But this has naught to do with their outsides. 
 
 I said that Juan did not think them pretty 
 At the first blush ; for a fair Briton hides 
 
 Half her attractions — probably from pity^^ 
 And rather calmly into the heart glides. 
 
 Than storms it as a foe would take a city ; 
 But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try) 
 She keeps it for you like a true ally. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 She cannot step as does an Arab barb, 
 Or Andalusian girl from mass returning, 
 
 Nor wear as gracefuly as Gauls her garb. 
 Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning ; 
 
 Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb- 
 le those, bravuras (which I still am learning 
 
 To like, though I have been seven years in Italy, 
 
 And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily ;) — 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 She cannot do these things, nor one or two 
 Others, in that ofF-hand and dashing style 
 
 Which takes so much — to give the devil his due ; 
 Nor is she quite so ready with her smile, 
 
 Nor settles all things in one interview, 
 
 (A thing approved as saving time and toil ;') — 
 
 But though the soil may give you time and trouble, 
 
 Well cultivated, it will render double. 
 
 I.XXVII. 
 
 And if in fact she takes to a " grande passion," 
 
 It is a very serious thing indeed ; 
 Nine times in ten 't is but caprice or fashion, 
 
 Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead. 
 The pride of a mere child with a new sash on, 
 
 Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed ; 
 But the tenth instance will be a tornado, 
 For there 's no saying what they wiU or may do. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 The reason 's obvious : if there 's an eclat, 
 
 They lose their C£iste at once, as do the Parias; 
 
 And when the delicacies of the law 
 Have fill'd their papers with their comments various, 
 
 Society, that china without flaw, 
 
 (The hypocrite !) wUl banish them like Marius, 
 
 To sit amid the ruins of their guilt : 
 
 For Fame 's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. 
 
592 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XIII. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Perhaps this b as it should be ; — it is 
 
 A comment on the Gospel's " Sin no more, 
 
 And be thy sins forgiven :" — but upon this 
 I leave the saints to settle their own score. 
 
 Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss, 
 An erring woman finds an open door 
 
 For her return to virtue — as they call 
 
 The lady who should be at home to all. 
 
 JLXXX. 
 
 For me, I leave the matter where I find it, 
 
 Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads 
 People some ten times less in fact to mind it, 
 
 And care but for discoveries and not deeds. 
 And as for chastity, you '11 never bind it 
 
 By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads, 
 But aggravate the crime you have not prevented, 
 By rendering desperate those who had else repented. 
 
 Lxxxr. 
 But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd 
 
 Upon the moral lessons of mankind : 
 Besides, he had not seen, of several hundred, 
 
 A lady altogether to his mind. 
 A little " blase"— 't is not to be wonder'd 
 
 At, that his heart had got a tougher rind : 
 And though not vainer from his past success, 
 No doubt his sensibilities were less. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 He also had been busy seeing sights — 
 The parliament and all the other houses ; 
 
 Had sate beneath the galleries at nights, 
 
 To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rotises) 
 
 The world to gaze upon those northern lights * 
 
 Which flash'd as far as where the musk-bull browses ; 
 
 He had also stood at times behind the throne — 
 
 But Grey was not arrived, and Chatham gone. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 He saw, however, at the dosing session. 
 
 That noble sight, when really fi-ee the nation, 
 
 A king in constitutional possession 
 
 Of such a throne as is ^e proudest station, 
 
 Though despots know it not — till the progression 
 
 Of freedom shall complete their education. 
 T is not mere splendour maltes the show august 
 
 To eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 
 
 rxxxiv. 
 There too he saw (whate'er he may be now) 
 
 A prince, the prince of princes, at the time 
 With fascination in his very bow. 
 
 And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 
 Though royalty was written on his brow, 
 
 He had then the grace too, rare in every clime. 
 Of being, without alloy of fop or beaUj 
 A finish'd gentleman from top to toe. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 And Juan was received, as hath been said, 
 
 Into the best society : and there 
 Occurr'd what often happens, I 'm afraid. 
 
 However disciplined and debonnaire : 
 The talent and good humour he display'd, 
 
 Besides the mark'd distinction of his air. 
 Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation. 
 Even though himself avoided the occasion. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why, 
 
 Is not to be put hastily together ; 
 And as my object is morality, 
 
 (Whatever people say,) I don't know whether 
 I '11 leave a single reader's eyelid dry, 
 
 But harrow up his feelings till they wither, 
 And hew out a huge monument of pathos, 
 As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. * 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Here the twelfth canto of our introduction 
 Ends. When the body of the book 's begun, 
 
 You '11 find it of a different construction 
 
 From what some people say 't will be when done : 
 
 The plan at present 's simply in concoction. 
 I can't oblige you, reader! to read on; 
 
 That 's your affair, not mine : a real spirit 
 
 Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, 
 Remember, reader ! you have had before 
 
 The worst of tempests and the best of batties 
 That e'er were brew'd from elements of gore. 
 
 Besides the most sublime of — Heaven knows what ebe i 
 An usurer could scarce expect much more — 
 
 But my best canto, save one on astronomy, 
 
 Will turn upon ** political economy." 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 That is your present theme for popularity : 
 Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake, 
 
 It grows an act of patriotic charity, 
 
 To show the people the best way to break. 
 
 My plan (but I, if but for singularity, 
 Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 
 
 Meantime read all the national debt-sinkers. 
 
 And tell me what you think of your great thinkers. 
 
 CANTO xm. 
 
 I NOW mean to be serious ; — it is time, 
 
 Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious. 
 
 A jest at vice by virtue 's call'd a crime, 
 And critically held as deleterious : 
 
 Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime, 
 Although when long a little apt to weary us ; 
 
 And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn, 
 
 As an old temple dwindled to a column. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Lady Adeline Amundeville 
 
 ('T is an old Norman name, and to be found 
 In pedigrees by those who wander still 
 
 Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
 Was high-bom, wealthy by her father's will, 
 
 And beauteous, even where beauties most abound) 
 In Britain — which of course true patriots find 
 The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 
 
 III. 
 
 I '11 not gainsay them ; it is not my cue : 
 
 I leave them to their taste, no doubt the best: 
 
 An eye 's an eye, and whether black or blue. 
 Is no great matter so 't is in request : 
 
 'T is nonsense to dispute about a hue — ■ 
 The kindest may be taken as a test. 
 
 The fair sex should be always fair ; and no man, 
 
 Till thirty, should perceive there 's a plain woman. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And after that serene and somewhat dull 
 Epoch, that awkward comer tum'd for days 
 
 More quiet, when our moon 's no more at full, 
 We may presume to criticise or praise 5 
 
 Because indifference begins to lull 
 
 Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways; 
 
 Also because the figure and the face 
 
 Hint, that 't is time to give the younger place. 
 
Cakto XIIL 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 693 
 
 I know that some would fain postpone this era, 
 
 Reluctant as all placemen to resign 
 Their post ; but theirs is merely a chimera, 
 
 For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line ; 
 But then they have their claret and madeira 
 
 To irrigate the dryness of decline ; 
 And county meetings and the Parliament, 
 And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And is there not religion and reform, 
 
 Peace, war, the taxes, and what 's caU'd the " nation ?" 
 The struggle to be pilots in a storm ? 
 
 The landed and the moneyed speculation ? 
 The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, 
 
 Instead of love, that mere hallucination ? 
 Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure ; 
 Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd, 
 Right honestly, " he liked an honest hater" — ^ 
 
 The only truth that yet has been confess'd 
 Within these latest thousand years or later. 
 
 Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest ; — 
 For my part, I am but a mere spectator, 
 
 And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is,. 
 
 Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles ; 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But neither love nor hate in much excess ; 
 
 Though 'twas not once so. If I sneer sometimes,. 
 It is because I cannot well do less, 
 
 And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
 I should be very willing to redress 
 
 Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, 
 Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
 Of Q,uixote, shown how all such efforts fail. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Of all tales, 't is the saddest — and more sad. 
 Because it makes us smile ; his hero's right^ 
 
 And still pursues the right ; — to curb the bad. 
 His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight, 
 
 His guerdon: 'tis his virtue makes him mad! 
 But his adventures form a sorry sight ; — 
 
 A sorrier still is the great moral taught 
 
 By that real epic unto all who have thought. 
 
 X. 
 
 Redressing injury, revenging wrong, 
 
 To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; 
 
 Opposing singly the united strong, 
 
 From foreign yoke to free the helpless native ; — 
 
 Alas! must noblest views, like an old song. 
 Be for mere fancy's sport a thing creative ? 
 
 A jest, a riddle, fame through thin and thick sought? 
 
 And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Gluixote ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away ; 
 
 A single laugh demolish'd the right arm 
 Of his own country ; — seldom since that day 
 
 Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could charm, 
 The world gave ground before her bright array ; 
 
 And therefore have his volumes done such harm. 
 That ail their glory as a composition 
 Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. 
 
 XII. 
 
 I'm " at my old Lunes" — digression, and forget 
 
 The Lady Adeline Amundeville ;, 
 The fair most fatal Juan ever met. 
 
 Although she was not evil nor meant ill ; 
 But Destiny and Passion spread the net, 
 
 (Fate is a good excuse for our own will,) 
 And caught them ; what do they not catch, methiidcs ? 
 But I 'ra not CEdipus, and life 's a sphinx. 
 3 Z 
 
 xiir. 
 
 I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare 
 
 To venture a solution : ' ' Davus sum !"' 
 And now I will proceed upon the pair. 
 
 Sweet Adeline, amid the gay world's hum, 
 V/as the queen bee, the glass of all that 's fair ; 
 
 Whose charms made all men speak, and women dumb, 
 The last 's a miracle, and such was reckon'd, 
 And since that time there has not been a second. 
 
 XIV, 
 
 Chaste was she to detraction's desperation, 
 And wedded unto one she had loved well— 
 
 A man known in the councils of the nation, 
 Cool, and quite English, imperturbable. 
 
 Though apt to act with fire upon occasion. 
 Proud of himself and her ; the world could tell 
 
 Naught against either, and both seem'd secure — 
 
 She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 
 
 It chanced some diploniatical relations, 
 Arising out of business, often brought 
 
 Himself and Juan in their mutual stations 
 
 Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught 
 
 By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience. 
 And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought, 
 
 And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends 
 
 In making men what courtesy calls friends. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 
 Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow 
 
 In judging men — when once his judgment was 
 Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, 
 
 Had all the pertinacity pride has, 
 
 Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, 
 
 And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided. 
 
 Because its own good pleasure hath decided. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 His friendships, therefore, and no less aversions, 
 Though oft well founded, which confirm'd but more 
 
 His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians 
 
 And Medes, would ne'er revoke what went before. 
 
 His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians, 
 Of common likings, which make some deplore 
 
 What they should laugh at — the mere ague still 
 
 Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " 'T is not in mortals to command success; 
 
 But do you more, Sempronius — don't deserve it." 
 And take my word, you won't have any less : 
 
 Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it ; 
 Give gently way, where there 's too great a press ; 
 
 And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it,— 
 For, like a racer or a boxer training, 
 'T will make, if proved, vast efforts without paining. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Lord Henry also liked to be superior. 
 As most men do, the little or the great ; 
 
 The very lowest find out an inferior. 
 
 At least they think so, to exert their state 
 
 Upon : for there are very few things wearier 
 Than solitary pride's oppressive weight, 
 
 Which mortals generously v.ould divide. 
 
 By bidding others carry while they ride. 
 
 XX. 
 
 In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal, 
 O'er Juan he could no distinction claim ; 
 
 In years he had the advantage of time's sequel ; 
 And, as be thought, in country much the same — 
 
 Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill, 
 At which all modern nations vainly aim ; 
 
 And the Lord Henry was a great debater, 
 
 So that few members kept the House up later. 
 
694 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XIII, 
 
 These were advantages : and then he thought — 
 It was his foible, but by no means sinister — 
 
 That few or none more than himself had caught 
 Court mysteries, having been himself a minister : 
 
 He liked to teach that which he had been taught. 
 And greatly shone whenever there had been a stir 5 
 
 And reconciled all qualities which grace man, 
 
 Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity ^ 
 He almost honour'd him for his docility, 
 
 Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavity, 
 Or contradicted but with proud humility. 
 
 He knew the world, and would not see depravity 
 In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility. 
 
 If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop, — 
 
 For then they are very difficult to stop. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 And then hetalk'd with him about Madrid, 
 Constantinople, and such distant places ; 
 
 Where people always did as they were bid, 
 
 Or did what they should not with foreign graces. 
 
 Of courses also spake they : Henry rid 
 
 Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races : 
 
 And Juan, like a trueborn Andalusian, 
 
 Could back ahorse, as despots ride a Russian. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, 
 
 And diplomatic dinners, or at other — 
 For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, 
 
 As in Freemasonry a higher brother. 
 Upon his talent Henry had no doubts, 
 
 His manner show'd him sprung from a high mother ; 
 And all men like to show their hospitality 
 To him whose breeding marches with his quality. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 At Blank-Blank Square ; — for we will break no squares 
 By naming streets ; since men are so censorious, 
 
 And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares, 
 Reaping allusions private and inglorious. 
 
 Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs, 
 , Which were, or are, or are to be notorious, 
 
 That therefore do I previously declare. 
 
 Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank- Blank Square. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Also there bin ^ another pious reason 
 
 For making squares and streets anonymous ; 
 
 Which is, that there is scarce a single season 
 Which doth not shake some very splendid house 
 
 With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason — 
 A topic scandal doth delight to rouse : 
 
 Such I might stumble over unawares. 
 
 Unless I knew the very chastest squares. 
 
 xxvii. 
 'T is true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, 
 
 A place where peccadilloes are unknown ; 
 But I have motives, whetlier wise or silly, 
 
 For letting that pure sanctuary alone. 
 Therefore I name not square, street, place,'^until I 
 
 Find one where nothing naughty can be shown, 
 A vestal shrine of innocence of heart : 
 Such are — but I have lost the London chart. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 At Henry's mansion then in Blank-Blank Square, 
 
 Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest, 
 As many other noble scions were ; 
 
 And some who had but talent for their crest ; 
 Or wealth, which is a passport everywhere; 
 
 Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the best 
 Kecommendation, and to be welldress'd 
 Will very often supersede the rest. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And since " there 's safety in a multitude 
 Of counsellors," as Solomon has said. 
 
 Or some one for him, in some sage grave mood : — 
 Indeed we see the daily proof display'd 
 
 In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud. 
 Where'er collective wisdom can parade, 
 
 Which is the only cause that \^■e can guess 
 
 Of Britain's present wealth and happiness ;— - 
 
 XXX. 
 
 But as " there 's safety grafted in the number 
 Of counsellors" for men, — thus for the sex 
 
 A large acquaintance lets not virtue slumber; 
 Or, should it shake, the choice will more perple.x- 
 
 Variety itself will more encumber. 
 
 'Mid many rocks we guard more against wrecks ; 
 
 And thus with women : howsoe'er it shock some's 
 
 Self-love, there's safety in a crowd of coxcombs. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 But Adtliue had not the least occasion 
 For such a shield, which leaves but little merit 
 
 To virtue proper, or good education. 
 Her chief resource was in her own high spirit 
 
 Which judged mankind at their due estimation ; 
 And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it: 
 
 Secure of admiration, its impression 
 
 Was faint, as of an every-day possession. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 To all she was polite without parade ; 
 
 To some she show'd attention of that kind 
 Which flatters, but is flattery convey'd 
 
 In such a sort as cannot leave behind 
 A trace unwortliy either wife or maid ; — 
 
 A gentle genial courtesy of mind, 
 To those who were, or pass'd for, meritorious, 
 Just to console sad glory for being glorious : 
 
 XXXIII, 
 
 Which is in all respects, save now and then, 
 
 A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze 
 Upon tlie shades of those distinguish'd men 
 
 Who were or are the puppetsliows of praise, 
 The praise of persecution. Gaze again 
 
 On the most favour'd ; and, amid the blaze 
 Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow'd, 
 What can ye recognise ? — A gilded cloud. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 There also was of course in Adeline 
 
 That calm patrician polish in the address. 
 
 Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line 
 Of any thing which nature would express : 
 
 Just as a Mandarin finds nothing fine, — 
 At least his maimer sufiers not to guess 
 
 That any thing he views can greatly please. 
 
 Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chinese — 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Perhaps from Horace: his " JVil admirarV' 
 Was what he call'd the " Art of Happiness ;' 
 
 An art on which the artists greatly vary, 
 And have not yet attain'dto much success. 
 
 However, 't is expedient to be wary : 
 Indifference certes do n't produce distress ; 
 
 And rash enthusiasm in good society 
 
 Were nothing but a moral inebriety. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 But Adeline was not indifferent : for, 
 
 {Now for a commonplace!) beneath the snow, 
 
 As a volcano holds the lava more 
 
 Within — et cetera. Shall I go on ? — No ! 
 
 I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor : 
 So let the often-used volcano go. 
 
 Poor thing ! how frequently, by me and others, 
 
 It hath been stirr'd up, till its smoke quite smothers! 
 
Oanto XIII. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 695 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 I 'U have another figure in a trice : 
 
 What say you to a bottle of champagne ? 
 
 Frozen into a very vinous ice, 
 
 Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain, 
 
 Yet in the very centre, past all price, 
 About a liquid glassful will remain ; 
 
 And this is stronger than the strongest grape 
 
 Could e'er express in its expanded shape : 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 'T is the whole spirit brought to a quintessence ; 
 
 And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre 
 A hidden nectar under a cold presence, 
 
 And such are many — though I only meant her 
 From whom I now deduce these moral lessons, 
 
 On v.'hich the Muse has always sought to enter : — 
 And your cold people are beyond all price, 
 When once you 've broken their confounded ice. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 But after all they are a North- West passage 
 
 Unto the glowing India of the soul ; 
 And as the good ships sent upon that message 
 
 Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole, 
 (Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage,) 
 
 Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal ; 
 For if the Pole 's not open, but all frost, 
 (A chance still,) 't is a voyage or vessel lost. 
 
 XL. 
 
 And young beginners may as well commence 
 With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman ; 
 
 While those who 're not beginners, should have sense 
 Enough to make for port, ere Time shall summon 
 
 With his gray signal-flag ; and the past tense, 
 The dreary "/uimw-s" of all things human, 
 
 Must be declined, whilst life's thin thread 's spun out 
 
 Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 But heaven must be diverted : its diversion 
 Is sometimes truculent — but never mind : 
 
 The world upon tlie whole is \^■orth the assertion 
 (If but for comfort) that all things are kind: 
 
 And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, 
 Of the two principles, but leaves behind 
 
 As many doubts as any other doctrine 
 
 Has ever puzzled faith withal, or yoked her in. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 The English winter — ending in July 
 
 To recommence in August — now was done. 
 
 'T is the postilion's paradise : wheels fly ; 
 
 On roads east, south, north, west, there is a run. 
 
 But for posthorses who finds sympathy ? 
 JMan's pity 's for himself or for his son. 
 
 Always premising that said son at college 
 
 Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 The London winter 's ended in July — 
 
 Sometimes a little later. I do n't err 
 In this : whatever other blunders lie 
 
 Upon my shoulders, here I must aver 
 My Muse a glass of weatherology. 
 
 For Parliament is our barometer ; 
 Let Radicals its other acts attack, 
 Its sessions form our only almanac. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 When its quicksilver 's down at zero, — lo ! 
 
 Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage ! 
 Wheels whirl from Carlton Palace to Soho, 
 
 And happiest they who horses can engage ; 
 The turnpikes glow ^vith dust, and Rotten Row 
 
 Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age: 
 And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces, 
 Sigh, as the postboys fasten on the traces. 
 
 j XLV. 
 
 They and their bills, " Arcadians both,"^ are left 
 To the Greek kalends of another session. 
 
 Alas ! to them of ready cash bereft. 
 
 What hope remains ? Of hope the full possession, 
 
 Or generous draft, conceded as a gift, 
 
 At a long date — till they can get a fresh one, — 
 
 Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large ;— 
 
 Also the solace of an overcharge. 
 
 XI, VI. 
 
 But these are trifles. Downward flies my Lord, 
 Nodding beside my Lady in his carriage. 
 
 Away ! away ! " Fresh horses !" are the word. 
 And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage ; 
 
 The obsequious landlord hath the change restored ; 
 The postboys have no reason to disparage 
 
 Their fee ; but, ere the water'd wheels may hiss hencs, 
 
 The ostler pleads for a small reminiscence. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 'T is granted ; and the valet mounts the dickey— 
 That gentleman of lords and gentlemen ; 
 
 Also my Lady's gentlewoman, tricky, 
 
 Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen 
 
 Can paint, " Cosi viaggino i ricchiP^ 
 
 (Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, 
 
 If but to show I 've travell'd ; and what 's travel, 
 
 Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil ?) 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 The London winter and the coimtry summer 
 Were well nigh over. 'T is perhaps a pity, 
 
 When Nature wears the gown tljat doth become her, 
 To lose those best months in a sweaty city, 
 
 And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, 
 Listening debates not very wise or witty. 
 
 Ere patriots tlieir true country can remember ; — 
 
 But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till September. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 I 've done with my tirade. The world was gone ; 
 
 The twice two thousand for whom earth was made, 
 Were vanish'd to be what they call alone, — 
 
 That is, with thirty servants for parade, 
 As many guests or more ; before whom groan 
 
 As many covers, duly, daily, laid. 
 Let none accuse old England's hospitality — 
 Its quantity is but condensed to quality. 
 
 L. 
 
 Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline 
 
 Departed, like the rest of their compeers. 
 
 The peerage, to a mansion very fine ; 
 The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 
 
 None than themselves could boast a longer line, 
 
 Where time through heroes and through beauties steers ; 
 
 And oalcs, as olden as their pedigree, 
 
 Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 
 
 LI. 
 
 A paragraph in ever}' paper told 
 
 Of their departure : such is modern fame : 
 
 'T is pity that it takes no further hold 
 
 Than an advertisement, or much the same ; 
 
 When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. 
 The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim — 
 
 " Departure, for his country-seat to-day, 
 
 Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A. 
 
 " We understand the splendid host intends 
 
 To entertain, this autumn, a select 
 And numerous party of his noble friends ; 
 
 'Mid whom, we have heard from sources quite correct, 
 The Duke of D the shooting season spends 
 
 With many more by rank and fashion deck'd 
 Also a foreigner of high condition, 
 The envov of the secret Russian mission.'* 
 
696 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XIII. 
 
 And thus we see — who doubts the Morning Post ? 
 
 (Whose articles are Hke the " thirty-nine," 
 Which those most swear to who believe them most) — 
 
 Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to shine, 
 Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host, 
 
 With -those who, Pope says, " greatly daring dine." 
 'T is odd, but true, — last war, the news aboxmded 
 More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded. — 
 
 LIV. 
 
 As thus : " On Thursday there was a grand dinner ; 
 
 Present, lords A. B. C." — Earls, dukes, by name 
 Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner : 
 
 Then underneath, and in the very same 
 Column : " Date, Falmouth. There has lately been here 
 
 The slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame ; 
 Whose loss in the late action we regret : 
 The vacancies are fiU'd up — see Gazette." 
 
 LV. 
 
 To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair, 
 
 An old, old monastery once, and now 
 Still older mansion, of a rich and rare 
 
 Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 
 Few specimens yet left us can compare 
 
 Withal : it lies perhaps a little low. 
 Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind, 
 To shelter their devotion from the wind. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, 
 Crown'd by high woodlands, where tlie Druid oak 
 
 Stood like Caractacus in act to rally 
 
 His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder-stroke ; 
 
 And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally 
 The dappled foresters — as day awoke, 
 
 The branching stag swept down with all his herd, 
 
 To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird, 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 
 
 Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 
 
 By a river, which its soften'd way did take 
 In currents through the calmer water spread 
 
 Around : th© wild fowl nestled in the brake 
 And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: 
 
 The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood 
 
 With their green faces fix'd upon the flood. 
 
 Lviri. 
 Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade. 
 
 Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding 
 Its shriller echoes — like an infant made 
 
 ■Q,uiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 
 Into a rivulet ; and, thus allay'd, 
 
 Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding 
 Its windings through the woods ; now clear, now blue. 
 According as the skies their shadows threw. 
 
 A glorious remnant of the Gothic pUe 
 
 (While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart 
 In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. 
 
 These last had disappear'd — a loss to art : 
 The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil. 
 
 And kindled feelings in the roughest heart. 
 Which moum'd the power of time's or tempest's march, 
 In gazing on that venerable ardi. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, 
 
 Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone: 
 But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, 
 
 But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, 
 When each Jiouse was a fortadice — as tell 
 
 The annals of full many a Hne undone, — 
 The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 
 For those who knew not to resign or reign. 
 
 But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd, 
 The Virgin Mother of the God-bom child, 
 
 With her son in her bless'd arms, look'd round. 
 
 Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd ; 
 
 She made the eeirth below seem holy ground. 
 This may be superstition, weak or wild. 
 
 But even the faintest relics of a shrine 
 
 Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 A mighty window, hollow in the centre, 
 Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, 
 
 Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter, 
 Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings, 
 
 Now yawns all desolate : now loud, now fainter, 
 The gale sweeps through ils fretwork, and oft sings 
 
 The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire 
 
 Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 But in the noontide of the moon, and when 
 The wind is winged fi-om one point of heaven, 
 
 There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then 
 Is musical — a dying accent driven 
 
 Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. 
 Some deem it but the distant echo given 
 
 Back to the night-wind by the waterfall, 
 
 And harmonized by the old choral wall : 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Others, that some original shape or form. 
 
 Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power 
 
 (Though less than that of Menuion's statue, warm 
 In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) 
 
 To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm. 
 Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower: 
 
 The cause I know not, nor can solve ; but such 
 
 The fact : — I 've heard it, — once perhaps too much. 
 
 rxv. 
 Amid the court a Gothic fountain play'd, 
 
 Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint — 
 Strange faces, like to men in masquerade. 
 
 And here perhaps a monster, there a saint : 
 The spring rush'd through grim mouths, of granite made, 
 
 And sparkled into basins, where it spent 
 Its litrie torrent in a thousand bubbles. 
 Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 The mansion's self was vast and venerable. 
 With more of the monastic than has been 
 
 Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were stable, 
 The cells too and refectory, I ween: 
 
 An exquisite small chapel had been able, 
 Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene ; 
 
 The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, 
 
 And spoke more of the baron than the monk. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd 
 By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, 
 
 Might shock a coimoisseur ; but, when combined, 
 Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts. 
 
 Yet left a grand impression on the mind, 
 
 At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts. 
 
 We gaze upon a giant for his stature. 
 
 Nor judge at first if all be tiue to nature. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Steel barons, molten the next generation 
 To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls, 
 
 Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation ; 
 And Lady Marys, blooming into girls, 
 
 With fair long locks, had also kept their station ; 
 And countesses mature in robes and pearls : 
 
 Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, 
 
 Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely : 
 
Canto Xm. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 697 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Judges, in very formidable ermine, 
 
 Were there, with brows that did not much invite 
 The accused to think their lordships would determine 
 
 His cause by leaning much from might to right : 
 Bishops, who had not left a single sermon ; 
 
 Attorneys-general, awful to the sight, 
 As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us) 
 Of the " Star Chamber" than of" Habeas Corpus." 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Generals, some all in armour, of the old 
 
 And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead ; 
 
 Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, 
 Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed : 
 
 Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold : 
 
 Nimrods, whose canvass scarce containM the steed : 
 
 And here and there some stern high patriot stood, 
 
 Who could not get the place for which he sued. 
 
 rxxi. 
 But, ever and anon, to sooth your vision, 
 
 Fatigued with these hereditary glories, 
 There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, 
 
 Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's : * 
 Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone 
 
 In Vemet's ocean lights ; and there the stories 
 Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 
 His brush with all the blood of aU the sainted. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ; 
 
 There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light, 
 Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain 
 
 Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite : — 
 But lo ! a Teniers woos, and not in vain, 
 
 Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight: 
 His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish * 
 Or Dutch with thirst — What ho ! a flask of Rhenish. 
 
 I.XXIII. 
 
 Oh, reader! if that thou canst read, — and know 
 'T is not enough to spell, or even to read, 
 
 To constitute a reader ; there must go 
 
 Virtues of which both you and I have need. 
 
 Firstly, begin with the beginning, (though 
 That clause is hard,) and secondly, proceed; 
 
 Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, sinning 
 
 In this sort, end at least with the beginning. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, 
 While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, 
 
 Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, 
 Dan Phosbus takes me for an auctioneer. 
 
 That poets were so from their earliest date. 
 By Homer's " Catalogue of Ships" is clear ; 
 
 But a mere modem must be moderate — 
 
 I spare you, then, the furniture and plate. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 The mellow autumn came, and with it came 
 The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. 
 
 The com is cut, the manor full of game ; 
 
 The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats 
 
 In russet jacket : — ^Ijrnx-like is his aim. 
 
 Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. 
 
 Ah, nut-brown partridges I ah, brilliant pheasants ! 
 
 And ah, ye poachers ! 't is no sport for peasants. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 An English autumn, though it hath no vines, 
 Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 
 
 The paths, o'er which the fair festoon entwines 
 The red grape in the sunny lands of song. 
 
 Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines ; 
 The claret light, and the madeira strong. 
 
 If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, 
 
 The very best of vineyards is the cellar. 
 
 LXX VII. 
 
 Then, if she hath not that serene decline 
 
 Which makes the southern autumn's day appear 
 
 As if 'twould to a second spring resign 
 
 The season, rather than to winter drear, — 
 
 Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine, — 
 The seacoal fires, the earliest of the year ; 
 
 Without doors too she may compete in mellow, 
 
 As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. 
 
 LXXVIIT. 
 
 And for the effeminate villeggiatura — 
 
 Rife with more horns than hounds — she hath the chase, 
 So animated that it might allure a 
 
 Saint from his beads to join the jocund race ; 
 Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura,* 
 
 And wear the Melton jacket for a space : — 
 If she- hath no wild boars, she hath a tame 
 Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey, 
 Consisted of — we give the sex the pas — 
 
 The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke ; the Countess Crabbey ; 
 The Ladies, Scilly, Busey ; Miss Eclat, 
 
 Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabby, 
 And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw : 
 
 Also the Honourable Mrs. Sleep, 
 
 Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 With other Countesses of Blank — ^butrank ; 
 
 At once the " lie" and the " elite" of crowds ; 
 Who pass like water filter'd in a tank. 
 
 All purged and pious from their native clouds 
 Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank : 
 
 No matter how or why, the passport shrouds 
 The " passee" and the past ; for good society 
 Is no less famed for tolerance than piety : 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 That is, up to a certain point ; which point 
 Forms the most difficult in punctuation. 
 
 Appearances appear to form the joint 
 On which it hinges in a higher station ; 
 
 And so that no explosion cry " aroint 
 
 Thee, witch !" or each Medea has her Jason 
 
 Or, (to the point with Horace and with Pulci,) 
 
 " Omne tulit punctum, quae miscidt utile duld" 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 I can't exactly trace their rule of right, 
 Which hath a little leaning to a lottery ; 
 
 I 've seen a virtuous woman put down quite 
 By the mere combination of a coterie: 
 
 Also a so-so matron boldly fight 
 Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, 
 
 And shine the very Stria of the spheres. 
 
 Escaping with a few slight scarless sneers. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 I 've seen more than I '11 say : — but we will see 
 
 Hew our villeggiatura will get on. 
 The party might consist of thirty- three 
 
 Of highest caste — the Brarains of the ton. 
 I 've named a few, not foremost in degree, 
 
 But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. 
 By way of sprinkling, scatter'd among these, 
 There also were some Irish absentees. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, 
 
 Who limits all his battles to the bar 
 And senate : when invited elsewhere, truly, 
 
 He shows more appetite for words than war. 
 There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newlr 
 
 Come out and glimmer'd as a six-weekg' star. 
 There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great free thinker ; 
 And Sir John Pottledeep^ Ae mighty drinker. 
 
598 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XIII. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 There v\'as the Duke of Dash, who was a — duke, 
 " Ay, every inch a" duke ; there were twelve peers 
 
 Like CharJemagne's — and all such peers in look 
 And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears 
 
 For commoners had ever them mistook. 
 
 There were the six Miss Rawbolds — pretty dears ! 
 
 All song and sentiment ; whose hearts were set 
 
 Less on m convent than a coronet. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 There were four Honourable Misters, whose 
 HoHour was more before their names than after; 
 
 There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, 
 
 Whom France and fortune lately deign'd to waft here 
 
 Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse ; 
 But the Clubs found it rather serious laughter, 
 
 Because — such was his magic power to please, — 
 
 The dice seem'd charm'd too with his repartees. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, 
 Who loved philosophy and a ^ood dinner ; 
 
 Angle, the soi-disant mathematician ; 
 Sir Henry Silver-cup, the great race-winner ; 
 
 There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian ; 
 Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner; 
 
 And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, 
 
 Good at all things, but better at abet. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman ; 
 
 And General Fireface, famous in the field, 
 A great tactician, and no less a swordsman. 
 
 Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd. 
 There was the waggish Welsli Judge, Jefferies Hardsman, 
 
 In his grave office so completely skill'd, 
 That when a culprit came for condemnation, 
 He had his judge's joke for consolation. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Good company 's a chess-board — there are kings, 
 
 Clueens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns ; the world 's a 
 
 Save that the puppets pull at their own strings ; [game ; 
 Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. 
 
 My Muse, the butterfly, hath but her wings, 
 Not stings, and flits through ether without aim. 
 
 Alighting rarely : were she but a hornet. 
 
 Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. 
 
 1 had forgotten — but must not forget — 
 
 An orator, the latest of the session, 
 Who had deliver'd well a very set 
 
 Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression 
 Upon debate : the papers echoed yet 
 
 With this debiit, which made a strong impression, 
 And rank'd with wliat is every day display'd — 
 " The best first speech that ever yet was made." 
 
 xci. 
 Proud of his " Hear hims !" proud too of his vote, 
 
 And lost virginity of oratory, 
 Proud of his learning, (just enough to quote,) 
 
 He revell'd in his Ciceronian glor^^* 
 With memor>' excellent to get by rote, 
 
 With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story. 
 Graced with some merit and with more effrontery, 
 " His country's pride," he came down to the country. 
 
 xcii. 
 There also v.ere two wits by acclamation. 
 
 Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow- from the Tweed, 
 Both lawyers, and both men of education ; 
 
 But Strongbovv's wit was of more polish'd breed : 
 Longbow was rich in an imagination 
 
 As beautiful and bounding as a steed, 
 But Rometimes stumbling over a potato, — [Cato. 
 
 Wnile Strongbow's best things might have come from 
 
 Strongbow was like a new-tuned liarpsichord ; 
 
 Bnt Longbow wild as an jEolian harp, 
 With which the winds of heaven can claim accord, 
 
 And make a music, whether flat or sharp. 
 Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word; 
 
 At Longbow's phrases j'ou might sometimes carp: 
 Both wits — one born so, and the other bred, 
 This by his heart — his rival by his head. 
 
 xciv. 
 If all these seem a heterogeneous mass, 
 
 To be assembled at a counfr}'-seat, 
 Yet think a specimen of every class 
 
 Is belter than a humdrum tSte-k-t6te. 
 The days of comedy are gone, alas ! 
 
 W^hen Congreve's fool could vie with Moli6re's bite 
 Society is smootlied to that excess, 
 That manners hardly differ more than dress. 
 
 xcv. 
 Our ridicules are kept in the back ground, 
 
 Ridiculous enough, but also dull ; 
 Professions too are no more to be found 
 
 Professional ; and there is naught to cull 
 Of folly's fruit; for though your fools abound, 
 
 They 're barren, and not worth the pains to pull. 
 Society is now one polish'd horde, 
 Form'd of two mighty tribes, the JBores and Bored. 
 
 xcvi. 
 But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning 
 
 The scanty but right well thiesh'd ears of truth; 
 And, gentle reader ! when you gather meaning. 
 
 You ma}" be Boaz, and I — modest Ruth. 
 Further I 'd quote, but Scripture, intervening, 
 
 Forbids. A great impression in my youth 
 Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries 
 " That scriptures out of church are blasphemies."* 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 But when we can, we glean in this vile age 
 Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. 
 
 I must not quite omit the talking sage, 
 Kit-Cat, the famous conversationist, 
 
 Who, in his commonplace book had a page 
 Prepared each morn for evenings. " List, oh list !"— 
 Alas, poor ghost!" — What unexpected woes 
 
 Await those who have studied their boi^-mots ! 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Firstly, they must allure the conversation 
 
 By many windings to their clever clinch 
 And secondly, must let slip no occasion, 
 
 Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, 
 But take an ell — and make a great sensation, 
 
 If possible ; and thirdly, never flinch 
 When some smart talker puts them to the test, 
 But seize the last word, which no doubt 's the best. 
 
 xcix. 
 Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts ; 
 
 The party we have touch'd on were the guests : 
 Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts 
 
 To pass the Stvx for more substantial feasts. 
 I will not dwell upon ragoilts or roasts, 
 
 Albeit all human history attests 
 That happiness for man — the hungry sinner ! — 
 Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. 
 
 c. 
 Witness the lands which " flow'd with milk and honey,'* 
 
 Held out unto the hungry Israelites : 
 To this we 've added since the love of money, 
 
 The only sort of pleasure which requites. 
 Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny ; 
 
 We tire of mistresses and parasites : 
 But oh, ambrosial cash ! ah ! ivho would lose thee 7 
 WTien we no more can use, or even abuse thee ! 
 
CAirro XIV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 699 
 
 The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, 
 
 Or hunt ; the young because they liked the sport- 
 The first thing boys like after play and fruit : 
 
 The middle-aged, to make the day more short ; 
 For ennui is a growth of English root, 
 
 Though nameless in our language ; we retort 
 The fact for words, and let the French translate 
 That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate. 
 
 oil. 
 The elderly walk'd through the library, 
 
 And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, 
 Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously, 
 
 And made upon the hothouse several strictures, 
 Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, 
 
 Or on the morning papers read their lectures. 
 Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 
 Longing, at sixty, for the hour of six. 
 
 cm. 
 But none were *' gene :" the great hour of union 
 
 Was rung by dirmer's knell ; till then all were 
 Masters of their own time — or in communion, 
 
 Or solitary, as they chose to bear 
 The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. 
 
 Each rose up at his own, and had to spare 
 What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast 
 Where, when, and how he chose for that repast. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale — 
 Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode^ 
 
 Or walk'd ; if foul, they read, or told a tale ; 
 Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad ; 
 
 Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail ; 
 i^nd settled bonnets by the newest code ; 
 
 Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one litde letter, 
 
 To make each correspondent a new debtor. 
 
 cv. 
 For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 
 
 The earth has nothing like a she epistle, 
 And hardly heaven — because it never ends, 
 
 I love the mystery of a female missal, 
 Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends, 
 
 But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, 
 When he allured poor Dolon: — you had better 
 Take care what you reply to such a letter. 
 
 cvi. 
 Then there were billiards ; cards too, but no dice f 
 
 Save in the Clubs no man of honour plays ; — 
 Boats when 't was water, skaiting when 't was ice. 
 
 And the hard frosts destroy'd the scenting days : 
 And angling too, that solitary vice. 
 
 Whatever Isaac Walton sings or says : 
 The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
 Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.* 
 
 CVII. 
 
 With evening came the banquet and the wine ; 
 
 The conversazione ; the duet, 
 Attuned by voices more or less divine, 
 
 (My heart or head aches with the memory yet.) 
 The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine ; 
 
 But the two youngest loved more to be set 
 Down to the harp — ^because to music's charms 
 They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days, 
 For then the gentlemen were rather tired) 
 
 Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze : 
 Then there was small-talk ready when required ; 
 
 Flirtation — ^but decorous ; the mere praise 
 Of charms that should or should not be admired ; 
 
 The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again, 
 
 And then retreated soberly — at ten. 
 
 cix. 
 The politicians, in a nook apart, 
 
 Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres ; 
 The wits watch'd every loop-hole for their art, 
 
 To introduce a bon-mot head and ears ; 
 Small is the rest of those who would be smart — 
 
 A moment's good thing may have cost them years 
 Before they find an hour to introduce it. 
 And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it. 
 
 ex. 
 
 But all was gentle and aristocratic 
 
 In this our party ; polish'd, smooth, and cold, 
 
 As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic, 
 There now are no Squire Westerns, as of old ; 
 
 And our Sophias are not so emphatic. 
 But fair as then, or fairer to behold. 
 
 We 've no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jone8» 
 
 But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 They separated at an early hour ; 
 
 That is, ere midnight — which is London's noon : 
 But in the country, ladies seek their bower 
 
 A little earlier than the waning moon. 
 Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower — 
 
 May the rose call back its true colours soon ! 
 Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, 
 And lower the price of rouge — at least some winters. 
 
 CANTO XIV. 
 
 If from great Nature's, or our own abyss 
 Of thought, we could but snatch a certainty, 
 
 Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss- 
 But then 't would spoil much good philosophy. 
 
 One system eats another up, and this 
 Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 
 
 For when his pious consort gave him stones 
 
 In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 
 
 ir. 
 
 But system doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, 
 And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 
 
 Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast. 
 After due search, your faith to any question ? 
 
 Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast 
 
 You bind yourself, and call some mode the best (Hie. 
 
 Nothing more true than not to trust your senses ; 
 
 And yet what are your other evidences ? 
 
 III. 
 For me, I know naught ; nothing I deny, 
 
 Admit, reject, contemn ; and what know you, 
 Except perhaps that you were born to die ? 
 
 And both may after all turn out untrue. 
 An age may come, font of eternity. 
 
 When nothing shall be either old or new. 
 Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep, 
 And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A sleep without dreams, after a rough day 
 Of toil, is what we covet most ; and yet 
 
 How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay ! 
 The very suicide that pays his debt 
 
 At once without instalments (an old way 
 Of paying debts, which creditors regret) 
 
 Lets out impatientJy his rushing breath, 
 
 Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 
 
600 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XIV. 
 
 'T is round him, near him, here, there, every where ; 
 
 And there 's a courage which grows out of fear, 
 Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare 
 
 The worst to know it : — when the mountains rear 
 Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there 
 
 You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 
 The gulf of rock yawns, — you can't gaze a minute 
 Without an ^wful wish to plunge within it. 
 
 VI. 
 
 'T is true, you do n't — ^but, pale and struck with terror. 
 Retire : but look into your past impression ! 
 
 And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror 
 Of your o^vn thoughts, in all their self-confession, 
 
 The lurking bias, be it truth or error, 
 To the unknown ; a secret prepossession, 
 
 To. plunge with all your fears — but where ? You know not, 
 
 And that 's the reason why you do— or do not 
 
 VII. 
 
 But what 's this to the purpose ? you will say. 
 
 Gent, reader, nothing ; a mere speculation, 
 For which ray sole excuse is — 't is my way. 
 
 Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion, 
 I write what 's uppermost without delay ; 
 
 This narrative is not meant for narration, 
 But a mere airy and fantastic basis, 
 To build up common things with commonidaces. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 
 
 " Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows ;" 
 
 And such a straw, borne on by human breath, 
 Is poesy, according as the mind glows ; 
 
 A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, 
 A shadow which the onward soul behind throws 
 
 And mine 's a bubble not blown up for praise, 
 
 But just to play with, as an infant plays. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The world is all before me — or behind ; 
 
 For I have seen a portion of that same, 
 And quite enough for me to keep in mind ; — 
 
 Of passions, too, I 've proved enough to blame, 
 To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, 
 
 Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame : 
 For I was rather famous in my time, 
 Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. 
 
 X. 
 
 I have brought this world about my ears, and eke 
 The other: that 's to say, the clergy — who 
 
 Upon my head have bid their thunders break 
 In pious libels by no means a few. 
 
 And yet I cant help scribbling once a week, 
 Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. 
 
 In youth I ^vrote because my mind was full, 
 
 And now because I feel it growing dull. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But " why then publish?" — There are no rewards 
 - Of fame or profit, when the world grows weary. 
 I ask in turn, — why do you play at cards 7 
 
 Why drink ? Why read ? — To make some hour less 
 It occupies me to turn back regards [dreary. 
 
 On what I 've seen or ponder'd sad or cheery ; 
 And what I WTite I cast upon the stream, 
 To swim or sink — I have had at least my dream. 
 
 XII. 
 
 I tiiink that were I certain of success, 
 
 I hardly could compose another line : 
 So long I 've battled either more or less, 
 
 That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. 
 This feeling 't is not easy to express, 
 
 And yet 't is not affected, I opine. 
 In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing — 
 Th« one is winning, and the other losing. 
 
 Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction ; 
 
 She gathers a repertory of facts. 
 Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, 
 
 But mostly sings of human things and acts — 
 And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction ; 
 
 For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts ; 
 And were' her object only what 's call'd glory, 
 With more ease too, she 'd tell a different story. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Love, war, a tempest — surely there 's variety ; 
 
 Also a seasoning slight of lucubration ; 
 A bird's-eye view too of that wild. Society ; 
 
 A slight glance throwTi on men of every station. 
 If you have naught else, here 's at least satiety 
 
 Both in performance and in preparation ; 
 And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, 
 Trade will be all the better for tliese cantos. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The portion of this world which I at present 
 Have taken up to fill the following sermon, 
 
 Is one of which there 's no description recent : 
 The reason why is easy to determine : 
 
 Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, 
 There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, 
 
 A dull and family likeness through all ages, 
 
 Of no great promise for poetic pages. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 With much to excite, there 's little to exalt ; 
 
 Nothing that speaks to all men and all times ; 
 A sort of varnish over every fault ; 
 
 A kind of commonplace, even in their crimes ; 
 Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 
 
 A want of that true nature which sublimes 
 Whate'er it shows with truth ; a smooth monotony 
 Of character, in those at least who have got any. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade. 
 
 They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill 5 
 
 But then the roU-caU draws them back afraid, 
 And they must be or seem what they were : still 
 
 Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade ; 
 
 But when of the first sight you have had your fill , 
 
 It palls — at least it did so upon me, 
 
 This paradise of pleasure and ennui. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, 
 Dress'd, voted, shone, and, may be, something more ; 
 
 With dandies dined ; heard senators declaiming ; 
 Seen beauties brought to market by the score ; 
 
 Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming ; 
 There 's little left but to be bored or bore. 
 
 Witness those " ci-devant jeunes homines " who stem 
 
 The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 'T is said — indeed a general complaint — 
 That no one has succeeded in describing 
 
 The monde exactly as they ought to paint. 
 
 Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing 
 
 The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint. 
 To furnish matter for their moral gibing ; 
 
 And that their books have but one style in common — 
 
 My lady's pratde, filter'd through her woman. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But this can't well be true, just now ; for writers 
 Are grown of the beau monde a part potential: 
 
 I 've seen them balance even the scale with fighters. 
 Especially when young, for that 's essential. 
 
 Why do their sketches fail them as inditers 
 
 Of, what they deem themselves most consequential, 
 
 The real portrait of the highest tribe? 
 
 'T is that, in fact, there 's little to describe. 
 
Canto XIV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 601 
 
 " Hccud ignara hquor :" these are nugcB, " quarum 
 Pars parva/ui," but still art and part. 
 
 Now I could much more easily sketch a haram, 
 A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, 
 
 Than these things ; and besides, I wish to spare 'em 
 For reasons which I choose to keep apart. 
 
 " Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit,'^ 
 
 Which means, that vulgar people must not share it. 
 
 XXLT. 
 
 And therefore what I throw off is ideal — 
 
 Lower'd, leaven'd like a history of Freemasons ; 
 
 Which bears the same relation to the real. 
 As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. 
 
 The grand Arcanum 's not for men to see all ; 
 My music has some mystic diapasons ; 
 
 And there is much which could not be appreciated 
 
 In any manner by the uninitiated. 
 
 SXIII. 
 
 Alas ! worlds fall — and woman, since she feli'd 
 The world, (as, since that history, less polite 
 
 Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held,) 
 Has not yet given up the practice quite. 
 
 Poor thing of usages ! coerced, compell'd. 
 
 Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, 
 
 Condemn'd to child-bed, as men for their sins, 
 
 Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins, — 
 
 XSIV. 
 
 A daily plague, which, in the aggregate, 
 May average on the whole with parturition. 
 
 But as to women, who can penetrate 
 
 The real sufferings of their she condition ? 
 
 Man's very sympathy with their estate 
 
 Has much of selfishness and more suspicion. 
 
 Their love, tlieir virtue, beauty, education, 
 
 But form good housekeepers to breed a nation. 
 
 xxy. 
 All this were very well, and can't be better ; 
 
 But even this is difficult, Heaven knows ! 
 So many troubles from her birth beset her, 
 
 Such small distinction between friends and foes, 
 The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter, 
 
 That but ask any woman if she 'd choose 
 
 (Take her at thirty, that is) to have been 
 Female or male ? a school-boy or a queen ? 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " Petticoat influence" is a great reproach. 
 
 Which even those who obey would fain be thought 
 
 To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach ; 
 
 But, since beneath it upon earth we are brought 
 
 By various joltings of life's hackney-coach, 
 I for one venerate a petticoat — 
 
 A garment of a mystical sublimity, 
 
 No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Much I respect, and much I have adored, 
 
 In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, 
 
 Which holds a treasure like a miser's hoard, 
 And more attracts by all it doth conceal — 
 
 A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, 
 A loving letter with a mystic seal, 
 
 A cure for grief— for what can ever rankle 
 
 Before a petticoat and peeping ancle ? 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 And when upon a silent, sullen day. 
 
 With a Sirocco, for example, blowing,— 
 
 When even the sea looks dim with all its spray, 
 And sulkily the river's ripple 's flowing, 
 
 And the sky shows that very ancient gray, 
 The sober sad antithesis to glowing, — 
 
 'T is pleasant, {{then any thing is pleasant, 
 
 To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. 
 4 A 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 We left our heroes and our heroines 
 
 In that fair clime which don't depend on climate, 
 Gtuite independent of the Zodiac's signs, 
 
 Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, 
 Because the sun and stars, and anght that shines. 
 
 Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at. 
 Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun — 
 Whether a sky's or tradesman's, is all one, 
 
 xsx. 
 
 And in-door life is less poetical ; 
 
 And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, 
 With which I could not brew a pastoral. 
 
 But be it as it may, a bard must meet 
 All difficulties, whether gi-eat or small, 
 
 To spoil his undertaking or complete, 
 And work away like spirit upon matter, 
 Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Juan — in this respect at least like saints — 
 
 Was all things unto people of all sorts, 
 And lived contentedly, without complaints, 
 
 In camps, in ship, in cottages, or courts — 
 Bom with that happy soul which seldom faints, 
 
 And mingling modestly in toils or sports. 
 He likewise could be most things to all women, 
 Without the coxcombry of certain she men. 
 
 XSXII. 
 
 A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange ; 
 
 'T is also subject to the double danger 
 Of tumbling first, and having in exchange 
 
 Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger ; 
 But Juan had been early taught to range 
 
 The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger, 
 So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack. 
 Knew that he had a rider on his back. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 And now in this new field, with some applause, 
 He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail. 
 
 And never craned, ^ and made but few ''fauxpas,^' 
 And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. 
 
 He broke, 't is true, some statutes of the laws 
 Of hunting — for the sagest youth is frail ; 
 
 Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then. 
 
 And once o'er several country gentlemen. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But, on the whole, to general admiration 
 He acquitted both himself and horse : the squires 
 
 Marvell'd at merit of another nation : [Sires, 
 
 The boors cried "Dang it ! who 'd have thought it?"— 
 
 The Nestors of the sporting generation, 
 
 Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires ; 
 
 The huntsman's self relented to a grin. 
 
 And rated him almost a whipper-in. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Such were his trophies ; — not of spear and shield. 
 But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes ; 
 
 Yet I must own, — although in this I yield 
 To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes, — 
 
 He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, 
 Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, 
 
 And what not, though he rode beyond all price, 
 
 Ask'd, next day, " if men ever hunted twice V 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 He also had a quality uncommon 
 
 To early risers after a long chase. 
 Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon 
 
 December's drowsy day to his dull race, — 
 A quality agreeable to woman, 
 
 When her soft liquid words run on apace. 
 Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,— 
 He did not fall asleep just after dixmer. 
 
602 
 
 D6n JUAN. 
 
 Canto XIV. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 But, light and airy, stood on the alert, 
 
 And shone in the best part of dialogue, 
 By humouring always what they might 
 
 And listening to the topics most in vogue ; 
 Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert ; 
 
 And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue ! 
 He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer ; 
 In short, there never was a better hearer. 
 
 xxxviii. 
 And then he danced ; — all foreigners excel 
 
 The serious Angles in the eloquence 
 Of Pantomime ; — he danced, I say, right well, 
 
 With emphasis, and also with good sense — 
 A thing in footing indispensable : 
 
 He danced without theatrical pretence, 
 . Not like a ballet-master in the van 
 Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, 
 And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure ; 
 
 Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground, 
 And rather held in than put forth his vigour ; 
 
 And then he had an ear for music's sound, 
 Which might defy a crochet-critic's rigour. 
 
 Such classic pas — sans flaws — set off our hero, 
 
 He glanced like a personified bolero ; 
 
 XL. 
 
 Or, like a flying hour before Aurora, 
 
 In Guide's famous fresco, which alone • 
 
 Ib worth a tour to Rome, although no more a 
 
 Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. 
 The " tout ensemble^' of his movements wore a 
 
 Grace of the soft ideal, seldom sho-wn, 
 And fje'er to be described ; for, to the dolour 
 Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 No marvel then he was a favourite ; 
 
 A full-gro\%Ti Cupid, very much admired ; 
 A little spoil'd, but by no means so quite ; 
 
 At least he kept his vanity retired. 
 Such was his tact, he could alike delight 
 
 The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. 
 The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved " tracasserie,''^ 
 Began to treat him with some small " agacerie." 
 
 XLII. 
 
 She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, 
 
 Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated 
 For several winters in the grand, grand monde. 
 
 I 'd rather not say what might be related 
 Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground ; 
 
 Besides there might be falsehood in what 's stated 
 Her late performance had been a dead set 
 At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 This noble personage began to look 
 
 A little black upon this new flirtation ; 
 But such smaJl licenses must lovers brook. 
 
 Mere freedoms of the female corporation. 
 Wo to the man who ventures a rebuke ! 
 
 'T will but precipitate a situation 
 Extremely disagreeable, but common 
 To calculators, when they count on woman. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd ; 
 
 The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd ; 
 Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd ; 
 
 Some would not deem such women could be found ; 
 Some ne'er believed one-half of what tiiey heard ; 
 
 Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound ; 
 And several pitied with sincere regret 
 Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Piantagenet. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 But, what is odd, none ever named the duke, 
 Who, one might think, was something in the afiair. 
 
 True, he was absent, and 't was rumour'd, took 
 But small concern, about the when, or where, 
 
 Or what his consort did : if he could Ijrook 
 Her gayeties, none had a right to stare : 
 
 Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, 
 
 Which never meets, and tlierefore can't fall out 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 But, oh that I should ever pen so sad a line ! 
 
 Fired with an abstract love of virture, she, 
 My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, 
 
 Began to think the duchess' conduct free ; 
 Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line, 
 
 And waxing chiller in her courtesy, 
 Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, 
 For which most friends reserve their sensibility. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 There 's naught in this bad world like sympathy : 
 
 'T is so becoming to the soul and face ; 
 Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh, 
 
 And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. 
 Without a friend, what were jiumanity. 
 
 To hunt our errors up with a good grace ? 
 Consoling us with — '•' Would you had thought twice ! 
 Ah ! if you had but follow'd my advice !" 
 
 XLTIII. 
 
 Oh, Job ! you had two friends : one 's quite enough, 
 
 Especially when we are ill at ease ; 
 They 're but bad pilots when the weather 's rough. 
 
 Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. 
 Let no man grumble when his friends fall off. 
 
 As they will do like leaves at the first breeze : 
 "When your affairs come round, one way or t' other, 
 Go to the coffee-house, and take another .^ 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 But this is not my maxim : had it been. 
 
 Some heart-aches had been spared me ; yet I care not— • 
 I would not be a tortoise in his screen 
 
 Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not: 
 'T is better on tlie whole to have felt and seen 
 
 That which humemity may bear, or bear not : 
 'T will teach discernment to the sensitive, 
 And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. 
 
 L. 
 
 Of aU the horrid, hideous notes of wo. 
 
 Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast. 
 
 Is that portentous phrase, '"'I told you so," 
 Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past. 
 
 Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do, 
 Own they foresaw that you would fall at laist. 
 
 And solace your slight lapse 'gainst " hanos mores y* 
 
 With a long memorandum of old stories. 
 
 LI. 
 
 The Lady Adeline's serene severity 
 Was not confined to feeling for her friend. 
 
 Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity, 
 Unless her habits should begin to mend ; 
 
 But Juan also shared in her austerity. 
 But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd : 
 
 His inexperience moved her gentle ruth. 
 
 And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 
 
 LII. 
 
 These forty days' advantage of her years — 
 And hers were those which can face calculation, 
 
 Boldly referring to the list of peers. 
 And noble births, nor dread the enumeration — 
 
 Gave her a right to have maternal fears 
 For a young gentleman's fit education, 
 
 Though she was far from that leap-year, whose le&pi 
 
 In female dates, strikes time all of a heap. 
 
Canto XIV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 603 
 
 This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty — 
 Say seven-and-twenty ; for I never knew 
 
 The strictest in chronology and virtue 
 
 Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. 
 
 Oh, time ! why dost not pause ! Thy scythe, so dirty 
 With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. 
 
 Reset it: shave more smoothly, also slower, 
 
 If but to keeji thy credit as a mower. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 But Adeline was far from that ripe age. 
 Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best : 
 
 'T was rather her experience made her sage, 
 For she had seen the world, and stood its test. 
 
 As I have said in — I forget what page ; 
 
 My Muse despises reference, as you have guess'd 
 
 By this time ; but strike six from seven-and-twenty, 
 
 And you will find her sum of years in plenty. 
 
 LV. 
 
 At sixteen she came out ; presented, vaunted, 
 
 She put all coronets into commotion : 
 At seventeen too the world was still enchanted 
 
 With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean ; 
 At eighteen, though below her feet still panted 
 
 A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, 
 She had consented to create again 
 That Adam, call'd " the happiest of men." 
 
 I- VI. 
 
 Since then she had sparkled through three glowing winters. 
 
 Admired, adored ! but also so correct. 
 That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, 
 
 Without the apparel of being circumspect ; 
 They could not even glean the slightest splinters 
 
 From off the marble, which had no defect. 
 She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage 
 To bear a son and heir — and one miscarriage. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, 
 Those little glitterers of the London night ; 
 
 But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her — ■ 
 She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. 
 
 Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder ; 
 But, whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right ; 
 
 And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 
 
 A women, so she's good, what does it signify? 
 
 I, VIII. 
 
 I hate a motive like a lingering bottle, 
 
 Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, 
 
 Leaving all claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, 
 Especially with politics on hand ; 
 
 I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, 
 Who whirl the dust as Simooms whirl the sand ; 
 
 I hate it, as I hate an argument, 
 
 A laureate's ode, or servile peer's " content." 
 
 LIX. 
 
 'T is sad to hack into the roots of things. 
 They are so much intertwisted with the earth : 
 
 So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, 
 I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. 
 
 To trace all actions to their secret springs 
 Would make indeed some melancholy mirth : 
 
 But this is not at present my concern. 
 
 And I refer you to wise Oxenstiem.^ 
 
 LX. 
 
 Witli the kind view of saving an eclat, 
 
 Both to the duchess and diplomatist, 
 The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw 
 
 That Juan was unlikely to resist — 
 (For foreigners don't know that a faiuc pas 
 
 In England ranks quite on a different list 
 From those of other lands, unbless'd with juries, 
 Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is) — 
 
 The Lady Adeline resolved to take 
 
 Such measures as she thought might best impede 
 The farther progress of this sad mistake. 
 
 She thought with some simplicity indeed ; 
 But innocence is bold even at the stake, 
 
 And simple in the world, and doth not need 
 Nor use those palisades by dames erected. 
 Whose virtue lies in never being detected. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 It was not that she fear'd the very worst : 
 His grace was an enduring, married man, 
 
 And was not likely all at once to burst 
 Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan 
 
 Of Doctors' Commons ; but she dreaded first 
 The magic of her grace's talisman, 
 
 And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 
 
 With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plajitagenet. 
 
 txiii. 
 
 Her grace too pass'd for being an intrigante, 
 And somewhat mechante in her amorous sphere ; 
 
 One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt 
 A lover with caprices soft and dear, 
 
 That like to make a quarrel, when they can't 
 Find one, each day of the delightful year ; 
 
 Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, 
 
 And — what is worst of all — won't let you go ; 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 The sort of thing to turn a young man's head, 
 Or make a Werter of him in the end. 
 
 No wonder then a purer soul should dread 
 This sort of chaste liaison for a friend ; 
 
 It were much better to be wed or dead, 
 Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 
 
 'T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, 
 
 If that a " bonne fortune'^ be really "bonne" 
 
 LXV, 
 
 And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart, 
 
 Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, 
 
 She call'd her husband now and then apart, 
 And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile, 
 
 Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art 
 To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile ; 
 
 And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet. 
 
 In such guise that she could make nothing of it. 
 
 rxvi. 
 
 Firstly, he said, " he never interfered 
 In any body's business but the king's :" 
 
 Next, that " he never judged from what appear'd. 
 Without strong reason, of those sorts of things :" 
 
 Thirdly, that " Juan had more brain than beard, 
 And was not to be held in leading-strings ;" 
 
 And fourthly, what need hardly to be said twice, 
 
 " That good but rarely came from good advice." 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 And therefore, doubtless, to approve the truth 
 Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse 
 
 To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth, 
 At least as far as bienseance allows : 
 
 That time would temper Juan's faults of youth ; 
 That young men rarely made monastic vows ; 
 
 That opposition only more attaches 
 
 But here a messenger brought in despatches : 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 And being of the council call'd " the privy,'* 
 
 Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet. 
 To furnish matter for some future Livy 
 
 To tell how he reduced the nation's debt ; 
 And if their full contents I do not give ye, 
 
 It is because I do not know them yet : 
 But I shall add them in a brief appendix. 
 To come between mine epic and its index. 
 
604 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Cawto XIV. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 But ere he went, he added a slight hint, 
 
 Another gentle commonplace or two, 
 Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint, 
 
 And pass, for want of better, though not new ; 
 Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't, 
 
 And having casually glanced it through. 
 Retired ; and, as he went out, calmly kiss'd her, 
 Less like a young wife than an aged sister. 
 
 LXX, 
 
 He was a cold, good, honourable man, 
 
 Proud of his birtli, and proud of every thing ; 
 
 A goodly spirit for a state divan, 
 A figure fit to walk before a king ; 
 
 Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van 
 On birthdays, glorious with a star and string ; 
 
 The very model of a chamberlain — 
 
 And such I mean to make him when I reign. 
 
 LXXI, 
 
 But there was something wanting on the whole — 
 I do n't know what, and therefore cannot tell — 
 
 Which pretty women — the sweet souls ! — call soul 
 Certes it was not body ; he v/as well 
 
 Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, 
 A handsom.e man, that human miracle ; 
 
 And in each circumstance of love or war, 
 
 Had still preserved his perpendicular. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Still there was something wanting, as I 've said — 
 That undefinable " je ne sais quoi,^^ " 
 
 "Which, for what I know, may of yore have led 
 To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy 
 
 The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed ; 
 Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy 
 
 Was much inferior to King Menelaus ; — 
 
 But thus it is some women will betray us. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, 
 Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved 
 
 By turns the difference of the several sexes : 
 
 Neither can show quite how they would be loved. 
 
 The sensual for a short time but connects us — 
 The sentimental boasts to be unmoved ; 
 
 But both together form a kind of centaur, 
 
 Upon whose back 't is better not to venture. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 A something all-sufficient for the heart 
 
 Is that for which the sex are always seeking ; 
 
 But how to fill up that same vacant part- 
 There lies the rub — and this they are but weak in. 
 
 Frail mariners afloat without a chart, 
 
 They run before the wind through high seas breaking: 
 
 And when they have made the shore, through every shock, 
 
 'T is odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 There is a flower call'd "love in idleness," 
 
 For which see Shakspeare's ever-blooming garden ;— 
 
 I will not make his great description less, 
 
 And beg his British godship's humble pardon. 
 
 If, in ray extremity of rhyme's distress, 
 I touch a single leaf where he is warden ; 
 
 But though the flower is different, with the French 
 
 Or Swiss Rousseau, cry, " voila la pervenche '" 
 
 Lxxvr. 
 Eureka! I have found it! What I mean 
 
 To say is, not that love is idleness, 
 But that in love such idleness has been 
 
 An accessory, as 1 have cause to guess. 
 Hard labour 's an indifferent go-between; 
 
 Your men of business are not apt to express 
 Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo, 
 Convey'd Medea as her supercargo. 
 
 Lxxvn. 
 
 " Beatus illeprocul .'" from " negotiis,^' 
 
 Saith Horace ; the great little poet's wrong; 
 
 His other maxim, " JVosdiv.r a sociis" 
 Is much more to the purpose of his song; 
 
 Though even that were sometimes too ferocious, 
 Unless good company he kept too long ; 
 
 But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station, 
 
 Thrice happy they who have an occupation ! 
 
 LXXTIII. 
 
 Adam exchanged his paradise for ploughing ; 
 
 Eve made up millinery with fig-leaves — 
 The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing, 
 
 As far as I know, that the church receives : 
 And since that time, it need not cost much showing, 
 
 That many of the ills o'er which man grieves, 
 And still more women, spring from not employing 
 Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 And hence high life is oft a dreary void, 
 A rack of pleasures, where we must invent 
 
 A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. 
 
 Bards may sing- what they please about content; 
 
 Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd ; 
 And hence arise the woes of sentiment, 
 
 Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances 
 
 Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 I do declare, upon an affidavit, 
 
 Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen ; 
 Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it. 
 
 Would some believe that such a tale had been : 
 But such intent I never had, nor have it; 
 
 Some truths are better kept behind a screen. 
 Especially when tliey would look like lies ; 
 I therefore deal in generalities. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 "An oyster may be cross'd in love," — and why? 
 
 Because he mopeth idly in his shell, 
 And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, 
 
 Much as a monk may do within his cell: 
 And a propos of monks, their piety 
 
 With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell ; 
 Those vegetables of the Catholic creed 
 Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Oh, Wilberforce ! thou man of black renown. 
 Whose merit none enough can sing or say, 
 
 Thou hast struck one immense colossus down. 
 Thou moral Washington of Africa ! 
 
 But there 's another little thing, I ov%ii, 
 
 WTiich you should perpetrate some summer's day, 
 
 And set the other half of eardi to rights : 
 
 You have freed the blacks — ^now pray shut up the whites. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Shut up the bald-coot bully Alexander ; 
 
 Ship off the holy three to Senegal ; 
 Teach them that " sauce for goose is sauce for gander," 
 
 And ask them how they like to be in thrall. 
 Shut up each high heroic salamander. 
 
 Who eats fire gratis, (since the pay 's but small ;) 
 Shut up — no, not the king, but the pavilion, 
 Or else 't will cost us all another million. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 Shut up the world at large ; let Bedlam out, 
 And you will be perhaps surprised to find 
 
 All things pursue exactly the same route, 
 As now with those o?soi-disant sound mind. 
 
 This I could prove beyond a single doubt, 
 Were there a jot of sense among mankind ; 
 
 But till that point d' apptii is found, alas ! 
 
 Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 't was. 
 
Canto XIV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 605 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Our gentle Adeline had one defect— 
 
 Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion ; 
 Her conduct had been perfectly correct, 
 
 As she had seen naught claiming its expansion. 
 A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd, 
 
 Because 't is frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one; 
 But when the latter works its outi undoing, 
 Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that love 
 Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, 
 
 The stone of Sysiphus, if once we move 
 Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 
 
 She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, 
 No bickerings, no connubial turmoil : 
 
 Their union was a model to behold. 
 
 Serene and noble, — conjugal but cold. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 There was no great disparity of years, 
 
 Though much in temper ; but they never clash'd : 
 They moved like stars united in their spheres, 
 
 Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd, 
 "Where mingled and yet separate appears 
 
 The river from the lake, ail bluely dash'd 
 Through the serene and placid glassy deep, 
 Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Now, when she once had ta'en an interest 
 In any thing, however she might flatter 
 
 Herself that her intentions were the best. 
 Intense intensions are a dangerous matter : 
 
 Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd, 
 And gather'd as they run, like growing water, 
 
 Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 
 
 "Was not at first too readily impress'd. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
 Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 
 
 Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen, 
 That is, when they succeed ; but greatly blamed 
 
 As obstinacy, both in men and women. 
 Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tamed : — 
 
 And 't will perplex the casuists in morahty, 
 
 To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality, 
 
 xc. 
 Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo, 
 
 It had been firmness ; now 't is pertinacity : 
 Must the event decide between the two ? 
 
 I leave it to your people of sagacity 
 To draw the line between the false and true, 
 
 If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity: 
 My business is with Lady Adeline, 
 WTio in her way too was a heroine. 
 
 She knew not her own heart ; then how should I ? 
 
 I think not she was then in love with Juan : 
 If so, she would have had the strength to fly 
 
 The wild sensation, unto her a new one : 
 She merely felt a common sympathy 
 
 (I will not say it weis a false or true one) 
 In him, because she thought he was in danger — 
 Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a stranger. 
 
 xcii. 
 She was, or thought she was, his friend — and this 
 
 Without the farce of friendship, or romance 
 Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss 
 
 Ladies who have studied friendship but in Prance, 
 Or Germany, where people pwreZ?/ kiss. 
 
 To thus much Adeline would not advance ; 
 But of such friendship as man's may to man be, 
 She was as capable as woman can be. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 No doubt the secret influence of the sex 
 . WiU there, as also in the ties of blood, 
 
 An innocent predominance annex, 
 And tune the concord to a finer mood. 
 
 If free from passion, which all friendship checks, 
 And your true feelings fully understood, 
 
 No friend like to a woman eardi discovers. 
 
 So that you have not been nor will be lovers. 
 
 XCIT. 
 
 Love bears within its breast the very germ 
 Of change ; and how should this be otherwise? 
 
 That violent things more quickly find a term 
 Is shown through Nature's whole analogies : 
 
 And how should the most fierce of all be firm ? 
 Would you have endless lightning in the skies? 
 
 Methinks love's very title says enough : 
 
 How should " the tender passion" e'er be tough? 
 
 xcv. 
 Alas ! by all experience, seldom yet 
 
 (I merely quote what I have heard from many) 
 Had lovers not some reason to regret 
 
 The passion which made Solomon a Zany. 
 I 've also seen some wives (not to forget 
 
 The marriage state, the best or worst of any) 
 Who were the very paragons of wives, 
 Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 
 
 xcvi. 
 I 've also seen some female /riencfe ('t is odd, 
 • But true — as, if expedient, I could prove) 
 That faithful were, through thick and thin, abroad, 
 
 At home, far more than ever yet v/as love— 
 Who did not quit me when oppression trod 
 
 Upon me ; whom no scandal could remove ; 
 Who fought, and fight, in absence too, my battles, 
 Despite the snake society's loud rattles. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 
 Grew friends in this or any other sense. 
 
 Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine : 
 At present I am glad of a pretence 
 
 To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine, 
 And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense ; 
 
 The surest way for ladies and for books 
 
 To bait their tender or their tenter hooks. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish, 
 
 To read Don Q,uixote in the original, 
 A pleasure before which all others vanish ; 
 
 Whether their talk was of the kind call'd "small," 
 Or serious, are the topics I must banish 
 
 To the next canto ; where, perhaps, I shall 
 Say something to the purpose, and display 
 Considerable talent in my way. 
 
 xcix. 
 Above all, I beg all men to forbear 
 
 Anticipating aught about the matter: 
 They '11 only maJce mistakes about the fair, 
 
 And Juan, too, especially the latter. 
 And I shall take a much more serious air 
 
 Than I have yet done in this epic satire. 
 It is not clear that Adeline and Juan 
 Will fall ; but if they do, 't will be their ruin. 
 
 c. 
 But great things spring from little : — would you think, 
 
 That, in our youth, as dangerous a passion 
 As e'er brought man and v/oman to the brink 
 
 Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion 
 As few would ever dream could form the link 
 
 Of such a sentimental situation ? 
 You 'U never guess, I '11 bet you millions, milliards — 
 It all sprung from a harmless ffame at billiards. 
 
606 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XV. 
 
 'T is strange — ^but true; for truth is always strange, 
 Stranger than fiction ; if it could be told, 
 
 How much would novels gain by the exchange I 
 How differently the world would men behold ! 
 
 How oft would vice and virtue places change ! 
 The new world would be nothing to the old, 
 
 If some Columbus of the moral seas 
 
 Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. 
 
 oil. 
 What " antres vast and deserts idle" then 
 
 Would be discover'd in the human soul ! 
 What ice-bergs in the hearts of mighty men, 
 
 With self-love in the centre as their pole ! 
 What Anthropophagi are nine of ten 
 
 Of those who hold the kingdoms in control ! 
 Were things but only call'd by their right name, 
 Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame. 
 
 CANTO XV. 
 
 Ah ! ^what should follow slips from my reflection : 
 
 Whatever follows ne'ertheless may b ") # 
 
 As h propos of hope or retrospection, 
 
 As though the lurking thought had follow'd free. 
 
 All present life is but an interjection, 
 
 An "Oh!" or "Ah!" of joy or misery, 
 
 Or a " Ha ! ha !" or " Bah !"— a yawn, or « Pooh!" 
 
 Of which perhaps the latter is most true. 
 
 II. 
 But, more or less, the whole 's a syncope, 
 
 Or a singultus — emblems of emotion. 
 The grand antithesis to great ennui. 
 
 Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, 
 That watery outline of eternity. 
 
 Or miniature at least, as is my notion, 
 Which ministers unto the soul's delight, 
 In seeing matters which are out of sight. 
 
 III. 
 But all are better than the sigh supprest. 
 
 Corroding in the cavern of the heart. 
 Making the countenance a mask of rest. 
 
 And turnmg human nature to an art. 
 Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best ; 
 
 Dissimulation always sets apart 
 A corner for herself; and therefore fiction 
 Is that which passes with least contradiction. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah ! who can tell ? Or rather, who cannot 
 R,emember, without telling, passion's errors ? 
 
 The drainer of oblivion, even the sot, 
 Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors : 
 
 What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float, 
 He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors ; 
 
 The ruby glass that shakes within his hand, 
 
 Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. 
 
 V. 
 
 And as for love — Oh, Love ! ^We will proceed. 
 
 The Lady Adeline Amundeville, 
 A pretty name as one would wish to read. 
 
 Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. 
 There 's music in the sighing of a reed ; 
 
 There 's music in the gushing of a rill ; 
 There 's music in all things, if men had ears: 
 Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. 
 
 The Lady Adeline, right honourable. 
 
 And honour'd, ran a risk of growing less so ; 
 
 For few of the soft sex are very stable 
 
 In their resolves — alas ! that I should say so ! 
 
 They differ as wine differs from its label. 
 
 When once decanted ; — I presume to guess so, 
 
 But will not swear : yet both upon occasion, 
 
 Till old, may undergo adulteration. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But Adeline was of the purest vintage. 
 
 The unmingled essence of the grape ; and yet 
 Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage. 
 
 Or glorious as a diamond richly set ; 
 A page where time should hesitate to print age, 
 And for which nature might forego her debt- 
 Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 't 
 The luck of finding every body solvent. 
 
 Till. 
 
 Oh ! Death ! thou dunnest of all duns ! thou daily 
 Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap. 
 
 Like a meek tradesman when approaching palely 
 Some splendid debtor he would take by sap : 
 
 But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he 
 Advances with exasperated rap, 
 
 And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, 
 
 On ready money, or " a draft on Ransom." 
 
 IX. 
 
 Whate 'er thou takest, spare awhile poor beauty ! 
 
 She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey, 
 What though she now and then may slip from duty. 
 
 The more 's the reason why you ought to stay. 
 Gaunt Gourmand ! with whole nations for your booty, 
 
 You should be civil in a modest way : 
 Suppress then some slight feminine diseases, 
 And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases. 
 
 X. 
 
 Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 
 
 Where she was interested, (as was said,) 
 
 Because she was not apt, like some of us, 
 To like too readily, or too high bred 
 
 To show it — points we need not now discuss — 
 Would give up artlessly both heart and head 
 
 Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent, 
 
 For objects worthy of the sentiment. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Some parts of Juan's history, which rumour. 
 That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure. 
 
 She had heard ; but women hear with more good humour 
 Such aberrations than we men of rigour. 
 
 Besides his conduct, since in England, gi-ew more 
 Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigour; 
 
 Because he had, like Alcibiades, 
 
 The art of living in all climes with ease. 
 
 XII. 
 
 His manner was perhaps the more seductive. 
 Because he ne'er seemed anxious to seduce ; 
 
 Nothing affected, studied, or constructive 
 Of coxcombiy or conquest : no abuse 
 
 Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective, 
 To indicate a Cupidon broke loose, 
 
 And seem to say, " resist us if you can" — 
 
 Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 They are wrong — that 's not the way to set about it ; 
 
 As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. 
 But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it ; 
 
 In fact, his manner was his own alone : 
 Sincere he was — at least you could not doubt it, 
 
 In listening merely to his voice's tone. 
 The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice 
 An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. 
 
Canto XV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 607 
 
 By nature soft, his whole address held off 
 Suspicion: though not timid, his regai"d 
 
 Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof, 
 
 To shield himself, than put you on your guard : 
 
 Perhaps 'twas hardly quite assured enough, 
 But modesty 's at times its own reward, 
 
 Like virtue ; and the absence of pretension 
 
 Will go much further than there 's need to mention. 
 
 XV, 
 
 Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful, but not loud ; 
 
 Insinuating without insinuation ; 
 Observant of the foibles of the crowd, 
 
 Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation ; 
 Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud, 
 
 So as to make them feel he knew his station 
 And theirs ; — without a struggle for priority, 
 He neither brook'd nor claimed superiority. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 That is, with men : with women, he was what 
 They pleased to make or take him for ; and their 
 
 Imagination 's quite enough for that : 
 So that the outline 's tolerably fair. 
 
 They fill the canvass up — and " verbura sat," 
 If once their phantasies be brought to bear 
 
 Upon an object, whether sad or playful. 
 
 They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Adeline, no deep judge of character, 
 Was apt to add a colouring from her own, 
 
 'T is thus the good will amiably err. 
 
 And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 
 
 Experience is the chief philosopher, 
 But saddest v/hen his science is well known : 
 
 And persecuted sages teach the schools 
 
 Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Was it not so, great Locke ? and greater Bacon ? 
 
 Great Socrates ? And Thou, Diviner still,i 
 Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken. 
 
 And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill? 
 Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken. 
 
 How was thy toil rewarded 1 We might fill 
 Volumes with similar sad illustrations, 
 But leave them to the conscience of the nations. 
 
 I perch upon an humbler promontory, 
 
 Amid life's infinite variety : 
 With no great care for what is nicknamed glory 
 
 But speculating as I cast mine eye 
 On what may suit or may not suit my story, 
 
 And never straining hard to versify 
 I rattle on exactly as I 'd talk 
 With any body in a ride or walk. 
 
 XX. 
 
 I do n't know that there may be much ability 
 Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme ; 
 
 But there 's a conversational facility, 
 
 Which may round off an hour upon a time. 
 
 Of this I 'm sure at least, there 's no servility 
 In mine irregularity of chime. 
 
 Which rings what 's uppermost of new or hoaryj 
 
 Just as I feel the " improvvisatore." 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Omnia vult beUe Matho dicere — die aliquando 
 Et bene, die neutrum, die aliquando male.^' 
 
 The first is rather more than mortal can do ; 
 The second may be sadly done or gayly ; 
 
 The third is still more difficult to stand to ; 
 
 The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily : 
 
 The whole together is what I could wish 
 
 To serve in this conundrum of a dish. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 A modest hope — but modesty 's my forte, 
 And pride my foible ; — let us ramble on. 
 
 I meant to make this poem very short. 
 But now I can't tell where it may not run 
 
 No doubt, if I had wish'd to pay my court 
 To critics, or to hail the setting sun 
 
 Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision 
 
 Were more ; — but I was born for opposition. 
 
 XXIII, 
 
 But then 't is mostly on the weaker side : 
 
 So that I verily believe if they 
 Who now are basking in their full-blown pride, 
 
 Were shaken down, and " dogs had had their day. 
 Though at the first I might by chance deride 
 
 Their tumble, I should turn the other way, 
 And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, 
 Because I hate even democratic royalty. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 I thinlc I should have made a decent spouse, 
 If I had never proved the soft condition ; 
 
 I think I should have made monastic vows, 
 But for my o-wn peculiar superstition : 
 
 'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd my brows, 
 Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian ; 
 
 Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, 
 
 If some one had not told me to forego it. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But "laissez aller" — ^knights and dames I sing, 
 "Buch as the times may furnish. 'T is a flight 
 
 Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, 
 Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite ; 
 
 The difficulty lies in colouring 
 
 (Keeping the due proportions still in sight) 
 
 With nature manners which are artificial. 
 
 And rendering general that which is especial. 
 
 xxvr. 
 
 The difference is, that in the days of old 
 
 Men made the manners ; manners now make men — 
 Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold, 
 
 At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten. 
 Now this at all events must render cold 
 
 Your writers, who must either draw again 
 Days better drawn before, or else assume 
 The present, with their commonplace costume. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 We '11 do our best to make the best on 't : — March ! 
 
 March, my Muse ! If you cannot fly, yet flutter 
 And when you may not be sublime, be arch, 
 
 Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. 
 We surely shall find something worth research : 
 
 Columbus found a new world in a cutter, 
 Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage. 
 While yet America was in her nonage. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 When Adeline, in all her growing sense 
 
 Of Juan's merits and his situation. 
 Felt on the whole an interest intense — 
 
 Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation. 
 Or that he had an air of innocence, 
 
 Which is for innocence a sad temptation, — • 
 As women hate half measures, on the whole, 
 She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 She had a good opinion of advice, 
 Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, 
 
 For which small thanks are still the market-price, 
 Even where the article at highest rate is. 
 
 She thought upon the subject twice or thrice. 
 And morally decided, the best state is. 
 
 For morals, marriage ; and, this question carried, 
 
 She seriously advised him to get married. 
 
608 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XV. 
 
 Juan replied, with all becoming deference, 
 
 He had a predilection for that tie ; 
 But that at present, with immediate reference 
 
 To his own circumstances, there might lie 
 Some difficulties, as in his own preference. 
 
 Or that of her to whom he might apply ; 
 That still he 'd wed with such or such a lady, 
 If tliat they were not married all already. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Next to the making matches for herself, 
 
 And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kiti, 
 
 Arranging them like books on the same shelf, 
 There 's nothing women love to dabble in 
 
 More (like a stockholder in growing pelf) 
 Than match-making in general: 'tis no sin 
 
 Certes, but a preventative, and therefore 
 
 That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 
 
 XXXII, 
 
 But never yet (except of course a miss 
 
 Unwed, or mistress never to be wed, 
 Or wed already, who object to this) 
 
 Was there chaste dame who had not in her head 
 Some drama of the marriage unities, 
 
 Observed as strictly both at board and bed, 
 As those of Aristotle, though sometimes 
 They turn out melodraanes or pantomimes. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 They generally have some only son, 
 
 Some heir to a large property, some friend » 
 
 Of an old family, some gay Sir John, 
 
 Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might end 
 A line, and leave posterity undone, 
 
 Unless a marriage was applied to mend 
 The prospect and their morals : and besides. 
 They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 From these they will be careful to select, 
 For this an heiress, and for that a beauty ; 
 
 For one a songstress who hath no defect, 
 For t' other one who promises much duty; 
 
 For this a lady no one can reject, 
 
 Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty ; 
 
 A second for her excellent connexions ; 
 
 A third, because there can be no objections. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 When Rapp the harmonist embargo'd marriage ^ 
 In his harmonious settlement — (which flourishes 
 
 Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage. 
 Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes. 
 
 Without those sad expenses which disparage 
 What Nature naturally most encourages) — 
 
 "VNTiy call'd he " Harmony" a state sans wedlock? 
 
 Now here I have got the preacher at a dead lock. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Because he either meant to sneer at harmony 
 Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. 
 
 But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in Germany 
 Or no, 't is said his sect is rich and godly, 
 
 Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any 
 Of ours, althou^ they propagate more broadly. 
 
 My objection 's to his title, not his ritual, 
 
 Although I wonder how it grew habitual 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons. 
 Who favour, malgre Malthus, generation- 
 Professors of that genial art, and patrons 
 
 Of all the modest part of propagation, 
 Which after all at such a desperate rate runs. 
 
 That half its produce tends to emigration, 
 That sad result of passions and potatoes — 
 Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. 
 
 XXXTIII. 
 
 Had Adeline read Malthus ? I can't tell ; [ment 
 
 I wish she had: his book's the eleventh command- 
 
 Whichsays, '< thou shalt not marr}'" — unless welli 
 This he (as far as I can understand) meant: 
 
 'T is not my purpose on his views to dwell, 
 Nor canvass what " so eminent a hand" meant ;■ 
 
 But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, 
 
 Or turning marriage into arithmetic. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 But Adeline, who probably presumed 
 
 That Juan had enough of maintenance. 
 Or separate maintenance, in case 'twas doom'd— 
 
 As on the whole it is an even chance 
 That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groojn'd, 
 
 May retrograde a little in the dance 
 Of marriage — (which might forma painter's fame, 
 Like Holbein's " Dance of Death" — but 'tis the same:) 
 
 XL. 
 
 But Adeline determined Juan's wedding, 
 In her own mind, and that 's enough for woman, [ing, 
 
 But then, with whom ? There was the sage Miss Read- 
 Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss 
 
 And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. [Knowman, 
 She deem'd his merits something more than common • 
 
 All these were unobjectionable matches, 
 
 And might go on, if well wound up, like watches 
 
 XLI. 
 
 There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea. 
 
 That usual paragon, an only daughter. 
 Who seem'd the cream of equanimity, [water. 
 
 Till skimm'd — and then there was some mUk and 
 With a slight shade of Blue too it might be. 
 
 Beneath the surface ; but what did it matter? 
 Love's riotous, but marriage should have quiet. 
 And, being consumptive, live on a milk diet. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, 
 
 A dashing demoiselle of good estate, 
 Whose heart was fixed upon a star of bluestring ; 
 
 But whether English dukes grew rare of late. 
 Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string. 
 
 By which such sirens can attract our great, 
 
 She took up with some foreign younger brother, 
 
 A Russ or Turk — the one 's as good as t' other. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 And then there was — ^but why should I go on, 
 Unless the ladies should go off? — there was 
 
 Indeed a certain fair and fairy one. 
 
 Of the best class, and better than her class, — 
 
 Aurora Raby, a young star who shone 
 
 O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, 
 
 A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 
 
 A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded ; 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only 
 
 Child to the care of guardians good and kind ; 
 But still her aspect had an air so lonely ! 
 
 Blood is not water ; and where shall we find 
 Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie 
 
 By death, when we are left, alas ! behind, 
 To feel, in friendless palaces, a home 
 
 Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb? 
 
 XhV. 
 
 Early in years, and yet more infantine 
 
 In figure, she had something of sublime 
 In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine. 
 
 All youth — but with an aspect beyond time ; 
 Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline ; 
 
 Mournful — but mournful of another's crime. 
 She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door, 
 And griev'd for those who could return no more. 
 
Canto XV. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 609 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 She was a Catholic too, sincere, austere, 
 As far as her own gentle heart allow'd. 
 
 And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear, 
 
 Perhaps because 't was fallen : her sires were proud 
 
 Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the ear 
 Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 
 
 To novel power ; and as she was the last, 
 
 She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, 
 As seeking not to know it ; silent, lone. 
 
 As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew. 
 And kept her heart serene within its zone. 
 
 There was awe in the homage which she drew ; 
 Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne 
 
 Apart from the surrounding world, and strong 
 
 In its own strength — most strange in one so young. 
 
 XL VIII. 
 
 Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue 
 
 Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted, 
 Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue 
 
 Beyond the charmers we have already cited : 
 Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog 
 
 Against her being mentioned as well fitted, 
 By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
 Of single gentlemen who would be double. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 And this omission, like that of the bust 
 Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 
 
 Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 
 
 This he express'd half smiling and half serious ; 
 
 When Adeline replied with some disgust, 
 And with an air, to say the least, imperious, 
 
 She marvell'd " what he saw in such a baby 
 
 As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby ?" 
 
 L. 
 
 Juan rejoin' d — " She was a Catholic, 
 
 And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion; 
 
 Since he was sure his mother would fall sick, 
 And the Pope thunder excommunication. 
 
 If " But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique 
 
 Herself extremely on the inoculation 
 
 Of others with her own opinions, stated — 
 
 As usual — the same reason which she late did. 
 
 And wherefore not? a reasonable reason, 
 If good, is none the worse for repetition ; 
 
 If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on 
 And amplify : you lose much by concision ; 
 
 Whereas insisting in or out of season 
 Convinces all men, even a politician ; 
 
 Or — what is just the same — it wearies out. 
 
 So the end 's gain'd, what signifies the route ? 
 
 LII. 
 
 TVkt/ Adeline had this slight prejudice — 
 For prejudice it was — against a creature 
 
 As pure as sanctity itself from vice. 
 
 With all the added charm of form and feature, 
 
 For me appears a question far too nice, 
 Since Adeline was liberal by nature ; 
 
 But nature 's nature, and has more caprices 
 
 Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 
 
 nil. 
 Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 
 
 With which Aurora on those baubles look'd, 
 Which charm most people in their earlier day : 
 
 For there are few things by mankind less brook'd, 
 And womankind too, if we so may say, 
 
 Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, 
 Like " Antony's by Caesar," by the few 
 Who look upon them as they ought to do. 
 4 B 
 
 It was not envy— Adeline had none ; 
 
 Her place was far beyond it, and her mind. 
 It was not scorn — which could not light on one 
 
 Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find. 
 It was not jealousy, I think : but shun 
 
 Following the " ignes fatui" of mankind. 
 
 It was not but 't is easier far, alas ! 
 
 To say what it was not, than what it was. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme 
 Of such discussion. She was there a guest, 
 
 A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream 
 
 Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, 
 
 Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam 
 
 Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. 
 
 Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled — 
 
 She had so much, or little, of the child. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 The dashing and proud air of Adeline 
 Imposed not upon her : she saw her blaze 
 
 Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, 
 Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. 
 
 Juan was something she could not divine, 
 Being no sibyl in the new world's ways ; 
 
 Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, 
 
 Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 His fame too, — for he had that kind of fame 
 
 Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind, 
 
 A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame. 
 Half virtues and whole vices being combined ; 
 
 Faults which attract because they are not tame ; 
 Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind:— 
 
 These seals upon her wax made no impression, 
 
 Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 
 
 LTIII. 
 
 Juan knew naught of such a character- 
 High, yet resembling not his lost Haideej 
 
 Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere : 
 The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, 
 
 More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, 
 Was nature's all : Aurora could not be 
 
 Nor would be thus ;— the difference in them 
 
 Was such as lies between a flower and gem, 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Having wound up with this sublime comparison, 
 Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, 
 
 And, as my friend Scott says, " I sound my Warison •" 
 Scott, the superlative of my comparative — 
 
 Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen, 
 Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share it, if 
 
 There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, 
 
 Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 
 
 LX, 
 
 I say, in my slight way I may proceed 
 
 To play upon the surface of humanity. 
 I write the world, nor care if the world react, 
 
 At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 
 My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed 
 
 More foes by this same scroll : when I began it, I 
 Thought that it might turn out so— now; I know it, 
 But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 The conference or congress (for it ended 
 
 As congresses of late do) of the Lady 
 Adeline and Don Juan rather blended 
 
 Some acids with the sweets — for she was heady } 
 But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended, 
 
 The silvery bell rung, not for " dinner ready," 
 But for that hour, call'd kcdf-hour, given to dress, 
 Though ladies robes seera scant enough for less. 
 
610 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 i 
 
 Canto XV. 
 
 Great things were now to be achieved at table, 
 With massy plate for armour, knives and forks 
 
 For weapons ; but what Muse since Homer 's able 
 (His feasts are not the worst part of his works) 
 
 To draw up in array a single day-bill 
 
 Of modern dinners ? where more mystery lurks 
 
 In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, 
 
 Than witches, b — ches, or physicians brew. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 There was a goodly " soupe h la bonne femme," 
 
 Though God knows whence it came from; there was too 
 
 A turbot for relief of those who cram. 
 Relieved with dindon a la Perigueux ; 
 
 There also was — the sinner that 1 am ! 
 
 How shall I get this gourmand stanza through ? 
 
 Soupe a la Beauvcau, whose relief was dory, 
 
 Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 But I must crowd all into one grand mess 
 Or mass ; for should 1 stretch into detail, 
 
 My Muse would run much more into excess, 
 
 Than when some squeamish people deem her frail. 
 
 But, though a " bonne vivante," I must confess 
 Her stomach 's not her peccant part : this tale 
 
 However doth require some slight refection, 
 
 Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Fowls a la Conde, slices eke of salmon. 
 
 With sauces Genevoise, and haunch of venison ; 
 
 Whines too which might again have slain young Ammon, 
 A man like whom I hope we sha'n't see many soon ; 
 
 They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on, 
 Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison ; 
 
 And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, 
 
 As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. 
 
 LXTI. 
 
 Then there was God knows what " a I'Allemande," 
 " A I'Espagnole," " timballe," and " Salpicole" — 
 
 With things I can't withstand or understand, 
 Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole ; 
 
 And " entremets" to piddle with at hand. 
 Gently to lull down the subsiding soul ; 
 
 While great LucuUus' robe triomphale muffles [truffles.''^ 
 
 ^There 's fame) — young partridge fillets, deck'd with 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 What are the JiUets on the victor's brow 
 
 To these ? They are rags or dust. AVhere is the arch 
 Which nodded to the nation's spoils below ? 
 
 Where the triumphal chariot's haughty march ? 
 Gone to where victories must like dinners go. 
 
 Further I shall not follow the research : 
 But oh ! ye modern heroes with your cartridges. 
 When will your names lend lustre even to partridges ? 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, 
 FoUow'd by " petits puits d'amour," — a dish 
 
 Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, 
 So every one may dress it to his wish. 
 
 According to the best of dictionaries. 
 
 Which encyclopaedise both flesh and fish ; 
 
 But even sans " confitures," it no less true is. 
 
 There 's pretty picking in those " petits puits." * 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 The mind is lost in mighty contemplation 
 
 Of intellect expended on two courses • 
 And indigestion's grand multiplication 
 
 Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. 
 WTio would suppose, from Adam's simple ration, 
 
 That cookery could have call'd forth such resources. 
 As form a science and a nomenclature 
 From out the commonest demands of nature 1 
 
 The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled ; 
 
 The diners of celebrity dined well ; 
 The ladies with more moderation mingled 
 
 In the feast, pecking less than I can tell; 
 Also the younger men too ; for a springald 
 
 Can't like ripe age in gourmandise excel. 
 But thinks less of good eating than the whisper 
 (When seated next him) of some pretty lisper. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Alas ! I must leave undescribed the gibier, 
 
 The salmi, the consommee, the puree, 
 All which I used co make my rhymes run glibber 
 
 Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way : 
 I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 
 
 " Bubble and squeak" would spoil my liquid lay; 
 But I have dined, and must forego, alas ! 
 The chaste description even of a " becasse," 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
 From nature for the service of the gout, — 
 
 Taste or the gout^ — ^pronounce it as inclines 
 Your stomach. Ere you dine, the French will do; 
 
 But after, there are sometimes certain signs 
 Which prove plain English truer of the two. 
 
 Hast ever had the gout ? I have not had it — 
 
 But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 The simple olives, best allies of wine, 
 
 Must I pass over in my bill of fare ? 
 I must, although a favourite •' plat" of mine ' 
 
 In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where : 
 On them and bread 't was oft my luck to dine, 
 
 The grass my tablecloth, in open air. 
 On Sunium or Hymettus, hke Diogenes, 
 Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Amid this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl, 
 
 And vegetables, all in masquerade, 
 The guests were placed according to their roll, 
 
 But various as the various meats display'd: 
 Don Juan sate next an " a I'Espagnole" — 
 
 No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said ; 
 But so far like a lady, that 't was drest 
 Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 By some odd chance too he was placed between 
 
 Aurora and the Lady Adeline — 
 A situation difficult, I ween. 
 
 For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. 
 Also the conference which we have seen 
 
 Was not such as to encourage him to shine ; 
 For Adeline, addressing few words to him, 
 With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through him. 
 
 LXXYI. 
 
 I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears : 
 This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things 
 
 Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears. 
 
 Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge springs ; 
 
 Like that same mystic music of the spheres. 
 Which no one hears so loudly though it rings. 
 
 'T is wonderful how oft the sex have heard 
 
 Long dialogues which pass'd without a word ! 
 
 LXXTII. 
 
 Aurora sat with that indifference 
 
 Which piques a preux chevalier — as it ought : 
 Of all offences that 's the worst offence. 
 
 Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought. 
 Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence. 
 
 Was not exactly pleased to be so caught ; 
 Like a good ship entangled among ice, 
 And after so much excellent advice. 
 
Canto XV 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 611 
 
 tXXTIII. 
 
 To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, 
 Or something which was nothing, as urbanity 
 
 Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside, 
 Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. 
 
 The devil was in the girl ! Could it be pride, 
 Or modesty, or absence, or inanity ? 
 
 Heaven knows ! But Adeline's malicious eyes 
 
 Sparkled with her successful prophecies, 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 And look'd as much as if to say, " I said it;" — 
 A kind of triumph I '11 not recommend. 
 
 Because it sometimes, as I 've seen or read it, 
 Both in the CELse of lover and of friend. 
 
 Will pique a gentleman, for his o^^Ti credit, 
 To bring what was a jest to a serious end ; 
 
 For all men prophecy what is or was, 
 
 And hate those who won't let them come to pass. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, 
 Slight but select, and just enough to express, 
 
 To females of perspicuous comprehensions, 
 
 That he would rather make them more than less. 
 
 Atirora at the last (so history mentions, 
 
 Though probably much less a fact than guess) 
 
 So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, 
 
 As once or twice to smile, if not to listen. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 From answering, she began to question : this 
 With her was rare : and Adeline, who as yet 
 
 Thought her predictions went not much amiss. 
 Began to dread she 'd thaw to a coquette — 
 
 So very difficult, they say, it is 
 
 To keep extremes from meeting, when once set 
 
 In motion ; but she here too much refined — 
 
 Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 But Juan had a sort of winning way, 
 
 A proud humility, if such there be, 
 Which show'd such deference to what females say, 
 
 As if each charming word were a decree. 
 His tact too temper'd him from grave to gay. 
 
 And taught him when to be reserved or free : 
 He had the art of drawing people out. 
 Without their seeing what he was about. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 Aurora, who in her indifference 
 
 Confounded him in common with the crowd 
 Of flutterers, though she deem'd he had more sense 
 
 Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud, — 
 Commenced (from such slight things will great commence) 
 
 To feel that flattery which attracts the proud 
 Rather by deference than compliment, 
 And wins even by a delicate dissent. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 And then he had good looks ; — that point was carried 
 Nem. con. among the women, which I grieve 
 
 To say, leads oft to crim. con. with the married — 
 A case which to the juries we may leave. 
 
 Since with digressions we too long have tarried. 
 Now though we know of old that looks deceive. 
 
 And always have done, somehow these good looks 
 
 Make more impression than the best of boolis. 
 
 XXXXT, 
 
 Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 
 Was very young, although so very sage, 
 
 Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 
 Especially upon a printed page. 
 
 But virtue's self with all her tightest laces, 
 Has not the natural stays of strict old age ; 
 
 And Socrates, that model of all duty, 
 
 Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty. 
 
 I, XXXVI. 
 
 And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 
 
 ' But innocently so, as Socrates : 
 And really, if the sage sublime and Attic 
 
 At seventy years had phantasies like these, 
 Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 
 
 Has shown, I know not why they should displease 
 In virgins — always in a modest Vv-ay, 
 Observe ; for that with me 's a " sine qua."^ 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Also observe, that like the great Lord Coke, 
 (See Littleton) whene'er I have express'd 
 
 Opinions two, which at first sight may look 
 Twin opposites, the second is the best. 
 
 Perhaps I have a third too in a nook. 
 
 Or none at all— which seems a sorry jest ; 
 
 But if a writer should be quite consistent. 
 
 How could he possibly show things existent ? 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 If people contradict themselves, can I 
 Help contradicting them, and every body, 
 
 Even my veracious self? — but that 's a lie ; 
 I never did so, never will — how should I ? 
 
 He who doubts all things, nothing can deny ; 
 
 Truth's fountains may be clear — her streams are muddy, 
 
 And cut through such canals of contradiction. 
 
 That she must often navigate o'er fiction. 
 
 xxxxix. 
 Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable. 
 
 Are false, but may be render'd also true 
 By those who saw them in a land that 's arable. 
 
 'T is wonderful what fable will not do ! 
 'T is said it makes reality more bearable : 
 
 But what 's reality ? Who has its clue ? 
 Philosophy ? No ; she too much rejects. 
 Religion ? Yes; but which of all her sects? 
 
 Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty clear ; 
 
 Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. 
 God help us ! Since we 've need on our career 
 
 To keep our holy beacons always bright, 
 'T is time that some new prophet should appear 
 
 Or old indulge man with a second-sight. 
 Opinions wear out in some thousand years. 
 Without a small refreshment from the spheres. 
 
 xci. 
 But here again, why will I thus entangle 
 
 Myself with metaphysics? None can hate 
 So much as I do any kind of wrangle ; 
 
 And yet such is my folly, or my fate, 
 I always knock my head against some angle 
 
 About the present, past, and future state : 
 Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, 
 For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. 
 
 xcii. 
 But though I am a temperate theologian, 
 
 And also meek as a metaphysician, 
 Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, 
 
 As Eldon on a lunatic commission, — 
 In politics, my duty is to shovir John 
 
 Bull something of the lower world's condition. 
 It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla, 
 To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 But politics, and policy, and piety. 
 
 Are topics which I sometimes introduce, 
 
 Not only for the sake of their variety. 
 But as subservient to a moral use ; 
 
 Because my business is to dress society, 
 
 And stuff with sage that very verdant goose. 
 
 And now, that we may furnish with some matter all 
 
 Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. 
 
612 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XVI. 
 
 And now I will give up all argument : 
 And positively henceforth no temptation 
 
 Shall •' fool me to the top of my bent ;" 
 Yes, I 'II begin a thorough reformation. 
 
 Indeed I never knew what people meant 
 By deeming that my Muse's conversation 
 
 Was dangerous; — I think she is as harmless 
 
 As some who labour more and yet may charmless. 
 
 xcv. 
 Grim reader ! did you ever see a ghost ? 
 
 No ; but you 've heard — I understand — be dumb ! 
 And do n't regret the time you may have lost, 
 
 For you have got that pleasure still to come : 
 And do not think I mean to sneer at most 
 
 Of these things, or by ridicule benumb 
 That source of the sublime and the mysterious: — 
 For certain reasons my belief is serious, 
 
 xcvi. 
 Serious? You laugh: — ^you may ; that will I not ; 
 
 My sioiles must be sincere or not at all, 
 I say I do believe a haunted spot 
 
 Exists— and where ? That shall I not recall, 
 Because I 'd rather it should be forgot. 
 
 *' Shadows the soul of Richard" may appal : 
 In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms, very 
 Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury,' 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 The night (I sing by night — sometimes an owl, 
 And now and then a nightingale)^s dim, 
 
 And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl 
 Rattles around me her discordant hymn : 
 
 Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl — 
 I wish to heaven they would not look so grim ; 
 
 The dying embers dwindle in the grate^-— 
 
 I think too that I have sate up too late : 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 And therdbre, thought 't is by no means my way 
 To rhyme at noon — when I have other things 
 
 To think of, if I ever think, — I say 
 
 I feel some chilly midnight shuddering?, 
 
 And prudendy postpone, until mid-day, 
 Treating a topic which, alas ! but brings 
 
 Shadows ;-^but you must be in my condition 
 
 Before you learn to call this superstition. 
 
 xcix. 
 Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 
 
 *Twixt night and mom, upon the horizon's verge: 
 How little do we know that which we are ! 
 
 How less what we may be ! The eternal surge 
 Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar 
 
 Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, 
 Lash'd from the foam of ages; while the graves 
 Of empires heave but like some passing waves. 
 
 CANTO XVf. 
 
 The antique Persians taught three useful things,- 
 To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth. 
 
 This was the mode of Cyrus — best of kings — 
 A mode adopted since by modern youth. 
 
 Bows have they, generally with two strings ; 
 Horses they ride without remorse or ruth ; 
 
 At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, 
 
 But draw the long bow better now them ever. 
 
 The cause of this effect, or this defect, 
 
 " For this effect defective comes by cause,"— 
 
 Is what I have not leisure to inspect: 
 But this 1 must say in my own applause. 
 
 Of all the muses that I recollect, 
 Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws 
 
 In some things, mine 's beyond all contradiction 
 
 The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 
 
 III. 
 And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 
 
 From any thing, this Epic will contain 
 A wilderness of the most rare conceits. 
 
 Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain. 
 'T is true there be some bitters with the sweets, 
 
 Yet mix'd so slightly that you can't complain, 
 But wonder they so few are, since my tale is 
 " De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis," 
 
 IV. 
 
 But of all truths which she has told, the most 
 True is that which she is about to tell, 
 
 I said it was a story of a ghost — 
 What then ? I only know it so befell. 
 
 Have you explored the limits of the coast 
 
 Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell? 
 
 'T is time to strike such puny doubters dumb as 
 
 The skeptics who would not believe Columbus. 
 
 V. 
 
 Some people would impose now with authority, 
 Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle 
 
 Men whose historical superiority 
 Is always greatest at a miracle. 
 
 But Saint Augustine has the great priority, 
 Who bids aUmen believe the impossible. 
 
 Because H is so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, ho 
 
 duiets at once with *' quia impossibile." 
 
 VI. 
 
 And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all ; 
 
 Believe : — if 't is improbable you must ; 
 And if it is impossible, you shall: 
 
 'T is always best to take things upon trust. 
 I do not speak profanely to recall 
 
 Those holier mysteries, which the wise and just 
 Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted, 
 As all truths must, the more they are disputed, 
 
 VII. 
 
 I merely mean to say what Johnson said. 
 
 That in the course of some six thousand years, 
 
 All nations have believed that from the dead 
 A visitant at intervals appears ; 
 
 And what is strangest upon this strange head. 
 Is that whatever bar the reason rears 
 
 'Gainst such belief, there 's something stronger still 
 
 In its behalf, let those deny who will. 
 
 The dinner and the soiree too were done. 
 
 The supper too discuss'd, the dames admired, 
 
 The banqueters had dropp'd off one by one — 
 The song was silent, and the dance expired : 
 
 The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone, 
 Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired, 
 
 And nothing brighter gleam'd through the saloon 
 
 Than dying tapers — and the peeping moon. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The evaporation of a joyous day 
 
 Is like the last glass of champagne, without 
 The foam which made its virgin bumper gay ; 
 
 Or like a system coupled with a doubt ; 
 Or like a soda-bottle, when its spray 
 
 Has sparkled and let half its spirit out ; 
 Or like a billow left by storms behind, 
 Without the animation of the wind ; 
 
Ca-nto XVI. 
 
 DOI^ JUAN. 
 
 613 
 
 Or like an opiate which brings troubled rest, 
 Or none ; or like — like nothing that I know 
 
 Except itself; — such is tlie human breast ; 
 A thing, of which similitudes can show 
 
 No real likeness, — like the old Tyrian vest 
 Dyed purple, none at present can tell how, 
 
 If from a shellfish or from cochineal.^ 
 
 So perish every tyrant's robe piecemeal '. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But next to dressing for a rout or baU, 
 
 Undressing is a wo ; our robe-de-chambre 
 
 May sit like that of Nessus, and recall 
 
 Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber. 
 
 Titus exclaim'd, " I 've lost a day !" Of all 
 The nights and days most people can remember, 
 
 (I have had of both, some not be disdain'd,) 
 
 I wish they 'd state how many they have gain'd. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And Juan, on retiring for the night, 
 
 Felt resdess and perplex'd, and compromised ; 
 
 He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright 
 Than Adeline (such is advice) advised ; 
 
 If he had known exactly his ot\ii plight, 
 He probably would have philosophized ; 
 
 A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 
 
 Till wanted ; therefore Juan only sigh'd. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He sigh'd ; — the next resource is the full moon, 
 Where all sighs are deposited ; and now, 
 
 It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone 
 As clear as such a climate will allow ; 
 
 And Juan's mind was in the proper tone 
 
 To hail her with the apostrophe — " Oh, thou !" 
 
 Of amatory egotism the tuism, 
 
 Which further to explain would be a truism. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 But lover, poet, or astronomer. 
 
 Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold. 
 
 Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her : 
 
 Great thoughts we catch from thence, (besides a cold 
 
 Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err ;) 
 Deep secrets to her rolling light are told ; 
 
 The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways. 
 
 And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 
 For contemplation rather than iiis pillow ; 
 
 The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed. 
 Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow, 
 
 With all the mystery by midnight caused ; 
 
 Below his window waved (of course) a willow ; 
 
 And he stood gazing out on the cascade 
 
 That flash'd and after darken'd in the shade. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Upon his table or his toilet — which 
 
 Of these is not exacdy ascertain d — 
 (I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch 
 
 Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd) 
 A lamp bum'd high, while he leant from a niche, 
 
 Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd, 
 In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all 
 That time has left our fathers of their haU. 
 
 Then as the night was clear, though cold, he threw 
 His chamber-door wide open — and went forth 
 
 Into a gallery, of a sombre hue, 
 Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth 
 
 Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too. 
 As doubtless should be people of high birth. 
 
 But by dim lights the portraits of the dead 
 
 Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 
 
 xviir. 
 The forms of the grim knights and pictured saints 
 
 Look living in the moon •, and as you turn 
 Baclr«ard and forward to the echoes faint 
 
 Of your own footsteps — voices from the urn 
 Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 
 
 Start from the frames which fence their aspects stem, 
 As if to ask how can you dare to keep 
 A vigil there, where all but death should sleep 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And the pale smile of beauties in the grave. 
 The charms of other days, in starlight gleams 
 
 Glimmer on high ; the buried locks still wave 
 Along the canvass ; their eyes glance like dreams 
 
 On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, 
 But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. 
 
 A picture is the past ; even ere its frame 
 
 Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. 
 
 XX. 
 
 As Juan mused on mutability, 
 
 Or on his mistress — terms synonymous — 
 
 No sound except the echo of his sigh 
 
 Or step ran sadly through that antique house, 
 
 When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 
 A supernatural agent — or a mouse, 
 
 "^^Tiose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 
 
 iVIost people, as it plays along the arras. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 It was no mouse, but lo ! a monk, array'd 
 In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd, 
 
 Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade. 
 With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard ; 
 
 Hi's garments only a slight murmur made ; 
 He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, 
 
 But slowly ; and as he pass'd Juan by, 
 
 Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Juan was petrified ; he had heard a hint 
 
 Of such a spirit in these halls of old, 
 But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't 
 
 Beyond the rumour which such spots unfold, 
 Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, 
 
 '\Miich passes ghosts in currency like gold, 
 But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 
 And did he see this ? or was it a vapour ? 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd — the thing of air, 
 Or earth Deneath, or heaven, or 't other place; 
 
 And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, 
 
 Yet could not speak or move ; but, on its base 
 
 As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 
 
 Twine like a knot of snakes around his face ; 
 
 He tax'd his tongue for words , which were not granted, 
 
 To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The third time after a still longer pause, 
 
 The shadow pass'd away — ^but where ? the hall 
 
 Was long, and thus far there was no great cause 
 To think his vanishing unnatural : 
 
 Doors there were many, through which, by the laws 
 Of physics, bodies, whether short or tall, 
 
 Might come or go ; but Juan could not state 
 
 Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 He stood, how long he knew not, but it seem'd 
 An age — expectant, powerless, with his eves 
 
 Strain'd on the spot where first the fiorure gleam'd ; 
 Then by degrees recall'd his energies. 
 
 And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream. 
 But could not wake : he was. he did surmiscj 
 
 Waking already, and retum'd at length 
 
 Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. 
 
614 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XVI. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 All there was as he left it ; still his taper 
 Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use, 
 
 Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour; 
 He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse 
 
 Their ofiice ; he took up an old newspaper ; 
 The paper was right easy to peruse ; 
 
 He read an article tlie king attacking, 
 
 And a long eulogy of " Patent Blacking." 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 This savour'd of this world ; but his hand shook — 
 
 He shut his door, and after having read 
 A paragraph, I think about Home Tooke, 
 
 Undress'd, and rather slowly went to bed. 
 There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, 
 
 With what he 'd seen his phantasy he fed. 
 And though it was no opiate, slumber crept 
 Upon him by degrees, and so he slept. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 He woke betimes ; and, as may be supposed, 
 
 Ponder'd upon his visirant or vision. 
 And whether it ought not to be disclosed, 
 
 At risk of being quizz'd for superstition. 
 The more he thought, the more his mind was posed; 
 
 In the mean time his valet, whose precision 
 Was great, because his master brook'd no less, 
 Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 He dress'd ; and, like young people, he was wont 
 To take some trouble with his toilet, but 
 
 This morning rather spent less time upon 't ; 
 Aside his very mirror soon was put : 
 
 His curls fell negUgently o'er his front, 
 
 His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut. 
 
 His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 
 
 Ahnost a hair's breadth too much on one side. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And when he walk'd dovi-n into the saloon. 
 
 He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea, 
 Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon, 
 
 Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be, 
 Which made him have recourse unto his spoon ; 
 
 So much distrait he was, that all could see 
 That something was the matter — Adeline 
 The first — ^but what she could not well divine. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 She look'd and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale 
 Herself; then hastily look'd down and mutter'd 
 
 Something, but what 's not stated in my tale. 
 Lord Henry said, his muffin w^as ill butter'd ; 
 
 The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil. 
 And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd. 
 
 Aurora Raby, w^ith her large dark eyes, 
 
 Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 But seeing him all cold and silent still. 
 And every body wondering more or less, 
 
 Fair Adeline inquired if he were ill ? 
 
 He started, and said, " Yes— no — rather— yes." 
 
 The family physician had great skill. 
 
 And, being present, now began to express 
 
 His readiness to feel his pulse, and tell 
 
 The cause, but Juan said, "he was quite well." 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " Q,uite well ; yes, no." — These answers were mysterious, 
 And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both, 
 
 However they might savour of delirious ; 
 Something like illness of a sudden growth 
 
 Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious 
 But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth 
 
 To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted, 
 
 It was not the physician that he wanted. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate, 
 Also the muffin, whereof he complain'd, 
 
 Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, 
 At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd ; 
 
 Then ask'd her grace what news were of the duke of late? 
 Her grace replied, his grace was rather pain'd 
 
 With some slight, light, hereditary twinges 
 
 Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd 
 A few words of condolence on his state : 
 
 " You look," quoth he, " as if you 'd had your rest 
 Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late." 
 
 " What friar?" said Juan ; and he did his best 
 To put the question with an air sedate, 
 
 Or careless ; but the effort was not valid 
 
 To hinder him from growing still more pallid. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " Oh ! have you never heard of the Black Friar? 
 
 The spirit of these walls ?" — " In truth not I." 
 " Why fame — but fame you know sometime 's a liar — 
 
 Tells an odd story, of which by the by: 
 Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer, 
 
 Or that our sires had a more gifted eye 
 For such sights, though the tale is half believed. 
 The friar of late has not been oft perceived. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 " The last time was " " I pray," said Adeline — 
 
 (Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow, 
 
 And from its context thought she could divine 
 Connexions stronger than he chose to avow 
 
 With this same legend,) — " if you but design 
 To jest, you '11 choose some other theme just now, 
 
 Because the present tale has oft been told, 
 
 And is not much improved by growing old." 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 " Jest !" quoth Milor, " Why, Adeline, you know 
 That we ourselves — 't was in the honey-moon — 
 
 Saw " " Well, no matter, 'twas so long ago; 
 
 But come, I '11 set your story to a tune." 
 
 Graceful as Dian when she draws her bow. 
 
 She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon 
 
 As touch'd, and plaintively began to play 
 
 The air of " 'T was a Friar of Orders Gray." 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 " But add the words," cried Henry, " which you made, 
 
 For Adeline is half a poetess," 
 Turning round to the rest, he smiling said. 
 
 Of course the others could not but express 
 In courtesy their wish to see display'd 
 
 By one three talents, for there were no less — 
 The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once 
 Could hardly be united by a dunce. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Afler some fascinating hesitation, — 
 
 The charming of these charmers, who seem bound, 
 I can't tell why, to this dissimulation — 
 
 Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground 
 At first, then kindling into animation. 
 
 Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, 
 And sang with much simplicity, — a merit 
 Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 
 
 1. 
 
 Beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 
 
 Who sitteth by Norman stone. 
 For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air. 
 
 And his mass of the days that are gone. 
 When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 
 
 Made Norman Church his prey, 
 And expell'd the friars, one friar still 
 
 Would not be driven away. 
 
Canto XVI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 615 
 
 Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right. 
 
 To turn church lands to lay, 
 With sword in hand, and torch to light 
 
 Their walls, if they said nay, 
 A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, 
 
 And he did not seem form'd of clay, 
 For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the church, 
 
 Though he is not seen by day. 
 
 3. 
 
 And whether for good, or whether for ill, 
 
 It is not mine to say ; 
 But still in the house of Amundeville, 
 
 He abideth night and day. 
 By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said, 
 
 He flits on the bridal eve ; 
 And 't is held as faith, to their bed of death 
 
 He comes — but not to grieve. 
 
 4. 
 When an heir is born, he is heard to mourn, 
 
 And when aught is to befall 
 That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 
 
 He walks from hall to hall. 
 His form you may trace, but not his face, 
 
 'T is shadow'd by his cowl; 
 But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 
 
 And they seem of a parted soul. 
 
 5. 
 
 But beware! beware of the Black Friar, 
 
 He still retains his sway. 
 For he is yet the church's heir, 
 
 Whoever may be the lay. 
 Amundeville is lord by day. 
 
 But the monk is lord by night. 
 Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 
 
 To question that friar's right. 
 
 6. 
 
 Say naught to him as he walks the hall, 
 
 And he '11 say naught to you : 
 He sweeps along in his dusky pall, 
 
 As o'er the grass the dew. 
 Then gramercy! for the Black Friar; 
 
 Heaven sain him ! fair or foul, 
 And whatsoe'er may be his prayer, 
 
 Let ours be for his soul. 
 
 The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires 
 Died from the touch that kindled them to sound 
 
 And the pause foUow'd, which, when song expires 
 Pervades a moment those who listen round ; 
 
 And then of course the circle much admires. 
 Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound, 
 
 The tones, the feeling, and the execution, 
 
 To the performer's diffident confusion. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, 
 As if she rated such accomplishment 
 
 As the mere pastime of an idle day. 
 Pursued an instant for her own content, 
 
 Would now and then as 't were without display. 
 Yet with display in fact, at times relent 
 
 To such performances with haughty smile. 
 
 To show she could, if it were worth her while. 
 
 XLIIX. 
 
 Now this (but we will whisper it aside) 
 Was — pardon the pedantic illustration — 
 
 Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride, 
 As did the Cynic on some like occasion ; 
 
 Deeming the sage would be much mortified, 
 Or thrown into a philosophic passion, 
 
 For a spoil'd carpet — but the " Attic Bee" 
 
 Was much consoled by his own repartee.* 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Thus Adeline would throw into the shade, 
 
 (By doing easily, whene'er she chose. 
 What dilettanti do with vast parade,) 
 
 Their sort oi half prof ession : for it grows 
 To something like this when too oft display'd, 
 
 And that it is so every body knows 
 Who 've heard Miss That or This, or Lady T' other, 
 Show off — to please their company or mother. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Oh ! the long evenings of duets and trios ! 
 
 The admirations and the speculations ; 
 The " Mamma Mias !" and the " Amor Mios!" 
 
 The " Tanti Palpitis" on such occasions : 
 The " Lasciamis," and quavering " AddiosI" 
 
 Among our own most musical of nations ; 
 With " Tu mi chamas's" from Portingale, 
 To sooth our ears, lest Italy should fail.^ 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 In Babylon's bravuras — as the home 
 
 Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highlands, 
 That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam 
 
 O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, 
 The calentures of music which o'ercome [lands, 
 
 All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh 
 No more to be beheld but in such visions, — 
 Was Adeline well versed as compositions. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 She also had a twilight tinge of " Blue," [wrote ; 
 
 Could write rhymes, and compose more than she 
 Made epigrams occasionally too 
 
 Upon her friends, as every body ought. 
 But still from that sublimer azure hue. 
 
 So much the present dye, she was remote ; 
 Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet. 
 And, what was worse, was not ashamed to show it. 
 
 XL VIII. 
 
 Aurora — since we are touching upon taste, 
 
 Which now-a-days is the thermometer 
 By whose degrees all characters are class'd— • 
 
 Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. 
 The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste 
 
 Had more of her existence, for in her 
 There was a depth of feeling to embrace 
 Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as space. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Not sober gracious, graceful, graceless grace, 
 The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind, 
 
 If she had any, was upon her face. 
 And that was of a fascinating kind. 
 
 A little turn for mischief you might trace 
 
 Also thereon, — but that 's not much ; we find 
 
 Few females without some such gentle leaven, 
 
 For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven. 
 
 I have not heard she was at all poetic. 
 
 Though once she was seen reading the "Bath Guide," 
 And " Hayley's Triumphs," which she deem'd pathetic, 
 
 Because, she said, her temper had been tried 
 So much, the bard liad really been prophetic 
 
 Of what she had gone through with, — since a bride. 
 But of all verse what most insured her praise 
 Were sonnets to herself, or " bouts rimes." 
 
 LI. 
 
 'T were difficult to say what was the object 
 
 Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay 
 To bear on what appear'd to her the subject 
 
 Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day. 
 Perhaps she merely had the simple project 
 
 To laugh him out of his supposed dismay ; 
 Perhaps she might wish to coiifirm him in it, 
 Though why I cannot say — at least this minute. 
 
616 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XVI. 
 
 But so far the immediate effect 
 
 Was to restore him to his self-propriety, 
 
 A thing quite necessary to the elect, 
 
 Who wish to take the tone of their society ; 
 
 In which you cannot be too circumspect, 
 Whether the mode be persiflage or piety, 
 
 But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy. 
 
 On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 And therefore Juan now began to rally 
 His spirits, and, without more explanation, 
 
 To jest upon such themes in many a sally. 
 Her grace too also seized the same occasion. 
 
 With various similar remarks to tallv, 
 
 But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration 
 
 Of this same mystic friar's curious doings. 
 
 About the present family's deaths and wooings. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Of these few could say more than has been said ; 
 
 They pass'd, as such things do, for superstition 
 With some, while others, who had more in dread 
 
 The theme, half credited the strange tradition 
 And much was talk'd on all sides on that head ; 
 
 But Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision. 
 Which some supposed (though he had not avow'd it) 
 Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it. 
 
 LV. 
 
 And then, the mid-day having worn to one, 
 
 The company prepared to separate : 
 Some to their several pastimes, or to none ; 
 
 Some wondering 't was so early, some so late. 
 There was a goodly match, too, to be run 
 
 Between some grayhounds on my lord's estate, 
 And a young racehorse of old pedigree, 
 Match'd for the spring, whom several went to see. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 There was a picture-dealer, who had brought 
 
 A special Titian, warranted original. 
 So precious that it was not to be bought. 
 
 Though princes the possessor were besieging all. 
 The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought 
 
 The civil list (he deigns to accept, obliging all 
 His subjects by his gracious acceptation) 
 Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur, — 
 
 The friend of artists, if not arts, — the owner, 
 
 With motives the most classical and pure, 
 So that he would have been the very donor 
 
 Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer, 
 So much he deem'd his patronage an honour, 
 
 Had brought the capo d'opera, not for sale. 
 
 But for his judgment, — never knovra to fail. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic 
 
 Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect, 
 Brought to survey these gray walls, which, though so thick, 
 
 Might have from time acquired some slight defect ; 
 Who, after rumaging the Abbey through thick 
 
 And thin, produced a plan, whereby to erect 
 New buildings of correctest conformation, 
 And throw down old — which he call'd restoration. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 The cost would be a trifle — an " old song," 
 Set to some thousands, ('t is the usual burden 
 
 Of that same tune, when people hum it long) — 
 The price would speedily repay its worth in 
 
 An edifice no less sublime than strong. 
 
 By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth in 
 
 Its glory, through all ages shining sunny, 
 
 Fcm: Gothic daring shown in English monev.* 
 
 There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage 
 Lord Henry w ish'd to raise for a new purchase ; 
 
 Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage. 
 
 And one on tithes which sure are discord's torches, 
 
 Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage, 
 " Untying" squires " to fight against the churches 
 
 There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughman. 
 
 For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 There were tsvo poachers caught in a steel trap. 
 Ready for jail, their place of convalescence ; 
 
 There was a country girl in a close cap 
 And scarlet cloak, (I hate the sight to see, since— 
 
 Since — since — in youth I had the sad mishap — 
 But luckily I 've paid few parish fees since.) 
 
 That scarlet cloak, alas ! unclosed with rigour, 
 
 Presents the problem of a double figure. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 A reel within a bottle is a mystery, 
 One can't tell how it e'er got in or out, 
 
 Therefore the present piece of natural history 
 I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt. 
 
 And merely state, though not for the consistory, 
 Lord Henr}' was a justice, and that Scout 
 
 The constable, beneath a warrant's banner. 
 
 Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor. 
 
 rxiii. 
 
 Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 
 Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game 
 
 And morcds of the country from caprices 
 Of those who 've not a license for the same ; 
 
 And of all things, excepting tithes and leases. 
 Perhaps these are most difficult to tame : 
 
 Preserving partridges and pretty wenches 
 
 Are puzzles to the most precautious benches. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 The present culprit was extremely pale, 
 Pale as if painted so ; her cheek being red 
 
 By nature, as in higher dames less hale, 
 
 'T is white, at least when they just rise from bed 
 
 Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail. 
 Poor soul ! for she was country bom and bred. 
 
 And knew no better in her immorality 
 
 Than to wax white — for blushes are for quality. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Her black, bright, downcast, yet espi^gle eye 
 Had gather'd a large tear into its corner. 
 
 Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry. 
 For she was not a sentimental mourner. 
 
 Parading all her sensibility. 
 
 Nor insolent enough to scorn the scomer. 
 
 But stood in trembling, patient tribulation. 
 
 To be call'd up for her examination. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Of course these groups were scatter'd here and there, 
 Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 
 
 The lawyers in the study ; and in air 
 
 The prize pig, ploughman, poachers ; the men sent 
 
 From town, viz. architect and dealer, were 
 Both busy (as a general in his tent 
 
 Writing despatches) in their several stations. 
 
 Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 But this poor girl was left in the great hall, 
 While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, 
 
 Discuss'd (he hated beer yclept the " small") 
 A mighty mug of moral double ale : 
 
 She waited until Justice could recall 
 Its kind attentions to their proper pale, 
 
 To name a thing in nomenclature rather 
 
 Perplexing for most virgins — a child's father. 
 
Ca^to XVI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 617 
 
 LXTIII. 
 
 You see here was enough of occupation 
 
 For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horses, 
 
 There was much bustle too and preparation 
 Below stairs on the score of second courses. 
 
 Because, as suits their rank and situation, 
 
 Those who in counties have great land resources. 
 
 Have " public days," when all men may carouse, 
 
 Though not exactly what 's call'd " open house" — 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 But once a week or fortnight, wninvited, 
 (Thus we translate a general invitation,) 
 
 All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted, 
 
 May drop in without cards, and take their station 
 
 At the full board, and sit alike delighted 
 With fashionable wines and conversation, 
 
 And, as the isthmus of the grand connexion, 
 
 Talk o'er themselves, the past and next election. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Lord Henry was a great electioneerer, 
 
 Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit. 
 
 But country contests cost him rather dearer, 
 Because the neighbouring Scotch Earl of Giftgabbit 
 
 Had English influence in the self-same sphere here ; 
 His son, the Honourable Dick Dice-drabbit, 
 
 Was member for " the other interest," (meaning 
 
 The self-same interest, with a different leaning.) 
 
 rxxi. 
 Courteous and cautious therefore in his county, 
 
 He was all things to all men, and dispensed 
 To some civility, to others bounty. 
 
 And promises to all — which last commenced 
 To gather to a somewhat large amount, he 
 
 Not calculating how much they condensed ; 
 But, what with keeping some and breaking others, 
 His word had the same value as another's. 
 
 Lxxri. 
 A friend to freedom and freeholders — yet 
 
 No less a friend to government — he held 
 That he exactly the just medium hit 
 
 'Twixt place and patriotism — albeit compell'd, 
 Sucn was his sovereign's pleasure, (though unfit. 
 
 He added modestly, when rebels rail'd,) 
 To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd. 
 But that with them all law would be demolish'd. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 He was " free to confess" — (whence comes this phrase? 
 
 Is 't EngUsh ? No — 't is only parliamentary) 
 That innovation's spirit now-a-days 
 
 Had made more progress than for the last century. 
 He would not tread a factious path to praise. 
 
 Though for the public weal disposed to venture high ; 
 As for his place, he could but say this of it. 
 That the fatigue was greater than the profit. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Heaven and his friends knew that a private life 
 Had ever been his sole and whole ambition ; 
 
 But could he quit his king in times of strife 
 
 Which threaten'd the whole country with perdition ? 
 
 When demagogues would with a butcher's knife 
 Cut through and through, (oh! damnable incision!) 
 
 1 he Gordian or the Geordian knot, whose strings 
 
 Have tied together Commons, Lords, and Kings. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Sooner " come place into the civil list, 
 
 And champion him to the utmost" — he would keep it, 
 Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd : 
 
 Profit he cared not for, let others reap it ; 
 But should the day come when place ceased to exist. 
 
 The country would have far more cause to weep it ; 
 For how could it go on ? Explain who can ! 
 He gloried in the name of Englishman. 
 4D 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 He was as independent — ay, much more — 
 
 Than those who were not paid for independencBj 
 
 As common soldiers, or a common shore 
 
 Have in their several arts or parts ascendance 
 
 O'er the irregulars in lust or gore 
 
 Who do not give professional attendance. 
 
 Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager 
 
 To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 All this (save the last stanza) Henry said. 
 
 And thought. I say no more^— I 've said too much ; . 
 
 For all of us have either heard or read 
 
 Of— or upon the hustings — some slight such 
 
 Hints from the independent heart or head 
 Of the official candidate. I '11 touch 
 
 No more on this — the dinner-bell hath rung. 
 
 And grace is said ; the grace I shotdd have sung — 
 
 LXXYIII. 
 
 But I 'm too late, and therefore must make play. 
 
 'T was a great banquet, such as Albion old 
 Was wont to boast — as if a glutton's tray 
 
 Were something very glorious to behold. 
 But 't was a public feast and public day, — 
 
 Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold, 
 Great plenty, much formality, small cheer, 
 And every body out of their o^^m sphere. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 The squires familiarly formal, and 
 My lords and ladies proudly condescending 5 
 
 The very servants puzzling how to hand 
 
 Their plates — without it might be too much bending 
 
 From their high places by the sideboard's stand — 
 Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending; 
 
 For any deviation from the graces 
 
 Might cost both men and masters too — their places. 
 
 LXXX, 
 
 There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, 
 Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhounds deign'd to 
 
 Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen [lurch ; 
 
 Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search 
 
 Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen. 
 There were some massy members of the church, 
 
 Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches, 
 
 And several who sung fewer psalms than catches, 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 There were some country wags, too, — and, alas ! 
 
 Some exiles from the town, who had been driven 
 To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, 
 
 And rise at nine, in lieu of long eleven. 
 And lo ! upon that day it came to pass, 
 
 I sate next that o'erwhelming son of heaven, 
 The very powerful parson, Peter Pith, 
 The loudest wit I e' er was deafen'd with. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 I knew him in his livelier London days, 
 A brilliant diner-out, though but a curate ; 
 
 And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, 
 Until preferment, coming at a sure rate, 
 
 (Oh, Providence ! how wondrous are thy ways. 
 Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate ?) 
 
 Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln, 
 
 A fat fen vicarage, and naught to think on. 
 
 Lxxxiir. 
 His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes ; 
 
 But both were thrown away amon^ the fens ; 
 For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks. 
 
 No longer ready ears and shorthand pens 
 Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax : 
 
 The poor priest was reduced to common sense, 
 Or to coarse efforts very loud and long, 
 To hatnmer a hoarse laugh from the thick tlirong. 
 
618 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XVI. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 There is a difference, says the song, " between 
 A beggar and a queen," or wvzs (of late 
 
 The latter worse used of the two we 've seen — 
 But we '11 say nothing of affairs of state) — 
 
 A difference " 'twixt a biphop and a dean," 
 A difference between crockery-ware and plate, 
 
 As betw^een English beef and Spartan broth — 
 
 And yet great heroes have been bred by both. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 But of all nature's discrepancies, none 
 
 Upon the whole is greater than the difference 
 
 Beheld between the country and the town, 
 Of which the latter merits every preference 
 
 From those who 've few resources of their own, 
 And only think, or act, or feel with reference. 
 
 To some small plan of interest or ambition — 
 
 Both which are limited to no condition. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 But "en avant!" The light loves languish o'er 
 Long banquets and too many guests, although 
 
 A slight repast makes people love much more, 
 Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know. 
 
 Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore 
 With vivifying Venus, who doth owe 
 
 To these the invention of champagne and trufHes : 
 
 Temperance delights her, but long fasting rufRes. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Dully pass'd o'er the dinner of the day ; 
 
 And Juan took his place he knew not where, 
 Confused, in the confusion, and distrait, 
 
 And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair ; 
 Though knives and forks clang'd round as in a fray, 
 
 He seem'd unconscious of all passing there, 
 Till some one, with a groan, express'd a wish 
 (Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 On which, at the third asking of the bans, 
 He started ; and, perceiving smiles around 
 
 Broadening to grins, he coloured more than once, 
 And hastily— as nothing can confound 
 
 A wise man more than laughter from a dunce — 
 Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound. 
 
 And with such hurry that, ere he could curb it, 
 
 He 'd paid his neighbour's prayer with half a turbot. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 This was no bad mistake, a^ it occurr'd, 
 
 The supplicator being an amateur ; 
 But others, who were left with scarce a third, 
 
 Were angry — as they well might, to be sure. 
 They wonder'd how a young man so absurd 
 
 Lord Henry at his table should endure ; 
 And this, and his not knowing how much oats 
 Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes. 
 
 xc. 
 They little knew, or might have sympathized, 
 
 That he the night before had seen a ghost ; 
 A prologue, which but slightly harmonized 
 
 With the substantial company engross'd 
 By matter, and so much materialized, 
 
 That one scarce knew at what to marvel most 
 Of two things — how (the question rather odd is) 
 Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies. 
 
 xci. 
 
 But what confused him more than smile or stare 
 From all the 'squires and 'squiresses around. 
 
 Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air. 
 Especially as he had been renowTi'd 
 
 For some vivacity among the fair, 
 
 Even in the country circle's narrow bound — 
 
 (For little things upon my lord's estate 
 
 Were good small-talk for others still less great) — 
 
 Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his, 
 And something like a smile upon her cheek. 
 
 Now this he leally rather took amiss : 
 
 In those who rarely smile, their smile besoeaks 
 
 A strong external motive ; and in this 
 
 Smile of Aurora's there was naught to pique, 
 
 Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles 
 
 Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 'T was a mere quiet smile of contemplation, 
 
 Indicative of some surprise and pity ; 
 And Juan grew carnation with vexation, 
 
 Which was not very wise and still less witty, 
 Since he had gain'd at least her observation, 
 
 A most important outwork of the city — 
 As Juan should have known, had not his senses 
 By last night's ghost been driven from their defences. 
 
 xciv. 
 But, what was bad, she did not blush in turn. 
 
 Nor seem embarrass'd — quite the contrary ; 
 Her aspect was, as usual, still — not stern — 
 
 And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye, 
 Yet grew a little pale — with what ? concern ? 
 
 I know not ; but her colour ne'er was hiah — 
 Though sometimes faintly flush'd — and always clear 
 As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 
 
 xcv. 
 But Adeline w^as occupied by fame 
 
 This day ; and watching, witching, condescending 
 To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game, 
 
 And dignity w'ith courtesy so blending, 
 As all must blend whose part it is to aim 
 
 (Especially as the sixth year is ending) 
 At their lord's, son's, and similar connexions' 
 Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Though this was most expedient on the whole, 
 
 And usual — Juan, when he cast a glance 
 On Adeline while playing her grand role, 
 
 Which she went through as though it were a dance. 
 (Betraying only now and then her soul 
 
 By a look scarce perceptibly askance 
 Of weariness or scorn,) began to feel 
 Some doubt how much of Adeline was reed; 
 
 xcvii. 
 So well she acted all and every part 
 
 By turns — with that vivacious versatility. 
 Which many people take for want of heart. 
 
 They err — 't is merely w^hat is call'd mobility ,8 
 A thing of temperament, and not of art. 
 
 Though seeming so, from its supposed facility ; 
 And false — though true ; for surely they 're sincerest, 
 Who 're strongly acted on by what is nearest. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 This makes your actors, artists, and romancers, 
 Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages never ; 
 
 But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, 
 Little that 's gieat, but much of what is clever ; 
 
 Most orators, but very few financiers. 
 
 Though all Exchequer Chancellors endeavour, 
 
 Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigours, 
 
 And grow quite figurative with their figures. 
 
 xcix. 
 The poets of arithmetic are they, 
 
 W^ho, though they prove not two and two to be 
 Five, as they would do in a modest way. 
 
 Have plainly made it out that four are three, 
 Judging by what they take and what they pay. 
 
 The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea. 
 That most unliquidating liquid, leaves 
 The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 
 
C A If TO XVI. 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 619 
 
 While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, 
 The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease ; 
 
 Though too well-bred to quiz men to their faces, 
 Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize 
 
 The ridicules of people in all places — 
 That honey of your fashionable bees — 
 
 And store it up for mischievous enjoyment; 
 
 And this at present was her kind employment. 
 
 CI. 
 
 However, the day closed, as days must close ; 
 
 The evenhig also waned — and coffee came. 
 Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose, 
 
 And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame, 
 Retired : with most unfashionable bows 
 
 Their docile esquires also did the same, 
 Delighted with the dinner and their host, 
 But with the lady Adeline the most. 
 
 CII. 
 
 Some praised her beauty : others her great grace ; 
 
 The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity 
 Wels obvious in each feature of her face, 
 
 Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity. 
 Yes : she was truly worthy her high place ! 
 
 No one could envy her deserved prosperity : 
 And then her dress — what beautiful simplicity 
 Draperied her form with curious felicity !' 
 
 cm. 
 
 Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises, 
 
 By an impartial indemnification 
 For all her past exertion and soft phrases. 
 
 In a most edifying conversation, 
 Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and faces, 
 
 And families, even to the last relation ; 
 Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses. 
 And truculent distortion of their tresses. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 True, she said little — 't was the rest that broke 
 
 Forth into universal epigram : 
 But then 't was to the purpose what she spoke : 
 
 Like Addison's " faint praise" so wont to damn, 
 Her own but served to set off every joke. 
 
 As music chimes in with a melodrame. 
 How sweet the task to shield an absent friend ! 
 I ask but this of mine, to not defend. 
 
 cv. 
 There were but two exceptions to this keen 
 
 Skirmish of wits o'er the departed ; one, 
 Aurora, with her pure and placid mien ; 
 
 And Juan too, in general behind none 
 In gay remark on what he 'd heard or seen, 
 
 Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone : 
 In vain he heard the others rail or rally, 
 He would not join them in a single sally. 
 
 cvi. 
 'T is true he saw Aurora look as though 
 
 She approved his silence ; she perhaps mistook 
 Its motive for that charity we owe 
 
 But seldom pay the absent, nor would look 
 Further ; it might or it might not be so : 
 
 But Juan, sitting silent in his nook. 
 Observing little in his reverie, 
 Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 The ghost at least had done him this much good, 
 
 In making him as silent as a ghost. 
 If in the circumstances which ensued 
 
 He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most. 
 And certainly Aurora had renew'd 
 
 In him some feelings he had lately lost 
 Or harden'd ; feelings which, perhaps ideal, 
 Are so divine, that I must deem them real : — 
 
 CVIIl. 
 
 The love of higher things and better days ; 
 
 The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
 Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways , 
 
 The moments when we gather from a glance 
 More joy than from all future pride or praise, 
 
 \Vhich kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
 The heart in an existence of its own, 
 Of which another's bosom is the zone. 
 
 Wlio would not sigh At ai rav Kv6r,psiav ! 
 
 That hath a memory, or that had a heart ? 
 Alas I her star must wane like that of Dian, 
 
 Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. 
 Anacreon only had the soul to tie on 
 
 Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart 
 Of Eros ; but, though thou hast piay'd us many tricks, 
 Still we respect thee, " Akna Venus Genitrix 1" 
 
 ex. 
 
 And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 
 
 Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, 
 
 Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows 
 Arrived, retired to his ; but to despond 
 
 Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows 
 "Waved o'er his couch ; he meditated, fond 
 
 Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, 
 
 And malie the worldling sneer, the youngling weep. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 The night was as before : he was undrest. 
 Saving his night-gown, which is an undress : 
 
 Completely " sans culotte," and without vest; 
 In short, he hardly could be clothed with less; 
 
 But, apprehensive of his spectral guest. 
 He sate, with feelings awkward to express, 
 
 (By those who have not had such visitations.) 
 
 Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 
 
 CXII. 
 
 And not in vain listen' d — Hush ! what 's that ? 
 
 I see — 1 see — Ah, no ! 't is not — yet 't is— 
 Ye powers ! it is the — the — the — Pooh ! the cat ! 
 
 The devil may take that stealthy pace of his ! 
 So like a spiritual pit-a-pat. 
 
 Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, 
 Gliding the first time to a rendezvous, 
 And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 Again what is 't ? The wind ? No, no, — this time 
 
 It is the sable friar as before. 
 With awful footsteps, regular as rhyme. 
 
 Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. 
 Again, through shadows of the night sublime. 
 
 When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore 
 The starry darkness round her like a girdle 
 Spangled with gems — the monk made his blood curdle. 
 
 cxiv. 
 A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass, ^ 
 
 Which sets the teeth on edge ; and a slight clatter, 
 Like showers which on the midnight guests will pass, 
 
 Sounding like very supernatural water, — 
 Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas I 
 
 For immaterialism 's a serious matter : 
 So that even those whose faith is the most great 
 In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete. 
 
 cxv. 
 Were his eyes open ? — Yes ! and his mouth too. 
 
 Surprise has this effect — to make one dumb, 
 Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through 
 
 As wide as if a long speech were to come. 
 Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, 
 
 Tremendous to a mortal tympanum : 
 His eyes were open, and (as was before 
 Stated) his mouth. What open'd next ? — .the door. 
 
620 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 Canto XVI. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 It open'd with a most infernal creak, 
 
 Like that of hell. " Lasciate ogni speranza, 
 
 Vio die entrate !" The hinge seem'd to speak, 
 Dreadful as Dante's rima, or this stanza ; 
 
 Or — but all words upon such themes are weak : 
 A single shade 's sufficient to entrance a 
 
 Hero — for what is substance to a spirit ? 
 
 Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it ? 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 The door flew wide, not swiftly — but, as fly 
 The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight — 
 
 And then swung back; nor close — but stood awry, 
 Half letting in long shadows on tlie light. 
 
 Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, 
 For he had two, both tolerably bright, — 
 
 And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood 
 
 The sable fi-iar in his solenm hood. 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 
 The night before : but, being sick of shaking, 
 
 He first inclined to think he had been mistaken, 
 * And then to be ashamed of such mistaking ; 
 
 His own internal ghost began to awaken 
 
 Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking^- 
 
 Hinting, that soul and body on the whole 
 
 Were odds against a disembodied soul. 
 
 cxix. 
 And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce ; 
 
 And he arose — advanced — the shade retreated ; 
 But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 
 
 FoUow'd ; his veins no longer cold, but heated, 
 Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce, 
 
 At whatsoever risk of being defeated: 
 The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until 
 Jle reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still. 
 
 cxx. 
 Juan put forth one arm — Eternal Powers ! 
 
 Ittouch'd no soul, nor body, but the wall, 
 On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers 
 
 Chequer'd with all the tracery of the hall : 
 He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers 
 
 When he can't tell what 't is that doth appal. 
 How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
 Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity, 
 
 cxxi. 
 But still the shade remain'd ; the blue eyes glared, 
 
 And rather variably for stony death ; 
 Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared — 
 
 The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath. 
 A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd ; 
 
 A red lip, with two rows of pearl beneath, 
 Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud 
 The moon peep'd, just escaped from a gray cloud. 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust 
 His other arm forth — Wonder upon wonder ! 
 
 It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust, 
 
 Which beat as if there was a warm heart under. 
 
 He found, as people on most trials must. 
 That he had made at first a silly blunder. 
 
 And that in his confusion he had caught 
 
 Only the wall instead of what he sought. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul, 
 
 As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 
 A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole 
 
 Forth into somethmg much like flesh and blood 
 Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl. 
 
 And they reveal'd, (alas ! that e'er they should t) 
 In full, voluptuous, but not oVgrown bullc, 
 The phantom of her frolic grace— Fitz-Fulke. 
 
 NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza V. 
 JSrave men were living before Agamemnon, 
 •• Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona," &c. — Horace. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xvii. 
 
 Save thine " incomparable oil" JMacassar 1 
 
 " Description des vertus incomparables de I'huile de 
 Macassar." — See the advertisement. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xiii. 
 
 Although LonginvLS tells us there is no hymn 
 
 Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample. 
 
 See Longinus, Section 10, ha iirj cv ti Trtft avrriv -aa- 
 6os .(paivrirai, -rraOiov 6e civoSog. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza xliv. 
 TViey only add them all in an appendix. 
 Fact. There is, or was, such an edition, with all the 
 obnoxious epigrams of Martial placed by themselves at 
 the end. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza Ixxxviii. 
 
 The bard I quote from does not sing amiss. 
 
 Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming ; (I think) the 
 opening of Canto II. tiut quote from memory. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza cxlviii. 
 Is it for this that General Cmint O'Reilly, 
 fVho took Algiers, declares I used him xnlely ? 
 
 Donna Julia here made a mistake. Count O'Reilly 
 did not take Algiers — but Algiers very nearly took him , 
 he and his army and fleet retreated with great loss, and 
 not much credit, from before that city, in the year 17 — , 
 
 Note 7. Stanza ccxvi. 
 My days of love are over, me no more. 
 
 " Me nee fosmina, nee pner 
 
 Jam, nee spes animi credula mului ; 
 
 Nee certare juvat mero, 
 Nee vincire novis tempora Qoribus." 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza xlv. 
 For none likes 'more to hear himself converse, 
 
 Rispose allor Margulte : a dirtel tosto, 
 lo non creflo piu al nero, cli' a I'azziirro ; 
 Ma nel eappone, o lesso, o vuogU arrosto ; 
 E credo alciuia volta anco nel burro, 
 Ne la cervogia. e quando' io n' ho nel raosto ; 
 E molto piu ne I'aspro che 11 mangurro ; 
 Ma sopra tutto nel boon vino ho fede ; 
 E credo che sia salvo chi gli erede. 
 PULCI, Morgante Maggiore, Canlo 18, Stanza 115. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza Ixxi. 
 That e'er by precious metal was held in. 
 This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar are 
 worn in the manner described. The reader will per- 
 ceive hereafter, that, as the mother of Haidee was of 
 Fez, her daughter wore the garb of the country. 
 
NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 621 
 
 Note 3. Stanza Ixxi. 
 A like gold bar, above her instep roWd. 
 The bar of gold above the instep is a mark of sove- 
 reign rank in the women of the families of the Deys, 
 and is worn as such by their female relatives. 
 Note 4. Stanza Ixxiii. 
 Her person if allowed at large to run. 
 This is no exaggeration ; there were four women 
 whom I remember to have seen, who possessed their 
 hair in this profusion ; of these, three were English, the 
 other was a Levantine. Their hair was of that length 
 and quantity that, when let down, it almost entirely 
 shaded the person, so as nearly to render dress a su- 
 perfluity. Of these, only one had dark hair ; the Ori- 
 ental's had, perhaps, the hghtest colour of the four. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza cvii. 
 Oh Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things. 
 
 EcTTTEpS, TTaVTrt 0£p£t J, 
 
 $£p£ty oLvov, (/)£p£ts atya, 
 $£p£tS [larsgi, naida. 
 
 Fragment of Sappho. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza cviii. 
 Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart. 
 
 " Era gia I' ora che volge 'I disio, - 
 
 A' navi^anti e 'iiterierisce il cuove 
 Lo di ch' ban detto a' dolci amici addio, 
 
 E che lo iiuovo peregrin d' amore 
 Punge, se ode SquiUa di lontano 
 
 Clie paja 'Igiorno pianger chesimuore." 
 
 DANTE'S Purgatoiy, Canto viii. 
 
 This last line is tne first of Gray's Elegy, taken by 
 him without acknowledgment. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza cix. 
 
 Some hands unseen strew'' d flowers upon his tomb. 
 
 See Suetonius for this fact. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza xii. 
 " Whom the gods love, dieyoung,^' was said of yore. 
 See Herodotus. 
 Note 2. Stanza lix 
 A vein had burst. 
 This is no very uncommon effect of the violence of 
 conflicting and different passions. The Doge Francis 
 Foscari, on his deposition, in 1457, hearing the bell 
 of St. Mark announce the election of his successor, 
 " mourut subitement d'une hemorrhagic causee par une 
 veine qui s'eclata dans sa poitrine," (see Sismondi and 
 Daru, vols. i. and ii.) at the age of eighty years, when 
 ^^who v)ould have thought the old man had so much blood 
 in him?" Before I was sixteen years of age, I was wit- 
 ness to a melancholy instance of the same effect of 
 mixed passions upon a young person ; who, however, 
 did not die in consequence, at that time, but fell a vic- 
 tim some years afterwards to a seizure of the same 
 kind, arising from causes intimately connected with 
 agitation of mind. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza Ixxx. 
 J5ut sold by the impresario at no high rate. 
 This is a fact. A few years ago, a man engaged a 
 company for some foreign theatre ; embarked them at 
 an Italian port, and, carrying them to Algiers, sold 
 them all. One of the women, returned from her cap- 
 tivity, I heard sing, by a strange cohicidence, in Ros- 
 sini's opera of " L'ltaliana in Algieri," at Venice, in 
 the beginning of 1817. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
 From all the Pope makes yearly, h would perplex, 
 To find three perfect pipes of the third sex, 
 It is strange that it should be the pope and the sultan 
 who are the chief encouragers of this branch of trade — 
 women being prohibited as singers at St. Peter's, and 
 not deemed trustworthy as guardians of the haram. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza ciii. 
 
 While weeds and ordure rankle round the base. 
 
 The pillar which records the battle of Ravenna, is 
 
 about two miles from the city, on the opposite side of 
 
 the river to the road towards Forli. Gaston de Foix, 
 who gained the battle, was killed in it ; there fell on 
 both sides twenty thousand men. The present state 
 of the pillar and its site is described in the text. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza iii. 
 
 The ocean stream. 
 
 This expression of Homer has been much criticised. 
 
 It hardly answers to our Atlantic ideas of the ocean, 
 
 but is sufficiently applicable to the Hellespont, and the 
 
 Bosphorus, with the ^gean, intersected with islands 
 
 Note 2. Stanza v. 
 « The Giant's Grave." 
 "The Giant's Grave" is a height on the Asiatic 
 shore of the Bosphorus, much frequented by holiday 
 parties ; like Harrow and Highgate. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xxxiii. 
 
 And running out as fast as I was able. 
 
 The assassination alluded to took place on the eighth 
 
 of December, 1820, in the streets of Ravenna, not a 
 
 hundred paces from the residence of the writer. The 
 
 circumstances were as described. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza xxxiv. 
 KilVd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 
 There was found close by him an old gun-barrel, 
 sawn half off: it had just been discharged, and was 
 still warm. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza liii. 
 Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. 
 In Turkey, nothing is more common, than for the 
 Mussulmans to take several glasses of strong spirits by 
 way of appetizer. I have seen them take as many as 
 six of raki before dinner, and swear that thsy dined 
 the better for it ; I tried the experiment, but was hke 
 the Scotchman, who having heard that the birds called 
 kittiewiaks were admirable whets, ate six of them, and 
 complained that "Ae was no hungrier than when he 
 began." 
 
 Note 6. Stanza Iv. 
 Splendid but silent, save in one, where drooping, 
 A marble fountain echoes. 
 A common furniture. — I recollect being received by 
 Ali Pacha, in a room containing a marble basin and 
 fountain, &c. &c. &c. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza Ixxxvii. 
 TJie gate so splendid was in all its features. 
 
 Features of a gate — a ministerial metaphor ; " the 
 feature upon which this question hinges." — See the 
 "Fudge Family," or hear Castlereagh. 
 Note 8. Stanza cvi. 
 Though on more thorough-bred or fairer fingers. 
 
 There is perhaps nothing more distinctive of birth 
 than the hand : it is almost the only sign of blood 
 which aristocracy can generate. 
 
 Note 9. Stanza cxlvii. 
 Save Solyman, the glory of their line. 
 
 It may not be unworthy of remark, that Bacon, in 
 his essay on " Empire," hints that Solyman was the 
 last of his line ; on what authority, I know not. These 
 are his words : " The destruction of Mustapha was so 
 fatal to Solyman's line, as the succession of the Turks 
 from Solvman, until this day, is suspected to be untrue, 
 and of strange blood ; for that Solymus the Second was 
 thought to be supposititious." But Bacon, in his histo- 
 rical authorities, is often inaccurate. I could give half 
 a dozen instances from his apophthegms only. 
 
 Being in the humour of criticism, I shall proceed, 
 after having ventured upon the slips of Bacon, to touch 
 on one or two as trifling in the edition of the British 
 Poets, by the justly celebrated Campbell. — But I do 
 this in good will, and trust it will be so taken. — If any 
 thing could add to my opinion of the talents and true 
 feeling of that gentleman, it would be his classical, 
 honest, and triumphant defence of Pope, against the 
 vulgar cant of the day, and its existing Grub-street. 
 
622 
 
 NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 The inadvertencies to vrhich I sllude, are, — 
 Firstly, in speaking of Anslcy, whom he accuses of 
 having taken " his leading characters from Smollett" 
 Anstey's Bath Guide was published in 1766. Smollett's 
 Humphry Ciinker (the only work of Smollett's from 
 which Tabitha, &c. &c. could have been taken) was 
 written during Smollett's last residence at Leghorn, in 
 1770. — " Argal,^' if there has been any borrowing, 
 Anstey must be the creditor, and not the debtor. I 
 refer Mr. Campbell to his own data in his lives of Smol- 
 lett and Anstey. 
 
 Secondly, Mr. Campbell says, in the life of Cowper, 
 (note to page 358, vol. 7,) that " he knows not to whom 
 Cowper alludes in these lines : 
 
 " Nor he who, for the bane of Ihoiisands born, 
 Built God a church, and laugh'd his name to scorn. 
 
 The Calvinist meant Voltaire, and the church of Fer- 
 nev, with its inscription, "Deo erexit Voltaire." 
 
 Thirdly, in the life of Burns, Mr. C. quotes Shak- 
 speare thus, — 
 
 To gild refined gold, to paint the rose, 
 Or add fresh peifin-ne to the violet." 
 
 This version by no means improves the original, which 
 is as follows : 
 
 " To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, 
 To throw a perfume on the violet, ic. 
 
 King John. 
 
 A great poet, quoting another, should be correct; he 
 should also be accurate when he accuses a Parnassian 
 brother of that dangerous charge '-borrowing;" a poet 
 had better borrow "any thing (excepting money) than 
 the thoughts of another — they are always sure to be 
 reel; imed ; but it is very hard, having been the lender, 
 to be denounced as the debtor, as is the case of Anstey 
 versus Smollett. 
 
 As there is " honour among thieves," let there be 
 some ainon<T poets, and give each his due, — none can 
 afford to give it more than Mr. Campbell himself, who, 
 with a hitrh reputation for origmahty, and a fame which 
 cannot be shaken, is the only poet of the times (except 
 Rogers) who can be reproached (and in him it is indeed 
 a reproach) with having written too little. 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 Stanza Ixxv. 
 A " wood obscure,^ like that where Dante found. 
 
 " Net mezzo del camrain' di nostra vita 
 
 Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, &c. &c. £:c. 
 
 CANTO VII. 
 
 Stanza li. 
 Was teacfdng his recruits to use the bayonet. 
 Fact: SouvarofF did this in person. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xviii. 
 Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose. 
 A fact: see the Waterloo Gazettes. I recollect re- 
 marking at the time to a friend : — " There is fame ! a 
 man is killed — his name is Grose, and they print it 
 Grove." I was at College with the deceased, who was 
 a very amiable and clever man, and his society in great 
 request for his wit, gayety, and " chansons a Boire." 
 Note 4. Stanza xxiii. 
 As any other notion, and not national. 
 See Major Valiancy and Sir Lawrence Parsons. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza xxv. 
 'T is pity ^'that such meanings should pave hell." 
 The Portuguese proverb says that "Hell is paved 
 with good intentions." 
 
 Note 6. Stanza xxxiii. 
 By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon ! 
 Gunpowder is said to have been discovered by this 
 friar. 
 
 Note 7, Stanza xlvii. 
 
 Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades. 
 
 They were but two feet high above the level. 
 
 Note 8. Stanza xcvii. 
 
 That you and I will win Saint George's collar. 
 
 The Russian military order. 
 
 Note 9, Stanza cxxxiii. 
 
 (Powers 
 Eternal! such names mingled !) '^ IsmaiVscwrsP 
 In the original Russian — 
 
 " Slava bo^ii ! slava vami 
 Krepost Vzala, y la tarn." 
 
 A Tiind of couplet ; for he v>as a poet. 
 
 ■Nayl 
 
 CANTO VIII. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza viii. 
 All sounds itpierceth, "Allah! Allah! Hu!'' 
 "Allah! Hu!" is properly the war-cry of the Mus- 
 sulmans, and they dwell long on the last syllable, which 
 gives it a very wild and peculiar effect. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza ix. 
 * Carnage {so Wordsworth tells you) is God's daughter.''^ 
 
 " But thy most dreaded instrument 
 
 In working out a pure intent, 
 Is man array'd for mutual slaughter; 
 Yea, Carnage is thy dauehler !" 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S Thanksgiving Ode. 
 
 To wit, the Deity's. This is perhaps as pretty a 
 edigree for murder' as ever was found out by Garter- 
 "ing-at-arms. — ^What would have been said, had any 
 free-spoken people discovered such a lineage ? 
 
 i 
 
 CANTO IX. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza i. 
 Humanity would rise, and thunder 
 Quer}', JVey ? — Printer's Devil. 
 Note 2. Stanza vi. 
 And send the sentinel before your gate 
 A slice or two from your luxurious meals. 
 "I at this time got a post,being for fatigue, with four 
 others. — We were sent to break biscuit, and make a 
 mess for Lord WeHington's hounds. I was very hun- 
 gry, and thought it a good job at the time, as we got our 
 own fill while we broke the biscuit, — a thing I had not 
 got for some days. When thus engaged, the Prodigal 
 Son was never once out of my mind ; and I sighed, as 
 I fed the dogs, over my humble situation and my ruined 
 hopes." — Journal of a Soldier of the list Regt. during 
 the war in Spain. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xxxiii. 
 Because he could no more digest his dinner. 
 He was killed in a conspiracy, after his temper had 
 been exasperated, by his extreme costivity, to a degree 
 of insanity. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza xlvii. 
 And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. 
 
 He was the " grande passion" of the grande Cathe- 
 rine. — See her Lives, under the head of "Lanskoi." 
 
 Note 5. Stanza xlix. 
 Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show 
 His parts of speech. 
 This was written long before the suicide of that per- 
 son. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza Ixiii. 
 Your ^^ fortune" was in a fair way " to sweS 
 A man,^' as ChJ.es sajjs. 
 
NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 62; 
 
 " His fortune swells him, it is rank, he 's married." — 
 Sir Giles Overreach; Massinger. — See "A New 
 Way to Pay OldDehtsP 
 
 CANTO X. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza xiii. 
 
 Would scarcely join again the " reformadoes.'" 
 "Reformers," or rather "Reformed." The Baron 
 Bradwardine, in Waverley, is authority for the word. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xv. 
 The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper 
 Than can be hid by altering his shirt. 
 Query, suit ? — Printer's Devil. 
 Note 3. Stanza xviii. 
 Balgounie's Brig''s black wall. 
 The brig of Don, near the " auld toun" of Aberdeen, 
 with its one arch and its black deep salmon stream be- 
 low, is in my memory as yesterday. I still remember, 
 though perhaps I may misquote, the awful proverb which 
 made me pause to cross it, and yet lean over it with a 
 childish delight, being an only son, at least by the 
 mother's side. The saying, as recollected by me, was 
 this — but I have never heard or seen it since I was nine 
 years of age ; — 
 
 " Br'is of Bal?ounie, black 's your wa' ; 
 Wi' a wife's ne son aiida mear's ae foal, 
 Down ye shall fa'!" 
 
 Note 4. Stanza xxxiv. 
 Oh., for a forty-parson power to chant 
 Thy praise, hypocrisy ! 
 A metaphor taken from the " forty-horse power" of 
 a steam-engine. That mad wag, the Reverend Sidney 
 Smith, sitting by a brother-clergyman at dinner, ob- 
 served afterwards that his dull neighbour had a " twelve' 
 parson power" of conversation. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza xxxvi. 
 To strip the Saxons of their hydes like tanners. 
 " Hyde." — I believe a hyde of land to be a legitimate 
 word, and as such subject to the tax of a quibble. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza xlix. 
 Was given to her favourite, and now bore his. 
 The Empress went to the Crimea, accompanied by 
 the Emperor Joseph, in the year — I forget which. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza Iviii. 
 Which gave her dukes the graceless name of'Biron.^'' 
 In the Empress Anne's time, Biren her favourite as- 
 sumed the name and arms of the " Birons" of France, 
 which families are yet extant with that of England. 
 There are still the daughters of Courland of that name ; 
 one of them I remember seeing in England in the bles- 
 sed year of the AUies — the Duchess of S. — to whom 
 the JEnghsh Duchess of Somerset presented me as a 
 namesake. 
 
 Note 8. Stanza Ixn. 
 Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, 
 The greatest number flesh hath ever known. 
 St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins v/ere still 
 extant in 1816, and may be so yet as much as ever. 
 
 Note 9. Stanza Ixxxi. 
 Who butchered half the earth, and bullied t' other. 
 India. America. 
 
 CANTO XL 
 
 Note 1. Stanza xix. 
 Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing) 
 So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing ? 
 The advance of science and of language has ren- 
 dered it unnecessary to translate the above good and 
 
 true English, spoken in its original purity by the select 
 nobility and their patrons. The following is a stanza of 
 a song which was very popular, at least in my early 
 days : — 
 
 " On the high toby-spice flash the muzzle, 
 In spile of eacli gallows old scout ; 
 If you at the spelllten can't hustle, 
 You 'II be hobbled in making a Clout. 
 " Then your blowing will wax gallows haughty, 
 When she hears of your scaly- mistake, 
 She '11 surely turn snitch for the forty. 
 That her Jack may be regular weight." 
 
 If there be any gem'man so ignorant as to require a 
 traduction, I refer him to my old friend and corporeal 
 pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq. Professor of 
 Pugihsm ; who I trust still retains the strength and 
 symmetry of his model of a form, together with his good 
 humour, and athletic as well as mental accomplishments. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xxix. 
 St. James's Palace and St. Jameses ^Hells." 
 
 " Hells," gaming-houses. What their number may 
 now be in this life, I know not. Before I was of age I 
 knew them pretty accurately, both " gold" and " silver." 
 I was once nearly called out by an acquaintance, be- 
 cause when he asked me where I thought that his 
 soul would be found hereafter, I answered, " In Silver 
 
 He 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xhii. 
 
 -and therefore even I won^t anent 
 
 This subject quote. 
 "Anent" was a Scotch phrase, meaning " concerning," 
 — ^" with regard to." It has been made Enghsh by the 
 Scotch Novels ; and, as the Frenchman said — " If it be 
 not, ought to be English." 
 
 Note 4. Stanza xlix. 
 T/jc milliners who furnish " drapery misses^ 
 " Drapery misses" — This term is probably any thing 
 now but a mystery. It was however almost so to rne 
 when I first returned from the East in 1811-1812. It 
 means a pretty, a high-born, a fashionable young female, 
 well instrucled by her friends, and furnished by her 
 milliner with a wardrobe upon credit, to be repaid, 
 when married, by the husband. The riddle was first 
 read to me by a young and pretty heiress, on my prais- 
 ing the "drapery" of an " untochered" but "pretty vir- 
 ginities" (like Mrs. Anne Page) of the then day, which 
 has now been some years yesterday: — sheassuredme 
 that the thing was common in London ; and as her own 
 thousands, and blooming looks, and rich simplicity of 
 array, put any suspicion in her own case out of the 
 question, I confess I gave some credit to the allegation. 
 If necessary, authorities might be cited, in which case 
 I could quote both " drapery'* and the wearers. Let us 
 hope, however, that it is now obsolete. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza Ix. 
 'Tis strange the mind, that very ^ery particle, 
 Should let itself be snuff'' d out by an article. 
 ' Divinae particulam auras." 
 
 CANTO XIL 
 
 Note 1. Stanza xix. 
 Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie. 
 See Mitford's Greece. " Grasci a Ferao?." His great 
 pleasure consists in praising tyrants, abusing Plutarch, 
 spelling oddly, and writing quaintly ; and, what is stranffe 
 after all, his is the best modern history of Greece in any 
 language, and he is perhaps the best of all modern his- 
 torians whatsoever. Having named his sins, it is but 
 fair to state his virtues — learning, labour, research, 
 wrath, and partiality. I call the latter virtues in a 
 writer, because they make him write in earnest. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xxxvii. 
 A hazy widower turned of forty 's sure. 
 This line may puzzle the commentators more than 
 the present generation. 
 
624 
 
 KOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza Ixxiii. 
 
 Like Russians rushing from hot bat! is to snows. 
 
 The Russians, as is well known, run out from their 
 
 hot baths to plunge into the Neva : a pleasant practical 
 
 antithesis, which it seems does them no harm. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza Ixxxii. 
 
 The world to gaxe upon those northern lights. 
 
 For a description and print of this inhabitant of the 
 polar region and native country of the aurora borealis, 
 see Parhy's Voyage in Search of the North- West Fas- 
 sage. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
 As Philip^s son proposed to do with Athos. 
 
 A sculptor projected to hew Mount Athos into a 
 statue of Alexander, with a city in one hand, and, I be- 
 lieve, a river in his pocket, with various other similar 
 devices. But Alexander 's gone, and Athos remains, 
 
 CANTO XIII. 
 
 * Note 1. Stanza vii. . 
 
 Right honestly, " he liked an honest hat^:'" 
 " Sir, I like a good hater."— See the Life of Dr. 
 Johnson, &c. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xxvi. 
 Also there bin another pious reason. 
 "With every thing that pretty bin, 
 My lady sweet arise." — Shakspeare. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xlv. 
 TTiey and their bills " Arcadians both,^ are left. 
 *' Arcades ambo." 
 
 Note 4. Stanza Ixxi. 
 Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's. 
 Salvator Rosa. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza Ixxii. 
 His beU-mouih'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish. 
 Jf I err not, "Your Dane" is one of lago's catalogue 
 of nations " exquisite in their drinking." 
 
 Note 6. Stanza Ixxviii. 
 Even JVimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura. 
 In Assyria. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza xcvi. 
 " That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies^^ 
 
 " Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it was blas- 
 phemous to talk of Scripture out of church." This 
 dogma was broached to her husband — the best Chris- 
 tian in any book. See Joseph Andrews, in the latter 
 chapters. 
 
 Note 8. Stanza cvi. 
 The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
 Should have a hook and a small trout to pull it. 
 
 It would have taught him humanity at least. This 
 sentimental savage, whom it is a mode to quote (among 
 the novelists) to show their sympathy for innocenl 
 sports and old songs, teaches how to sew up frogs, and 
 break their legs by way of experiment, in addition to the 
 art of angling, the cruehst,the coldest, and the stupidest 
 of pretended sports. They may talk about the beau- 
 ties of nature, but the angler merely thinks of his dish 
 of fish ; he has no leisure to take his eves from off the 
 streams, and a single bite is worth to hi'm more than all 
 the scenery around. Besides, some fish bite best on a 
 rainy day. The whale, the shark, and the tunny fishery 
 have somewhat of noble and perilous in them ; even 
 netfishing, trawling, &.c. are more humane and useful 
 —but angling ! — ^No angler can be a good man. 
 
 " One of the best men I ever knew — as humane, deli- 
 cate-minded, generous, smd excellent a creature as 
 
 any in the world — was an angler : true, he angled with 
 painted flies, and would have been incapable of the 
 extravagances of I. Walton." 
 
 The above addition was made by a friend in reading 
 over the MS. — " Audi alteram partem" — I leave it to 
 coimterbalance my own observation. 
 
 CANTO XIV. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza xxxiii. 
 And never craned, a7id made but few " faux pas.'' 
 Craning. — " To crane'"' is, or was, an expression used 
 to denote a gentleman's stretching out his neck over a 
 hedge, " to look before he leaped^:" — a pause in his 
 " vaulting ambition," which in the 'field doth occasion 
 some delay and execration in those who may be imme- 
 diately behind the equestrian skeptic. " Sir, if you 
 don't choose to take the leap, let me" — was a phrase 
 which generally sent the aspirant on again ; and to good 
 purpose : for though " the horse and rider" might fall, 
 they made a gap, through which, and over him and his 
 steed, the field might follow. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xlviii. 
 Go to the coffee-house, and take another. 
 
 In Swift's or Horace Walpole's Letters, I think 
 it is mentioned that somebody regretting the loss of a 
 friend, was answered by a universal pylades : "When 
 I lose one, I go to the Saint James's Cofl'ee-house, and 
 take another." 
 
 I recollect having heard an anecdote of the same 
 kind. Sir W. D. was a great gamester. Coming in 
 one day to the club of which tie was a member, he 
 was observed to look melancholy. "What is the mat- 
 ter. Sir William ?" cried Hare, of facetious memory. 
 "Ah ["replied Sir W. "I have just lost poor Lady D." 
 " Lostl What ! at — Quinze or Hazard ?" was the con- 
 solatory rejoinder of the querist. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza fix. 
 And I refer you to wise Oxenstiem. 
 The famous Chancellor Oxensliern said to his son, 
 on the latter expressing his surprise upon the great 
 effects arising from petty causes in the presumed mys- 
 tery of politics : " You see by this, my son, with how 
 little wisdom the kingdoms of the world are governed." 
 
 CANTO XV 
 
 Note 1. Stanza xviii. 
 And Thou, Diviner still, 
 Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken. 
 As it is necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity, 
 I say, that I mean, by " Diviner still," Christ. If 
 ever God was Man — or Man God — he was both. I 
 never arraigned his creed, but the use — or abuse — made 
 of it. Mr. Canning one day quoted Christianity to 
 sanction Negro Slavery, and Mr. Wilberforce had little 
 to say in reply. And was Christ crucified, that black 
 men might be scourged? If so, he had better been born 
 a Mulatto, to give both colours an equal chance of free- 
 dom, or at least salvation. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xxxv. 
 When Rapp the Harmonist embargoed marriage 
 In his harmonious settlement. 
 This extraordinary and flourishing German colony in 
 America does not entirely exclude matrimony, as the 
 " Shakers" do : but lays such restrictions upon it as 
 prevent more than a certain quantum of births within a 
 certain number of years ; which births (as Mr. Hulme 
 observes) generally arrive "in a little flock like those of 
 a farmer s lambs, all within the same month perhaps." 
 These Harmonists (so called from the name of their set- 
 tlement) are represented as a remarkably flourishing, 
 pious, and quiet people . See the various recent writers 
 on America. 
 
NOTES TO DON JUAN. 
 
 625 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xxxviii. 
 N<rr canvass what ^^so eminent a hand " meant. 
 Jacob Tonson, according to Mr. Pope, was accus- 
 tomed to call his writers " able pens" — <' persons of 
 honour," and especially " eminent hands." Vide corre- 
 spondence, &c., &c. 
 
 Note 4. Stanza Ixvi. 
 While great Lucullu^ robe triumphale muffles — 
 {There^s ^ame)— young partridgejillets, decked with truffles. 
 
 A dish " a la LucuUus." This hero, who conquered 
 the East, has left his more extended celebrity to the 
 transplantation of cherries (which he first brought into 
 Europe) and the nomenclature of some very good 
 dishes ; — and I am not sure that (barring indigestion) 
 he has not done more service to mankind by his cookery 
 than by his . conquests, A cherry-tree may weigh 
 against a bloody laurel ; besides, he has contrived to 
 earn celebrity from both. 
 
 Note 5. Stanza Lwiii. 
 But even sans " confitures^'' it no less true is^ 
 There 's pretty picking in those '^ petits puits. 
 "Petits puits d'amour garnis de confitures," a classi- 
 cal and well-known dish for part of the flank of a 
 second course. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza Ixxxvi. 
 For that with me 's a " sine qua." 
 Subauditur " JVon" omitted for the sake of euphony. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza xcvi. 
 In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms very 
 Like those of the Philosopher of Malmsbury. 
 Hobbes ; who, doubting of his own soul, paid that 
 compliment to the souls of other people as to decline 
 their visits, of which he had some apprehension. 
 
 CANTO XVI. 
 
 Note 1. Stanza x. 
 
 If from a shellfish or from cochineal. 
 
 The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whether 
 from a shellfish, or from cochineal, or from kermes, 
 is still an article of dispute ; and even its colour — some 
 say purple, others scarlet : I say nothing. 
 
 Note 2. Stanza xliii. 
 
 For a spoiVd carpet — but the " Attic Bee''* 
 Was much consoled by his own repartee. 
 
 I think that it was a carpet on which Diogenes trod, 
 with — " Thus I trample on the pride of Plato !" — 
 " With greater pride," as the other rephed. But as 
 carpets are meant to be trodden upon, my memory pro- 
 bably misgives me, and it might be a robe, or tapestry, 
 or a tablecloth, or some other expensive and uncynical 
 piece of furniture. 
 
 Note 3. Stanza xlv. 
 With " Tu mi chamash" from Portingale, 
 To sooth our ears, lest Italy should fail. 
 
 I remember that the mayoress of a provincial town, 
 somewhat surfeited with a similar display from foreign 
 parts, did rather indecorously break through the ap- 
 plauses of an inteUigent audience — intelligent, I mean, 
 as to music, — for the words, besides being in recondite 
 languages (it was some years before the peace, ere all 
 the world had travelled, and while I was a collegian) — 
 were sorely disguised by the performers ; — this mayor- 
 ess, I say, broke out with, " Rot yourltahanos ! for my 
 part, I loves a simple ballat !" Rossini will go a good 
 way to bring most people to the same opinion some day. 
 Who would imagine that he was to be the successor of 
 Mozart ? However, I state this with diffidence, as a 
 Uege and loyal admirer of Italian music in general, and 
 of much of Rossin^s : but we may say, as the connois- 
 seur did of painting, in the Vicar af Wakefield, " that 
 the picture would be better painted if the painter had 
 taken more pains." 
 
 Note 4. Stanza lis. 
 For Gothic daring shown in English money. 
 
 " Ausu Romano, ^re Veneto" is the inscription (and 
 well inscribed in this instance) on the sea walls be- 
 tween the Adriatic and Venice. The walls were a re- 
 publican work of the Venetians ; th* inscription, I be- 
 lieve, imperial, and inscribed by Napoleon 
 
 Note 5. Stanza k. 
 " Untying''^ squires " tofght against the churches." 
 " Though ye untie the winds, and bid them fight 
 Against the churches.^' — Macbeth. 
 
 Note 6. Stanza xcvu. 
 They err — ^tis merely what is called mobility . 
 In French " mobilite." I am not sure that mobility 
 is English ; but it is expressive of a quality which 
 rather belongs to other chmates, though it is sometimes 
 seen to great extent in our own. It may be defined as an 
 excessive susceptibility of immediate impressions^ — at 
 the same time without losing the past ; and is, though 
 sometimes apparently useful to the possessor, a most 
 painful and unhappy attribute. 
 
 Note 7. Stanza cii. 
 Draperied her form with curious felicity. 
 " Curiosa fehcitas." — Petrgniits Arbiter. 
 Note 8. Stanza cxiv. 
 A noise like two wet fingers drawn on glass. 
 See the account of the ghost of the uncle of Prince 
 Charles of Saxony, raised by Schroepfer — "Karl- 
 Karl — was — wait wolt mich ?" 
 
 Note 9. Stanza cxx. 
 Maw odd, a single hobgoblirCs nonentity 
 Should came more fear than a whole hosl^s identity ! 
 
 " Shadows to-night 
 Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard 
 Than can the substance often thousand soldiers," &c.&c. 
 See Richard III. 
 
 4C 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING, WHICH IN THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT PRECEDED THE FIRST CANTO OF DON JUAN, 
 AND IS ALLUDED TO IN THE LIFE, PAGE XXIV., WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN A LONDON EDITION, 
 IN 1833. 
 
 Bob Southey ! You 're a poet — ^Poet-laureate, 
 
 And representative of all the race, 
 Although 'tis true that you turn'd out a Tory at 
 
 Last, — yours has lately been a common case, — ■ 
 And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye at ? 
 
 With all the Lakers, in and out of place ? 
 •A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
 Like " four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye ! 
 
 II. 
 " Which pye being open'd they began to sing" 
 
 (This old song aftd new simile holds good), 
 " A dainty dish to set before the King," 
 
 Or Regent, who admires such kind of food ; — 
 And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing. 
 
 But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood, — 
 Explaining metaphysics to the nation — 
 I wish he would explain his Explanation.* 
 
 Ill, 
 You, Bob ! are rather insolent, you know, 
 
 At being disappointed in your wish 
 To supersede all warblers here below. 
 
 And be the only Blackbird in the dish ; 
 And then you overstrain yourself, or so, 
 
 And tumble downward like the flying fish 
 Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob, 
 And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 And Wordsworth, in a rather long " Excursion" 
 (I ihink the quarto holds five hundred pages), 
 
 Has given a sample from the vasty version 
 Of his new system to perplex the sages ; 
 
 'T is poetry — at least by his assertion. 
 
 And may appear so when the dog-star rages — 
 
 And he who understands it would be able 
 
 To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 
 
 V. 
 
 You — Gentlemen ! by dint of long seclusion 
 From better company, have kept your own 
 
 At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion 
 Of one another's minds, at last have grown 
 
 To deem as a most logical conclusion, 
 That Poesy has wreaths for you alone ; 
 
 There is a narrowness in such a notion, [ocean. 
 
 Which makes me wish you 'd change your lakes for 
 
 VI 
 
 I would not imitate the petty thought, 
 Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice, 
 
 For all the glory your conversion brought. 
 
 Since gold alone should not have been its price. 
 
 You have your salary; was 'tfor that you wrought? 
 And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise. f 
 
 You 're shabby fellows — true — but poets still. 
 
 And duly seated on the immortal hill. 
 
 Your bays may hide the boldness of your brows — 
 Perhaps some virtuous blushes ; — let them go — 
 
 To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs — 
 And for the fame you would engross below. 
 
 The field is universal, and allows 
 
 Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow : 
 
 Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try 
 
 'Gainst you the question with posterity. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses, 
 Contend not with you on the winged steed, 
 
 I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses, 
 The fame you envy, and the skill you need ; 
 
 And recollect a poet nothing loses 
 
 In giving to his brethren their full meed 
 
 Of merit, and complaint of present days 
 
 Is not the certain path to future praise. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He that reserves his laurels for posterity 
 
 (Who does not often claim the bright reversion) 
 
 Has generally no great crop to spare it, he 
 Being only injured by his own assertion ; 
 
 And although here and there some glorious rarity 
 Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion. 
 
 The major part of such appellants go 
 
 To— God knows where — for no one else can know. 
 
 X. 
 
 If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 
 Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time, 
 
 If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs. 
 
 And makes the word " Miltonic" mean " SttftZiTWC," 
 
 He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs, 
 Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 
 
 He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, 
 
 But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Think'st thou, could he — the blind Old Man — arise 
 Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more 
 
 The blood of monarchs with his prophecies, 
 Or be alive again — again all hoar 
 
 With time and trials, and those helpless eyes, 
 
 And heartless daughters — worn — and pale* — and poor; 
 
 Would he adore a sultan ? he obey 
 
 The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh ?t 
 
 * Mr. Coleridge's " Biographia Literaria" appeared in 1817. 
 
 t Wordsworth's place may be in the Customs — it is, I think, in that 
 of the Excise — besides another at Lord Lonsdale's table, where this 
 poetical charlatan and political parasite licks up the crumbs with a 
 hardened alacrity ; the converted Jacobin having long subsided into the 
 clownish sycophant of the worst prejudices of the aristocracy. 
 
 * "Pale, but not cadaverous:" — Milton's two elder daughters are 
 said to have robbed him of his books, besides cheating and pla^guing him 
 in the economy of his house, \c. &c. His feelings on such an outrage, 
 both as a parent and a scholar must have been singularly painful. 
 Hayley compares him to Lear. See part third. Life of Milton, by W. 
 Hayley (or Hailey, as spelt in the edition before me). 
 
 t Or,- 
 
 " Would he subside into a hackney Laureate — 
 A scribbling, self-sold, soul-hired, scom'd Iscariot?" 
 I doubt if " Laureate" and "Iscariot" be good rhymes, but must 
 say, as Ben Jonson did to Sylvester, who challenged him to rhyme with— 
 
 " I, John Sylvester 
 Lay with your sister." 
 
 Jonson answered — " I, Ben Jonso 
 answered, — " That is not rhyme, 
 it is true.'' 
 
 lay with your wife." .Sylveater 
 — " No," laid Ben Jonaon : " but 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 627 
 
 Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant! 
 
 Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore, 
 And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, 
 
 Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore. 
 The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want, 
 
 With just enough of talent, and no more, 
 To lengthen fetters by another fix'd. 
 And offer poison long already mix'd. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 An orator of such set trash of phrase 
 
 Ineffably — legitimately vile, 
 That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise. 
 
 Nor foes — all nations — condescend to smile, — 
 Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze 
 
 From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil, 
 That turns and turns to give the world a notion 
 Of endless torments and perpetual motion. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A bungler even in its disgusting trade, 
 
 And botching, patching, leaving still behind 
 
 Something of which its masters are afraid, 
 
 States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be confined, 
 
 Conspiracy or Congress to be made — 
 Cobbling at manacles for all mankind — 
 
 A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains. 
 
 With God and man's abhorrence for its gains. 
 
 XV. 
 
 If we may judge of matter by the mind, 
 Emasculated to the marrow It 
 
 Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind, 
 Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, 
 
 Eutropius of its many masters,* — blind 
 To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit, 
 
 Fearless — because no feeling dwells in ice. 
 
 Its very courage stagnates to a vice. 
 
 XTI. 
 
 Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds , 
 
 For I will never feel them ; — Italy ! 
 Thy late- reviving Roman soul desponds 
 
 Beneath the lie this State-thing breath'd o'er the 
 Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds 
 
 Have voices — tongues to cry aloud for me. 
 Europe has slaves — allies — kings — armies still. 
 And Southey lives to sing them verv ill. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Meantime — Sir Laureate — I proceed to dedicate; 
 
 In honest simple verse, this song to you. 
 And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate, 
 
 'T is that I still retain my " buff and blue ;" 
 My politics as yet are all to educate : 
 
 Apostasy's so fashionable, too, 
 To keep one creed 's a task grown quite Herculean ; 
 Is it not so, my Tory, ultra- Julian ?f 
 
 Venice, September 16, 1818. 
 
 * For the character of Eutropius, the eunuch and minister at the 
 court of Arcadius, see Gibbon. 
 
 t I allude not to our friend Landor's hero, the traitor Count Julian, 
 but to Gibbon's hero, vulgarly yclept " The Apostate." 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: March 2009 
 
 PreservationTechnologies 
 
 A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
 
 111 Thomson Park Drive 
 Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
 (724)779-2111 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS